Cloudwish (23 page)

‘I've always been honest. It predates Jane.'

‘She made it worse. Hey, maybe you secretly don't want the good times. Did you ever think of that, my cray friend?'

‘I want the good times.'

As they were getting off the tram, Jess paused, puzzled, and said, ‘Isn't it early for orange trees to be blossoming?'

chapter 51

Curled up in her
bedroom chair that night, she thought about boat trips, putting down roots, bitter marmalade and what makes home home. How many times do your feet have to press down on a path before they make an imprint, before pieces of soul start sticking? What makes us belong in the place we call home? Who had said that someone you love must be buried in a land before it could be considered to be your home?

That morning, she had knelt on the rough asphalt footpath, meticulously brushing away the grit encircling the silver disc she was photographing, knowing she must look odd, but she didn't care; everyone around here knew her; these were her streets, hers to walk, hers to photograph, to transform. Her very DNA was somewhere in that footpath from childhood skinned knees.

And there was her light bulb moment for her art folio.

It was seductive, the idea of where we walk absorbing us, something of our self being drawn down into the earth with each step we take. What strands might be pulled from our soles as we walk the streets, tired, hopeful, frightened, happy, full of the beauty of what is around us, full of the sorrow of what we are escaping, or returning to.

It seemed that the paths hummed with the energy pressed into them.

Feeling planted here was the gift her parents gave her.

The gleaming silver chainmail of her footpath discs.

The green and purple jewel-like glass that illuminated the last wave of migrant rag-trade workers, who were eventually superseded by women like her mother, out of the old Flinders Lane workshops, into bedrooms, living rooms and garages.

The luscious green privilege of the school oval.

Hers, to interpret and offer back to the world.
What it means
to me, she thought,
is what it means to everyone. Belonging where we stand. Knowing that where we stand is home.

Some time in the future the big folio breakthrough might be a comfort. But now was not that time. What could possibly provide comfort now?

She went, once more, through every detail of the date. One perfect date is better than no perfect dates. But she would have preferred a few more than one, and would even have settled for a larger number of meh dates. Because a meh date with Billy would at least have meant more time with him, and, already, in anticipation, she felt sorely cheated on that front.

She took the wish vial from its hiding place, put it on her desk, and sat back on the chair without bothering to put on the light. She slipped down into the realm of full-wallow self-pity – from self-pity at the state of things about to change with Billy, to self-pity that she couldn't really justify her self-pity when she compared her paltry plight to the true peril faced by her mother and her aunt.

Sad and pissed off wove themselves together in one heavy blanket of righteous misery.

She looked at the wish vial, a sliver of silver catching the glow of light that washed soft the city sky at night.

Pick me up. Pick me up. Pick me up.

Shut up.

Her wish phrasing had been idle and careless, forming itself without her having to think about it.

She wasn't about to wish, now, that Billy
didn't
find her fascinating, or prefer her to all other girls.

She wasn't going to wish for something different, and perhaps create a different tangle of problems.

No, Jess had come up with the right word: she was simply going to wish to
un
wish the first wish. That would bring her back to a neutral reality. Back to the time when Billy didn't know who she was, or care who she was, didn't notice her.

Back to the land of true things.

So, that was all she had to do.

Easy.

And, plus, she totally didn't believe in it anyway.

Times a thousand.

So.

There was nothing at stake, really.

There was no wish!

It was a simple case of: Billy Gardiner loves V
â
n Ước Phan.

It must be.

Why was it, then, that she'd been sitting here for two hours, in the dark, feeling so bleak, putting off the moment, the simple action, of picking up a small glass vial?

Because even if it were a fraction of a chance that she had, in fact, wished Billy's affection into existence, she was going to miss it like breathing.

She did not want to lose it.

But she wasn't prepared to live with the possibility that his affection was based on a careless wish, i.e. a lie.

Those two things were never going to be reconcilable no matter how long she sat there staring into the deepening night.

She picked up the vial.

She held it for who knew how long.

She held it until it was blood-warm.

With a deep breath that turned into a sob, she unwished the first wish.

Heart racing, she opened her hand. The vial was gone. Misplaced. Disappeared. On her chair. On the floor. Up her sleeve.

Who cared?

The wind screeched and pushed at the windowpanes.

The deed was done.

She walked stiffly the few dark steps across to her bed, fell back onto her pillow, still dressed, and went to sleep crying silent hot tears, in the miserable consciousness of believing the unbelievable, and clenched against the effects of the unwished wish.

chapter 52

The morning leaked through
her window, poisonous and grey.

Fruit and yoghurt. Toast and Vegemite. Despite the bleak new world to which she had woken, it lifted her spirits to see her mother looking better – lighter. A little smile hovered where usually her customary look was – what was it, exactly? Something more like resignation.

‘So, Ma . . .'

‘Vân Ước.'

‘You were already asleep when I came in?'

‘Yes, I slept well.'

‘Has something happened?'

Her mother was really smiling now. ‘Last night I spoke to my sister, Hoa Nhung.'

‘What?'

‘Yes. I called her on the telephone.'

‘Fantastic! That's – I'm so happy.'

‘We spoke for a long time.'

‘Did you speak about . . .?'

Her mother nodded. ‘She saw things differently. She was very pleased that I had not been taken, on the boat. She felt proud to protect me. She knew she'd saved me. And she used that feeling – of strength – to help heal.'

Vân Ước had always felt the shadow of sadness and guilt for the things, unspoken until now, that her mother suffered. Her mother had felt sad and guilty about her sister's suffering. And about leaving her own mother. No doubt her grandmother felt sad and guilty for sending her daughters away, not really knowing they'd be safe, just hoping. Guilty, too, perhaps, about leaving her own family when she married, to look for better fortune and a new life in the city. How far did it go back? Was it her job to break this chain?

Might things change now the story had been told?

A secret like that might shut you off.

A secret like that might turn you inwards.

A secret like that might stop you from being able to hug your own daughter.

She picked up her lunch, and gave her mother a quick hug. ‘Bye, Ma. I'm so glad you called my auntie. This is a great step. Do you think she might come and visit us?'

She was ready to talk about it for as long as her mother wanted to. But her mother just smiled and turned her gently away, in the direction of the door.

‘Study hard,
con
. We can talk some more after school.'

As the lift shuddered to the ground floor, she tried not to think of Billy, tried to remind herself that things were okay in the universe at large. Or, at least, in certain small parts of the universe at large. Sure,
she
had a pulverised heart. True,
she
had nothing to look forward to, other than the better part of two years of being, once again, ignored by Billy.

But on the upside, she'd started being proper friends with Lou and Michael.

And things were definitely, finally, looking better for her mother. After all that time, some comfort, some truth, some connection.

But, still, it didn't take away the lump in her throat that felt like a stone.

She stepped outside into the cool fingers of autumn, into day one.

Today,
this very day
, would be the worst day; day two – that'd be bad too, really, really bad, but just a smidge less bad than day one.

She took a firm breath, instructing tears to stay inside.

The number of days it would take before her affection for Billy diminished would surely exceed those left between now and when school finished next year.

She looked up from the path, and headed for the gate.

She blinked. Twice. And again.

A tall, handsome boy with messy blond hair, wearing a Crowthorne Grammar tracksuit, was hurrying towards her.

‘You're here.'

Billy put a casual arm around her shoulder, but it wasn't enough; he looked at her, eyes still shiny with all they'd shared last night, and enfolded her and her backpack into a proper hug, as though he couldn't get close enough.

It was
as though
he still liked her
despite the unwish.

Or, to put it another way: he still liked her?!

Her heart rate doubled and redoubled. He released her, lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her palm.

‘Of course I'm here. We said we'd walk together. How would it be fair for me to deprive you of my company for longer than necessary?'

She did her best to look stern. ‘
Well, for cool native impudence, and pure innate pride, you haven't your equal
,' she said, calmly enough, though her heart was crazy-pounding . . .
I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.

Billy recognised that the quote was from
Jane Eyre
. ‘Remind me – in this exchange, am I Jane or Mr Rochester?'

‘You're Jane.'

‘Okay. Just so we're straight on that.'

Once upon a long time ago she believed in magic.

But this was looking like a simple case of a girl who liked a boy who liked her back. And a wish that came true, because – sometimes they do.

They stopped on the bridge and as she turned him around to face her, resting her hands on his shoulders and leaning up to open her lips against the lips of Billy Gardiner, she thought, with a satisfied sigh,
Reader, I kissed him
.

The Beginning.

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to
James Adams, Thanh Bùi, Susin Chow, Kaz Cooke, Claire Craig and the Pan Macmillan team, Cath Crowley, Katelyn Detweiler, Sarah Griffiths, Jill Grinberg, Margaret Gurry, Jeremy Hetzel, Simmone Howell, Farrin Jacobs, Julie Landvogt, Ali Lavau, Olivia McCombe, Giulia McGauran, Monica McGauran, Iola Mathews, Reba Nelson, Di
ễ
m Nguyễn, Nh
Æ°
-Quỳnh Nguyễn, Cheryl Pientka, Lisa Hop Tran, Vicky Tu, Libby Turner, Michael Wicks, Jamie Wood, Zoe Wood, George Wood.

Thanks to Creative Victoria, and to Writers Victoria and the National Trust for Glenfern Writers' Studios.

About Fiona Wood

Fiona Wood's first young adult novel,
Six Impossible Things
, was shortlisted for the Children's Book Council of Australia (CBCA) Book of the Year, Older Readers. Her second,
Wildlife
, won the CBCA Book of the Year, Older Readers and was shortlisted for a number of other awards. Her books are published internationally. Before writing YA fiction, Fiona wrote television scripts. She lives in Melbourne with her family.

www.fionawood.com

Also by Fiona Wood

Six Impossible Things

Wildlife

Fiona Wood

Six Impossible Things

I saw Estelle for the first time that day.

She stopped outside our place and stared up into the bare branches of the footpath plane tree. First checking there was no one nearby she turned slowly around and around and around, framing her view of the twig-snaggled sky with a hand held to her eye.

Then she walked into the house next door, half-dizzy, smiling, and carrying my heart.

There's this sky she likes.

Fourteen year old nerd-boy Dan Cereill is not quite coping with a reversal of family fortune, moving house, new school hell, a mother with a failing wedding cake business, a just-out gay dad, and an impossible crush on the girl next door. His life is a mess, but for now he's narrowed it down to just six impossible things . . .

‘Dan Cereill is an odd sock and an absolute sweetheart. His journey thought the joys and stings of first love, suburbia, humiliation and reinvention will make you smile and cheer for the underdog. It's impossible not to love this book!'

Simmone Howell,
Everything Beautiful

Praise for
Six Impossible Things

‘. . . sparkles with humour and the crazy-brave feeling of discovering love and adventure at 14.'

Herald Sun Weekend

‘This is a sparkling debut . . . Wood deftly flips and humorously twists the pains and pressures of family imbroglios. She is one to watch.'

Weekend Australian

‘This is a sprawling novel full of literary references, quick-witted dialogue and memorable characters. Unmissable.'

The Age

‘
****
. A great read.”

Good Reading

‘This novel is so charming . . . a modern-day fairytale that's neither too sweet nor too dark.'

Better Homes & Gardens Magazine