Louis Beside Himself (18 page)

Hassan looked away. Singo cracked his knuckles again. I had to say something. ‘Oh nothing much, it's just . . . I was just saying Cordelia was kind of upset last night.'

‘Why, what happened? What was she doing?'

‘Oh nothing, she was reading something . . .' I noticed Hassan widen his eyes and waggle his eyebrows at me. What?

Elena bit her lip. ‘Oh I
knew
it! She was reading that book I gave her, wasn't she? I was going on and on about orphans, and right now Cordelia must be feeling like an orphan, what with no dad and her mum so . . . and there I was chattering about . . .' Elena made a noise of disgust.

Hassan sighed and closed his eyes.

‘So, what can we do?' Elena went on. ‘Maybe my mum – she works at Cordelia's school – she could talk to the principal, you know? She could make sure Cordelia gets to do her Year 12. I mean, it's time to talk to the authorities, isn't it? Mum will give Cordelia's mum a ring, tell her what's going on.'

‘No!' said Singo. ‘You just don't get it, do you?'

Elena stared at him. No one said anything.

The bell rang out like a siren. Hassan jumped as if he'd been shot. He was pale, and a faint line of sweat bubbled on his top lip. He didn't look at Elena.

Singo picked up his bag. ‘I've got woodwork,' he said quickly. ‘See ya.'

‘Hey, come on,' said Elena, tugging at Hassan's shirt. ‘We've got Geography. Aren't you coming?'

‘No, not right now,' Hassan said softly. ‘I've got to see . . . Mr Denham about maths homework.'

Elena opened her mouth, then closed it. She stared at Hassan for a moment while he looked in his bag. When she turned to me, I got busy with my shoe that suddenly had a hole in it.

I watched her walk away quickly, her back straight and proud with hurt.

ON
the way home I bought a Coke at the Welcome Mart. There was so much to think about, so much to do before tomorrow – it was like having a mountain of homework with an impossible deadline. It made my mouth dry.

The whole afternoon I'd been wondering how to find out Cordelia's address. Could I sneak into the tent and go through her things?
What
things? She only had the clothes she was wearing. No. I'd have to ask her straight out, make it sound as if I was just curious about her house, tell her I was doing a history project about our suburb, the old houses, heritage houses they were called . . . It would be tricky. I'd have to summon up all my new lie-addict skills.

I must have been worrying at the ground, not looking where I was going, because I walked straight into something soft and hard in front of the grocer's.

‘Hey, watch it, Louis!'

And there was Cordelia, holding a pot of lilies.

‘Oh, sorry.'

She gave a little smile, and quickly bent to arrange the pot next to the other flowers for sale outside. ‘Pretty aren't they? I'm doing some work for Mr Vince, potting up plants, fixing the display . . .' She shrugged. Her cheeks were pink.

We locked eyes for a moment. Hers began to brim. ‘Sorry. I, um, still haven't decided what to do. Don't know . . . But don't worry, I'll think of something soon.'

My stomach turned over. ‘Cordelia, there's something I want to ask you. See, I need to know . . .'

Her face tensed.

‘Cordelia?' Mr Vince came out of the shop. ‘Those herb pots, do you want to bring them out?' He stood back to examine the display. ‘
Brava
. It's all looking very good!' He reached into his pocket. ‘Oh, here's your student card back. I filled out the employment forms.'

And there it was – that precious piece of identity carrying Cordelia's photo, birth date, address. No chance to think. This was a
miraculous
opportunity!

I grabbed the card. ‘I'll take it for you,' I said. ‘You'll get it all filthy with those hands.'

Cordelia Woolfe
124 Fort Street

Mr Vince snatched it back. ‘No, this card is important. Cordelia can put it in her wallet when she's tidied up.' He put it back in his pocket. ‘Collect it from me when you finish,' he said to Cordelia.

That's okay, I thought. I've seen everything I needed to see.

15
PICK YOUR STREET

It was a struggle to get through all the hours of Thursday evening. Have you ever had something huge and scary looming over your head, something you'll have to face before the next twenty-four hours is finished, something that could end life as you know it, but you have to act as if it's just an ordinary evening, full of normal seconds, minutes and hours?

Well, I can tell you that it helps if your Dad comes home late with Thai takeaway, so you don't have to explain why you look white as an onion, and your sister only creeps out of her room to eat dinner. Dad told her she was like a bear in its lair – he was doing that rhyming thing again, and looking pleased with himself even though he was concerned about Rosie, who, he pointed out, had dark circles under her eyes – but Rosie didn't even get cross, just raised one eyebrow in that superior manner of hers, and retreated.

Dad chattered away at the sink while he washed and I wiped. He'd had an interesting day with The End, who'd told him about a wrestling match in Mexico where the crowd threw hundreds of dollars into the ring when he did a swan dive over the top rope onto his opponent.

‘Really, he did that?' I responded with awe, but what I was thinking was – imagine what might be happening at this exact time tomorrow night! A part of my mind actually snagged on the picture of The End picking up money with his teeth, his left leg pinning the other guy's chest to the ground, but most of me was wondering if Jimmy might have changed his Friday night habits and would be spending them quietly at home filing his teeth. Or maybe he wore a knife on his belt where most people usually hung their keys.

Dad reminded me to put out the garbage. As I walked up the garden path, I glanced at the tent. I'd left some egg salad in a dish for dinner, but I didn't want to go in and see if Cordelia had eaten it. I didn't want to talk. It was better, I decided, that nothing distract me from my purpose. I knew that one small word might make me too anxious to go on.

It was almost ten when Miles knocked on the door. Rosie and I both went to answer it.

‘Get lost,' Rosie said to me.

‘Charming.'

I studied Miles. He looked a bit like I felt – worried, unsure, on the edge of something alarming. He ignored me. Just took out his hands and studied them.

‘Sorry,' he mumbled.

‘Sorry,' said Rosie
S
IMULTANEOUSLY
, which means
at
the same time
.

‘I was an idiot— '

‘No,
I
was— '

‘Maybe you both were,' I put in.

Rosie shoved me down the hall.

‘It's just . . . stuff at my house is so . . .' I heard Miles say. ‘And that biology assignment is impossible – oh why did I
choose
it?'

‘Because you want to do phys ed and maybe teach and— '

‘And I can't concentrate and I'm thinking maybe I'm losing it, too, like Grandma. And when I can't talk to you it's . . .'

I stopped at the door of my room and saw Rosie smiling as if Miles was Santa Claus come to drop in her Christmas presents early.

They went into the living room to talk. Dad told me I wasn't allowed to go in there, which was very annoying as
Guess the Word
was on TV. Have you ever seen it? It's like a giant live crossword that contestants have to act out. It was probably the only thing that could have taken my mind off Jimmy filing his teeth.

‘Give us an arm-wrestle instead,' Dad suggested. ‘I got some new tips from The End.'

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. ‘Use your right,' said Dad. ‘Now check this out. A couple of new moves, just subtle, but they'll give you an edge. There's the hook, the top roll, and the press. We'll start you with the top roll.'

Dad rotated his left shoulder a couple of times to loosen it, and clenched his biceps. He motioned to me to do the same. Then we both had our elbows on the table. He grabbed my hand hard and squeezed. He was talking away, about moving back the shoulders, turning the wrist over, but I just couldn't concentrate. Normally, if I really listen and try, I can eventually get it. But that night it was impossible. Just feeling the force of him made me think of what might happen in twenty-four hours, when I could be facing a man who wasn't my father wanting to help me learn the top roll move.

I started to sweat, and my arm trembled. I just wanted to let go, and lie down. I was deciding which excuse to pick from my usual list of favourites when my father crashed my arm down to the table.

‘You're jelly!' he exploded. ‘I even warned you that was coming! Where are your muscles?'

I was about to tell him how tired I was and that I hadn't slept last night and maybe I was coming down with the flu, when I saw a look on his face that stopped the words in my mouth. It was a look of despair. And there was something else – a kind of fear. Not a fear of burglars or gatecrashers, but a fear that his son might just
never
make it, that Louis Montgomery might never be a wrestler, a strong man, a defender of himself and others in times of trouble. Dad's face had come to a dead end, and as he dropped his eyes from mine, I felt something twist in my guts.

‘Do you want a cuppa?' Dad asked. But I said no, I was going to bed.

Under the covers, I began counting Afghani goats. But they wouldn't behave. They wandered out of single file and charged wild-eyed and bewildered all over the crags, in danger of dropping to their deaths from the cliffs at any moment. The twinge in my stomach became an ache, and the nervous goats grew into the giant rats of Grade 4. They eroded my confidence and deleted any
F
ORTIFYING
words I might have found so that I was left with nothing, only the cicadas clicking outside in the empty dark.

THE
alarm woke me in the middle of a dream. Something with teeth was pulling me underwater, and I was trying to reason with the teeth but we didn't speak the same language. The whole morning was tinged with that feeling – of

The whole morning was tinged with that feeling – of being dragged by an undertow, struggling to keep my head up.

At recess I went to the library, and at lunch I tried to avoid conversation. But Hassan found me in the canteen. We waited in line, both quiet. Hassan kept looking over his shoulder. I heard him sigh.

‘Where's Elena?' I asked.

Hassan looked down at his hands. ‘We don't agree about Cordelia.'

Singo came up then with Bobby, who clapped me on the back so hard that I knocked into a Year 10 boy, who looked at me as if I was a carrier of the bubonic plague. ‘See this guy?' said Bobby, holding Singo's hand high like a champion. ‘Tomorrow's the big day – this man is gunna be man of the match! He's gunna win it for this school!'

Singo grinned and sort of feebly protested but you could see the excitement leaping in his eyes. ‘We had a match yesterday with Cameran secondary,' he said.

‘And Singo
almost
stopped them getting the winning score,' finished Bobby. ‘Next time he'll be ready, for sure. We'll cream them.'

‘How come you were there?' Hassan asked Bobby. ‘I thought you chose tennis for sport?'

‘Yeah, well.' Bobby shuffled his feet. ‘I got sent off last week. Broke some guy's racket. It was a dumb racket anyway, old as my grandpa. So I reckoned I'd come and support my mate, eh Singo?'

Singo grinned at him but you could see he was
A
MBIVALENT
, meaning
in two minds
about Bobby's loyalty. I couldn't blame him. You just never knew what Bobby was going to do next.

But I was glad of his presence as we walked through the quadrangle. Bobby was a bit like a mini tornado – his whirling energy sucked everything into it, so you couldn't think about anything else. He was mimicking Singo's ducking and dodging the Cameran players.