Inbetween Days (9 page)

‘Trudy treats me like a child when it suits her and a grown-up when she needs money. I'm too young to drink with her and Mads and I can't have my boyfriend stay over, but I'm old enough to split rent. Double standards, hey?'

He must have stopped chewing some time ago but I hadn't been paying attention. One of his cheeks ballooned. I held the plate up to his mouth and he obligingly spat out a wad of soggy bread.

I lowered my voice. ‘There's a man up in the forest. His name is Pope. I don't know why he's there and it's probably none of my business, but…what if it's happening again?'

He was interested now. His legs started jiggling and his eyes darted around the room. I held a glass of cordial to his lips. Mr Broadbent's arm shot up and knocked it away. I yelped. Orange cordial pooled in my lap and soaked through my jeans. I squeezed my legs together and waddled into the kitchenette.

‘What did you do that for?' I dabbed at the stickiness with a tea towel. My back was turned and I could only sense his movement, but it must have been quick. When I spun around he was standing at the window, parting the blinds, scratching at the glass with his fingernails.

Oh, God. Four-thirty. I peeked through the battered blinds. The sun had nearly disappeared behind Mount Moon. The sky was a bedazzled pink, the last rays as white-bright as a star. Already, Main Street was empty: no cars or people.

Mr Broadbent launched into a series of waist-high movements so intricate they seemed automated. His knotty fingers plucked and folded, twisted and pressed, wound and shuffled things I couldn't see, with tiny, precise movements like a watchmaker's, all with absolute concentration.

I sidled away with my back to the wall.

As far as I could tell, his pupils were focused on the emptiness directly in front him. How could a void be something a person could see? The hairs on my neck and my arms stood up. I kept still. Could I hear noise, deep in his throat, like humming? His usually creased face was curiously serene. Whatever he was doing in his mind, it was joyful. I'd seen it before, but for me—inside that stark, sad room—it was always terrifying.

I unlocked the door and squeezed through the gap, easing it shut behind me. A few minutes later, I heard his slippers scuffing on the carpet, moving towards the door. I sat on the stoop outside and held the handle.

Inside, Mr Broadbent raged, all the more unsettling because he didn't utter a word.

At quarter past five, Alby returned. It was nearly dark. My hand was cramped onto the doorhandle and it had been quiet inside the flat for about ten minutes.

‘Do you think he's dead?' I said.

‘God, I'm sorry, Jack. I got held up.' Alby peeled my numb fingers away. ‘It's okay. He'll be asleep now. He would never want to hurt you, you know. He can't help it. He's just lost somewhere, in here.' He tapped his skull. ‘I won't let it happen again. I forget—you're young. Maybe Astrid could help out more often.'

‘I'm fine,' I reassured him. Give Alby a reason to keep her on? Not likely. ‘He likes me better.'

‘That he does.' Alby smiled. ‘Business had better pick up soon. I've decided to close the laundromat. You know where the keys are if anyone asks but it's a waste of time opening.' He rubbed his red eyes. ‘It's amazing what you find in the dryers.' He turned out his pockets and offered me a single pearl earring, a metal cigarette case and a cheap plastic watch.

I shook my head.

‘Oh, here,' Alby said, reaching into his back pocket. He handed me several folded fifty-dollar notes. ‘Tell me if it's still short. Take some more stock, whatever you need.'

I stuffed the money in my pocket. ‘Thanks. We don't need anything.'

‘Marie Gates said Trudy said you saw a car go up.'

My heart skittered. ‘I did.'

‘Anything we should worry about?'

I pictured the locals, streaming up the mountainside with their torches and pitchforks. I wasn't sure it was the kind of saving this guy, Pope, needed. To someone who didn't know better, their fear might look like anger.

‘I don't think so.'

‘It's black tonight. You okay to get home?'

I started down the steps. ‘I'll be fine. You know I do it all the time. I'll see you Monday?'

‘Monday,' Alby said. ‘Monday's a new day, right?'

And Sunday comes first
, I thought.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Trudy got home late from her Saturday night shift at the pub. I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. Not that she would have known—she didn't bother to check. In the morning I found that she'd never made it into her bed; passed out on the couch, she slept through my hair-drying routine, the rattling pipes, the screaming kettle and the clink of my spoon in the cereal bowl.

I was having a good hair day. My skin was clear and my jeans fitted like another skin. I left two hundred and seventy dollars on the kitchen table for my half of the food, rent and electricity bill, the last two due on Tuesday. Alby had short-changed me again. The only reason I cared was that the number of dollars hidden under my bed was still decreasing.

If only to have a conversation, I willed Trudy to wake up and try to talk me out of going to the dam. But she only stirred, rolled onto her back and threw an arm over her face.

I slammed the door behind me.

Outside, I caught a glimpse of Ringworm, just a bent twitching tail in the tallest grass. It was a clear, cool morning. The ranger's car cruised past the beginning of the dirt road to the forest. It slowed at the end of our driveway but kept going.

My bike started the first time. It was never that smooth.

I rode the long way to kill some time—past Ma and Dad's house, Astrid's, past my ex-best-friends' houses from Grades Four, Seven and Nine. Nobody was around.

All anyone did in Mobius was sleep.

I thought about letting myself into the roadhouse to grab some supplies for a picnic, but then I remembered I didn't have a key. Hatred pooled in my stomach. Add to that a mix of nervous energy and some maybe-out-of-date milk and I had to pull over twice to swallow heartburn and suck air. I put off arriving at the dam for as long as I could before the thought of missing Luke altogether was too much.

The surface of the dirt road was churned up, either from the rain or from too many tyres. As I passed, clouds of midges swarmed and settled in the weeds by the side of the road. I rounded the last corner and the dam appeared, glinting green, flat as glass, and the burning sun was straight ahead, full in my face. For a few blinks I couldn't see. I over-revved where gravel had spilled onto the asphalt and the back end of the bike slid out. I over-corrected, wobbled and stalled.

There was applause. Laughter. The car park was full of vehicles, the kind handed down by older brothers and sisters or bought from dodgy, cheap car dealers—first cars, the kind I wanted but couldn't afford, or legally drive.

Over the last year I'd tried not to think about school, or the people there. There was nothing I missed. Not the teachers, who weren't impressed with my frequent absences or my mediocrity; not the awful mingled odour of pharmacy-brand body-spray and desperation in the halls; not my near-constant state of hyper-vigilance from the minute I walked through the gates. I never could prove I was smart on paper and I remember thinking from about thirteen that I wished I could skip this part altogether. Crawling out of bed for work wasn't as hard as getting up for class—the days passed more quickly. Over time I had begun to care less about details: how I looked, who noticed me and who didn't. As I pushed my bike into one of the few empty spaces, I cared all over again.

‘Helloo!' I called, too brightly, like one of those spruikers in shopping centres. Nobody answered. I made a show of knocking the gears into neutral and kicked the bike-stand down, scouting the crowd through my hair.

There were about ten of them, the usual crowd: Jenna Briggs, Cass Johnston, Will Opie and Becca Farmer, plus a few guys I hadn't seen before. Only Will and the girls were from Mobius—the rest were from bigger towns, but we'd all been at the Burt Area School. Already, they'd all gone back to whatever they were doing before I made my entrance.

I recognised Elise Markham and zoned in on her—like me, a year ago she wasn't anyone special. But she'd changed a lot. Her dark hair was short and styled and she was pretty now, by anyone's standards. She wore a disdainful expression but at least she was looking at me. I figured she'd developed more than a few airs and no graces since I'd last seen her. Dressed in a bikini top and denim shorts, she was draped over the bonnet of somebody's car, one cheek packed with a lollipop and the other cheek sucked in.

‘Hey,' I said.

Elise stared and sucked. After a long wait, she pulled the lollipop out and spoke. ‘Didn't you leave last year? I haven't seen you around.'

‘Yeah, I left. Got a job and moved into my own place.' Not the perfect truth, but close enough. ‘I couldn't stand being there anymore.'

‘What's it like?'

‘What's what like?'

‘Having your own place.'

The others were setting up deck chairs and laying towels on the flat rocks near the edge of the dam. Elliot something was chasing Tara somebody with the skeleton of a dead marron. Two guys ran and bombed into the dam—the upside-down sky on the surface shattered.

It's lonely
. ‘It's great,' I said.

‘Did Cass and Jenna invite you?'

‘Oh, I'm not here for this.' I waved my hand. ‘My boyfriend's coming. We meet here every Sunday.'

‘Anyone I know?' She stuck the lollipop back in and lifted an eyebrow.

‘Luke Cavanaugh.' I said it too loudly and with a note of smugness.

Elise shrugged. The name meant nothing to her. I felt foolish again.

‘He's older,' I added. ‘He's not small town.'
Shut up, Jack.

‘Don't know him.' She pointed to a guy who was taking his shirt off. ‘Me and Adam have been together six months.'

‘Adam
Mackenzie
?' Another unexpected metamorphosis from zitty boy to a guy I didn't mind watching while he took off his shirt.

Elise said defensively, ‘Yes.
Adam Mackenzie
.' She slid off the bonnet and threw a towel over her shoulder. ‘I have to go.' She stepped up behind Adam and slid her arms around his waist. He caught her hands and held them.

I couldn't help watching. They were all so easy: easy in their friendships and their good looks, easy in their bodies. The sun had peaked; they were sparkling and golden and I hated them. Did I miss something crucial? Would I still be feeling sad and left out? Was I better off gone? If I had stayed, would this have been my Year of the Butterfly, too?

I leaned into my bike and drew circles in the dirt with my toes. Occasionally, someone would look my way and there would be a short remark followed by a longer silence.

How hard was it for one of them to ask me to join them? In my best dreams, I would tell them
No, thank you very much.
I didn't need them. But if they had asked, I would always wonder:
why
?
Why now? Why not back then?

I willed Luke to come, right at that moment, to pull up and step out of his car, search the crowd, look for me, find me, slide his arms around my waist so I could catch his hands and hold them there.
Now, Luke. Right now would be good
. He was tall and dark, he moved like an alley cat and played football and girls wanted him. He drove a serious car, albeit borrowed, but for appearances it didn't matter. I needed him there to prove that if I didn't have what they had, I had something better. I had crossed over.

I unstrapped the bundled blanket from the seat of my bike, tucked it under my arm and made my way along the hidden path to the other side of the dam. Denim squeaked where my thighs rubbed together and I cursed my tight jeans. They watched me go.

I felt the change the minute I arrived at the clearing. This day had a new beat. Somehow I knew I'd been moving towards it for weeks.

An hour passed. He wasn't coming and I knew it before that hour had begun. Did he stay away because I wasn't there last week, or did he stay away before that? I wished I could put my love for Luke away until I knew how to deal with it—preserve it, like the flowers Ma sometimes pressed between the pages of her books. But they got brittle and lost their colour. I tried to remember if my relationship with Luke had ever been perfect, but I couldn't.

The sounds of splashing and screaming grew muffled, as if I was underwater. In one patch, the greasy slick on the surface of the dam rolled and slid like a living thing. I counted even more marron carcasses, picked clean by the birds. Everywhere I looked I saw dead husks—empty, oily things, lying on the bank of Moseley's Dam.

The golden people played out their Sunday afternoon across the water, and I played out my final fantasies, lying on our blanket, an empty space where Luke should be. Were we broken up? Were we ever together? If he came, at this exact moment, it would be equivalent to turning up at my high school reunion in a private jet. But it wouldn't change anything. It didn't matter what I imagined—in real life, if they had asked me to join them, I would have smiled and said,
Sure, I'd like that.
And I would have been grateful for the invitation. Real life had a way of calling you on your bullshit.

Trudy and Mads were hard at the cask when I got back to the house. Through the window, I could see Mads was smoking. Trudy usually made her go out onto the deck, which meant they were pretty far gone.

I sat on the hammock, waiting until I felt calm enough to go inside, but Gypsy started whining at the door. Trudy's face appeared.

‘What are you doing out there?'

I slid the door open and let it slam behind me. ‘Breathing.' I fanned the air and coughed. ‘No shift tonight?'