Girl Next Door

by Alyssa Brugman

  The water jug is on the wheelie table. Declan can reach it himself. He wiggles the cup at me anyway.

  Be a doll, I think to myself.

  This is the beginning of the new era. Every day for the rest of our relationship I will have to fetch for him, and watch Donnie Darko, and listen to Dashboard Confessional, or Belle and Sebastian, probably all at the same time.

  I fold my arms. 'What are you going to do – lapse into a coma?'

  'I could, you know, at any minute.'

  Bryce Cole ducks his head in through the doorway. 'C'mon, JB. Let's head off.'

  'I have to go now,' I tell Declan, turning on my heel.

  He wiggles his cup frantically. 'Don't forget it was your shandy that nearly killed me! Jenna-Belle? I'm really sick! Forever!'

  'My shandy saved your life,' I say, and I flounce out the door. I'm new to flouncing. I like it. I'll do it more often.

  On the way home Bryce Cole stops at the TAB. He leaves the radio on in the car for me to listen to.

  'Five minutes,' he promises.

  I wind down the window and watch him push open the glass door.

  There are counters running down either side of the TAB for filling in forms, like a bank, and multiple television screens, the same as at the track. There's a betting booth behind metal bars at the end of the shop.

  Bryce Cole scans the televisions for a minute and places a few bets. He leans against the bench and watches the screen. There are no chairs in there. I think that's a mistake. People would bet more if their feet weren't hurting.

  I fiddle with the radio until I find a song that I like. I settle back on my headrest and close my eyes. After three songs, I look out the window again. Bryce Cole is watching the television with his arms folded. He refers to the newspaper that someone has left on the counter, then to his notebook. He fills in a betting slip, places the bet at the booth, and watches the screens.

  It's weird having to wait without something to do. My dad's car had a DVD player, and before that we had Nintendo, and our iPods, and even before that Mum used to play us talking books.

  The worst part was waiting in airports. Dad confiscated our iPods when we flew because Will didn't believe that an iPod would really interfere with the plane's navigation system, and so one time he did an experiment and hid it under his hoodie, and the flight attendant got on the microphone, all shirty, repeating the part of his speech about electronic devices. He said it three times before Dad realised it was Will. He was trying to make Will turn it off without anyone else seeing, but a fat, irritable businessman pressed his call-bell and dobbed. So then the whole plane watched while the flight attendant told Will off. Will smirked like a smart-arse and said, 'I couldn't hear you.'

  For the rest of the flight everybody stared at Will when they walked past on their way to the loo, as if they were thinking, That's the boy who tried to kill us all!

  When we were smaller Mum used to keep us entertained by sending us into the tacky airport souvenir shop to pick out stickers. Once we landed at the other end, Will and I would collect our suitcases from the baggage carousel. When they were all collected together we were allowed to put our stickers on them. Now that I think about it, that was probably her way of getting us to do all the heavy lifting without whining.

  There was this one time we went for a holiday in Mauritius, and in the resort they had an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet. You could select a platter of raw things and take it to these Mauritian dudes who would cook it for you in different marinades. It was so yum!

  One of the chefs was particularly hot, and he whispered to me, 'Meet me on the tennis courts in half an hour,' and I did think about going, but instead I went to the beach and had a scalp massage. At the end the lady braided my hair into cornrows, and put a red bead on the end of each one. It looked really cool and I was going to wear it to school, but it was a bit ratty by the time we got home.

  Anyway, I'd been eating seafood solidly for about four days, and then I decided to try something else. I picked this curry and I was eating it, going, 'Mmm. I'm not sure what this is, but the flesh is really tender. It's such an interesting texture.' I encouraged everyone to try it – even a South African couple at our table who we'd never met before, telling them it must be some special Mauritian delicacy. Then Willem tried it. He said to me, 'Der, Jenna-Belle, it's chicken.'

  I'm blushing even now as I remember it.

  Bryce Cole has been longer than five minutes. I take the keys out of the ignition and climb out of the car. I knock on the window. When he looks up I tap my wrist. He nods and holds up his hand. Five more minutes. He turns back to the television.

  Slipping the keys into my pocket, I stroll up the street a little way. There's a takeaway shop, and I'd like to buy a drink, but I don't have any money. I look at the houses in the window of the real estate agent. When I reach the end of the strip of shops I head back to the TAB again. I wave at Bryce Cole through the window. He comes to the door.

  'What?'

  'What do you mean "what"? You said five minutes about forty-five minutes ago! I'm hungry. I want to go home.'

  He tugs a crumpled twenty out of his hip pocket and hands it to me. 'Get yourself some hot chips or something.'

  I go back to the takeaway shop and order enough chips for all of us, and a two-litre Coke. I sit on the little plastic chair and read a Woman's Day from the year I was born. There's an article about how Tom Cruise is a Scientologist. I double-check the date on the cover.

  When the chips are cooked I walk back to the TAB and indicate to Bryce Cole that I'm waiting in the car. He nods.

  After five more minutes I start eating the chips. They have chicken salt on them, so they're a weird artificial yellow colour. It must be addictive. They're crack-chips. I can't stop stuffing them into my mouth three at a time, and then washing them down with the cold fizzy Coke, which I drink straight from the bottle.

  Fifteen minutes later I've eaten most of the chips that I ordered for four people and at least a litre of drink. I think I'm going to throw up, and now I'm busting to go to the loo too.

  It's been two hours, at least. I head back across the road and rap on the window of the TAB again. Bryce Cole nods and holds up his hand. Five more minutes.

  This time when I go back to the car I lay my hand on the horn.

  Pwwwaaaarrrrrrrrrpppppp.

  I startle an old lady who's walking past. People in the street are staring at me. The chip guy comes out of his shop to see what's going on, wiping his hands on his apron. Bryce Cole's car has a really loud, obnoxious horn. I grin.

  Pwarp, pwarp, pwwwarrrrp, pwarpity, pwarp, pwarp, ppwwwaaarrrrrrppp.

  Bryce Cole runs out of the TAB. 'What the hell are you doing?'

  'I want to go home now!' I shout back.

  He blinks. 'This is my living, Jenna-Belle. If I don't bet I don't win and if I don't win you don't eat. Okay?

  'I already ate!' I complain. 'It's been a big day for me. My best friend is in hospital, remember?' I fold my arms. 'If I could drive I would have stolen your car about an hour ago.'

  Bryce Cole looks back at the TAB wistfully, and then he opens my door. 'Get out then.'

  'What do you mean, get out?'

  'You can drive home. It's an auto. You just press and steer.'

  I clamber across to the driver's side. 'I don't even have my Ls,' I tell him as I adjust my seat.

  Bryce Cole drops into the passenger seat. 'We'll take the back streets. Driving is easy. The pedal on the right is go and the other one is stop. Put your foot on stop.'

  I press the brake with my left foot.

  'No, you only use the right foot. Keep that left one flat on the floor.'

  He shows me P for park and D for drive and R for reverse. 'That's all you need to know. Okay, check your mirror. Flick the blinker down. Good. Anything coming? No? Put the car in drive. Here, I'll do it for you. Now take your foot off stop and hover it over go. Just hover!'

  The car starts rolling forward. I twist the s
teering wheel away from the kerb and into the road.

  'Stop, stop, STOP!' Bryce Cole is thumping his right foot where the brake would be on his side, if there was one.

  I put my foot on the brake again, and then gasp as a car whizzes past from behind us.

  'You need to look in all directions at once,' Bryce Cole tells me, as though that makes sense. 'Okay, off we go.'

  I squeeze the accelerator and the car jerks forward. I can feel each lump and bump in the road through the steering wheel. My heart is beating really fast. I'm trying to look everywhere at once. A car comes along the other way and I hold my breath till it passes.

  'Good, now turn right. Put your blinker on.'

  'Right? Across the road? Are you insane? There's a car behind me!'

  Bryce Cole watches as I drive straight past the right-hand turn. 'Okay, maybe we'll try the next one . . . Or the next one. Listen, Jenna-Belle, you will have to turn right eventually, or we'll end up in Alice Springs. Put your blinker on. The car behind will cope, I promise.'

  'Okay, I'm doing it!' I say, flicking on the right blinker, and then putting my foot on the brake. We inch to a stop. I look in the rear-view mirror. My eyes get wider as the car behind me rushes up and then swerves around us. 'I can't believe people can actually talk to each other and drive at the same time!'

  'You'll get used to it.'

  I turn the wheel and the car swings around. This street is quieter and I relax.

  'Give it some juice, JB! I could run home faster,' Bryce Cole says.

  I look at the speedo. I'm doing 20 km/h, but at least I feel in control. 'Go on, then. Run home. I dare you!'

  He opens the passenger door and I scream. He laughs at me.

  I take a left turn and then a right. I drive through my first traffic lights, squealing. Bryce Cole thinks it's hysterical.

  Soon we reach our street and I pull into the driveway, putting the car in P while Bryce Cole pulls on the handbrake.

  Bryce Cole is looking at our house's dark windows. He's checking out the parked cars on our street. I guess he's hoping nobody saw him letting me drive.

  'Actually, I've got some things to do. I might just drop you off, okay? Take those stinky chips with you.' He hands me the white paper package of cold chips.

  We both climb out of the car. He walks around the bonnet and then settles into the driver's seat and I head towards the front door.

  'Hey, JB,' he says through the open window, 'lock all the doors and windows, will you? And don't answer the door, unless you know who it is, okay? Look out the window first.'

  'I'm not five years old. I know about stranger danger,' I scoff.

  Still, when I get inside, the house seems very shadowy and hollow. We still have no power so the answering machine is dead. There's a note from Mum on the bench and I squint to read it in the gloom.

  Gone to hosp.

  She must have gone with Declan's parents. That's nice and neighbourly of her.

  In the same spirit I head over to feed Chairman Meow, but Declan's house is locked. The cat appears from around the corner, whining, so I bring him back to our place instead.

  I take my dad's old t-shirt out of the back of my cupboard and put it on over my clothes. I lie on the lounge in the dark and wonder what to do, while The Chairman kneads dough on my belly. I can't watch TV, or play on the computer. I can't go next door and see what Declan's up to. Will isn't here. Annie's not either.

  Soon I'm bored, so I wander back down the hallway. I peek into Bryce Cole's room. He has one open cardboard box in the middle of the room, and a sleeping bag stretched out on the floor near the window. That's it. There's a built-in wardrobe in his room. I look in there, but there's nothing in it. One box of stuff – that's all he has. Except for his car.

  The phone rings.

  'Is this Jenna-Belle?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm calling from the hospital. Your brother's here and he asked me to ring you.'

  I'm about to explain that Declan isn't my brother, but the woman continues. 'Your mum has just come out of the operating theatre now.'

  'My mum?' This lady must have me confused with someone else.

  'She's okay, but I'm afraid she's lost the baby.'

  11

  WOLVES AT

  THE DOOR

  I'm pacing around the house not knowing what to do. I wish I hadn't bought the stupid hot chips because then I would have twenty dollars for a cab. Now I only have six dollars seventy-five left and it's not enough. I can't get to the hospital to be with my mum.

  In her room, I pack an overnight bag of Mum's things – her toothbrush, a couple of pairs of pyjamas, a cardigan and the book on the bedside table. I'm proud of myself for doing something useful.

  There's a knock at the door and I run downstairs to answer it. When I see two men on the doorstep I remember Bryce Cole telling me not to open the door. They're not salesmen or Mormons. The meaty one at the front wears thongs, and the other one chews gum.

  'Is Bryce Cole here?'

  I blink. 'Who? Never heard of him. Sorry. Thank you! Goodbye.' I start to close the door and one of the men stops it with the heel of his hand.

  'We'll wait.'

  They push through the door. The meaty-looking man with the thongs flips the light switch a few times experimentally and then heads off down the hallway, opening doors. The man with the gum settles on the lounge. I'm lurking in the archway to the kitchen not sure what to do.

  What am I going to do? Ring the police? There's a lock on the phone, but I assume triple 0 still works. Even if it does, when are the police going to arrive, exactly? I could be a soggy heap of miscellaneous appendages in about ten minutes, if these blokes brought the right equipment.

  It's amazing how calm I am. None of my limbs are moving, and my heart's racing, but it was doing that already. I haven't had time to get scared, or maybe I was already keyed-up before they even arrived, like if you get off a little roller-coaster and straight on a bigger one without going through the zigzaggy line-up area, so there's no time to listen to other people screaming, and see how shaky and rickety the beams are.

  Or it could be because I'm thinking about it too much, as if I'm a reporter in a war zone who's too busy explaining what's happening, thinking about whether her make-up is even, and being pleased about how calm she is in the face of danger to scream and cry for her mum like the people in the background are.

  Or possibly I'm not as calm as I think. This might be what I do when I'm completely freaking out. I have already totally freaked out twice today – more if you count each time when I was driving as a separate incident.

  None of this is actually very useful.

  I lick my lips and try to memorise what the men look like so the police artist can draw them for the wanted poster. The gum-chewing man has a small nose and bags under his eyes. He has long skinny legs and a potbelly. He looks like a frog. He's wearing a polo shirt, and he's lightly tanned. He could be a golfer, or an air-conditioning salesman, or a botanist. His elbows are dry and scaly. He scratches one and it makes a disgusting reptile sound.

  Police are looking for a frog-like Caucasian male with gross, scaly elbows.