Steal My Sunshine (5 page)

I arrived at the end of recess so I waited, hidden, at the gates until everyone had gone back inside. Chloe had texted five times and I'd finally replied:
be there soon
. I walked across the empty courtyard, full of nervous energy.

It felt like so much time had passed since last year, not just a few weeks. Year 11. I hadn't had the first thought about what that meant until now; I'd wanted to ignore it. Now that I was here, I didn't feel like I was carving a path towards the end of school. It was as if the end of school was creeping steadily towards me, like a tide coming in. I was just watching it creep closer to my toes.

Now all the smells and sounds of school were seeping under my skin again. Disinfectant, books, herbal shampoo, floor polish, ‘Quiet, everyone', clangs from the canteen, girls' laughter, a whistle from the netball court. Everything was the same.

When I opened the door of my form room, the girls all looked up and there was a pause just long enough to make me realise that nothing was going to be different in here either. Sure enough, they all went back to what they'd been doing. All except Chloe. She slid up her chair from her usual rebel slump and gave me an extra-loaded look. I felt my cheeks go pink and walked self-consciously to my desk.

It was strange suddenly knowing that all the drama going on inside me wasn't visible on my face. No one could see the pain and confusion of home. I'd have to spell it out – if I still wanted to. That seemed less likely now that Chloe was patting my chair and no one else was even looking any more.

‘Would you like to explain your absence, young lady?' she said, eerily pulling off the voice of our form teacher, Mrs Gulliver.

‘You won't believe it,' I said.

As I sat down, Mr Inglewood, the Drama teacher, bowled into the room and made everything stop for real this time. His natural state was out-of-breath and it was pretty well documented, mainly on the inside of girls' folders, that he was closer to our age than he was to any of the other teachers. He smacked a bunch of tatty folders on Mrs Gulliver's desk, sat down in her chair and started going through them without a word. He was also known for being radical – at least
he
thought he was – like by not saying hello at the start of class. Some rebellion.

Some of the louder girls were teasing him.
Lost your way, Mr Inglewood?
That sort of thing. The level of excitement was infectious, even though he made me too nervous to enjoy anything about being in the same room as him. I was probably the only person there who'd have preferred to see Mrs Gulliver.

She was in her late fifties with hair as stiff as a bird's nest. She wore polyester dresses in garish patterns, which gave her dark patches of sweat under her arms by midmorning. Whenever she spoke to the class a red rash crept from her collarbone to her hairline. I felt sorry for Mrs Gulliver but her nerves improved mine.

Mr Inglewood was in his twenties and had bed hair. It was as if he took looking casual very seriously. He had a tan, muscled arms and cute glasses, like a cross between a professor and a surfie.

‘Don't usually see you in trackies, Mrs Gulliver,' said Chloe. And over the giggling that followed she muttered, ‘Tool'. Mr Inglewood didn't even look up. He'd written ‘Study Period' on a piece of cardboard and propped it against some books on the desk. He looked completely unfazed by the heckling. I knew how much that would irritate Chloe and it made me nervous.

She pushed herself upright in her chair, squaring up to him. ‘What did you do last night?' she asked him. There was a hint of the mean girl she could become if the wind changed. The rest of the room fell silent. ‘Sir? Can you hear me, sir? I just wondered if you did anything . . .
fun
.'

Mr Inglewood looked at Chloe. Then he looked at me and my heart stopped. Then at her again. ‘What do you think I did?'

Chloe looked at me as if to say: watch this. ‘Probably had a root.'

There were gasps and giggles all around us. I bent my head and studied a crack on my desk that was filled with some kind of gunk. With a biro I started to gouge it out. My skin felt like it had absorbed every drop of tension in the room.

I heard footsteps and saw that Mr Inglewood was now standing right in front of us. He put his hands on Chloe's desk. I could smell his chewing gum.

‘Mrs Gulliver has called in sick. This is a quiet study period. I haven't had a root, as you call it, in over a month. Are there any further questions, Chloe?'

Nothing.

Mr Inglewood walked away and returned to his folders, his face unreadable. The other girls took out their books in stunned silence. Chloe slumped down, looking unmoved, not defeated. She picked up the earphones that were dangling out of her bag and put one in. I reached out my little finger to stroke the back of her hand but she pulled it away.

I looked at her. Her hair was scraped back so the black roots gave way to bright blonde hair that would look tacky on most girls but looked sexy on her. Mum always said Chloe's hair was like straw, like it was a final judgement on her character. Which it was.

‘Can we talk, sir?' said Tess Edwards, class suck-up. ‘I mean, to each other – not you and me.' Her sidekicks squealed like rodents. I looked round and caught a glance from Naomi, but that only served to make me realise how far apart I'd drifted from almost everyone.

Mr Inglewood replied without looking up. ‘Only if it's interesting.'

‘It will be, sir!' Tess pursed her lips in his direction and then looked to her crowd for approval. When the murmur gradually increased in volume, I decided to tell Chloe about Dad.

She was doodling on her notebook; concentric circles, minute distances apart, absolutely perfect and delicate. I reached over with my biro and wrote
guess what?
She drew a question mark. For a second I had no idea how to put it.

‘It's my dad,' I whispered. ‘He's gone.'

She sat bolt upright and took out the earphone. ‘Shit! Oh my god, Han.' She grabbed my shoulder and, by her expression, I realised she'd got the wrong end of the stick. It got Mr Inglewood's attention too.

‘I'm sure Hannah has just told you something thrilling, Chloe, but keep it down.'

‘Her dad's dead, okay? Jesus.' She squeezed my shoulder hard again.

‘He's not,' I hissed. ‘Shut up, Chloe.'

‘Something you need to share, Hannah?' said Mr Inglewood.

‘No. Sorry, it's nothing.'

‘Let's get on with minding our own business then.'

Chloe shook me.

‘Sorry!' I whispered. ‘I just meant he's left my mum. Gone. Geddit?'

‘Oh right.' She let me go. ‘Ha, oh shit. I really thought you meant he was dead.' She was smiling to herself and shaking her head, and then she started drawing circles again. ‘Has he got someone else?' she said, after a while. I shrugged, I hadn't even thought of that. ‘Hey, he's not gay, is he?'

‘What? Why would you even say that?'

Mr Inglewood cleared his throat and gave me a look.

‘Calm down,' Chloe whispered. ‘It's just a possibility. Or do you actually know why he's left? Your mum is totally uptight, right?'

‘I don't know anything.' I bit the inside of my mouth to stop myself from crying.

‘It's probably not as bad as you think,' said Chloe. ‘Some of us have been there and got the t-shirt. He'll be back and it'll all be fine, knowing you. Cheer up.' She put the dangling earphone back in and handed me her other one. As I took it I stared at her fingernails, so overbitten they'd become lumpy, and suddenly I couldn't help saying, ‘Also, your brother asked me out.'

It seemed to take her ages to turn her face in my direction. ‘Excuse me?' That look floored me instantly. It wasn't as if I could believe the words that had just left my lips, either. ‘Evan asked you on a date?'

‘I think so. Yeah.'

‘Are you sure? Haven't you had a crush on him since you were, like, ten?'

‘Shut up, Chlo, I have not!'

I was nine. Evan and Sam had been best friends on the basketball team. Chloe and I weren't even on each other's radar back then.

Her face smoothed into something that looked like pity. ‘It's not as if I'd mind, Han. It's just that he's a lot older than you and way more experienced. The last girl he hooked up with was twenty. Get me?'

I got her. Not that Evan was a lot older – he was the same age as Sam, who, to be fair, did seem like an oversized boy to me. But what I got was that I should never have said it out loud. Of course Evan wouldn't really want me. It was a fantasy, something to think about at night so I could get to sleep. I was a kid with a balloon and I'd handed it to the wrong person to hold on to. Now it was floating up to the sky and out of sight.

 

 

 

I felt a twinge of guilt, standing at Essie's front gate, knowing how Mum would feel if she knew I was here. Then again, she hadn't called all day to ask where I was.

Mum had said she needed time. Well, she could have it, I didn't have to sit around watching. She was the one who'd been sending us to visit Essie since she'd decided they couldn't even be in the same room, so she couldn't have thought Essie was that bad. She must have loved her, really.

But I stayed picking at the peeling paint on the gatepost for a few moments, telling myself not to just blurt it all out about Mum and Dad. I needed Essie's secret, and maybe I'd tell her about Evan in return, nothing more.

I checked the lawn but there was no newspaper. On the other side of the street, the bogan porch chairs were in different positions but that was the only change. There was no sign of the drunk guys Essie had talked about. From the house next to theirs I could hear the steady thump of a bassline not quite drowning out a screaming baby. It was such a hopeless sort of sound.

‘Sweetheart!' Essie's welcome was so warm it made me feel soft and grateful. This was the right place to be. ‘What's the matter? You look terrible. What's happened?'

I didn't think I'd given anything away but, as soon as she asked, my eyes filled up with tears. ‘Nothing,' I said.

Essie held my arm and pulled me in. She studied me closely. ‘Come on, you can tell me.'

I tried to pull myself together as I followed her. I couldn't just surrender like this when it was her secrets I came to hear.

The kitchen was in a state again. Essie leaned against the counter as I turned on the tap to fill the sink. She looked tiny and frail but there were still traces of the determined woman she was in her beautiful hair and painted nails.

‘You don't have to clean up,' she said. ‘Just make yourself a tea. Or have a gin like I'm having. I won't tell.'

‘I know you won't,' I laughed. ‘I don't like gin, that's all.'

‘What do you like?'

‘Beer?'

‘The one thing I haven't got!'

I smiled because I'd already known that. I wanted to please her just to show how grateful I was that she never picked me over the way Mum did. ‘Vodka then?'

‘Wonderful!' She began a slow, awkward walk to the bar in the back room. I breathed out slowly and sunk my hands into the hot suds. Then I heard the high-pitched ting of ice in a glass. It gave me a warm rush all over my scalp to think of her doing that for me, even if I didn't want the drink.

I heard Essie groan in pain as she sat down, followed by the sound of her lighting a cigarette. As I put the rest of the kitchen straight – wiping the surfaces with a hot cloth that made steam rise from the red formica benches, cleaning away the crumbs from the table with the grapefruit pattern – I was burning to know the younger Essie. With wet hands, I opened the cupboard to see if the corner of the letter was still showing. Poor James. Essie's secret would be like a story and it would be mine. Wanting to know felt like thirst or an itch.

The vodka tonic was on the smallest of a nest of tables. I wondered what the teachers at school would think if they saw me in my uniform at 4.30, drinking. They'd think I was with Chloe, not my grandmother.

‘So, how did it go with your mother? Did you explain everything for me?'

I'd completely forgotten about that. ‘Yes, it's fine. I mean, you know, Mum is Mum.' I took a sip and hoped that would be it.

‘She's forgiven me then?'

‘Well . . . she will. I'm sure she will.'

‘I might give her a call.'

‘No! I mean, probably best not to do that just yet. Give it a while. Things are a bit tricky at home.'

‘Tricky? In what way?'

I shifted forward in my seat – the sofa was so old and soft it sucked you in – and stared at the bubbles in my drink.

‘Hannah? There's something you're not telling me.'

‘It's nothing. Anyway, I thought you were going to tell me your secret. You said, remember?'

Essie took a long drag of her cigarette.

‘Who's James?' I said.

‘You're not wearing the ring.'

I looked at my little finger. ‘Oh . . . we're not allowed to wear jewellery at school. It's safe at home.'

‘When I was at school I used to roll the top of my skirt up. I had great legs in those days. And I used to swear blind to the teachers that I wasn't wearing lipstick, that it was just that my lips were naturally more red than everyone else's.' She smiled at the memory. ‘It didn't matter how many times they punished me, I'd do it the next day as well.'

I didn't know what to say. Essie was calling me a square.

‘I just don't want them to take it off me,' I said, a little moodier than usual. ‘Because it's important.'

‘That's all right, darling.' She sipped her drink like it was bitter. The air between us had changed and I didn't care how I made it right again as long as it worked.

‘To be honest, Essie, I've had loads to deal with since I saw you. Everything's crazy at home. Dad's left.'

I shouldn't have said it. She was silent for ages and I could tell she was looking at me even though I was trying to look anywhere else.

‘When did he go?' she said, without sounding either sad or pleased. She'd never paid Dad much attention.

‘Just yesterday. It was such a shock. Or I think it was – I don't even know any more.'

‘He'll be back.'

‘Really? How can you be so sure?'

Essie held her hand out to me. I got up and sat on the carpet right next to her chair and she stroked my head and smiled. ‘Trust me, I know how these things work.'

‘But Essie, I don't even know where he went or why he went. No one will tell me anything.'

‘Hannah darling, I'm so sorry, I know what that feels like.'

‘You mean because Mum doesn't come here any more?'

‘No, long before that.'

‘Is it to do with James?'

‘Not yet.' She smiled. ‘But tell me more about you, poor Hannah. Has your father called?'

‘No. No one even knows where I am. I'm invisible to Mum.'

‘She's got Sam.'

‘That's right, she's got Sam.'

We were quiet for ages and I could hear that thumping bass from across the street again. Just that and the soft fizz of Essie's cigarette as she took each deep drag. I lay my head on the arm of her chair.

‘When I was young we used to go to Weymouth Bay,' she said, stroking my head.

I closed my eyes. ‘Where's that?'

‘England. I loved it there. We'd go in June – that was our summer. It felt like my whole world, that beach. Calm waters, fishing boats and beach huts, donkey rides, the rain!' She laughed but I could hear sadness in it. ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Pressing my big toe into the casts left on the sand by lugworms. I used to call out to my brother to play a game. “Georgie!” I'd shout. “Let's see who can stamp out the most in one minute.”'

‘Did you win?'

‘George couldn't play. My mother used to treat him like a doll. She'd wrap him up and say he had to keep warm after his swim. So I played alone. It's like a photograph in my mind, Hannah. I can even see the icy drips of water from my hair making pockmarks in the sand.'

This was just the start. I raised my head. ‘Was it always like that? Your mother and your brother? Where was your dad?'

‘He was there. I thought he loved me then.'

‘How do you know he didn't?'

Essie leaned forward and picked an imaginary bit of fluff from her lap. ‘He gave me up.'

‘But how? Essie, I don't know anything about you, do I?'

‘Nobody does.' She handed me her glass and I got up to fill it.

‘You can trust me, you know,' I said, dropping two cubes of ice into the glass.

‘Yes, I know.'

‘I want to know everything.'

‘If you're sure.'

‘Of course I am, Essie.'

‘There's one thing I need first,' she said. ‘Something that's mine. All you have to do is get it back for me.'

 

The walk along the bay was beautiful, the water silvery with sunlit ripples. There was a warmth and a breeze that made you feel part of something, even if it was just the universe and you were only a tiny speck of it. I thought about calling Evan. I didn't have to mention the voicemail or embarrass myself, I could just start talking about interesting things and see what happened.

As I got closer to their dad's bar, I knew I was never going to do that. The spot where he'd stood yesterday belonged to other people now. I passed by their street and could just see the top of their building. Then I peered into a noisy bar on the corner where I'd seen him drinking before. St Kilda was buzzing and I was just a girl in school uniform. They were celebrating the end of the heatwave and anything else they wanted to drink to.

I played a game while waiting for my tram:
If I see him before the tram comes, I won't get on. If I see any of his friends – but not him – I'll call him. If the next person who walks past me has a tattoo, I'll go to Evan's apartment and ring the bell.
Evan had a tattoo of the constellation Orion on the back of one shoulder.

The tram came and I thought about Evan's last girlfriend and how you probably didn't play that sort of game when you were twenty.

 

The post was sticking out of our letterbox. Mum's bedroom curtains at the front of the house were still drawn. When I walked in, the atmosphere hit me straightaway. Mum was sobbing and I could see Sam curved over her at the kitchen table, way down at the other end of the hall. He glanced at me when I shut the front door and nodded some kind of hello.

I went in there and saw the remnants of their day. Mugs and a few small plates and loads of screwed-up tissues. The frying pan Sam must have used for the sausages. I could still smell the fat – all the windows were closed and the aircon wasn't on. Mum was still in her dressing-gown.

‘Where did you go?' Mum said, as if I'd only been gone for five minutes. She looked up and sniffed into a tissue.

I tugged the collar of my uniform.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Right, of course.'

‘I won't go tomorrow,' I said, ‘if you don't want me to.'

‘Why did you go today?' said Sam.

I ignored him and went to put the kettle on. ‘I'll make you a tea, Mum.'

‘All right, thanks.'

‘Or something stronger?' said Sam. She smiled at him. Snot was coming out of her nose and her eyes were raw. She patted his hand and he got up.

We both went for the fridge at the same time.

‘I'm getting Mum a drink,' he said, and tried to yank the door away from me.

‘I'm getting the milk! For god's sake, can't I even come into my own kitchen any more?'

‘Please don't argue, I can't bear it!' Mum's face looked desperate and pulled out of shape. I let go and stormed away to the armchair in the far corner. I ran the back of my hand over Dad's atlases and wondered why he hadn't even called today.