Girl Next Door

by Alyssa Brugman

  But then I don't know my mum at all. I don't know my dad. I don't know Declan, either, and I thought I knew him best in the whole world.

  See, the reason I was freaking out at the Chinese restaurant and why I didn't want to talk to him was, when we got to the end of what we did, Declan said, 'Shall I pay you now?'

  It was a joke. He was picking up on what I said way back when we were in the alley – I said that the girls on the internet get paid to do what they do, but it also kind of wasn't a joke, because Declan knows that I don't love him that way. Besides, he was still a little bit cranky from when I said that what he did to that Aiden boy was sexual abuse, and he'd been looking for a way to get me back.

  We were lying on our backs side by side on his bed, and I felt like there was a big weight on my chest, so heavy that I couldn't breathe. All of a sudden we weren't even any more. He was Declan – the same as he had always been – but I was the povvo skank from the caravan park who gives it up.

  It makes me mad because I never thought Declan would buy into all that old-fashioned 'girls should be all shy and withholding' crap. If we're truly equal then girls should be allowed to have desire too. Girls should be allowed to experiment without feeling shame and humiliation, and like it's always their responsibility to stop everything.

  I want to know how come in this century that part is still my job.

  It also made me want to punch him, because he made me feel bad so casually. He didn't even notice that he'd hurt me.

  And now I understand why, if you live in a caravan park – with no roof space and no possibility of treasure – and you see some other guy about your age looking down his nose at the way you live – some guy with designer clothes and straight teeth, who stands up straight with square shoulders because he's going to get pretty much whatever he wants without having to try very hard – you'd want to goad him out of his caravan by saying rude things about his mother and sister, and then punch the crap out of him.

  25

  JUST LIKE

  J'ADORE

  Bryce Cole takes us to the Bowling Club. I've never been to a club before. It looks like an airport, with lots of glass, empty spaces, bad commercial carpet, and announcements over loudspeakers. People sit on the plastic chairs at plastic tables as though they're waiting for their flight.

  In a vast alcove, poker machines trill and burble like Fisher-Price toys on steroids. There's a TV screen showing the keno numbers. Bryce Cole is eyeing off another corner where there's a TAB counter.

  Will, Mum and I navigate through the tables into the bistro. There's a special on – roast beef for six dollars. Mum stands in line. When we get to the end the woman in the white smock and comically oversized chef's hat says, 'Kitchen's closed.'

  'What about those potatoes?' Mum asks, pointing to the warming trays.

  The humungous-chef-hat woman has this look on her face as if Mum has just asked for a rat salad.

  'We haven't eaten for a while. My kids are hungry. I know it's a bother . . .'

  The humungous-chef-hat woman glowers at us as she shoves the potatoes in a bowl.

  'Is it possible to have some gravy? Perhaps some sauce?' Mum asks. 'I'd really appreciate it.'

  The chef lady turns the lights off. 'Kitchen's closed.'

  We take the dried-out, lukewarm potatoes to a table. The cutlery has been packed away so we eat them with our fingers.

  Bryce Cole has been standing in front of the tellies with his arms crossed. Now he slouches over to the chair opposite Mum. 'Listen,' he begins.

  No conversation that starts with that word is ever going to finish well, unless you're birdwatching. If someone had told me a year ago that I would wish I was birdwatching, I would never have believed them. Back then I thought we were happy.

  I was pretty happy. I had everything I wanted, and if I wanted something more I could just throw a bit of a tantrum, or say I was thinking about being anorexic or something like that. I had no idea that my happiness was actually dependent on my parents being happy too. I'm thinking now about the small changes I could have made, say for example if every now and then I could have agreed to do the stuff that Willem is so passionate about, we could have done that as a family – like I did when we were at that Wombat Crossing place. I should have encouraged my parents to go away for Valentine's Day.

  I'm not saying it's my fault that Mum had an affair and Dad left, but Will and I did make it harder for them. We always expected to be entertained. Sometimes when you get caught up in the entertainment part you don't think about what happens behind the scenes.

  It's like when I went to the races. I watched those horses race for weeks and weeks, and I didn't think about them as living, breathing, alive things until I saw them tied up in tiny boxes. I let Bryce Cole tell me all about how they wanted to run. Of course he's going to say that. What would it make him if they didn't?

  'I'm out of ideas here,' Bryce Cole says, drumming his fingers on the table. 'I can always sleep in the car, but . . .'

  'You're dumping us?' I ask.

  Mum starts crying again. Not proper crying. Her eyes are just leaking from the sides. She's not even wiping her face. The tears are dropping down and making dark splotches on her shirt.

  Bryce Cole ignores me. 'I don't have kids. I've thought about it, but with my lifestyle, it's just never really been an option. Far be it from me . . .' He takes a deep breath. 'This is no way to raise kids, Sue. You really are going to have to find a way of getting it together.'

  'You're dumping us because you're worried about us? We have to get it together? What about you?'

  'I didn't sign up for this, JB,' he protests. 'I was just looking for a place to stay. I didn't even want to know you, really. It was just supposed to be for a couple of months.' He stares at me. 'I know I'm a mess, all right? But you guys are just making it worse for me.'

  'How can things get worse for you?' I ask.

  He huffs. 'I don't want to have to think about how what I'm doing might affect someone else.'

  We sit in silence.

  Mum wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and gives Bryce Cole a watery smile. 'Thanks for all your help. It's been a real pleasure knowing you. All the best for the future.'

  Bryce Cole pushes his chair back. He stands up, pats his pocket and then he walks out of the club.

  Will's not even watching. He's staring at the keno, shaking his head.

  'All the best?' I wrinkle my nose.

  'What would you have me say, Jenna-Belle?' She smiles at me. She's twisting her wedding ring, except she's transferred it to her right hand. Her engagement ring isn't there. She's sold it.

  My mum's sneakers were always white. Her laces were always tied. She put on make-up every morning before breakfast. She wore mascara and powdered her nose even on a Sunday when she wasn't going anywhere – when she would recline on the lounge in her ironed tracksuit flicking through Country Style magazine with her manicured fingers. She always looked like a woman with a plan. That's what I want to ask her: What's the plan, Mum?

  So far we've followed Bryce Cole's plan, but it's not a very good plan. In fact, it's not much of a plan at all. We just joined his crazy conga line as he crashed from one crisis to the next, but at least we were moving.

  Mum has no plan. She just has a crumpled blouse, little spiky bits of hair that stick up because there's no product in it, and an orangey-coloured lipstick that she bought on sale once, but never wears because the colour doesn't suit her. She's not wearing J'adore, she's wearing Just-Like-J'adore.

  I'm starting to panic, because we have no money and no plan.

  Mum's still waiting for me to answer her. I want her to stop being so polite. I want her to say, Actually, Bryce Cole, you can kiss my butt! And you too, Mister Centrelink! And then pull some freaky kung-fu moves. Hai-ya! That's what I want to see. Some double-you-oh-em-ay-en.

  Instead I have the cloying smell of Just-Like-J'adore in my nose and it's making me feel ill.

  'I just think you
could have . . .'

  'Could have what, Jenna-Belle?' she hisses. 'Lost my temper? Sworn at him? How would that have helped? Where have you seen that work?'

  She's staring at me. She's so still.

  All she has is us. Will and I are her Albert Bear, so I bite my lip and blink away the tears that have sprung into my eyes.

  26

  JOKE

  JEOPARDY

  When the club closes we find ourselves on the footpath of a main street lined with closed shops. We walk past a saddlery and a shop that advertises 'Bait and Ammo'. We must be way, way west. Perhaps Wyoming . . . in 1868.

  There are some kids on the other side of the street. They have a wheelbarrow, and are taking it in turns to pitch each other out of it. The three of us bunch up together and walk faster. Around the corner is a KFC. We walk towards the light, but it's closed too.

  We walk past a knick-knack shop. There's a pile of dirt and wilting potted flowers strewn on the ground out the front, which explains the wheelbarrow.

  Up ahead there's a bus shelter. Inside, I lean my head against the poster, crossing my arms over my chest against the cold.

  Willem walks backwards into the empty street. He's watching for a bus.

  'Where will we . . .?' I start.

  'Into the city,' Mum interrupts. 'There'll be more places open there.'

  I take out Declan's phone and stare at it. 'There must be someone we can ring. What about those friends of yours who lived in Paddington? The Fredricks? Was that their name? Or the Perrys in Balmain.'

  'I called everyone there was to call long, long before this,' Mum says quietly.

  I close my eyes, trying not to shiver. My toes are going to sleep, so I stomp my feet. What is it about forever and buses?

  'Let's play Joke Jeopardy,' I suggest. 'I'll start. The punch line is "a carrot".'

  'What's orange and sounds like a parrot?' Will guesses. We've played that one before. 'Okay, "To get to the other slide".'

  'Why did the chicken cross the . . . playground?' I ask.

  'That's an easy one.' Will grins. 'I know! "Because they'd be bagels".'

  I'm thinking. Something to do with dogs? I hear an engine and open my eyes, but it's just a truck. 'I give in.'

  'Why don't seagulls go to the bay?' He laughs.

  'That's dumb,' I say, yawning. 'All right . . .'

  '"Burple!"' Will interrupts. He bounces up and down on the spot, probably to keep warm, but also because he's really getting into it.

  'I don't know – what colour is my brother?' I suggest.

  '"A private tooter",' he says, chuckling.

  'That makes no sense!' I complain.

  'No, it's a new one. You were being too slow. Can you guess it?'

  A man walks towards us in the gloom. He has his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his chin dipped into his jacket. We stay silent until he has passed. A taxi creeps along the road. The driver looks at us through the passenger window, but Will shakes his head, and the taxi speeds away.

  'You want to have a go, Mum?' I ask.

  'I'm thinking.' She leans her head back against the Perspex with her eyes closed. 'Okay. The punch line is "Only one, but it takes ten visits".'

  'What is a . . .' I start.

  'No, it's a light bulb one,' Will says. 'How many somethings to change a light bulb.'

  'Something about a doctor?' I offer. 'I give up.'

  'How many light bulbs does it take to change a chiropractor,' Mum says.

  Will and I giggle. 'Don't you mean the other way around?'

  'I said it the other way around,' she says.

  'No, you didn't!'

  'What are you talking about? I know how to play this game.'

  'Never mind,' I say.

  Finally a bus pulls in. It's empty. Will and I climb the steps and choose a seat. Mum pays the driver with a handful of small change.

  'Okay, one more. The answer is, "I didn't".'

  Neither Will nor Mum says anything for ages. I think they've stopped playing when Will says, 'That's not fair. It's too open. There's no way we can get it.' He's sitting with his back against the window and his legs stretched out across the seat.

  'Wanna hear the joke?' I ask, smiling.

  'Tell us,' Mum says. She's closed her eyes again. Her head rocks gently from side to side as the bus moves. The driver slows down, swerving in towards the kerb, but none of the passengers at the stop wave it in, so he turns back into the road without stopping.

  'Okay, there's this vampire bat, right? And he's been out hunting and he comes in late and he has blood all over his face, and the other bats come over and they say, "Where did you get all that blood?" and he says, "Rack off! I just want to go to sleep." They keep hounding him, "Where did you get it? Where did you get it?" So eventually he takes them out and they fly along for ages, and then the bat says to the others, "Do you see that tree over there?"'

  Will looks at me, waiting, and then he starts to laugh. '"I didn't." Ha! Ha! That's a good one, JB.'

  No one ever called me JB before Bryce Cole. I wonder if it's going to stick?

  We head down the ramp and onto the motorway. I remember this part from when I caught the bus before. There are big concrete slabs on either side of the road. Ahead there are concrete overpasses crisscrossing the way. I'm so tired that my bones ache, and my eyes are scratchy.

  I pull out Declan's mobile and turn it on to check the time. Ten past two. The phone beeps, telling me I have a message. I dial the message retrieve number and listen.

  Jenna-Belle, this is your father. I spoke to Declan just now. I was hoping you would be here. I wanted to . . . Then there is a gap where the message breaks up . . . See me in school holidays if I moved there. Well, it's . . . More breakup. Your mother would have to . . . Another gap . . . And neither of you are going to like that, but I think we can make it work. It's probably best if we don't live together, given the circumstances, but . . . Static . . . To give back the rental car this afternoon, so I'll be catching a train . . . Another break . . . We can talk about it in person. There is another gap, but this time it's Dad, because his nose whistles. Finally he says, I made a mistake, sweetheart. Please forgive me.

  27

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  DOLLARS AND

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  CENTS

  It's just after three when we climb off the bus on George Street. We walk a few blocks until we find a coffee shop that's open. We slide into a booth at the back.

  'How much money do you have left?' I ask. Mum reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a handful of notes and coins. She's making little piles on the tabletop.

  Watching her, I decide that you should never have to count out all the money you have in the world in small change.

  'Thirty-eight dollars seventy-five.'

  The coffee boy comes over with his notepad. Mum orders a tea for herself and two hot chocolates. After I drink mine I have trouble keeping my eyes open. We take it in turns to lie along the far side of the booth and nap. It feels so good to close my eyes. I'm sure I won't be able to sleep with the hissing of the coffee machine, the cars outside, and people talking so loudly as they walk past, but next thing Mum is nudging me under the table with her foot. I sit up just as the coffee boy comes over.