Cassie (22 page)

Holly winced.

The woman searched for something else to say. ‘I hope you enjoyed your food,' she added.

Cassie twisted her head and gave a low gurgle.

‘She says, “You're right. It
is
cp,”' said Holly.

The woman got to her feet.

‘Well, I'd best be going,' she said. ‘Well done all of you.'

Holly watched as she left. She gathered up the wrappings and the empty cups. ‘Congratulations, girls,' she said. ‘Well done, Amy for eating your burger. And well done, Cass, for having cerebral palsy.'

Cassie shrieked with laughter. Her eyes sparkled.

‘You have all been very clever,' said Amy in the kind of sing-song voice usually employed to burbling babies. They all laughed.

‘You know what?' said Amy. ‘I think I did
too
good a job of polishing off my drink. It was icy and I think it's given me a headache.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Yeah. Well, the start of one.'

Cassie flung her arm across the armrest of her wheelchair.

‘Hold Cass's hand, Amy,' said Holly.

‘What?'

‘Cassie wants you to hold her hand.'

‘Why?'

Holly put the rubbish on the tray.

‘Just trust me,' she said. ‘I want to check if it really
is
the power of suggestion, or something else.'

Cassie

Things fall apart. And sometimes things come together in new
shapes. This isn't home. Yet. But . . .

I miss heat. I miss skies scrubbed of cloud. I miss the swirl of
kites and the way night wipes away the light in seconds. I miss the
rumble of tree frogs and the chittering of geckoes and the shifting
greens and blues of sea against white sands. I miss Dad.

But each heartbeat brings him closer. I have a picture in my
head. I see red dirt under an upturned bowl of blue, a black track
stretching to infinity. I see through his eyes, fixed where land and
sky meet. We are two points, him and me, drawing together.

Things come together. Holly and Amy. They are my friends. I
have never had friends before. It feels good.

It feels like happiness.

11

Holly

My name is Holly Holley and I have given up routines.

This means I no longer:

• curse my mother [unless she
really
deserves it]

• weigh myself every morning, either before or after a shower

• check the mirror for change along ugly duckling-to-swan lines

• agonise over either Demi Larson or Raph ‘my IQ equals the size of my basketball shoes' McDonald

• avoid the culinary wasteland that was my kitchen.

There are reasons for this.

For one thing, Mum has kicked the lentil habit. She went cold turkey [actually, the cold turkey was mine. She is still vegetarian]. The withdrawal symptoms were bad for a week or so – cold sweats, short temper, broken sleep. I suspect that, in the early days, she sneaked behind the shed at the bottom of the garden to get the occasional lentil down her throat. I have no proof of this. It's just a feeling.

Anyway, she cooks proper food now. Lasagne, noodles, stir-fry, even the occasional steak for me. I'm not saying she cooks
brilliantly
, but at least I recognise what's on the plate. And my gag reflex has become a thing of the past.

I have gained weight, which is partly why I don't bother with the scales anymore. It's as if my body was in toxic-lentil shock and now it's been introduced to real food it's making up for lost time. The old Holly would, under these circumstances, have turned round and bloaty.

The new Holly hasn't.

The reason? Growth spurt. Late, but trust me, better than never.

It's true. I am no longer a dwarf. That's not to say I'm in demand as a supermodel but, over the last few months, I've grown up and not out. Maybe lentils stunted my growth.

I get pains in my legs, which Mum says is normal. When it gets too bad, I hold Cassie's hand for a couple of minutes and the pain melts away. I suspect this
isn't
normal.

Of course, my extra height has made all of my clothes unwearable. So the PSE Fund has dwindled to nothing.

But my wardrobe is COOL.

I've also got a boyfriend. He's not aware he's my boyfriend yet. I plan to break the news to him next week. He's a new kid at the school and he has a great sense of humour. Cass likes him and Amy doesn't snort in his presence, so that's good enough for me.

Aunty Fern got a job and she and Cass moved out. They didn't go far. Three streets away to be precise. So I have my old bedroom back. I don't miss the smell of cat pee. And when I told Cass I
did
miss the sound of tinkling bells in the morning she insisted on giving them to me as a present. She has a new set now. Her old bells hang by my bed and I sometimes run my hands through them.

Cass is still at my school. We hang out at recess and lunchtime. She works unbelievably hard. Makes Amy look like a bludger and that's no easy task. We have dinner with her and Aunty Fern about three times a week. The rest of the time they come to us. It works well.

And Amy? Well, Amy is Amy. She still works out quadratic equations in her head while mapping the human genome. I think she's turning into Mr Tillyard. We're a tight trio, me, Cass and Amy. Neither of them say much, so it's down to me to do most of the talking. Luckily, that's something I'm good at.

I can't ask for better friends.

So, all in all, life is good. Life is very good.

My name still sucks, though.

About the author

Barry Jonsberg lives in Darwin in the Northern Territory. Cassie is his fifth book for young adults.

Before he became a full-time writer, Barry was a high school English teacher. One of his students was Cece Adams, now
20
years old. Cece, an Indigenous Australian, is currently studying Art at Charles Darwin University. She is a songwriter – a
CD
performed by a local artist, Moondog, has been released.

But Cece's greatest achievement has been in her role as educator.

Cece has cerebral palsy and is quadriplegic. Those who have come into contact with her have learned that being wheelchair-bound and unable to communicate in conventional ways is no bar to personal development. Most importantly, she has taught children and adults alike that true worth is found within, and that it is unwise to judge anyone on superficial appearance alone.

Barry and Cece hope that, in some small way,
Cassie
may help in spreading this message.