All I Ever Wanted (3 page)

Tahnee's primped and painted, high on spiky heels and something else. Her hair is almost completely blonde now, waist-length with a copper-coloured layer underneath. When she's excited or upset, she gets hyper-animated and her hands move like sock-puppets. Her upper lip is pierced and sometimes I forget and go to brush the stud away.

I'm a black and white caricature, an outline. Sharp lines and angles, but no dimension. My hair is long, dark brown and prone to ringlets—gypsy hair that reacts like a barometer. It expands and contracts, depending on the weather. Tahnee frequently launches random attacks with a pump bottle of No-Frizz, but not much can tame it. As I look at myself over Tahnee's left shoulder, I see a lanky, brown-skinned wild girl standing in her shadow.

It hits me that she's far beyond me now, almost out of reach.

‘Where?' I stare at her.

‘In Ryan's car. Out by the wetlands. He's such a romantic.'

I imagine it. Sticky fumblings in the back of a Subaru, a haze of vampire mozzies that rise up from the stinking bog, fogged windows, the boom of bass. I wanted something more for her. I wanted her to want something more.

‘I can't believe you did that,' I say.

She lets her jaw hang for a moment, then she moves on to that prissy frown thing she does when she's really pissed off. She twists the ends of her hair extensions.

‘It was no big deal, Mim. It's not like I gave him a kidney.'

‘You promised. We promised each other we would be
different
.'

She bites her lower lip and pulls at a clump of mascara sticking to her lashes. Tahnee can look herself in the eye when she's in front of a mirror, something I can't do. I squint, or try to catch a glimpse as I'm passing, but I can't just stand there and look at myself the way she does.

‘I tried, I really did. Maybe it isn't as important to me as it is to you. Can't you just be happy for me? It's over, it's done. I'm still me.'

‘That's the start of it then,' I say, shaking my head. There's a lump in my throat that feels like a piece of dry bread, stuck there.

‘The start of what?'

‘Well, the end, really.'

‘Oh my God, I'm sixteen, not eleven,' she huffs. ‘The only reason I haven't done it before is you never want to go anywhere or do anything. It's all about you and your stupid rules. You're so worried that you might turn into your mother, you're scared to do anything. Your rules are about all the things you can't do, not about the things you should be doing. Like having fun and experiencing life.'

‘They're not stupid. How else am I going to get out of here?' I keep my voice low so Mum can't hear. ‘You'll be experiencing life via an umbilical cord if you keep shagging Ryan. Then you can tell me all about it, firsthand.'

‘You're no fun any more. We used to have fun,' she sulks.

‘You're the one who changed, not me,' I hiss. ‘Your definition of fun is puking in a bush, and trying to get your feet on both side mirrors of Ryan's car.'

Tahnee smirks. ‘That was kind of fun.' She stabs her chest with her finger. ‘And I can, for your information.'

‘Can what?'

‘Get my feet on both side mirrors.' She drops down into a perfect split, wiggles her toes and puts her hands above her head like a gymnast. ‘See? Nothing forgettable about my debut, honey. He's hooked. Guys love that shit.'

‘Ah, you are wise as well as bendy,' I say in my best Confucious voice, trying not to smile. I can't stay mad at her for long.

‘So, you forgive me?' she pouts.

For leaving me behind? ‘Not really,' I say.

‘What have you been up to?' she asks, grabbing a tube of my lip gloss, which is crusty from heat and under-use. She dabs it on, picks bits from her lips and throws it down in disgust.

‘Nothing,' I lie.

‘Hey, have you seen Jordan? I heard he's not going to uni. He's taking a gap year.'

‘I saw him today.'

‘Really. Where?' Her gaze is distant to match her tone. She fidgets with some jewellery, a bottle of perfume, a CD. But there's somewhere else she wants to be.

‘Never mind.' If I tell her what happened I think I'll probably cry and I'll lose my edge. That and the fact that her dream's come true—if you can call it a dream—and mine's gone arse up. So much for parallel lives. ‘Did it hurt?'

‘Nah,' she says, but I know when she's lying.

‘Was it okay? I mean, are you going to do it again?'

‘It was fine. Honest. Anyway, I have to go. He's picking me up.'

Great. At home with my mother on a Saturday night. ‘Do you love him?' I ask, because I'm a romantic.

She snorts. ‘Don't be stupid.'

‘Warm-up stretches first,' I tell her as she leaves.

FOUR

In the morning, Mum and the baby are gone. The eight o'clock train wakes me most Sundays, but usually I can slide back into sleep. I'm surprised that I've slept at all after climbing into bed with a churning stomach and a fizzing brain, like I had too many energy drinks.

Fat blowflies butt against the kitchen window because Mum's left the screen off and already the glass radiates heat. I spray the flies and wait for them to stop spinning before I pick them up with a tissue.

The ratty nest in our lemon tree is falling apart and the baby wood pigeons are almost ready to fly. Only two weeks ago they were still pink with bulging eyes covered with purple skin. They pant like puppies, only their tongues don't hang out. The parents play tag team, one in, one out.

There's not much in the fridge but I unearth some bacon in the freezer. I shove it in the microwave and wait for the ding, arm myself with a Bar-B-Mate and grab the bacon and a table fan from Mum's room. It'll be stinking hot in the shed today.

Gargoyle's where I left him except his back end is on the blanket and there are slobbery wet puddles by the bucket. He growls. The smell of his distress is thick and putrid.

‘It's okay, ugly boy, it's okay,' I soothe.

I unwrap the bacon and chuck it at him. It hits his nose with a wet slap and he sighs, a sound that's strangely human. He turns his head away from me and the bacon.

I might have to tell Mick Tarrant that his dog's here. The thought makes me tense and I play through the scenario, just to be sure.

Knock, knock.

Hi, Mrs Tarrant. Mim from down the road. Oh, that's a
nasty cut, did you have a fall? Hello, little guy. I have a tissue,
let me wipe your nose for you. What a cutie. Sorry to bother you,
is your husband home? Gargoyle's crawled into our shed and it
looks like he's eaten bait. He might need the vet. Oh, here he is.
Hey, Mick. Wanna come get your dog?

Here the neighbourly scene dissolves. I picture Mum coming home to find Mick Tarrant on her property. I'm dead. I see Donna Tarrant dragged screaming into the house for daring to answer the door to me. She's dead. I see Mick kick his useless dog. He pulls out a shotgun. Gargoyle's dead.

The last time I knocked at their door was years ago. I was collecting sponsors for the MS Readathon, already dreaming of my prize because I can read like lightning.

Mick's heavy paws grabbing my twelve-year-old breasts, his bourbon-soaked breath at ten in the morning, his bad teeth, hulking body, and my confusing shame. I ran home. I stayed quiet for two days until Mum badgered the story out of me. I remember the fight, in the middle of the street, with Mum swinging a golf club, the boys just swinging, and Mick Tarrant threatening to give her little girl more than just a feel.

Then, the truce. Mum said if she ever saw Mick near her property she'd happily pay for a bikie hit. Mick said if he ever saw a Dodd on his, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. And that was that. Old feuds are like cracks in the pavement: we all step around them but the cracks get deeper and wider anyway.

About a year later, I saw Donna Tarrant in the chicken shop. She mumbled something about not having enough money for her chips and left them on the counter.

So. Gargoyle will have to crawl back out of here by himself.

Benny should be up by now. I lock the shed and the house, grab a longneck from the outside fridge and cross the street. A whippy wind pushes me across and a fine mist of cool water hits my face. Mrs Tkautz is spraying her plants, damping down the dirt. The woman has no respect for water restrictions.

‘Hi, Mrs Tkautz,' I offer, to be neighbourly.

I can read her lips.
Godless child.

Just keep on spraying, you old witch, that birdseed of mine will sprout up nice and green in a couple of days.

Benny's not in his chair. I peer through the front and side windows, checking in case he didn't make it. Looking for his legs flat out on the floor. We all know it's just a matter of time until one day he doesn't wake up. But he's not in the house, so I check the fridge on his porch. It's empty. No beer. He'll be wandering along the tracks somewhere. I take the longneck with me, so I can lure him home when I find him.

The tracks are fenced behind the houses, but there are a dozen ways to get through. I wish I had put on more than thongs and shorts because the grass is dry and high, scratching my legs, making me itch. The longneck is sweating. I wipe it over my arms so the hot breeze feels like air-conditioning.

Where our street ends, the olive trees begin. Rows of them alongside the tracks, black with fruit, endless as the rails. He can't be far. When he's drunk he always heads for the bottle shop. When he's out of beer and money he goes to the tracks.

Before I know it, I'm at the old signal tower. It looks out of place here, like a lighthouse in a paddock, tall and white. I smell stale urine in the doorway and cubes of glass crunch under my feet. Still, it's an old friend, and I stop to say hello.

The rope still hangs in place, swinging, except somebody has tied a noose in it. I slip off my thongs, put the bottle down next to them, and climb. It's harder going than I remember. Nearly six metres, and my feet are soft and raw. When I get to the top, I walk out onto the bridge, a narrow gangplank that hovers mid-air over the tracks. Heat haze makes the distant hills shiver, like a mirage. From here, our street is a cartoon town. Just harmless little boxes.

‘Benny!' I call.

Nobody. Just wind.

There are two narrow doors, one leading to the staircase that snakes from the ground floor, the other in the control room upstairs. They're both locked and barred. Matt and Dill passed down the key when I turned teenager and they supposedly grew up; a serious ceremony after midnight with blood vows and secret handshakes. I reach up above the door frame and the key is still there, where I left it, pressed into a wad of old chewing gum.

I shimmy back down the rope and let myself in through the bottom door. Inside, the air tastes like hot metal. Once, I let Tahnee come here but she freaked out and wanted to leave. Said it was too scary, too many spiders, no air.

The steps are covered with writing, all of it mine.
I
will finish school. I will not take drugs. I will not get tattoos. I
will not drink alcohol. I will not say ‘fuck' all the time. I will
not have sex until I'm over 18. I will not be like everybody else.
I will only trust myself. One day I will leave this place and never
come back. I will not turn out like my mother.
This is my plan. The rules. How not to be. If I'm ever going to get out, be different, more than,
other
. I'm afflicted by name and by pedigree. I can't let myself be like these people. I don't need to study the rules; I know them, I live by them. Except that I did a drug deal yesterday.

I climb the steps into the control room. The heat is stifling.

In here, most of the graffiti was done by the boys. Band posters and ticket stubs are taped to the walls and girls' names are scrawled with affection, or crossed out and slandered. Dillon's rules were more along the lines of living fast and dying young; Matt's biggest ambition was to break the Guinness World Record for the most people to share a bucket bong. Two years between them but they may as well have been born twins. One always picks up where the other leaves off. Matt would scheme; Dill would take all the risks. Matt would theorise that gravity was affected by velocity; Dillon would ride his bike off the shed roof onto the trampoline. Matt's dark and complicated; Dillon's charming and easy on the eye. The Boondock Saints, Mum calls them.

The wooden door frame is carved with notches to record our height. The boys' notches stop at about six feet, but they kept on growing.

I stand with my back against the door frame and flatten my hand on top of my head. I've only grown about half an inch since I was last here a few years ago. About five-six. Nothing distinctive about five-six. I'm still short, aimless
and
ordinary.

The boys' names have a good story. They're named for an actor Mum was in love with, back in the eighties. My name is a tribute to some old woman who took Mum in when she had nowhere to live. She was pregnant with me and the boys were only about four and six when my Dad left. She knew he'd never stay, but she didn't think he'd leave her with nothing. Nothing but an empty purse and a full belly.

I see the lipsticked heart, above the window.
Mim
loves Jordan
. It's years old, written in rounded, childish loops. Heat and time have made it crack and bleed.

I do cry now, when there's nobody to see. Thick, sluggish tears that dry before they hit my chin. It seems silly to waste them on something that never really started.

When I'm done, I open the upstairs door and sit out on the bridge, swinging my legs over the tracks. They go for miles, east to west, tapering away to nothing. There are two ways out of here, but here I am. Still stuck.

‘Benny!' I call through cupped hands.