Paper Alice (3 page)

Suddenly, from up ahead came a scream.

‘
Baddo!
'

Baddo stopped dead; I almost crashed into him. A girl was throwing her arms around his neck, her drink sloshing in its cup. ‘Baddo!' she squealed again. ‘Hel-
lo
!'

It was the chick I'd seen stumbling out the front door, the one with the long blonde hair. Who, I suddenly realised, was in my History tutorial. The one who always arrived looking as though she was dressed for a fashion shoot, perfectly made-up, often in very short minis and high heels.

I'm always amazed at girls like this, who take so much trouble with their appearance, just to go to uni. And, I have to admit, vaguely uneasy, wondering whether perhaps I should make more of an effort myself . . .

This one's hair was always dead straight, as though she took an iron to it every morning. Then sure enough, one particular day she arrived late, all flustered and (for her) dishevelled-looking, her hair curling in gentle waves about her face. They actually really suited her, though she obviously didn't think so. Afterwards I heard her telling her friend: ‘I slept in – didn't even have time to straighten my
hair
!'

Now she was really getting stuck into Baddo, arms and manicured hands entwined around his neck, forehead up against his. ‘It's
Manda
,' she cooed. ‘
Remember?
'

If Baddo hadn't remembered her, he certainly did now. ‘Manda!' he cried. ‘Good to
see
you . . .'

He'd dropped my hand in favour of Manda's tiny waist, so, leaving the two of them to their reunion, I made my escape. I finally spotted Dunc over by the folding doors in the family room, beer in hand, chatting to some other guys. No doubt talking, I thought with a tiny twinge of irritation, about cricket, football or cars.

Still, my heart lifted at the sight of him, his fair hair shining in the downlights, Adam's apple bobbing as he laughed. I wended my way around the sofas and went and stood next to him, nudging him in the ribs. He turned and saw me; grinned.

‘Hey.' He slid his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

‘Hey . . .' I turned my face to his; our lips touched momentarily.

‘Hey, Al,' said one of the other boys, Dave Carmody. ‘How's things?'

I smiled. ‘Good.'

‘You know Mike,' said Dunc, indicating the others, ‘and Ecco?'

I did, kind of. I nodded and said hi.

‘Wanna drink?' asked Dunc.

‘S'OK,' I said, ‘I'll get one in a sec.'

Formalities over, they drifted back into their conversation, which, as I'd predicted, was about the cricket.

‘If Symonds can keep smashing it,' said Ecco, ‘the Poms'll be shit.'

‘Yeah, but if Flintoff fires up,' put in Dunc, ‘it'll be a worry–'

I stood there next to him, smiling politely, not taking in a word they said. Smelling his familiar smell – of something like dried grass and sunshine, if I'd had to describe it.

It was hard to imagine life without him. Sometimes I tried, but it was all too scary and I gave up. We'd been going out ever since we were in Years 10 and 11 respectively; we met at a joint social for our schools. I'd liked the look of him across the group and was surprised to discover he was interested too. He was the first boy I'd continued to fancy once he started to like me back. And so we got together and had been going out (apart from a brief week about eighteen months before, when I'd found him kissing someone else) ever since.

After a while I detached myself from the cricket,
which had now morphed into football, and wandered over to the kitchen bench to get a drink. Where I became involved in a loud conversation with a couple of girls I knew through Dunc and Baddo. Actually, conversation wasn't the right word. They were friendly enough, but it was mainly a whole lot of gossip about people I either didn't know, or couldn't care less about.

‘'Scuse me,' I murmured finally, ‘got to go and make a call.'

I went and perched on the arm of a sofa, and pulled out my phone, suddenly feeling bleak. What was wrong with me, I wondered as I checked my messages, that I didn't much enjoy these parties? Everyone else seemed to be having a ball. What was I – some kind of social misfit, destined to become a cranky old hermit, living in a cave?

There was a squeal from the courtyard, and a splash and a cheer as someone got pushed in the pool. More yells and screams from those wrestling and teetering on the edge. The volume of the music was turned up; in the lounge room the crowd who were dancing started clapping and singing along with the song.

‘
It's up to you
,' they sang, feet stamping on the floorboards, ‘
it's up to you – oo – oo
. . .'

A girl brushed past me, hand over her mouth, barely making it outside before she was sick into a potted rose bush. Some boys standing next to her clapped and cheered.

I looked down at my phone. One message – from Milly. The number shone up at me, so familiar, I felt a rush of affection for her. Good ole Mill, who hadn't
even bothered coming to this shindig. I could already envisage entertaining her with an account of the goings-on, including Steam 'n' Dry Manda and her ambush of Baddo.

Where r u?
she asked.
Black Keys great – come soon x

I looked at my watch – 10.45 already. If Dunc and I didn't get there soon, we'd miss them altogether.

Coming now
I replied. I stood up and headed for Dunc again.

The moment we walked into the packed lounge bar of the Rose and Star, into the music and the lights and the crowd, I felt better. After Baddo's party it almost felt like coming home – to somewhere where most people weren't the type to straighten their hair or cheer when someone threw up. The chords and rifts surged and rippled; the crowd moved and swayed, whistling and cheering and clapping hands above heads at the end of each number. The overhead spotlights shone dully through the warm air as though we were underwater, gleaming on earrings and belt buckles and sparky hair. There's nothing like a live gig, I thought, to get you in a great mood.

We edged through, looking for Milly, finally finding her on the edge of a group of friends, perched on a stool over by the far wall. Except she wasn't really with the friends. She seemed to be having a cosy tête-à-tête, or rather, mouth-to-ear, with a tall stranger in a leather jacket.

My heart sank. Cliché or not, ‘batting her eyelids' was a perfect description of her behaviour. Legs entwined, she was gazing up into his eyes, laughing and twirling a long strand of hair in her fingers.

She spied us and gave a little wave.

‘Hey-ey–'

‘Hey Mill,' we both said in unison. Then looked at the boy.

‘Oh,' said Milly, smiling at him, ‘this is Paul. Alice, and Dunc.'

The guy nodded. ‘Hey.'

I got an impression of a thin face, dark, day-old stubble and a blue disinterested stare.

Milly said something to him; he turned back to her and laughed.

When the band took a break, Milly seemed to become doubly energised. She kept tossing her hair and jigging her foot, gazing into this Paul person's eyes as though sucking them into her own. He in turn was leaning towards her, pretty well ignoring us. Milly, after all, is not exactly unattractive, especially when she's making a line for someone.

When Dunc went to get a round of drinks, I turned to her.

‘Hey, Mill,' I said, trying to combine a casual tone with a tiny, meaningful stare. ‘I'm going to the ladies – wanna come?'

Milly's return look was just as tiny, meaningful and quite defiant. I know what you're going to say, it said, and I don't want to hear it.

‘Nup.'

So butt out
.

I shrugged and turned away, not really wanting to go to the loo, but having to, now I'd mentioned it. I edged my way through the crowd and pushed the swing door open. I stood at the mirror, staring at myself, absently scrunching my hair. Wondering how
Milly could do this to herself – again. Because there wasn't, I knew, going to be a happy ending.

I felt a bit sick. If there were reasons, Milly wasn't going to talk about them. And even best friends can only say so much.

I put on some lip gloss and went out again. As I approached our lot I could see that Dunc had given up on Milly and her new friend and was chatting to the others.

Then a guy carrying several glasses steered around some people and collided with me.

‘Whoa!'

‘Look out–' A jet of beer shot into the air and spattered down my front.

I gasped, brushing at my blouse. It was cream velvet and a real find from Vinnie's. Now, after its very first outing, it would have to be dry-cleaned.

I looked up to see that the boy had put down the half-empty glasses between his feet, whipped out a crumpled handkerchief and was holding it out to me. I looked at it stupidly.

‘Sorry,' he said cheerfully. ‘It's so bloody crowded in here–'

He was plumpish, with smiley eyes behind glasses and a wide, laughing mouth. I laughed, waving the hanky away.

‘No, it's–'

But his expression had already widened into surprise. ‘Oh, hey!' he cried, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘It's you!'

I stared at him.

His grin increased.

‘Wow – didn't know you were such a fashion guru!
The “colours of fire and earth” indeed! Seriously impressive – to know someone featured in the fashion pages!'

I made a strange noise, somewhere between a croak and a laugh. My insides seemed to have shot up into my throat.

He was bending down again, gathering up the glasses. Then he straightened up, peering at me.

‘You're coming Thursday night, I hope?'

I must have made a kind of shrug, because he looked surprised.

‘You've got to – the world is waiting to hear your next masterpiece!'

‘But–' I started.
Masterpiece?
‘I–'

‘Surely,' he teased, ‘you're not nervous?'

A voice inside me – the Alice who would be in control – was shouting at me to say it.
I'm not her! But tell me about her – Wilda!
But it was as though I was struggling up to the surface through deep water – I just couldn't seem to get the words out.

‘You've . . .' I swallowed. ‘I'm not–'

‘Of course you're not!' His eyes gleamed. ‘Anyway, better get these – what's left of them – back to the others.' Jerking his head back over his shoulder. ‘We're outside, further round. Come and join us!'

‘Oh, no . . .' I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. ‘I'm–'

Surely he must spot the difference! No, he was merely nodding.

‘Well, see you Thursday. Looking forward to it!' He grinned again, lifting the glasses in salute, and then he was gone.

I stood there, stock still for a second, then turned
and stood on tiptoe, craning my neck to catch sight of him. But he'd already vanished into the crowd.

Then another voice at my elbow made me jump.

‘Who the hell,' asked Dunc, ‘was that?'

D
unc stayed the night at my place that night, but it wasn't what you might call a night of mad passion. We'd gotten into bed and started kissing, but after a minute or so he pulled away.

‘What's wrong?' he asked, staring at me with a frown. ‘You're miles away.'

‘No, I'm not . . .' I stared back at him, his fair hair sticking up in the lamplight, then laughed ruefully. ‘Am I?'

He looked at me in silence. I buried my face in the warm hollow at the base of his neck.

‘Sorry,' I murmured.

More silence. The curtain billowed slightly at the window; over the back fence the border collie gave a muffled bark.

‘What is it?' There was another pause. I felt him touch my hair. ‘Al?'

I sighed. It had been too noisy at the pub to explain to him about the Wilda thing and seeing we'd shared a cab most of the way home with two others I just
hadn't gotten around to it. That's not to say I hadn't been thinking about it all; I suppose I'd been a lot quieter than usual. I'd barely registered when Milly left with that Paul guy, just as I knew she would. I had my own problems to think about. Well, not exactly problems, but . . .

Now I looked up and saw suspicion growing in his eyes. He gave a short laugh.

‘It's that guy in the pub, isn't it – the one you said thought you were someone else.'

‘No-o–'

Then, in the face of his frown I giggled – a silly, nervous reaction. And was dismayed to see his look of doubt turn to hurt.

‘No!' I repeated, struggling for control. ‘I mean,
yes
, but–' I broke off again, rolling my eyes. ‘As if I'd be keen on
that
guy! He seemed nice and everything, but . . .'

I sighed, slid out of bed, and fetched the clipping from my desk drawer.

‘Look,' I said, getting in beside him again and holding it out. ‘
This
is who he mistook me for.'

He took it from me, staring at it. Then laughed.

‘Jeez – it looks just like you!'

‘Yeah,' I cried. ‘See! Freaky, isn't it?'

After he'd skimmed the caption, I told him about the stallholder at the market and the bag, and pointed out Wilda's clothes that were almost identical to mine. ‘And that guy tonight,' I finished, ‘I know it was kind of dark, but you'd think he'd realise I wasn't her!'

Dunc held the photo closer, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. ‘But she's not exactly the same . . . There's something a bit different.'

‘It's the teeth,' I said. ‘She's got a gap between her two front ones.' I looked at him. ‘Like I used to have, before I got braces.'

Then I shivered and huddled into a ball, drawn up against him. ‘And,' I murmured, ‘she suddenly seems to be . . .
around
all of a sudden.'

Dunc was re-reading the blurb.

‘Wilda!' he cried. ‘What kind of a name is that?'

‘Foreign I'd say. German, judging by the surname.'

‘Bloody awful, whatever it is!' He tossed the clipping over the side of the bed and turned back to me with a grin. ‘Well, you've got no competition from your twin – I could never go out with anyone called Wilda!'

I laughed. He was so . . . straightforward, so uncomplicated.

Suddenly the whole thing seemed like nothing, not worth another moment's thought.

‘Wilda,' Dunc repeated. ‘Wild, wilderness, wildebeest.' He made a face, splaying his fingers out in front of him, monsterlike. ‘I am
Veelda
,' he cried, in an over-the-top accent, ‘ant I am
vild
, ant I am comink to get yooo . . .'

I gave a little scream of laughter as he fell on me with beastly growls.

The next morning we slept in as usual and by the time we came down for brekky it was quite late. To my slight dismay Mum was in the kitchen when we walked in.

‘Oh, there you are,' she said, half turning from the espresso machine. ‘Hi, Dunc.'

‘Oh,' said Dunc, not actually shuffling his feet, but almost. Mum scared him a bit. ‘Hey, Mrs M . . .'

She nodded at the machine. ‘Coffee?'

‘It's OK,' I said. ‘You have yours – we'll make our own.'

‘It's no trouble,' she said lightly. ‘Dunc – cappuccino?'

There was no point in arguing with her. ‘Oh,' he said again, scratching his head, ‘that'd be good – ta.'

She finished what was to have been her cup, passed it to him and then set about making two more, banging out grounds and rinsing and measuring.

I got the juice out of the fridge and poured some. ‘Toast?' I asked him, ‘or muesli?'

‘Or both,' said Mum, turning around, eyebrows raised. ‘He might like both. Or eggs and bacon–'

‘No, Mum–' I frowned, and Dunc raised his hand with a little laugh.

It's a wonder he agreed to come to our place at all. ‘No – muesli'll be fine, thanks,' he said.

‘Where's Dad?' I asked, getting out some bowls.

‘In the study,' said Mum. She sighed, turning back to the machine. ‘Going through . . . some things.'

The job search on the computer, I thought. I wondered if they'd been having another heart-to-heart about it all; she did seem particularly uptight this morning.

I fetched the muesli and grabbed the milk. Dunc was still standing there, his coffee in front of him on the bench.

‘Sit down,' I said almost crossly, pushing one of the bowls towards him.

We each pulled up a stool and helped ourselves.

‘How was last night?' asked Mum, bringing the other two cups across.

‘OK,' we both said in unison. We looked at one another and laughed.

‘The band – The Black Keys – was great,' said Dunc.

I nodded, adding, ‘Party not so crash hot, though.'

Dunc glanced at me, spoon poised mid-air. ‘It was OK, wasn't it? There was a heap of people there I hadn't seen for ages.'

And who I wouldn't care if I don't see for another age, I thought. But I took a sip of my coffee and said, ‘Yeah, guess so.'

I told myself not to be a cow. Dunc was so open and friendly and took people at face value. What was wrong with me that I couldn't be more like that?

I saw Mum look at me and realised she knew exactly what I was thinking. I felt a surge of irritation. Butt out, I felt like telling her.

‘And Al,' said Dunc suddenly, smiling at me between chews, ‘seems to have a twin walking around.' He looked at Mum. ‘Did she show you the photo? This guy in the pub actually thought she was this other chick with the weird name. Will . . . Willa . . .'

‘Wilda,' I said quietly, looking at Mum. Her cup had stopped mid-air for a second. Then she took another sip.

‘Oh?' Her other hand strayed to her hair, securing a blonde strand behind her ear. An occasional mannerism of hers that always makes her seem younger and somehow strangely defenceless. She turned round to the sink; shrugged.

‘It happens. There are . . . always people who look like you. People are always mistaking me for someone else.'

Really? I stared at her back as she turned on the tap.
If that
was
the case, then it was certainly the first time I'd heard her mention it.

‘Why don't you go for a run, Al,' suggested Mum, when I got back from driving Dunc home. ‘It'll clear your head for that essay.'

Fitness is a mini-religion to her – she goes to the gym just about every morning before work. And like most thin people she eats like a bird, picking at her food and always leaving something on her plate. Gaining an extra kilo or two would have been just about tantamount to contracting scabies or leprosy.

Sometimes I'm tempted to put on weight suddenly, just to spite her. Anyway, it's always fun to watch her expression as I pig out on a bowl of ice-cream, or scoff a second helping of dinner.

Now I yawned. ‘Can't be bothered.'

Dad's head popped over the railing from above.

‘Come on, Al, I'll come with you. Do us both good.'

‘Oh . . .' I smiled up at him. ‘OK.'

I always enjoy doing things with Dad, and anyway, I'd have done anything to try and cheer him up.

It was a trackie-daks day rather than a shorts one – crisp and sunny and blue, without a hint of humidity. The kind of weather that makes me feel strangely sad, knowing that summer's really at an end.

‘Why don't we go the long way – up the next street?' I said, as we turned out of our gate.

‘Lead on, McDuff,' said Dad.

I slowed down as we neared the houses that backed onto ours. There were no signs of life at either Maison Creepy Crawly or Ball Boy's place, but the musos' front door was wide open, music pouring out. I peered in
and caught a glimpse of two figures having a chat in the narrow front passage, leaning against opposite walls, hands behind their backs. A guy and a girl; they turned their heads and looked out at the same moment I looked in.

Then because of my perving I tripped on a crack in the pavement and would've gone sprawling if Dad hadn't grabbed my elbow.

‘Whoops – you right?'

I nodded, hoping the two inside hadn't seen, and we resumed our rhythm.

We reached the park and were making a circuit of the pond when Dad put a hand on my arm. ‘I'm buggered,' he cried. ‘Let's sit for a second.'

I shot a glance at him. Instead of his usual pinkness he was quite pale; I felt a little stab of alarm. We stopped, crossed to the nearest bench and sat down. Dad leant right forward, elbows resting on his knees, his breath coming in short gasps.

This was so unlike him. He always got puffed of course – we both did – but not like this.

I put a hand on his heaving back. ‘You OK, Dad?'

He nodded, still catching his breath. ‘I'm fine,' he said, after a moment. ‘Think I must've . . . overdone tennis yesterday.'

‘Well, take it easy,' I patted him on the head. ‘You've got to remember your enormous age–'

A groan from Dad. ‘Don't remind me!'

Slowly his breathing returned to normal. We leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the bench, enjoying the sunshine. A pair of ducks were making a beeline for us, gliding across the water like wind-up toys.

‘Sorry, guys!' I held out both empty palms. ‘Nothing to eat, I'm afraid!'

The ducks, unconvinced, started paddling around us in wide half-circles, their beady gaze boring into us for any signs of rustling or unwrapping.

‘Quark, quark,' I said, ‘so cute! Love duckies, don't you?'

Dad gave a cross between a laugh and a snort. ‘Duckies not so cute when their poop gets squished between your toes!'

We'd had this conversation before. He grew up on a farm on the north coast, where the chooks and ducks were allowed to range freely through the garden during the day. My nanna said they ate the snails. I remember being given the job when I was little of helping the old sheep dog, Rog, shoo them off the front verandah.

I used to love our visits to the farm, but they came to a sudden, terrible halt when I was eight and Nanna and Pops were both killed in a car accident.

‘Sorry,' said Dad suddenly, staring straight ahead, ‘you never had any pets.'

I shrugged. ‘Doesn't matter . . .'

But actually it had – mattered. I always longed for a dog or a cat, but Mum said it wasn't fair to leave a dog on its own all day during the week, and she was allergic to cat hair, so that was that. I did have a goldfish, or rather two, one after the other, but both died and we didn't try a third.

We were silent for a moment. The day seemed so bright and deep and still. Nothing was moving except the ducks and the ripples slowly spreading out in their wake.

I felt Dad's arm come round my shoulder; he gave me a squeeze.

‘Poor little thing,' he said finally, only half-jokingly. ‘No pets, and no brother or sister.'

‘Hey,' I cried, turning and giving him a playful little shove. ‘What is this – Apologies Day or something?'

Dad smiled, staring out across the water again.

‘It's just that . . . I'd hate to think of you missing out on things.'

I stared at him. This kind of thoughtful sadness was so unlike him. I felt another little spike of fear, as though I'd missed my footing in the dark.

‘Da-ad!' I put both arms around him, gave him a hug. ‘Look at me,' I cried, spreading my arms, ‘do I look like some poor little deprived child? Someone scarred for life – because they didn't have any siblings to fight with?'

Dad laughed. Then his expression changed again.

‘It's just that you were always going on about Mum having another baby when you were little. We felt so . . . guilty we almost did try for another at one point.'

This was news. I'd always inferred, from things they'd said, that Mum couldn't have any more kids. But I do remember this . . . yearning for someone else – a baby brother or sister. A lot of the kids at kindy and school had other children in their families; why, I remember thinking, couldn't we? It would have made us seem more . . . anchored, somehow.

I bent down, scooped up a few pebbles and hurled them one by one out into the pond. Then felt mean when the ducks, thinking they were something edible, immediately changed course.

‘But,' I ventured finally, ‘I thought Mum couldn't have another baby.'

Dad studied his hands for a moment, then sighed.

‘It wasn't that, exactly. It's just that things . . . things got a bit difficult, around the time you were born, and . . .'

He trailed off.

‘How d'you mean difficult?' I prompted, after a moment. Different scenarios were skittering through my brain. Marital difficulties, financial problems . . .

‘Oh . . .' Dad stared at me for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

‘I dunno.' He folded his arms, frowning. ‘It's . . . just not an easy time, that's all – the arrival of a new baby.'