Six Impossible Things (23 page)

Doesn’t Pittney realise no one could care less about what happens next year? None of us would bat an eyelid if all the Year Eights were slurped off the face of the earth by an alien gizzard at morning recess. If you could see thought bubbles over kids’ heads all anyone is thinking about right now is dancing, drinking and hooking up. Some are focused on more illicit substances than alcohol, and others have nothing but hair and make-up on their minds. No one gives a toss about Pittney’s sermon.

My eyes are still adjusting to the vivid spray-tan colour of the transposable brackets who are all working their phones under desk level, confirming limousine pick-up times and making final arrangements for deliveries. The one person I can see paying the slightest attention is Deeks, who is sitting to one side lining Pittney up in an imaginary crosshair and blowing him away.

‘And remember, age-appropriate behaviour please everyone. We don’t want you Year Nines attaching to each other like limpets.’

‘What’s a limpet?’ asks Billy, one of the taggers, genuinely perplexed.

‘A marine gastropod mollusc that lives suctioned onto surfaces,’ says Pittney.

He looks out at the sea of blank, bored faces.

‘I’m talking about pashing on, making out, hooking up . . .’ he says.

This meets with raucous noises of approval and various people yelling out things like, ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about’, ‘Go, Pit-dawg’, ‘Free condoms at the door’.

He gives up.

‘Remind your parents that pick up is promptly at twelve o’clock. We don’t want you all turning into pumpkins.’

‘What’s he talking about now?’ Billy asks his neighbour.

Jayzo calls out, shooting me a venomous look. ‘What’s Cereill done about the music?’

I stand, secure in the amazing life raft I’ve been thrown.

‘We’ve got DJ Pony.’

There is uproar. At least half the class knows who she is. The other half just wants to scream. We’re all on a hair trigger and I haven’t heard that volume of whooping and woah-ing since . . . ever. When they calm down Jayzo says, ‘Bullshit.’

Estelle swivels around to eyeball him. ‘It’s true.’

The bell starts blaring like a siren and Pittney says, ‘Settle down, that’ll do now, homeroom’s over,’ as everyone stampedes from the room and Jayzo glares at me with an extra load of hate bombs.

It’s fair to say not much schoolwork is getting done today. Em and Oliver and a few technical types dressed in black are setting up speakers and lights in the gym, so from time to time we hear satisfyingly loud bursts of music as they do sound checks.

The transposables are in there too, checking off lists on clipboards as stuff is unloaded from vans.

A large number of the girls leave to go to dentist or doctor (hairdresser) appointments during the afternoon.

Surrounded by the buzz, Estelle and Janie are at a fever pitch of misery that they still haven’t persuaded their parents on the sleepover, the essential first step of the great escape.

They have a last resort ploy they’ve been hoping they wouldn’t need: telling Janie’s mother that it’s okay with Estelle’s parents and hoping she’ll cave and not check the story.

‘Think about it – I’ll be leaving the house with a sad face, school books, no social dress, plus already in massive trouble for Sydney. As if I’d risk it!’

‘But you are,’ I say.

‘But she wouldn’t
suspect
that I would.’

I give them even odds at best, but they’re desperate enough to try anything.

Even though it’s still uncertain that she’ll even make it to the social, my guts are churning at the thought of Estelle with her date. I sweep my eyes around the playground, looking for disc boy. He’s probably a Year Ten. Or maybe even Eleven. They’ll probably kiss and I’ll probably see it, and then I’ll feel like hitting him, and if I do that, Estelle will probably feel like hitting me. I’m not looking forward to any of it.

‘Dan, are you okay? Are you sick?’ asks Estelle at the end of the day.

Lovesick, sick at heart, sick with longing, sick of feeling confused, jealous and hopeless.

‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get some rope sorted. Just in case.’

Of course Mrs Nelson has rope. What doesn’t she have? I get a length of rope and a rope ladder, which she says every upstairs bedroom should have in case of fire.

Then I see the shoes. I know nothing about girls’ clothes but they catch even my witless eye. ‘Are these new?’

‘Just in today. Never been worn.’ She turns them around, admiring them from every angle.

The magazine browsers join in a chorus of admiration.

‘Fairy shoes.’

‘Princess shoes.’

‘Cinderella slippers.’

They are pale pistachio green, sewn all over with little beads in a leaf and flower pattern. They remind me of Estelle and even though I have no idea what her shoe size is, I get them for her. Ten dollars all up including the rope and ladder. I wonder if Mrs Nelson is giving me a special price because I used to work there, but then remember everyone seems to get special prices.

I rig the rope ladder between my window and the tree trunk. Sounds straightforward but it’s not. I tie one end of the ladder to the trunk easily enough but it takes ages and eventual weighting with a stone to successfully chuck the other end through my bedroom window. I drag the iron bedstead to the window and attach this end of the ladder firmly to its base.

Then it’s back up the tree to secure a separate length of rope about a metre further up the trunk, leaving its two equally divided ends loose so we can hold them for balance. I have to weight the rope ends too, because whoever uses it first has to throw both ends back to the next person. It’s still potentially neck-breaking but I try it a couple of times, being careful not to look down, and adjust it so it’s as safe as possible for Estelle. And Janie.

I won’t need to use it. I’m allowed to go to the social, so I get to use the stairs. When I climb down the second time, I come back in to find that Estelle has left some clothes for me to wear tonight.

She’s chosen a dinner suit, with satin lapels and a striped collarless shirt. I put the jacket on and check myself out in the wardrobe mirror. Not a bad fit. Not bad at all. The pants are the right length and a bit big, but okay when I put a belt on.

There’s an impatient knocking at my door. What? My mother never comes into my room. She says it’s better for her equilibrium not to see the mess.

‘What do you think? This one or this one?’ She’s wearing a slip and an anxious expression, holding two hangers up for my inspection.

‘I know it’s not really your area, but I can’t decide.’ She holds the dresses up again. If she wants to come into my room there is no easy way to explain why I have a ladder suspended between my window and the tree.

‘I’ll come and look properly if you want to try them on.’

We go to her room. She puts on the first dress. It looks fine. Then she puts on the other one. That looks fine, too. This is difficult. They’re clothes from our other life, dressed up and expensive-looking. It makes me realise she hasn’t been wearing stuff like this for a long time. I’m used to seeing her in jeans and jumpers, and that’s the way she looks most like herself to me. So I tell her and she laughs.

‘Yep, I’ve found my level, but I can hardly wear jeans tonight.’

I do a mental coin toss.

‘Maybe the purple one?’

‘Okay, good.’

I notice her earrings – diamonds the size of peas.

‘Adelaide’s,’ she says. ‘Mary thinks we should share them.’

‘Oh, yeah? So does that mean you can sell one of them?’

I say it absently, not really thinking about money for a change but it brings on an unexpected ‘serious talk’, identifiable by the hushed tone and small frown.

‘Dan, you know what this whole thing has taught me more than anything?’

It’s a rhetorical question so I wait patiently, hoping for a short answer.

‘It’s not what you have, it’s what you
do
that counts. We know that in theory of course, but we have been lucky – yes, lucky – to have that theory tested. And it holds.’

Maybe for her. I’d like to tell her exactly how much money I need for not-so-lucky Howard, but I shut up.

‘I’ve had my tooth fixed today and that’s certainly not wonderful for the budget, but here we are, happy, busy, both going out, surrounded by generous people. And do you know what? I’m rediscovering who I am and what I want to be doing.’

‘Which is what? The wedding cakes aren’t exactly booming.’

Oops, said it out loud. It’s just going to prolong things.

‘I’m not giving up on them, but I love making things for the café and then seeing people enjoying them. And talking to those people and being part of the eating and the talking and general . . . connectedness.’

She notices what I’m wearing.

‘You look lovely, darling. Very handsome. Even with that writing all over your face.’

She does the misty-eyed mother smile that used to make me feel angry and smother-loved, but now I’m relieved to see it. It’s like proof she is still herself under there, despite everything.

‘And this has been great for you, too, Dan, although it mightn’t seem that way.’

No, it still feels like I’ve been dumped by my own father.

‘You’re so independent.’

Not really, just doing what it takes.

‘You’ve settled into school.’

True.

‘You’re fit and strong.’

Some would say buff.

‘And looking after yourself, and Howard, so well.’

If only she knew how I’m not looking after Howard.

‘And you’ve got a job.’

With shit pay.

‘You’re altogether a different boy from the one who moved in here and curled up in bed for days on end.’

‘It was cold.’

‘It was. But that bed was like a cocoon, and you’ve really . . . hatched.’

Now I’m a moth? And that’s good?

‘Well . . . thanks.’

She pats the bed for me to come and sit next to her. A peck on the cheek and that’d be a wrap, and I wasn’t even in trouble. She takes my hand and writes ‘12 midnight’ on the back of it.

‘I’m trusting you to take that cake out of the oven. I mean it. Midnight. To the second.’

I groan. ‘Stop worrying! I’ve said I’ll do it, and I’ll do it.’ Although I’d completely forgotten about the stupid cake to be honest.

She nods at the hand. ‘Matches your face.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Can you make yourself a sandwich for dinner?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s a shame Estelle isn’t allowed to go to the social.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is she upset about it?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I saw her coming home from school with Janie, though.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So at least she’s got company.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Chatty guy, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I mean no. I better get ready.’

‘Me too. Ali’s coming in for a drink when he picks me up.’

‘When’s that?’

‘An hour or so.’

I start shaving and soon I’m brooding on the poisonous idea of Estelle’s date getting ready for the big night. And of Estelle getting ready, too, right next door, right this minute, and no doubt thinking about her date.

That propels me back outside to check with Em about the playlist having no slow songs. I give her some background so she understands.