All I Ever Wanted (6 page)

‘We got your mail.' I poke the letter through the crack.

‘Oh, thanks. You from next door?'

‘Yeah, I'm Mim.'

The crack widens. She shuffles away, arms floppy, head tilted to the side like a zombie. ‘Come in. Give me a minute. I'll chuck some clothes on.'

It's dark inside, and so warm I think I might pass out. There's a musty smell, like clothes left in the machine too long, and a fat Buddha squats by the door.

Lola comes out wearing a tank top and boy shorts that could be underwear. She whips open the blind, and I squint.

‘Which side are you from, Kim?'

‘Mim. The other half of you.'

‘Oh. Fuck.' I can see her thinking. Wondering if we've heard her screaming, moaning, begging.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

‘What's your name?' I ask her. L.O.L.A.

‘Melinda. Sorry, I'm a bit vague at the moment. I work nights.' She lights a cigarette.

‘What do you do?' Biting my cheek.

‘Just night work. How old are you, anyway?'

‘Nearly seventeen.'

‘You look younger. I'll be eighteen in a few months.'

I feel mean and cruel. She looks a lot older. I thought maybe twenty-five.

‘Have a seat. Do you want a drink?'

‘No, thanks. I'd better go.'

‘Come on. I won't be able to get back to sleep, anyway.' She goes to the kitchen and brings back two bottles of lemonade.

I'm parched. I take a huge, grateful swig and nearly choke on it. It's vodka, or something clear and just as deadly. The bubbles fizz down into my throat and burst there, leaving me gasping for breath.

Lola laughs at my expression and chinks her bottle against mine. ‘Hey, it's five o'clock somewhere.'

‘I don't usually drink,' I say.

‘You're kidding? Hey, have you heard anything about a peeper in the neighbourhood?'

‘What's a peeper?'

‘A pervert. You know, someone who likes looking through people's windows.'

I nearly turn and spit over my shoulder. It's a reflex. Mum does it to ward off evil spirits.

‘No, why?'

Her eyes flick left and right. She peels a fingernail. ‘I don't want any trouble,' she says. ‘I just got this place and I don't have anywhere else to go.'

‘I won't say anything.'

She butts out the cigarette and lights another one.

‘About a week ago I was sitting here and I thought I heard something outside. So, I turned off all the lights and I waited.' She laughs. ‘I grabbed one of those big knives, you know, like this.' She makes a horror-flick stabbing motion. ‘And I sat on the couch for a bit. Then, this face appears at the window and he's looking around, then he goes to my bedroom window and I hear a scratching sound. So I turned on a light and picked up the phone. Made out like I was calling the police, and then he's gone.'

‘Did you see his face?' I ask. My skin feels crawly thinking about it.

‘Not really, not up close. It was dark but I don't think I've seen him before. I hope he doesn't come back. Man, there's some funny people around here.'

‘You're telling me,' I say.

‘How's that place? The one with the big dog. I have to cross the road when I go past because he always comes at you and you think he's going to get you, then he reaches the end of his chain and…' she gurgles.

‘Sometimes he's not chained. But he won't cross the road.'

‘I hate big dogs. Scare the shit out of me every time.'

‘You should call the police. About the pervert,' I say, even though it goes against everything I've ever known.

‘I would, but I sublet this place. The guy that got it for me said no police, no landlord, otherwise I'll get kicked out and he'll lose his lease.' She begs me with her smeary eyes. ‘I'm underage. Please don't tell anyone. I don't have anywhere else to go.'

‘I won't say anything. Promise,' I say.

She hooks her little finger around mine and shakes it. For a moment I'm reminded of Tahnee and our pinkie promises in the playground, how she always needed looking after, even with her tough exterior. If Lola's doing what I think she's doing—sleeping with strangers for money—I just want to hug her. Take her home to Mum. She knows what to do with a girl who smokes and swears and can't keep her legs closed.

‘You can always ring me,' I offer. ‘I'll give you my number and you can call if something happens. We're right next door.' Like there's anything we can do without Matt and Dill. A middle-aged fat woman and a skinny coward.

But she says, ‘Are you serious? Oh man, I haven't slept properly since it happened. That would be great. Thanks.'

I tell her my mobile number and she writes it in permanent black Texta onto the side of her fridge. Next to it she writes
my other half
inside a big heart that has eyes and a fat-cheeked grin.

EIGHT

Tahnee's sitting on the doorstep when I get home.

‘I've been ringing you forever. Where's your phone? Where have you been?' She frowns and stabs her phone at me, like it's an exclamation point. She's pretty in a familiar kind of way that I forget to notice, until someone else notices and I'm reminded.

‘I was next door.' I bend down and whisper, close to her ear. ‘I met Lola. Well, her real name is Melinda but she looks more like a Lola to me.'

‘The…' she stops and giggles. ‘Yes, yes, YES!'

‘Shut UP,' I hiss and drag her inside by the elbow.

‘What's she like?'

‘She doesn't look like a prostitute, if that's what you mean. She's really young, like, only seventeen.'

‘Oh my God.'

‘Yeah, I know. She was nice, too.' I nearly tell her more, but I made a promise.

‘Where's your mum?'

‘Dunno. Shops maybe. You know what she's like when she feels the need to splurge. I reckon she sleeps there. Anyway, she's a bit dark at me at the moment.'

‘Good. I mean, good that she's not here, not good that she's dark at you. What have you done, Miss Perfect?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh my God, you haven't broken a
rule.
'

‘None of the major ones,' I smirk. ‘Anyway, she doesn't even know about the rules. You know that.'

‘No, she just thinks you're a freak of nature. Maybe they switched babies at the hospital.'

‘Ha ha.'

Tahnee thinks my rules are hilarious. She's all for living in the moment, the here and now, because tomorrow might never come and yesterdays have been and gone. So, suck it up, baby, seize the day, drink the nectar of life and don't worry about shit until it happens. That's her motto.

Today, I want to believe it. There's no way I'll get the package back. The stuff will be bagged up and on the street by now. I want to savour the inevitability of it, like when you run out of time in an exam. I can do no more. Let it go.

‘Where's Ryan?' I ask her.

Right question. Her eyes shine and her hands flutter.

‘Working. He's picking me up at seven and we're going out to the pine forest. It'll be mostly the guys and we're having a bonfire and a few drinks. We'll pick you up.'

‘On a Tuesday night?'

‘It's the holidays, Mim.'

‘Okay, fine,' I say, without really thinking about it.

Tahnee browses the fridge, then moves on to a cupboard. She's so sure of everything that her fingers move while her eyes are on me, reading boxes like Braille. She picks up a packet of biscuits, changes her mind, grabs a bag of chips instead.

We sit at the kitchen table and share the chips.

‘Are you still in love with Jordan Mullen?' she asks me, out of nowhere.

‘I will love him forever,' I say, deadpan.
I hate him.

‘If you want something you have to take a chance. You've never even spoken to him. How is he supposed to know that you love him if you don't tell him?' She licks salt from her fingers and grabs another handful. It grosses me out. I push the packet over to her.

‘I sent him Valentine cards and I wiped drool from my chin every time he walked past me at school. Don't you think he should have figured it out by now?' I say.

‘That doesn't count. He couldn't possibly have known they were from you.'

‘What's love, Tahnee?' I sigh. ‘I mean, really. I don't even know the guy. Perving at him was just a way to pass the time.'

‘You don't mean that. You know what I think?' She frowns at me. ‘I think you want him because you know he's so out of your league he's no threat to your stupid rules. You don't even try because there's no chance.'

I want to tell her everything. About the package, my bike, the look he gave me. The Valentines in his cupboard, the smell of his room. That instead of wanting to slash his pillow I just wished I could lay my head on it. That I could handle indifference because it still felt like something
could
happen between us. Rejection feels so final and so imperfect.

‘Maybe I like the wondering more than the actual doing.'

‘Ahh,' she wags a talon-finger at me. ‘You're being sarcastic. Me, I'm done wondering.'

I roll my eyes.

‘Well, I have to go and get ready.'

I look at my watch. ‘It's only three o'clock.'

‘I know, if I don't get moving I'll be late. I just came to bring you this.' She opens her bag, pulls out something white and unfolds a surfie-style strappy dress. She drapes it over the back of a chair. ‘Trust me. Wear it. If I get here and you're wearing a T-shirt…I. Will. Scream.'

I give her a salute and she leaves without saying goodbye, like she always does.

I'm not sure why I don't tell her. A week ago Tahnee knew everything there is to know about me. I'm embarrassed, but that's not it. Maybe the telling will make it all true. There's safety in denial.

I try on the dress and swing open the wardrobe door. I check out the top part in the mirror, then stand on my bed to see what's going on below the knees. Mum's always pinching my ribs and telling me I'm too skinny but Tahnee's dress is tight. The swingy skirt actually makes me look like I have hips.

Last week when we went out I spent the whole night babysitting a decoy vodka, pretending to drink, faking fun. Tahnee was at DEFCON 2 in the virginity stakes; poured over Ryan like syrup on a pancake. I knew
it
would happen, eventually, but they've only been seeing each other for a month.

I feel empty about it all. Until Saturday, there was only one of my rules that was pencilled in, one that I'd break in a heartbeat. I could face school every day knowing that any second I might turn a corner and run into him, or sit near him at lunch, or stand behind him at the canteen. I think I'm an anticipation junkie. That something
might
happen any moment…it's enough. But if sex was part of the deal, I'd probably do it. If that was what it took to call him mine.

I slide a frozen pizza into the oven, set the timer and open a can. Lemonade sloshes down my chin and onto the white dress. Great. Tahnee will freak.

As I mop up the mess, there's a knock at the door.

I peep through the spy-hole. Kate Mullen is standing there. Through the fisheye lens she looks big-headed, like one of those morphed dogs on birthday cards. I breathe out. I look around the lounge room and notice things I usually don't: the sunken sofa, stained carpet, mismatched furniture and the creeping clutter that spreads like a noxious weed. It seems like ages since I stood in the Mullen kitchen drinking iced water with a lemon slice, but not long enough that I can't see the glaring difference between that—and this.

I don't know why I open the door. Maybe it's that I can't resist the pull of something out of the ordinary. It must have taken some guts to come here. Kate Mullen barely ever raised a hand in class. She's made it through Tudor Crescent, the least I can do is offer her a glass of tap water.

I open the wooden door. ‘Hi, Kate.'

She peers through the darkened mesh and I realise I can see out, but she can't see in. She looks uncomfortable and skittish.

‘I've got the right place, then. I wasn't sure where you lived. I had to ask my brother.'

A thousand questions in my head but I don't ask a single one. A million butterflies in my stomach, but somehow I open the screen door and stand aside as she walks in. I want to tie her to a chair and extract information through medieval torture, but I don't think she has the answers I need.

Her eyes rove around, but her head stays still. I expect judgment, or pity, but her face is a mask of cool politeness.

‘Drink?' I offer.

‘Yes, please.'

It feels like we're playing a game of charades. She has an agenda and I wish she'd get to the point, so she can leave and I can stop feeling ashamed. But she accepts and follows me into the kitchen where yesterday's dishes are a leaning tower and yesterday's rubbish is an indoor compost heap.

I hand her a can of lemonade. Sick of the silence, I prod her, ‘So, let me guess. You were in the area.'

She smiles, that funny twisted smile. ‘Not really. I feel bad about yesterday. I was really rude, asking you so many questions. You did me a big favour and I was rude to you.'

‘No. You weren't. I'm just a bit touchy about my family, that's all.'

‘My family's not perfect either, Jemima.'

‘God, don't call me that. I hate it. It's Mim.'

‘Okay, Mim. I like your name. It's unusual. I wish I had a different name.' She wanders to the back door and lifts her face to catch the warm breeze. ‘Is that a train?'

It's an overlander, with hundreds of carriages. For a full minute the windows vibrate and the train belches out black smoke that hovers in our backyard. I'm so used to the trains that I don't hear them unless I'm trying to get to sleep or I'm ready to wake up.