One True Thing (15 page)

By the sixth day at Gran's I was climbing the walls. By day seven, I'm certifiable. The only thing stopping me from hitchhiking back to the city is the idea of facing everyone at home. I just wish I could find a way to forget about it.

‘I need my band,' I tell Gran, when we're washing the dishes in her tiny sink that night. I haven't told anyone about Kessie and Tyler – not even Luke – so I can easily use them as an excuse to get back. School holidays start soon, so it would just be a few days of hell before I can escape again.

I pass Gran a newly washed glass, but she hands it back to me. ‘Smudges.'

‘Why don't you have a dishwasher?' I complain for the hundredth time.

‘I do,' she says, grinning. ‘We call her Francesca.'

I shoot her a fake smile and slide the glass in the water again, wiping it so carefully and deliberately with the sponge that Gran raises an eyebrow.

‘What?' I say. ‘I'm just being thorough.' I keep washing it, even though it's possible I've removed a layer of glass in the process.

‘I think that's done now,' Gran says.

I run cold water over the glass, turning it slowly under the stream to make sure not a single bubble remains. Then I hand it to her.

‘Excellent work. At this rate, we'll be done by Easter 2020,' she says cheerfully.

I smile brightly. ‘I wouldn't want them not to be perfect.'

Gran chuckles under her breath. ‘The apple never falls far from the tree.'

I'm almost relieved when the phone rings, even though I know it will be Mum. She calls the same time every night and every morning – bang on eight o'clock.

Gran quickly dries her hands and answers the landline. Mum's given up calling my mobile. My voicemail is almost full – Kessie, Jake and Tyler have all had turns trying to get in touch. Tyler's heartfelt apology sounded so broken and sad that I almost called her back. No Politics is on unofficial
hiatus and, according to the haranguing messages from Kessie, Mr Campaspe is getting seriously worried.

And so am I.

Even Van messaged with a simple ‘
WTF???????
'.

WTF indeed, I want to say.

‘She's washing the dishes,' Gran says into the phone.

I press the sponge against a plate, scrubbing in tight circles, making that annoying squeaking sound in the hope it will drown out my thoughts. I press harder, enjoying a delicious thrill that I don't fully understand.

‘I'll see what she says.' Gran holds out the phone to me. ‘It's your mum.'

I shake my head and return to the dishes.

Gran hesitates, then sighs. ‘She needs more time.' I can feel Gran's disapproval clear across the room. ‘That's not a good idea. You have your campaign, and she needs some space.'

Gran moves away, probably taking the phone to Luke.

My phone starts ringing on the table beside me. Jake's name comes up on the screen and my fingers itch to pick up. Apart from Kessie and the band, I continue to be bombarded by dodgy text messages from different kids at school faking concern when what they really want is gossip. I've blocked half of College Park High's Year 10, and a good number of anonymous callers who have somehow found my number. As soon as I go home, I'm going to change my SIM and start again.

I stare at Jake's name flashing on the screen. I press my hands deeper into the soapy water, scrubbing the knives and forks, one by one, over and over, finding some peace in the ritual. I try to focus my mind, going over some new lyrics that seem to fit the riff Kessie and I started but never developed, the one Tyler turned into something bigger and richer.

Everything is so royally screwed up right now. Everyone who matters has let me down, and I've never felt so alone. I close my eyes, find a melody to focus on and scrub harder. Suddenly, dull pain shoots through my palm, and I realise I'm gripping a butter-knife so tightly that if it had any kind of edge it would have sliced through my skin. I let the knife fall into the sink, remove my hands from the water and stare at the phone, incensed. It rings again.

I empty the sink and refill it with fresh, hot water. Almost immediately Dad's name pops up on the caller ID. I count three rings, then wipe my hands dry and pick up the phone. ‘Hi.'

‘Frankie? Hey.' He can't keep the surprise out of his voice.

‘Hi,' I say again.

Gran comes back in and watches me carefully. I turn my back and head for my bedroom. I shut the door and wait.

‘How's everything?' Dad says finally.

How's everything?
Seriously? I suck air, bite my lip. ‘Fine,' I say. ‘Just fine.' My voice is meant to be flat and
dismissive, but it rockets up the scales to a horrible squeak, and I know he can hear my hurt.

‘Frankie …?' And I can hear his.

A part of me crumbles in the face of his pain. But the part of me that's had years of training for difficult moments? That part runs cold. ‘How's the united front?' I ask, my voice trembling. ‘Still unshakeable?'

There's a long silence. ‘This has been hard on everyone, Francesca, and your anger isn't helping.'

‘Sorry I haven't drunk from the Kool Aid,' I say, the sneer sharp even to my ears.

‘I'm sorry you feel that way,' he says quietly. ‘I really am.'

I pick at the worn salmon-pink bedspread Gran's had on this bed for as long as I can remember, finding a bleach stain that Gran told me goes back to Mum's childhood.

‘Luke's inside if you want to talk to him,' I say coolly.

The aching silence on the other end should feel like a reward. I'm trying to shut him off and it's working. But deep, deep down a tiny voice is saying, ‘Sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean it.'

‘It's fine. I'll call back later.'

I hang up without saying goodbye. I will
not
feel guilty.

I will not.

It isn't long before Gran knocks on my door.

‘Come in,' I say, sitting up.

Gran stops at the threshold, places her hands on her hips and considers me.

‘What?'

She frowns. ‘I've had about enough of the attitude, missy.'

‘What attitude?'

‘Your mother needs you.'

‘Yeah right,' I snort. ‘She doesn't need anyone.'

Gran blinks, taken aback. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Just that … she's fine. She's
always
fine. She makes a decision and we have to run to catch up, hoping she doesn't leave us behind. Dad always gives in.'

Even as I say this, I know it's only partly true. But truth, I'm quickly learning, is a slippery thing. What's true one second isn't even close to true the next. Sometimes it feels like there is no
one
true thing.

Gran crosses the room swiftly to stand over me. ‘That's not fair and you know it,' she says.

I stare at my hands. ‘Whatever, Gran.'

‘You're going to have to face her eventually.'

‘And she's going to have to tell the truth
eventually
.'

‘Yes. I agree,' Gran says, surprising me. She sets her hand on my shoulder. ‘I'm sorry this is hurting you.'

I shake my head and pull away from her.

Gran sighs heavily, and heads towards the door. ‘Time to go home, Francesca. I'll call your dad to come and get you.'

‘I just want to know.'

Gran's jaw twitches. ‘What?'

‘Have you seen him?'

She frowns. Slowly, she shakes her head,
no
, but it takes such effort. And I realise that the intimidating, unshakeable Gran Mulvaney is hurting too.

I do something then that I haven't done for a very long time. I rush into my grandmother's arms, letting it all go.

And, incredibly, she lets me.

Dad takes the dark roads slowly, as if he's reluctant to get home. I shove my earphones in, flick through to my ‘Girl Interrupted' playlist and lose myself in some Megan Washington while Luke falls asleep on the back seat.

When we arrive home, Luke gets a second wind and starts complaining about having to take a shower. His moody, sullen complaints noisier and more pointed, it seems, because of everything that's happening. Dad carries our bags inside, and we sit down to a late meal of toasted focaccia. Mum is at a charity event – some organisation raising money for deaf children.

‘I'll take you to school tomorrow,' Dad says, after Luke has gone to bed.

‘No,' I say. ‘I'll catch the tram.'

He opens his mouth to object, but then wearily waves his assent.

I start to clear away my dishes when I sense Dad behind me.

‘I know you believe this is all about you,' he says quietly. ‘And, yes, some of it is.' He leans against the kitchen sink, runs a hand through his thinning hair, and says, ‘It's hard for all of us.' He rubs his forehead, then opens his arms wide. ‘We're all just doing the best we can.'

It takes a full two minutes before my memory jolts me upright in bed. Another five before I can will myself to get up. I'm amazed I slept, amazed my body could do what it's supposed to as if it were an ordinary day. Whatever that means.

I move through my early-morning routine like the cast of
The Walking Dead
. As numb as I feel, I can't stop my mind from racing with all the possibilities for what today might look like. None of them are good.

Bed roughly made, hair scraped back in a ponytail, and my robe pulled loosely around me, I step out into an empty house. Mum came home late but still managed to get up in time to take Luke to swimming practice at some obscene hour. Dad must have taken the hint, because he's not around either.

I stare at the cereal boxes lined neatly on the table. ‘Low GI' this and ‘wholegrain' that. I guess Mum has stopped humouring the staff. I can't face any of it. I decide to get dressed and buy something at school.

I'm about to leave when Mum calls. I let it ring out, but before I get any further, Harry is calling, and I know I need to pick up.

‘Hi Harry.'

‘Frankie, are you at home?'

‘Yeah. Late start.'

I check my watch to see just how late I am. A lot. Not the best way to make a quiet entrance.

‘Listen, I'd like you to wait. Sarah's on her way. She'll take you to school.'

‘Why? No. I'll be fine.'

‘There's been a shift and the press are back on the story.'

I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head to the front door. I peer through the peephole. Everything looks shrunken and distant and mercifully
silent
from behind the front door. And then I see the growing huddle of journalists clamouring for the perfect photo: Mum without make-up, or Dad looking cross, Luke and I arguing. Or the Holy Grail of paparazzi prizes: one of us crying.

‘They're back,' I say.

‘I want you to wait for Sarah,' Harry instructs.

I shake this off. ‘I need to go. It's going to be tough enough at school without making an entrance.'

‘Frankie, I mean it. Your mum will kill me if she knows you're facing them alone.'

‘She should have thought of that before, then. Shouldn't she?'

‘Frankie!' he says, raising his voice at me for the first time. ‘This is serious.'

‘Yeah, well, so am I.' I hang up, sick to death of everyone telling me what to do.

Backpack in place, guitar by my side, I lean against the door, peering through the hole at the growing crowd.
You've got this
, I tell myself.
You've got this.

I open the door. The noise ramps up about ten decibels as the pack rushes towards the barricades, still in place from when the story first broke. They thrust their microphones forward, shouting my name.

I start walking, staring steadfastly past them, determined not to slow even a bit.

‘Any comment on the latest revelation?'

God. What now?
Whatever it is, it won't be the truth. Mum's protecting Colin's identity like a lioness protects the favoured cub, even if it means the rest of the litter gets picked off one by one.

‘Frankie! Any comment?'

‘How do you feel about your mum?'

‘How's your dad?'

The words blur into white noise. There's a part of me that wants to scream at the top of my lungs, tell them to shut their mouths and leave us alone.

‘No comment,' I say over and over, forever obeying Harry's advice. It occurs to me that a teenager should never have to say ‘no comment'. Then again, a teenager shouldn't have a media secretary, either, so I guess I'm screwed no matter how I look at it.

Then one of the younger journalists, a woman with bold lipstick and black pigtails, crosses the street, ignoring the barricades, and touches my arm. ‘Are you okay?' she asks.

Before I know it, I'm sobbing like a little kid, incapable of stopping the noise I'm making, the god-ugly face I'm pulling, or the cameras from snapping and flashing in answer.

I'm a block from school and have only just managed to get it together before I see the government car pull up beside me.

From the back seat, Sarah sticks her head out the window. ‘We went to pick you up but you'd already left.'

She takes one look at me and hurriedly gets out of the car. I can still feel the sticky trail of tears on my cheeks. My ponytail has fallen loose, strands of hair cling to my face. I must look as crappy as I feel.

‘Pretty brutal, hey?' she says, putting an arm around me.

I breathe deeply, not trusting myself to speak.

‘You okay?' She swivels me around to face her and offers a lopsided grin. ‘Is it fatal?'

I half-laugh and shake her off.

‘You sure?' She scans the street for any stragglers, I guess, in case anyone followed me here.

‘The police are on their way to your house. They'll have a word to them, move them on,' Sarah says.

I shrug. ‘Okay.'

A frown dents her forehead. ‘Mad at me too, huh?'

I shake my head, force a calm I don't feel. This whole thing is crazy. I wish I could just curl up in a corner somewhere and start the day – maybe the year – all over again. ‘Not unless you've got a long-lost son we don't know about.'

Her mouth twists into a grimace.

‘Too soon?'

She pulls me into a rough hug. ‘Cut your folks some slack, hey? No one's having much fun right now.'

‘I have to go,' I extract myself from Sarah's strong arms and head towards the school gates. On the way, I put my earphones in, flick to my ‘Guitar Heroes' playlist, and turn up Ian Moss full bore.

Head down, books clutched against my chest like an armour plate, I shuffle through the corridors of College Park High, ignoring the hum of gossip around me. It could be worse, I decide. Travis Matthews could show up –

‘Well, if it isn't Paedophile Junior!'

I know it's him without looking. I think about our childhood together, those afternoons on skateboards and bikes with every kid in the street. How is it possible that this is the same boy who held my hand when I was stung by a bee? Who made us cheese and Vegemite sandwiches and drank cold glasses of Milo on those endless summer afternoons?

He's following me now, that voice booming in my ear. Paedo. Slut. Slut Junior … The words run together, barely making sense.

‘Nothing to say, Junior? You won't stand up for Mummy?'

Everyone is watching, fascinated, but there's a rumble of discontent too. I can feel it among some of the older kids. ‘Knock it off, Matthews' and ‘Give it a rest' rise above the general murmur of intrigue. I don't recognise the voices but I hear them. I consider walking away, ignoring him like I have too many times before. And then I realise my reputation is history already. It almost doesn't matter what I do or what I say now.

In a way, I'm free.

‘Sorry she shot you down,' I say, offering a syrupy smile. ‘Unfortunately, she doesn't go outside her species.'

I don't wait to see if my insult has landed. I get out of there as fast as I can, though I don't get far. Kessie is waiting by my locker. She steps between us, blocking my way so I can't get my books.

‘So that's it, is it? Friendship done because I'm with Tyler,' Kessie says, no bullshit as always.

‘My locker?' I say.

She studies me for a long minute, like she's seeing something she hasn't seen before. The violet of her eyes has turned almost liquid, and I realise then that there are tears waiting to spill. I look down, then force myself to look up.

She hasn't flinched or moved, but when she speaks, her voice is soft and a little broken. ‘I thought you'd be happy for me.'

‘I need my stuff,' I say, indicating my locker.

She doesn't move for what seems like ages, then, finally, she steps back and lets me through.

I don't look up when I hear her walk away.

I slide into class before everyone is seated and hide down the back. After a token greeting and a couple of harried shushes, Mrs Mac calls the roll.

I stare at the blurred words on the page before me, my face hot and flushed at the looming declaration that
I am, in fact,
here
. I turn a few pages, seeing nothing, but determined to look busy. Never has rollcall held such dread.

‘Charlie Mathers?'

Here.

‘Zack Muller?'

Here.

‘Francesca Mulvaney-Webb?'

‘Here,' I say, in the understatement of the century.

The entire class turns towards me, many of them surprised, apparently, that I've shown up. It takes all my energy to ignore them and match Mrs McDonald's gaze. But I manage it for a few long, uncomfortable seconds.

‘Good to see you back,' Mrs McDonald says firmly, and I remember why I've always liked her.

‘Thanks!' I squeak, before I duck my head, feigning total fascination with some British professor's analysis of the role of
Neighbours
in shaping global perceptions of Australia.