One True Thing

by Nicole Hayes

  It takes a full two minutes before my memory jolts me upright in bed. Another five before I can will myself to get up. I’m amazed I slept, amazed my body could do what it’s supposed to as if it were an ordinary day. Whatever that means.

  I move through my early-morning routine like the cast of The Walking Dead. As numb as I feel, I can’t stop my mind from racing with all the possibilities for what today might look like. None of them are good.

  Bed roughly made, hair scraped back in a ponytail, and my robe pulled loosely around me, I step out into an empty house. Mum came home late but still managed to get up in time to take Luke to swimming practice at some obscene hour. Dad must have taken the hint, because he’s not around either.

  I stare at the cereal boxes lined neatly on the table. ‘Low GI’ this and ‘wholegrain’ that. I guess Mum has stopped humouring the staff. I can’t face any of it. I decide to get dressed and buy something at school.

  I’m about to leave when Mum calls. I let it ring out, but before I get any further, Harry is calling, and I know I need to pick up.

  ‘Hi Harry.’

  ‘Frankie, are you at home?’

  ‘Yeah. Late start.’

  I check my watch to see just how late I am. A lot. Not the best way to make a quiet entrance.

  ‘Listen, I’d like you to wait. Sarah’s on her way. She’ll take you to school.’

  ‘Why? No. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘There’s been a shift and the press are back on the story.’

  I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head to the front door. I peer through the peephole. Everything looks shrunken and distant and mercifully silent from behind the front door. And then I see the growing huddle of journalists clamouring for the perfect photo: Mum without make-up, or Dad looking cross, Luke and I arguing. Or the Holy Grail of paparazzi prizes: one of us crying.

  ‘They’re back,’ I say.

  ‘I want you to wait for Sarah,’ Harry instructs.

  I shake this off. ‘I need to go. It’s going to be tough enough at school without making an entrance.’

  ‘Frankie, I mean it. Your mum will kill me if she knows you’re facing them alone.’

  ‘She should have thought of that before, then. Shouldn’t she?’

  ‘Frankie!’ he says, raising his voice at me for the first time. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘Yeah, well, so am I.’ I hang up, sick to death of everyone telling me what to do.

  Backpack in place, guitar by my side, I lean against the door, peering through the hole at the growing crowd. You’ve got this, I tell myself. You’ve got this.

  I open the door. The noise ramps up about ten decibels as the pack rushes towards the barricades, still in place from when the story first broke. They thrust their microphones forward, shouting my name.

  I start walking, staring steadfastly past them, determined not to slow even a bit.

  ‘Any comment on the latest revelation?’

  God. What now? Whatever it is, it won’t be the truth. Mum’s protecting Colin’s identity like a lioness protects the favoured cub, even if it means the rest of the litter gets picked off one by one.

  ‘Frankie! Any comment?’

  ‘How do you feel about your mum?’

  ‘How’s your dad?’

  The words blur into white noise. There’s a part of me that wants to scream at the top of my lungs, tell them to shut their mouths and leave us alone.

  ‘No comment,’ I say over and over, forever obeying Harry’s advice. It occurs to me that a teenager should never have to say ‘no comment’. Then again, a teenager shouldn’t have a media secretary, either, so I guess I’m screwed no matter how I look at it.

  Then one of the younger journalists, a woman with bold lipstick and black pigtails, crosses the street, ignoring the barricades, and touches my arm. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  Before I know it, I’m sobbing like a little kid, incapable of stopping the noise I’m making, the god-ugly face I’m pulling, or the cameras from snapping and flashing in answer.

  I’m a block from school and have only just managed to get it together before I see the government car pull up beside me.

  From the back seat, Sarah sticks her head out the window. ‘We went to pick you up but you’d already left.’

  She takes one look at me and hurriedly gets out of the car. I can still feel the sticky trail of tears on my cheeks. My ponytail has fallen loose, strands of hair cling to my face. I must look as crappy as I feel.

  ‘Pretty brutal, hey?’ she says, putting an arm around me.

  I breathe deeply, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘You okay?’ She swivels me around to face her and offers a lopsided grin. ‘Is it fatal?’

  I half-laugh and shake her off.

  ‘You sure?’ She scans the street for any stragglers, I guess, in case anyone followed me here.

  ‘The police are on their way to your house. They’ll have a word to them, move them on,’ Sarah says.

  I shrug. ‘Okay.’

  A frown dents her forehead. ‘Mad at me too, huh?’

  I shake my head, force a calm I don’t feel. This whole thing is crazy. I wish I could just curl up in a corner somewhere and start the day – maybe the year – all over again. ‘Not unless you’ve got a long-lost son we don’t know about.’

  Her mouth twists into a grimace.

  ‘Too soon?’

  She pulls me into a rough hug. ‘Cut your folks some slack, hey? No one’s having much fun right now.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I extract myself from Sarah’s strong arms and head towards the school gates. On the way, I put my earphones in, flick to my ‘Guitar Heroes’ playlist, and turn up Ian Moss full bore.

  Head down, books clutched against my chest like an armour plate, I shuffle through the corridors of College Park High, ignoring the hum of gossip around me. It could be worse, I decide. Travis Matthews could show up –

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Paedophile Junior!’

  I know it’s him without looking. I think about our childhood together, those afternoons on skateboards and bikes with every kid in the street. How is it possible that this is the same boy who held my hand when I was stung by a bee? Who made us cheese and Vegemite sandwiches and drank cold glasses of Milo on those endless summer afternoons?

  He’s following me now, that voice booming in my ear. Paedo. Slut. Slut Junior … The words run together, barely making sense.

  ‘Nothing to say, Junior? You won’t stand up for Mummy?’

  Everyone is watching, fascinated, but there’s a rumble of discontent too. I can feel it among some of the older kids. ‘Knock it off, Matthews’ and ‘Give it a rest’ rise above the general murmur of intrigue. I don’t recognise the voices but I hear them. I consider walking away, ignoring him like I have too many times before. And then I realise my reputation is history already. It almost doesn’t matter what I do or what I say now.

  In a way, I’m free.

  ‘Sorry she shot you down,’ I say, offering a syrupy smile. ‘Unfortunately, she doesn’t go outside her species.’

  I don’t wait to see if my insult has landed. I get out of there as fast as I can, though I don’t get far. Kessie is waiting by my locker. She steps between us, blocking my way so I can’t get my books.

  ‘So that’s it, is it? Friendship done because I’m with Tyler,’ Kessie says, no bullshit as always.

  ‘My locker?’ I say.

  She studies me for a long minute, like she’s seeing something she hasn’t seen before. The violet of her eyes has turned almost liquid, and I realise then that there are tears waiting to spill. I look down, then force myself to look up.

  She hasn’t flinched or moved, but when she speaks, her voice is soft and a little broken. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me.’

  ‘I need my stuff,’ I say, indicating my locker.

  She doesn’t move for what seems like ages, then, finally, she steps back and lets me through.

  I don’t loo
k up when I hear her walk away.

  I slide into class before everyone is seated and hide down the back. After a token greeting and a couple of harried shushes, Mrs Mac calls the roll.

  I stare at the blurred words on the page before me, my face hot and flushed at the looming declaration that I am, in fact, here. I turn a few pages, seeing nothing, but determined to look busy. Never has rollcall held such dread.

  ‘Charlie Mathers?’

  Here.

  ‘Zack Muller?’

  Here.

  ‘Francesca Mulvaney-Webb?’

  ‘Here,’ I say, in the understatement of the century.

  The entire class turns towards me, many of them surprised, apparently, that I’ve shown up. It takes all my energy to ignore them and match Mrs McDonald’s gaze. But I manage it for a few long, uncomfortable seconds.

  ‘Good to see you back,’ Mrs McDonald says firmly, and I remember why I’ve always liked her.

  ‘Thanks!’ I squeak, before I duck my head, feigning total fascination with some British professor’s analysis of the role of Neighbours in shaping global perceptions of Australia.

  I count three seconds in my head before Caitlyn Napier breaks the silence and, slowly, something like the normal classroom hum returns. I hear snatches of conversation that I know are about me and Mum. Mrs Mac finishes rollcall and starts handing back essays from last month.

  A shadow falls across my desk, and I find her standing over me, a worried frown creasing her forehead. ‘Everything all right, Francesca?’

  ‘Sorry? Yeah. It’s fine.’

  Mrs Mac hands me my essay without another word, but after I’ve noted my B+, I realise she’s still standing there, her matronly hips effectively blocking out the rest of the class and their staring eyes. I consider asking her to stay there for the rest of the day but decide that’s probably not practical.

  ‘Honestly. It’s fine.’

  Mrs McDonald studies my essay, which I’m clutching so tightly the grade is no longer legible amid all the wrinkles. ‘You’re not on your own here, Francesca,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, even though she’s kidding herself. No one else could possibly understand what it’s like for me right now. Even Luke isn’t old enough to get it. ‘I know,’ I lie.

  Mrs McDonald nods, then continues on her way through the class.

  And from across the aisle, loud and firm and undeniable, Kessie says, ‘Yeah. You’re not, you know.’ I look at her, feeling the ground shift underneath me. ‘Or you don’t have to be.’ Kessie is angry and hurt – it’s clear in her voice – but she means it. She always means it.

  I blink back tears and focus my attention on the essay that I suddenly can’t remember writing. I smooth the crumpled page with careful, even strokes, although the damage is done. The whole thing is ruined. I look up.

  ‘Let me help,’ Kessie says simply.

  I sigh. I’m too tired to hate her. A hot tear slides down my cheek but both of us pretend not to see it. Instead, I lay out my crinkled essay, nodding at it like it’s the centre of the world, and ask her what mark she got.

  CHAPTER 27

  IMAGE REBRANDING

  At lunchtime I put in my earphones and drown my thoughts in some Powderfinger. I’ve already had multiple close-ups of my howling face clog my Instagram feed, and apparently there’s a meme of me crying to the tones of Shannon Noll’s version of ‘What About Me?’ going viral.

  All in all, a normal day.

  When Kessie wanders in and plonks down in the seat beside me, she gives me a nudge and a slow clap. ‘I hear you gave Meathead a serve.’

  I yank out my earphones. ‘Apparently.’ But I’m quietly pleased it’s made the rounds. I guess I landed a hit after all. One small victory in a largely soul-destroying day. ‘Like it will make a difference.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s hardly worth it, but someone has to stand up to The Missing Link.’ Kessie studies her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, then says, ‘I know about Jake.’

  My heart lurches.

  ‘That must really hurt.’

  ‘I don’t want to …’

  ‘Talk about it?’ She laughs. ‘Did not see that coming.’

  I smile. ‘You can be so annoying sometimes.’

  Kessie winks and grins. ‘I do my best.’

  It feels good to laugh.

  Mrs Mac stops me in the corridor on my way to class to remind me that the school counsellor is in her office all day today and that she’ll be staying late herself if I want to come by the staffroom. Mrs Mac does that meaningful staring thing that usually annoys me, but this time it just makes me feel sad.

  I smile and offer an impression of someone coping brilliantly before I thank her for her kind offer and tell her I’ll be fine. If I’m going to get through this revolting day, and all the revolting days to come, I can’t burst into tears every time anyone’s nice to me.

  Then again, it’s marginally better than bursting into tears every time someone’s a dick to me. I refuse to do that.

  I scan the corridor for Travis but, thankfully, he’s nowhere in sight. Probably busy flushing a Year 8’s head down the toilet, or pulling the wings off a fly somewhere. Or maybe I really did shut him down earlier.

  And then I stop cold, dread washing over me.

  My locker is open. Wide open.

  The Lollapalooza poster is no longer visible, though it’s still there, buried under some new additions. As I note this change, I curse myself for not fixing that stupid lock. It takes some seconds for the whole thing to make sense. Staring out at me is a photo of my mum, naked, her whole body exposed and open for the world to see. She’s on her knees in a full-on porno pose. Nothing is left to the imagination. The world is her gynaecologist. At least, that’s what it looks like.

  Anyone with a brain can see it’s a fake – Mum’s head on someone else’s body. I rip the picture down, no longer caring about the poster of Eddie underneath. There’s more, though. There are clippings of the words ‘paedophile’ and ‘lover’, ‘scandal’, ‘affair’, ‘sleazy’ decorating every available corner of my locker. The words are all neatly cut out and stuck to the walls. ‘Boyfriend’, ‘sex’, ‘betrayal’ … It goes on but my vision blurs with unshed tears. Someone’s gone to a lot of effort to mess with me.

  ‘Shit,’ Tyler says, appearing beside me.

  I blink. Not ready to see her, I stare at the picture and then something snaps. White-hot anger tears through me and I rip the words down, dropping half of them and having to scramble on the floor to gather them in my hands. Tyler crouches down beside me and hands me an errant ‘slut’, careful not to look at me as I scrunch the scraps into a ball. I roll them up in the torn poster, squashing them into the smallest form possible.

  ‘They’re dicks,’ Tyler says quietly. ‘Just ignore them. They’re not worth it,’ she adds, her hand resting on my elbow as though to stop me from doing I don’t know what.

  I crush the obscenities into a tight ball, shove it into my locker and slam the door shut, fighting the hot swell of tears that threaten to spill.

  I turn away and lean against the locker, battling to hold it together. Just staying upright seems to take most of my energy. I close my eyes, willing my body to move, or my brain to come up with a reaction, but it’s like every part of me has gone numb.

  ‘What the …?’

  My eyes fly open, recognising the voice, and I find Jake D’Angelo standing in front of us. A missed piece of my photoshopped mum crumpled in his hand, a torn shred of the word ‘paedophile’ forgotten on the linoleum floor by his foot. I clearly didn’t do a very good job of cleaning up.

  I glare at him icily, daring him to say anything. I’m expecting to see shame or embarrassment when his gaze meets mine, but instead he looks fit to kill.

  ‘Who did this?’ he says, his voice thick and unsteady.

  ‘Give that to me!’ I say, snatching at the photo and falling to the floor to grab the remaining scrap. I shred the last piece into tiny bit
s and scan the floor before I look at him again.

  He’s watching me like he doesn’t know who I am. Tyler too.

  I look like a lunatic. I can see it reflected in their faces. Humiliation, anger and hurt swirl crazily inside me, battling to take control, anger eventually winning out.

  ‘This is crap,’ he says. ‘It’s bullshit!’

  ‘I know that, Jake,’ I snap. ‘But it’s my bullshit.’ I throw the bits of paper in the air and storm off.

  ‘Frankie, wait!’ I hear Tyler calling after me, but I don’t look back. I just keep going.

  I’m bent double, half-coughing, half-sobbing in the middle of College Park, which is mercifully empty. I put my hands on my head, opening my lungs, forcefully slowing my breathing. Trying to get control.

  ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ Jake is crossing the park in quick strides, his face a picture of worry.

  ‘I don’t need your help, Jake.’ I turn my back on him and head towards the pergola at the south-east corner. I stop at the water fountain and drink in large gulps. I splash my face, the cool water bliss against my hot cheeks.

  ‘Please, can you let me explain?’

  I wipe my chin and glare at him. ‘You betrayed me.’ My chest heaves and I strangle a sob.

  ‘It’s not what you think!’

  I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. You did this. You took the photos.’

  ‘I didn’t publish them.’

  ‘Did you take them?’

  ‘I told you already – yes.’

  ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘But I didn’t publish them! I didn’t want anyone to see them. I promise you!’

  I hesitate, not sure whether to believe him. Jake moves towards me, and I step back automatically. The idea of him touching me is both terrifying and intoxicating and, ultimately, painful. The humiliation of that day is as sharp and clear now as it was then. I turn away, hiding my scarlet cheeks.