Last night, I seemed to have zero energy and barely the strength to open Bella’s can of dog food, let alone take her for a walk. I watched some stupid TV, then crawled into bed wearing Mum’s old shirt and spooned Bella. I couldn’t sleep, and woke a thousand times worrying about the name and shame campaign, irrational fears about Paula and the baby’s health circling like vultures.
‘Sky!’ I turn to see Lucy power-walking from her bus to catch up to me. ‘What happened? You haven’t answered my texts. Did Paula have the baby? A boy or a girl? Do they have a name?’
‘Everything’s fine, Luce.’ Suddenly the weight of my backpack feels too heavy, so I take it off and let it fall to the ground. ‘No baby yet. But it’s happening this morning. They’re inducing her.’
‘Inducing?’ Lucy pushes her glasses up her nose.
‘Her contractions haven’t been strong enough and since her water broke, they have to get the baby out today, so they’ll give her some drugs to hurry the process along,’ I say, repeating what Dave told me last night. ‘Dad’s picking me up from school early and we’ll go straight to the hospital.’
Malcolm appears from behind Lucy, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her neck. ‘Morning, Lou. I’ve been thinking about Russia all night.’
‘Russia?’ I furrow my brows.
‘You know, the position Mark just interviewed for,’ Malcolm says looking at me.
Lucy hadn’t told me the Russia job had progressed to an interview; the news makes me feel even worse.
Malcom snuggles into Lucy again. ‘I’ve always wanted to eat dinner on a Eurasian plate.’ He chuckles.
I stare at him. How he can be making jokes at a time like this? He should be helping to solve this problem, not laughing about it.
‘Did you ask your family whether they know of a job for Mark yet?’ I regret the words as soon as I’ve said them. I know I’m crossing a line, interfering too much.
Malcolm stands up straight. ‘Mark’s an accomplished guy, Sky; he really doesn’t need my help, or yours.’ He turns to Lucy. ‘Tell her.’
Lucy looks uncomfortable. ‘He’s probably right. Dad can do this himself.’
‘Did he say that?’ I ask.
‘Kind of, yeah.’
Oh. That’s embarrassing. Lucy, Malcolm and Mark have obviously been talking about me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. I look at my shoes, tears welling. I wanted to be a good friend, but I’ve stuffed it up and instead of supporting Lucy I’ve meddled in her dad’s affairs. Malcolm was right all along not to listen to me.
Lucy touches my arm. ‘I know it’s just your way of trying to help. Believe me, I’m as worried as you. But it’s out of our hands.’
‘Sorry,’ I tell Malcolm too. ‘I didn’t mean to pressure you.’
‘No worries, Sky.’ His voice is genuine.
The school bell rings and I heave my bag onto my shoulders then we all walk through to our lockers. On the way, I describe a dream I had last night where I was falling slowly off a cliff, trying to claw my way back up the rocks, waves breaking below. There were circling sharks, or shark-like creatures, beneath me that merged into a group before becoming a thunder of dragons. I tell them how I kept waking and then sinking back into the same dream. Malcolm tells me that sometimes that happens to him as well, and I wonder about the things that might cause him to have nightmares too.
I get through my morning, not entirely concentrating. My familiar flashbacks of the joey have now mixed with last night’s dream and embarrassment at my misguided attempts to help Mark.
At lunch, I meet Oliver, Lucy and Malcolm by the fig tree. We take out our sandwiches and they start talking among themselves, but I’m not in a chatty mood so I gaze into the yard. I see a group of girls, small enough to be Year Sevens, watching, whispering giggling at another girl at the far end.
I take out my phone. There’s a new message from Miguel in our private group.
We’re playing around with options. Will check what works with our test audiences, then make the final decision tomorrow and go live. May justice reign!
There’s an attachment and I click on it.
A picture of Pete’s face appears; it’s the same picture his father posted but blown up so it’s just him. There’s a target around his head, and red writing that looks like splashed blood reads: Pete Kelly tortures joeys and thinks he’ll get away with it. Watch the video. Share.
Another attachment pops up with the same photo, but this time the caption reads: You’ve seen the video. Now you know who’s responsible—Pete Kelly. Share.
I bite my lip and put my hand to my stomach as it turns somersaults. I turn to Oliver to ask what he thinks, but he’s in the middle of a heated discussion with Malcolm, so instead, I click through to Miguel’s name to find the Expose Them site. I’ve liked and shared their posts before, but I’ve never paid much attention to the specific details. Is this format the norm?
I start scrolling. Every post focuses on a different individual and each has a caption, just like Pete’s photo. They have been shared and liked tens, even hundreds, of thousands of times. The most recent comments on the post about the guy who drowned a cat are mostly filled with profanities. Others say things like, Monster, He’s evil, Die and I’ll find out where he lives. Why isn’t Miguel deleting these?
I find the post I shared last week—the American woman wearing fur. The woman’s been tagged in the photo, which has the caption: Are you so ugly you can’t wear your own skin? And someone’s written in red over the top of the photo: Twenty-four foxes were killed for Alison to wear this coat.
I go to Alison’s own Facebook page, where her profile picture shows her on the beach kissing a young child, heart emojis all around them. I scroll down to her latest post: I can’t take it anymore. Taking a break from Facebook. May never return.
People have barraged the post with comments.
You’re disgusting.
Burn in Hell.
Good riddance.
Stupid and selfish.
And even You should be skinned alive too.
‘You okay, Sky?’ Lucy asks. My mouth’s gone dry. How can Stella be okay with this?
I show her my phone. ‘Have you seen this site?’
I haven’t told Lucy about Stella and Miguel’s plans for Pete because of Miguel’s instructions to keep everything a secret until launch day. But it can’t hurt to show her his page—I’ve shared his posts before anyway.
‘It’s trolling. Not good, right?’ I say as she scans the post and the comments. Maybe I should have told her everything from the start.
Lucy pushes her glasses up her nose. ‘Mum gave me another lecture about online safety after I started my art page on Insta, which is so not controversial by the way. But I haven’t had one mean comment—it’s amazing.’
‘A bigger lecture than the one she gave us at school?’
‘Yeah. She literally sat me down with a folder of articles she’d printed. There were some pretty full-on stories about people who’d been bullied online.’
‘But ... it’s not as dangerous as bullying in person, is it?’ As soon I say this, I realise how silly it sounds.
Lucy looks at me, perplexed. ‘Cyberbullying can be worse, Sky. This one girl I read about got PTSD and couldn’t leave her house, and many others developed depression and began to self-harm. It’s pretty serious.’
‘But what if ...’ My voice fades. I have nothing else to say. Bullying is bullying; it affects people however it’s done. I reformulate my thoughts. ‘So what do you think about this situation? This Alison woman has done something bad, and other people want to call her out on it.’
Lucy puzzles over this for a moment.
Just then, I see a glint of white in the corner of the yard. It’s Pete, his cast reflecting in the sun. He has his black hoodie on, as always, and his face is expressionless. I watch as he takes a seat, alone, by the side gate. Earbuds in, his leg twitching, he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
Malcolm shrugs.
‘You know, when they go and attack the person who’s attacked someone else?’ Lucy persists.
‘A vigilante?’ Oliver offers.
Lucy turns back to me. ‘That’s it. It’s when you think someone’s done something wrong and instead of calling the police or something, you take justice into your own hands and make them pay for it.’
I look at Pete, who’s still sitting in the same position, and wonder if he deserves what’s coming to him and what will happen when the whole school knows what he did. I turn back to the group of girls who haven’t let up their sniping. The other girl has noticed them and I watch as she picks up her lunch and walks towards the bathrooms. Kids can be mean. Will Pete learn a needed lesson or will he be driven to the edge? I think of Stella, her gold bracelets like Wonder Woman. She’s a successful journalist, activist and writer, with a wealth of experience; she must know what she’s doing. And Oliver—a good, decent guy—he seems cool with it too. So why do I feel so unsure?
An idea occurs to me. As the bell rings and we make our way back to class, I sidle up to Oliver and whisper, ‘Maybe we should give him a chance to explain?’
‘Who, Pete?’
‘Who else!’ I stop in my tracks.
He stares at me. ‘Why can’t you just let the professional activists do their jobs? This is what they do. Only days ago, you were you telling me how amazing Stella is, now you don’t even trust her?’
I don’t know what to think, what to say, so instead I march ahead to my classroom. It’s not about trust, it just feels wrong.
In double English, we’re studying Bob Dylan. I stare at my workbook, where I’ve copied his lyrics down by hand. He talks about loneliness, isolation, homelessness, being unknown.
I used to know how that felt. But now I’m surrounded by people I respect. Or at least I thought I was.
I send a message to Issie. What do you do when everyone’s telling you to do something, but you’re not sure it’s the right thing?
I know it sound cryptic, but it’s all I can say for now.
My phone lights up with her reply. Follow your heart. Kindness is always the answer.
It reminds me of Mum’s words in the final video she made for me just before she died: When you don’t know what to do, trust your heart, my love. It will never lead you astray. How could I have forgotten them until now?
Malcolm and his classmates pass by our classroom window and I see Pete, following last. For a split second, his gaze meets mine.
I return to my notebook and turn to a fresh page. My hand moves without me thinking and I find myself putting words on paper, spending the rest of the class writing and writing. My thoughts fall out in a jumble, but in the chaos, in the mess, there’s a glimmer of clarity. I think I know what to do.
Chapter 18
I will never forget this moment—never ever.
A warm tingle ascends from the tips of my fingers up to my shoulders, up the sides of my neck, under my skull, and it pulls my lips into a smile. I haven’t stopped smiling since Paula handed him to me. My baby cousin. He’s here. And I love him already.
Dad picked me up mid-class and we got here just in time for the birth. Now it’s evening and the hospital is quiet and calm.
Dave takes what must be the ten thousandth picture as Paula beams through teary eyes.
‘Our perfect family,’ she says. ‘I am so blessed.’
I look at Paula and at Dave, and my chin quivers. How could I have doubted that this baby would be anything but a good thing?
‘Can I come in?’ It’s my dad, peeking around the door. ‘Everyone decent?’
Dave welcomes him inside the hospital room with an oversized hug and a slap on the back, then he leaves to take a call.
Dad presents Paula with a massive bouquet of yellow roses trailing with ribbons.
‘Thanks, Adam,’ Paula says as she adjusts her pale-pink terry-towelling gown. Her voice is warm.
‘I never got to see Sky as a baby.’ He gently touches the bub’s feet. ‘This is a good day.’
Paula’s eyes linger on him. She’s wearing no make-up and her hair is messier than ever, but she looks beautiful. After a beat she says, ‘That must have been hard for you.’ There’s not a hint of reproach in her eyes.
‘It was hell.’ His voice is soft, matter of fact. He moves a bag to the floor and sits down on the chair beside me.
‘We’ve never really spoken about it,’ Paula says.
Dad looks at her, surprised. ‘No, we haven’t. I’ve wanted to, but I wasn’t sure if you did.’
Paula gazes past us to the window. ‘I think I was so angry about the past that it’s shaded everything in the present.’
‘I always wanted to be there,’ he says. ‘But Eli ...’
‘I know.’ A smile plays on her lips. ‘Once my sister got something into her head, it was impossible to change her mind. She was stubborn.’
‘As a mule.’
Paula’s smile drops, and she looks at him directly now. ‘She should have let you into Sky’s life, given you a chance.’
It feels strange to be listening in to this conversation. But in another way, I’m glad I am. Hearing them talk is a coming together of two different parts of myself; one that is loyal to my mother, and the other that wants to have a relationship with my father. And in the middle is Paula, who now inhabits this strange place of being both a grieving sister and a substitute mother and who, despite her personal opinion of my dad, has my best interests at heart.
‘Yeah. She should have.’ Dad’s voice is quiet. ‘But no one’s perfect, me least of all, and I’m sure she had her reasons.’
Nobody talks for a minute. The sounds of the hospital and the baby’s breathing feel like they’re saying all there is to say. It’s like sitting in the bush by a flowing creek. We’re all here. Just being.
‘Are your arms getting tired, sweetie?’ Paula asks eventually, nodding towards the package in my arms.
‘I’m fine.’ I gaze down at my cousin, sleeping peacefully wedged into the crook of my elbow. My arm is aching slightly, but I don’t want to let him go. I lower my head and inhale; the sweetest smell I’ve ever experienced. I inspect the tiny hairs on his head, the soft down. His nose is squished—beyond cute—and his lips are straight out of an Italian fresco of Cupid. He’s tiny, but the doctors have assured us that he’s breathing well, has a strong cry, good suction and doesn’t need oxygen or incubation. Without an ounce of fat, his skinny little legs will need all the nourishment they can get, and luckily the breastfeeding is progressing well.
Dave returns holding up his phone. ‘That was the school. They’re just checking up on you as you rushed out during Maths. I told them you’d probably take the next day or so off to be with us and the baby. Is that okay?’
I nod enthusiastically.
‘They just need a permission slip sent over,’ Dave says.
‘I’ll drop by the school office tomorrow, bud,’ Dad says. ’You enjoy your little one.’
‘Thanks Adam, but I don’t think you’re registered,’ Dave says to my father. ‘You’d have to notify the school that you’re a guardian.’
‘But I’m her father, isn’t that enough?’
‘Not always.’
My phone bings repeatedly from my back pocket, interrupting the awkward moment. I lean forward, holding the baby carefully, take out my phone and put it on silent.
‘So, have you decided on a name?’ I ask Paula, trying to change the subject.
‘Have we decided, you mean.’ She smiles at me, her happiness radiating through her exhaustion.
‘You want my opinion?’ I ask.
‘Sky! Do you think we’d choose a name without your input?’
I smile, and with one hand I wipe away a tear. Paula waves me over, and I stand, baby in my ar
ms, by her bedside.
‘I do have an idea,’ I say. It came to me months ago.
‘Tell me,’ she says.
‘Well, Mum’s name, Eleanor, comes from the word, light.’
‘Does it now?’ Paula asks. ‘I didn’t know that. Did you hear that, Dave?’ Paula waves him over. ‘Eleanor means light. And Sky has a name suggestion.’
I feel suddenly unsure. ‘I don’t know if you’ll like it and don’t feel like you have to. I mean ...’
‘Sky, just tell us.’
‘Okay. Here it is.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Lior. It means “my light”.’
‘Lior,’ Dave says slowly.
Paula looks at me, wide-eyed.
‘It’s okay,’ I mumble. ‘You guys probably have a better—’
‘Lior,’ Paula repeats.
‘Lior?’ Dave asks.
Paula clears her throat and says gently, ‘Lior.’
Dad parrots, ‘Lior’.
Dave chuckles. ‘It’s an unusual one.’
They look at each other. One beat, two.
Dad breaks the silence and laughs. ‘Well, I like it!’
I’d hug him in relief if there wasn’t a newborn in my arms.
Paula and Dave lock eyes, and then I notice her give an almost imperceptible nod. ‘And so it is.’
‘What?’ I almost shout. I lower my voice so I don’t wake the baby. ‘Are you serious? Or are you just messing with me?’
‘We wouldn’t have come up with that in a thousand years,’ Paula says as she rubs her belly, which still looks pregnant.
‘That’s for sure,’ Dave says. ‘You were suggesting the most boring names of all time. I think I actually fell asleep at one point.’
Paula hushes him. ‘But you know what, Sky? I love how it reminds me of your mum, of my beautiful sister.’
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