Have You Seen Ally Queen? (16 page)

There’s a really long pause. He lets himself fall back against the wall. ‘That was ... awful, what happened this morning.’

I don’t have anything to add to that, really. We can barely look at each other. Lord knows why he’s even talking to me still, now that it’s universal knowledge I’m a complete loser.

‘I have no idea how that kind of stuff gets around.’

He looks at me—well, tries to, but I just can’t meet his eyes.

I scan up and down the corridor, checking for teachers. ‘Yeah, you know, whatever.’

I don’t even feel angry about it now, just very, very weary. ‘I don’t really wanna know. Who cares how they know? They know. Everyone knows all this stuff about me. That’s all.’ And how are you meant to go to school every day with that going down?

‘Are you ... feeling okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, fine, just my head’s a bit...’

He nods. We stand there, looking down at our feet.

‘Camp’ll be shite without you.’

I’m kinda surprised by that. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah! Remember? We were gunna hang out together.’

‘What about the guys, though? You’ll still have a good time.’

‘Yeah, but...’

I know. Isn’t it weird? I’d been almost beginning to look forward to it, too. Well, the Rel bit.

My head starts to throb. I’ve really had enough of school for one day. ‘I’d better go,’ I croak pathetically. ‘But I’ll see you down at the beach or something later on ... I don’t think I’ll be spending much time at home this arvo.’ I can’t face them.

He twists his shell up towards his Adam’s apple,
lets it spin free. ‘Okay, see ya. Get some Killer Pythons on the way home, or something.’

I smile. That’s pretty big of the guy who’s just found out that my Mum has got some kind of mental disorder that his mates—actually, the whole school—knows about. I’m glad he still wants to talk to me. That’s really why I had to find him before I went home. To be sure.

I wake up really early. It’s one of those incredible fruit sunrises—strawberry, peach, lemon, apple. Everything is still and quiet, but you know it’s all there, just hiding, all the cicadas and crickets and roos and the wind. It’s like everything’s waiting.

My head is some kind of pumpkin and I’m sporting golfball eyes. Lucky it’s Saturday. I need a whole year to get over yesterday, though, not just a weekend.

I’m all set up: wettie, booties for the reef, snorkel and mask, craypot and rope. All I need is to put some of Dad’s stinky bait in the bait cage and I’ll be right. I avoid thinking about how cold the water’s gunna be and how much weed I’m gunna have to swim through. On a weedy day down here it can feel like you’re in a scene from
Creature from the Black Lagoon,
or something.

Today, peelers are crashing right outside the reef, which means I’ll not only get hammered but will have
to put the craypot further out. A few people have already been out; I can see their floats bobbing beyond the waves, where it’s totally calm. There are a couple of tinnies further out, crew trying their luck on the morning herring run. Herring’s fun to catch. They put up enough of a fight to let you know there’s something on your line but they’re not too hard to bring in. You just need three or four for a feed. We always fish for herring when we go camping. When we went camping.

A boat crosses in front of me. It’s a painted tinny with a couple of guys in it. I can just make out the words on the side, and it takes me a while before I’m sure of what it says:
Fish ‘n’ Chics.
I shake my head and try not to laugh.
Fish ‘n’ Chics.
It’s so stupid, it’s funny.

I’m hoping to get a cray today, not because I’m particularly into crays but because I wanna do something on my own, and because I like the rest of it—getting the craypot out there, exploring the reef, the early-morning swim, and then going back to collect the catch later on. It’s always cool if you’ve scored something. You get crabs a lot of the time. But they’re good, too. Dad does them for lunch—you can have a feast if you get enough. Or chilli crab for dinner—heaven! Anyway, I’ve been wanting to do it since we got here, but haven’t had my shite together enough to
actually get out there. It’s a pretty long swim, especially with a craypot—the lead weights are a killer. Okay, yeah, I’m nervous, mainly because I haven’t done this here before. But that’s something I’m actually good at—swimming. I’m a really strong swimmer and don’t get scared in the ocean. I think it’s from all those times Dad took me to the beach. First it was to do some bodysurfing, but later we’d go beyond the waves to that quiet darker bit. I love that. Duck-diving your way through the surf can be really tiring, so to get to the deep, still water beyond is like a prize for working so hard. Whenever we went out there, just me and Dad, we’d turn around and look back at the shore and almost everyone else was hard up against the sand, and getting hammered a lot of the time. It’s pretty funny to watch, especially the little kids. If people just swam out a little bit further, they’d be able to relax. But it’s a long way if you’re not confident in the water. I remember the first time I did it I was worried about rips and things. I used to like the fact that we were the only ones who went out that far.

The surf here at Melros is generally further out, anyway, so it’s not really the same as Perth or right down south; you don’t have to go out that far here to be in calm water; the reef takes care of that. It’s funny,
I reckon we went to the beach together more when we were in Perth than we do down here. In Perth, Dad’d swing by in the car after work, and we’d be waiting. He wouldn’t turn off the engine, or anything; we’d jump straight in and head off to Leighton or the dog beach or wherever. But not Port Beach, normally, ‘cos there are too many stingers, and all the tourists go there. And not Cottesloe, either—Dad can’t stand the bikinis.

It’s still so early. I’ve suctioned on my wettie and am ready to go. The water stretches out ahead of me. I take a deep breath to steady myself. It looks cold but good. This is something I want to do before I go away. Something for me.

Dear Shel,
I think.
I’m going crayfishing. Wannacome?

I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to swim a long way in the ocean. My body is tingling, and slack with tiredness. It’s in between sets and I’m beached on the reef. I dumped the craypot and made it back here to have a break. I feel unreal! Thank God for the booties, though. The reef is a killer, and you really do need them—reef cuts last for ages.

Every now and then, I remember yesterday, and everything else. But I just push it away. I can’t see any
point in thinking about it anymore. Not thinking about things works—maybe I should tell that to Mr Taylor. Just don’t
think
about your problems. Don’t go and talk to some other tosser about it all—that’ll just make it worse. Last night I decided: if I have to have no friends in this shitty town apart from Rel, then fine. They’re all pus-head lumberjackshirt-wearers, anyway. I’m just gunna ignore them, it’ll be a hundred per cent easier that way. That is, if I come back. I’m not sure yet how long I’ll be away for. Depends.

A boomer’s coming, I’m outta here!

I dive away from the reef. There’s a deep, dark patch just waiting for me. The cold streams in and I slip down to avoid the turbulence that I know is coming. Right down, to the sand, and I look up to a roll of green and white water coming over me, mixing right down towards me. It’s beautiful, swirling, like stirring green into a bucket of pure white paint. It’s powerful, too, and I stay low and still feel the force of it. I swim along the bottom until my lungs can’t take it anymore and then torpedo my way towards the surface.

There’s a fair bit of whitewater all around my head when I come up and it takes me a second to see properly.

It’s when I spin around to get my bearings that I spot the seal.

It’s on the other side of the reef, just where the shelf drops off into the water—kind of semi-submerged, getting the best of both worlds.
It’s
checking
me
out! Waves are breaking a bit further back and the wash is keeping it wet. I head back to the edge of the reef so I’ve got something to hang on to. I don’t think I can tread water for much longer; I’m exhausted.

Man.
It’s the sleekness or something. The seal’s skin is like one of those stones that looks best when it’s wet, like the ones Mum keeps in a pile in the corner of the shower. She collected them on a beach in some country in South America, she reckons, and has put them in the corner of every shower we’ve ever had. During the day, when the stones are dry, they go pale and light-coloured and don’t look much at all—I told her once that they could have been gravel, and what a mistake that was. She was
personally
offended. But when you get them wet, they go jet dark all over and really bold, and they look so, so smooth.

So the seal
does
hang around here. Just not all the time, or maybe I’ve been missing it, looking in the wrong spots. I can see its whiskers from here, and its big black wet eyes.

Its head jerks away to the side and then springs
back with half a fish coming out of its gob. It chews a couple of times and then it’s gone. I try not to move too much but I’m getting cold. I know I’m gunna have to go back to shore, but I don’t want to—watching this guy so close-up is awesome.

I slip back into the water. It’s warm in, by comparison. No wind to give you the chills. My face feels blue, though, and my fingertips look like I’ve had smelly old bandaids on them all year. I’ve gotta come back later on, anyway, to check the pot. Maybe the seal will still be here. Right now I’ve gotta get these blue lips back to shore and have a hot shower. I think,
Seeya!
and it doesn’t even blink, just watches me in the water like I’m another fish, or something.

I swim underwater as far as I can, coming up for air breaks. It’s easier than swimming on the surface, especially when you’re tired. And it’s more fun. I pop up not too far from shore and I can see our house, up there on the last sand dune before the water.
That’swhere I live,
I think
.

I shake my head. How bizarre. How totally bizarre.

Dear Ms Carey,

Sorry I can’t come to your class anymore. Afterwhat happened the other day, I asked Mr Fisher if Icould go into a different class. It’s just too embarrassingnow, with all those kids and what happened. I’m reallysorry because English with you was my fave. I hope youunderstand.

Alison

I’ll still see those kids, of course, but just not all together, in one classroom. Like a mob. I didn’t tell Ms Carey the bit about going away because obviously that’s restricted information that only Rel and I know about. And, well, I haven’t actually had a chance to talk to Mr Fisher yet, but I’ll do that first thing Monday morning, before I give her the note, just to be on the safe side. I just needed to write this down, somehow. Get it out of my head.

McJerry runs into my room.

‘What’s up, big guy?’

‘Dad wants me to come and get you.’

Uh-oh.
This is it. He wants to have a deep and meaningful
talk
about everything. And I’ve been doing a great job of ignoring everything.

‘What for?’ I say innocently. ‘What does he want?’

‘It’s about the craypot.’

‘The
cray
pot?’

‘Yep.’

‘What’s going on, Jerry?’ I grab him by the shorts just as he’s turning to go.

‘I don’t know!’ he squeals. ‘Dad, she’s got me!’

‘Just you wait, McJezza,’ I say before letting him go. ‘The torture’s gunna come.
Later.’

‘Dad!’

I hear him almost crying as he runs back up the stairs.

Dad eyeballs me as I go in. Jerry’s got his back turned, pretending to be absorbed in some stupid computer game.

Dad says, ‘Jez, leave us alone for a bit, okay?’

What is this? I feel like I’m in the principal’s office, or something.

He looks at me with a
What are we gunna do withyou?
expression for a couple of seconds before saying, ‘I’ve told you before about the craypot.’

I’m confused. All this drama because of the craypot? ‘What about it?’

‘Ally, you know what. That craypot is for family outings and usually requires a
boat
to get it in position in the first place. You did this once before at Rotto, if you remember, and your mum and I were both very concerned. It’s got seven kilos of lead in it, not to mention the weight of the pot itself.’