One True Thing

by Nicole Hayes

  Mr Campaspe looks to me. ‘Frankie?’

  ‘I broke his iPad,’ I say quietly. ‘It was an accident.’

  Mr Campaspe waits, a frown denting his forehead. ‘Travis? Is that right?’

  Travis appears momentarily confused, startled even.

  ‘Is it?’ Mr Campaspe glances back and forth between us.

  I wait for Travis to answer, daring him to argue. He finally turns to Mr Campaspe and nods slowly.

  And the tension has gone. Just like that. I didn’t flinch or surrender, and it worked. There’s power in that, I realise – in holding your ground. I pick up the broken iPad, show it to Travis and say, ‘I’ll get this fixed for you.’

  I wrap it in my towel and leave them all standing there in stunned silence.

  CHAPTER 20

  PRIVATE MEMBER’S BILL

  I dress quickly in the locker rooms and head out of the pool centre without telling anyone. I walk blindly, muscle memory taking me all the way home.

  My hands are shaking and I can’t find my keys, so I ring the doorbell, hoping someone is home. Gran Mulvaney opens it and the vision is so foreign to me that I don’t move. She has babysat me and Luke maybe five times ever. She’s wearing a ridiculous purple-and-pink chiffon caftan and smells of crème de menthe. She’s already on her second grasshopper, she reports as she crushes me in one of her un-grandmotherly hugs. The movement is brisk and businesslike.

  ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ she says, winking.

  ‘Hey, Gran,’ I say tiredly, still a little numb. ‘I thought Mum had organised for Christie to pop in.’

  Gran scoffs at this, blowing air through that lipsticked mouth. ‘It’s a time for family,’ she says, as though there is no further need for explanation.

  ‘Right. Thanks,’ I add lamely.

  Gran pulls me into another hug – a gentle one this time, the sort I didn’t know she was capable of giving. She lets me go and it’s only then that I realise why she’s being so weird.

  Behind her, the TV is on. The sound is muted but the pictures are as clear as day. I recognise the one from Travis’s iPad. There’s a whole series of still shots flashing across the screen, one after the other, cataloguing what looks like the seconds up to and following this moment. My mum and the young man are pulling away from each other in tiny increments as though they have just hugged or kissed or … I don’t let myself go there.

  A ticker tape is running beneath the photos, demanding to know who Premier Mulvaney is meeting in undisclosed locations. There’s more about unexplained expenses, but that just blurs into white noise because I can’t stop staring at the man beside her. He’s shot mostly in profile and it’s blurry, but I make out short hair, crew cut, strong jaw. And he’s young. He looks like he could be one of Dad’s students. Rougher, though, and vaguely familiar.

  A cold shiver runs along my spine as I consider the possibility that I might even know him. I think I groan or swear or something, because Gran is suddenly beside me, her arm around my shoulder, pulling me against her.

  ‘I thought you knew,’ she says. ‘I thought that’s why you’d come home.’

  ‘I, um …’ I shake my head, as though to shake loose the right words.

  I sense Luke before I hear him, and find my brother standing behind me, staring at the TV, eyes wide with confusion and … something else. Something that makes him seem even tinier than usual. He looks frightened.

  They’ve moved on to new pictures now, or old ones. A picture of Dad hurrying towards the university, his head twisted away like he’s trying not to be seen. He’s dressed in a jacket he hasn’t worn all year, so I know it’s an old photo. But next to the other images, it takes on a whole new meaning.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Luke says softly.

  I jolt into action. I switch off the TV and shepherd him towards the door, frowning at Gran on the way past. ‘That’s just rubbish, Luke,’ I say. I turn him around to face me. ‘Do you understand? The media just make stuff up. That’s their job – to sell papers, get clicks and take pictures that will make people watch.’

  Luke pushes me away. ‘Who is he? Why was Mum looking at him like that?’

  I let go of Luke. ‘I don’t know who he is.’

  Gran clears her throat. I shoot her my sternest look, and she seems to hold back. Actually, she looks hurt, no longer that large, imposing presence. She huffs off to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

  Luke stares up at me, his eyes watery and pale. ‘Why are they saying that stuff?’ He’s trying so hard to be grown up, but his voice is cracked and husky and he looks like he’s about to cry.

  ‘I told you. That’s what they do. They make things up.’

  Luke tilts his head, frowning. ‘That looked pretty real.’

  ‘Even if it is, there’ll be a reason. Mum wouldn’t do anything to hurt us. Or Dad.’ My voice catches. ‘We don’t know what this means at all. Don’t fill in the gaps, Luke. Harry’s always saying that.’

  Luke narrows his eyes, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. And I am – or I think I am. Even what I’ve seen doesn’t explain everything there is to know, so that’s what I focus on. ‘That photo of Dad is from ages ago. Remember that horrible jacket we made him give to the Salvos?’

  Luke squints up at me, unconvinced.

  ‘There’ll be a reason. Something completely innocent,’ I say, placing my hand on his shoulder.

  Gran appears with a cold glass of Milo for Luke, timing it perfectly.

  ‘Won’t there, Gran?’ I say, making sure the warning is clear on my face. ‘Mum will have a perfectly good explanation.’

  Gran considers me for two beats longer than natural, then says, ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ She hands Luke the drink with a grim smile. ‘There you go, just like you asked – with an extra scoop.’

  Luke takes the drink and nods. ‘Okay.’

  I flick on the TV and change channels to Horrible Histories. Luke takes his usual seat and slurps his Milo. I head into the kitchen, followed by Gran. I slide the door shut behind me, leaving Luke absorbed in a sketch about the use of chocolate as ‘brain food’ during the Boer War.

  Gran stands at the kitchen counter and begins the process of mixing herself another grasshopper. The blender is coated in the creamy green liquid, and I wonder if she’s had more than she’s admitted to.

  I sit across from her and refocus. ‘What’s going on?’

  Gran takes her time measuring the crème de menthe, her hand as even as a surgeon’s, the result a precise, level nip.

  I wait. The house is too quiet. A week ago I would have loved having an almost-empty house but suddenly it feels like the bottom of a well.

  Happy with her work, Gran approaches my side of the counter and sits down, drink in hand.

  ‘So, who is he?’

  Gran’s mouth firms. I’m about to ask again when she holds up a hand. ‘This is not my story, but know this – it’s not what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Really? What am I thinking?’

  She frowns. ‘You need to speak to your mother.’

  I look around the kitchen deliberately, then turn back to face her. ‘Far as I can see, she’s not here.’

  ‘Talk to her when she’s home.’

  ‘Yeah, and when will that be?’

  Gran sets down her glass and looks at me. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s not.’ She sucks in air, her huge breast heaving with the effort. ‘But she’ll be back as soon as she can.’

  ‘Dad knows too, doesn’t he?’

  Gran presses her lips together. ‘This is hard on him.’

  ‘What about me? And Luke?’

  ‘They need some time to sort this out. You need to be patient.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘You need to wait for her. Wait until she can talk to you properly, and try not to watch the news.’

  ‘Ha!’ I say. ‘Like it’s “the news�
�� I’m worried about.’

  Gran grimaces. ‘The internet too.’

  Gran wouldn’t know what the internet was if a giant meme fell on her, but I know she’s right. God, when I think about the possibilities … but I can’t even do my homework without going online. ‘Yeah, right. Not likely.’

  Gran reaches for her glass of mint-green gunk, pinching the stem between her fingers. She swirls the liquid around and around, staring at it like it will reveal her future. She places the glass back on the bench between us. ‘I’m sorry – I wish things were different.’

  ‘So, I just stand here and watch while this whole family falls apart?’ I say too loudly, gripping the table as though I’ll fall if I let go.

  ‘It’s not my place, Francesca,’ Gran says, regret edging her words. ‘It really isn’t. Not anymore. Maybe never again.’

  I’m surprised to see genuine hurt in her eyes; they’re usually hard and unyielding. I’m not sure what to say, how to react to this new version of my grandmother. All these years I’d imagined the cool distance between Mum and Gran was the only way they knew how to relate to each other, that it had always been this way. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe something caused the distance.

  ‘Give your mother some time,’ Gran says gently. ‘She needs you now more than ever.’

  Even though I want to scream that maybe I need her now, I nod and let Gran pat my hand before she disappears to check on Luke, leaving her grasshopper untouched on the table in front of me.

  And somehow this upsets me more than her words.

  CHAPTER 21

  GOING VIRAL

  Avoiding the internet and news achieves very little except to free me up to field a million text messages from pretty much everyone I know. And some I don’t. I scan some of them, read the sometimes sympathetic, sometimes well-meaning and often just plain dumb ones. Plenty of nasty ones too, but I’m really good at deleting them before the venom takes hold. Most of them just want details – to be the first to know the story.

  Kessie texts me once, and when I don’t answer she actually calls me, which I can’t remember her doing in forever. Which makes me realise just how dire the situation must be.

  I let it go to voicemail.

  I call Dad but am told he’s out of range. I tell myself that this is normal, this is what he always does when he’s on deadline. No big deal. He said goodbye, told us where he’d be and said when he’d be back. Business as usual.

  Then why do I feel like he’s abandoned us?

  I stare at my poster of Soundgarden at Madison Square Garden, wishing I was there right now – anywhere but here. I shake it off, then check the time.

  I don’t answer Gran’s objection on my way out.

  The hole inside me could encompass Jake’s house, which is three storeys high, has a wide circular driveway and a landscaped garden that could have been sculpted by Jamie Durie himself. It’s almost four o’clock and it’s so quiet that I wonder if anyone’s home.

  I don’t have to knock. Jake opens the front door as if he’s been expecting me. I stop at the top step, my heart thumping in my ears, that cavern in my chest so dark and big I could disappear inside it. The silence between us is somehow full of all the things we want to say. He opens his mouth, about to speak, but I close the gap and press my lips against his, firm and soft.

  Everything inside me turns to liquid. A tiny groan from Jake almost robs my legs of the power to stand. His arms around me are all that holds me upright.

  Without seeming to make a decision, we’re suddenly taking the stairs, two at a time, to his bedroom. We are stretched out on his bed, and I can feel every muscle inside me ache to be held. The kisses blend into each other, our limbs melding into one. I can’t tell you what time it is, or how long I’ve been here behind his drawn blinds, but the darkness of his room is as smooth as velvet. Layers are discarded, piece by piece. It should be awkward and noisy, given how new we both are to this, to each other, but every motion seems to extend naturally, like music, as if the next chord has been decided before it has even been struck.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper, against his cheek, when we are both wearing only our underwear, and it feels as though even that’s not enough to keep us apart. ‘Be careful,’ I say, the hitch in my voice revealing a fear I didn’t know I had.

  He kisses me then, so slowly that my heart feels like it might split in two, so perfect and new, as if we have all the time in the world. The walls of his room fade and disappear. There is nothing here except Jake, me and this endless, heartbreaking kiss.

  Then a small, inexplicable tear slides down my cheek and Jake jerks away. With what seems like great difficulty, he slowly shakes his head.

  ‘What?’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says roughly. ‘This can’t happen. I can’t … Not like this.’

  He gets up and moves away as if he’s afraid to touch me. The air between us turns cold and I’m left reeling. I watch him pull on his clothes, his ragged breath and a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead my only proof that he wanted the same thing I did.

  ‘Jake?’

  He picks up my shirt and drapes it gently across my bare shoulders. He buttons my blouse, a careful hand extracting my hair from the neckline. His fingers brush my skin at the nape of my neck, and I can feel his hand trembling. He wants this. I can see it.

  ‘Jake? What’s going on?’

  Finally, those emerald eyes meet mine and I see the war going on behind them. I press his hand between mine.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his gaze dropping to his feet. He shoves his hands in his jeans pocket.

  I sit up and reach out to him, but he steps back, his expression unreadable. The muscles across his shoulders are taut and knotted.

  ‘I … I took them,’ he whispers.

  I blink, not sure what I’m hearing.

  ‘The photos. They’re … everywhere,’ he says, sweeping his hand in an arc as though to offer proof.

  ‘What photos?’ I shake my head, my foggy mind clearing. ‘Of my mum?’

  Jake seems almost frozen in place. He doesn’t have to answer; it’s clear on his face. He nods, short and sharp, and there’s no mistake.

  ‘You took the photos of my mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sit there, stunned. And then, finding an inner steel I didn’t know I owned, I stand, straighten my shirt, refusing to look at him as I pull on the last of my clothes and head out the door. I hear him calling out to me that he’s sorry. Every part of my body is aching for him, aching to feel those arms around me, his body beside mine, skin on skin, mouth on mouth. I can’t hear for the thumping in my ears, so I run down those stairs, as though something is chasing me, because there is – anger, humiliation and shame bear down on me so fast that it’s possible I’ll never get away. So I run faster.

  I’m halfway home before I stop to catch my breath. I can’t go home. I can’t face them there – Gran, with all her secrets; Mum, who’s ruined our lives; Dad, wherever he is; and Luke. Luke. I can’t help him right now.

  My feet change course and head down a path they haven’t taken in weeks.

  Kessie’s room is silent when I knock. I don’t wait to open the door, the need to see my friend is so powerful, just knowing she’s here gives me strength –

  ‘Tyler!’ I say, shocked.

  Tyler.

  With Kessie.

  Tyler and Kessie.

  Together.

  They’re just sitting there, quiet and still, and yet they are so completely together. Their shoulders are touching – just – their clothes are neat and unruffled. Nothing about their appearance suggests anything more than two friends hanging out together.

  Except for their hands, side by side, splayed on Kessie’s quilt, their fingers resting in the gaps of each other’s. Skin barely touching skin. Relaxed and unselfconscious.

  Intimate.

  I step back without meaning to. The ro
om suddenly feels too small and close for the three of us. Kessie’s huge poster of Emma Watson towers over us all. Al Gore warns us of an inconvenient truth, shouting at me from across the room.

  Kessie and Tyler watch me, waiting. Here it is, they’re saying, with their easy, natural warmth. Here we are.

  I turn and leave for – I don’t even know where; anywhere but here – when I hear Tyler behind me.

  ‘Frankie?’ She touches my arm gingerly.

  I stare at her hand, and she lets it fall away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters miserably. ‘Kessie wanted to tell you but I wouldn’t let her.’ She glances at Kessie, who’s beside her again, a careful, almost daring look on my best friend’s face.

  Kessie and Tyler. Tyler and Kessie.

  I knew I was losing Kess. I could feel something falling away. But it’s worse than I thought – much worse. I’ve lost them both.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice is screaming that this isn’t how it works, that Kessie loves bimbos. Pretty, silly girls who don’t matter. That she’ll always come back to me. She always comes back.

  But this is Tyler. Our friend. My friend. Someone I don’t want to lose. Someone you don’t just walk away from.

  They’re staring at me in mutual sadness, a hint of fear. Regret. And … pity?

  Pity. Like a fist between my eyes. I almost reel back at the impact. It shakes something loose in me. ‘Got it,’ I say.

  Kessie is beside me now. ‘Come on, Frank. Seriously? You didn’t know?’

  I turn away from them angrily, hating how stupid I feel, how obvious it must have been.

  Kessie holds out her hands, helpless. ‘What could I do? I knew you’d freak out –’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Tyler says, turning to face her. ‘You wanted to tell her and I wouldn’t let you.’

  ‘No, Ty. I should have said something.’ For now it’s just them, locked in this moment, shouldering each other’s blame.

  I look from one to the other. Perhaps this is what hurts the most – the awful truth that they’re in this together.