The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (21 page)

“It must be badly bruised, Miss. Lots of swelling?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The eye patch.”

“Oh, that.” She lifted the patch and I saw her eye. It was clear. And straight. There was no bruising at all. Her face looked perfect. “The patch was your present, Candice. Wearing it is
my
present to you.”

“It's a lovely present,” I said. “And I'm glad I helped you get your eye fixed.”

“Sorry?” said Miss Bamford.

“Our discussion when I gave you the patch. You must have immediately booked the operation.”

Miss Bamford smiled.

“Well, not
quite
, Candice. The operation was arranged more than eighteen months ago. There's a very long waiting list.”

I have to confess I was disappointed. A coincidence only? I am a firm believer in honesty. I hope that has been clear throughout these chapters. But sometimes honesty can be . . . painful. Miss Bamford must have noticed my expression because she touched me gently on the shoulder.

“Go on, girl.” She shooed me away. “You are going to be late for your next period.”

I got to the door, but she stopped me.

“Candice?” she said. I turned. “What do you think, then? Does it make me look sinister, romantic, mysterious?”

I smiled. “All three, Miss.”

“Oh, and another thing. The Alphabet Autobiography?”

“Nearly there, Miss Bamford,” I said. “Nearly there.”

We dressed in our best clothes and drove to the restaurant. I wore a dress with a floral print that I saved for special occasions. Eight dollars at the Albright thrift store.
Money has been tight the last few years, but we make it stretch.

The owner of the restaurant greeted us personally.

“G'day, Jim, Vicky, Candice,” he said. “Great to see youse guys.”

“Hey, Scot. Howya going?”

“Fit as a butcher's dog, mate. Table for three, is it?”

“Please.”

We hadn't been to the restaurant since my twelfth birthday, but Albright is that kind of place. Everyone knows everyone. Most of the time, that's nice.

We sat at a table near the window where we could see the river, and Scot brought us menus.

“What's good tonight, Scot?” asked Dad.

“The chicken parmigiana is flying off the tables, mate.”

“You should have killed the chicken first, then,” said Mum.

Scot cocked his hand and pointed a finger at Mum.

“Good one, Vick. Good one. Listen, guys, you want drinks while you make up yer minds?”

“You got champagne, Scot?” asked Dad.

“Course, mate. What's the celebration?”

“It's my birthday,” said Mum.

“Congrats,” said Scot. “So how old then, Vick? Twenty- four? Twenty-five?”

“Ah, get away with you, Scot,” said Mum. “My mind says twenty-five, but my body says much, much older.”

“Trust yer mind, then,” said Scot. “So, what type of champers then? We got everything from Dom Pérignon at one-sixty a bottle to something slightly more . . . Australian, at thirty-five.”

We took the thirty-five-dollar bottle. And the chicken parmigiana. That was the cheapest on the menu as well. But it was all good. (I can't swear to the champagne. I had orange juice.)

When we'd finished, Scot brought out a birthday cake with four candles on it (Dad must have given the restaurant a heads-up). Scot said he couldn't put on the correct number of candles, because there were laws about fire hazards in restaurants. Mum slapped his wrist, squealed, and blew out the candles while all the customers and staff sang “Happy Birthday to You.” Most people sang through mouthfuls of chicken parmigiana and the effect was muffled but impressive.

Albright is that kind of place.

Then Scot brought out another bottle of champagne—an expensive one this time (there was French writing on the label)—and placed it in an ice bucket next to our table. “On the house,” he said. “Happy birthday, darl.”

Albright is that kind of place.

“We can't drink all that grog, Scot,” said my dad. “I mean, thanks, but I've got to drive.”

“Nah,” said Scot. “All arranged, mate. I'm driving you home and me wife'll drive your car back.”

Albright is that kind of place.

Dad refilled their glasses and pulled out a small, wrapped package.

“Happy birthday, Vicky,” he said, passing it over. Mum's eyes shone as she opened it.

“Oh, Jim,” she said. “It's lovely. A kookaburra brooch.”

“I thought it was a galah,” said Dad.

“It's a parrot,” I said.

Whatever it was, Mum pinned it on and Dad took a photograph. Then it was my turn. I gave Mum the card first. It said something about how you know you're middle-aged when your narrow hips and your broad mind switch places. Mum found it funny. Or pretended to.

“I have four presents for you, Mum,” I said.

“Goodness, Candice,” she said. “Four?”

“Well, three go together to make one big one and the other is a piece of information, which explains why it's not gift-wrapped.”

“Information?”

“Yes. It's fascinating.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Not entirely,” I said. “Anyway, here it is. Most people think chicken parmigiana is an Italian dish, named after the Italian city of Parma. But you can't find chicken parmigiana anywhere in Italy. They've never heard of it.”

“That
is
fascinating,” said Mum. “It is a gift I will treasure.”

“You are being ironic,” I said. “Possibly sarcastic. But it is your birthday and you are entitled.”

“Those Italians don't know what they're missing,” said Dad. He patted his belly. “That parmigiana was delicious.”

“Yes, but you think sausage and eggs is haute cuisine,” I pointed out.

“Only when it's with fries,” he said.

Mum smiled.

“Time for my second gift,” Dad said. He took a large envelope, curled into a cylinder, from his jacket pocket and handed it to Mum. He seemed worried. His smile was tight and he pulled at his earlobe. Mum tore it open (the envelope, not Dad's earlobe), removed a document, and tilted her head to one side. The silence stretched.

“I don't understand, Jim,” she said finally. “What is it?”

“A star,” he said. “That is the official certificate of ownership. There is another document in there which shows you a picture of the solar system, with your star circled.”

“How can you buy a star?” asked Mum.

“On the Internet,” said Dad. “This particular star is about two hundred light-years away.”

I thought this was incredibly exciting. You see, Douglas Benson from Another Dimension had explained light-years to me one lunchtime. We had been in the library, though I hadn't had a sandwich. The whole concept was mind-boggling. Well, my mind had boggled. I was confident Mum's mind would boggle, too.

“Mum,” I said. “A light-year is the distance light travels in a year. Now, light travels at about three hundred thousand kilometers a second. That's eighteen million kilometers a minute, over a billion kilometers an hour.”

“Goodness,” said Mum.

“Goodness, indeed,” I replied. “So if your star is two hundred light-years away, it's easy to work out the distance. Over one billion times twenty-four hours in a day is more than twenty-four billion kilometers. There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year (we will ignore leap years), so . . . twenty-four billion multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five, which is . . .” Where was Mr. Gemmola when you needed him? “A very, very long way,” I finished. “Very,” I added, just in case she'd missed the point. “Very. If you got into your van and tried to drive to it . . .”

“I'd need extra gas cans,” finished Dad.

“And serious commitment to additional road building by the Queensland government,” said Mum.

“I should tell you, Vicky,” said Dad. “The ownership document is essentially meaningless. Official astronomy societies around the world don't recognize it. They have their own classifications and don't name stars. It's really a symbol.”

“This is named?” said Mum.

“Yes. That's what the certificate does.”

“You've named it after me?”

“Not quite,” said Dad. He pulled out the bottle of champagne and filled his glass. He didn't bother with Mum's. His fingers pulled at an ear again.

“Not
quite
?” asked Mum.

“I've named it Frances Phee. So now, every time we look at the stars we'll . . . well, we'll know she's there.”

There was a silence. It was one of those that can go either way. To tears or laughter. I held my breath.

“I know where she is, Jim,” said Mum.

“Yes,” said Dad. “I know. I just thought . . . never mind. Maybe it was a bad idea.”

“I think it's a beautiful idea, Dad,” I chipped in. “Because I don't think Sky is there in that cemetery. I think she's . . .”

“Enough!” said Mum. She put the certificate down on the table, but I noticed she avoided the pool of condensation from the water glasses. “I'm not sure I can . . . handle this. Not right now.”

“Look . . .” said Dad.

“My turn,” I said. “My three presents that go into one.” I rummaged around in my backpack (I was organized, though it
did
look strange against my floral print dress) and passed her a photograph, a plastic card, and an envelope. Envelopes were popular birthday gifts this year.

She looked at the photograph first. “It's a lovely room, Candice,” she said. “That is a beautiful chandelier.
Two
beautiful chandeliers!”

“They're yours,” I said. “Well, not forever. Only for a week in October. It's a picture of a suite in a New Orleans hotel, just off Bourbon Street. In the envelope are three tickets for the flights, and the card contains two thousand dollars spending money.”

I expected a strong reaction to that.

I got it.

Dear Denille
,

We are coming to New Orleans for a week! I know New York City is a long way from New Orleans, but perhaps you could come for a visit. We would be delighted to see you. We could eat jambalaya and listen to jazz. I'm hoping restaurants there don't serve chicken parmigiana (or sausage and egg), because Dad would undoubtedly miss out on authentic Cajun cuisine
.

I won't bore you with the details, but I handed over the tickets to Mum at a restaurant in Albright tonight (maybe we should rename it New Albright. American cities always seem to be New Something, and there are plenty of parts of Albright that are looking shabby)
.

She and Dad got very angry at first and told me they couldn't accept them. Dad said he smelled the hand of Rich Uncle Brian in this. Mum said it was too expensive,
that I was thirteen and couldn't spend thousands of dollars on her
.

But she had the tickets in her hand and excitement in her eyes
.

She has always wanted to go to New Orleans, Denille, and she knew this was her only chance. I could feel it. Anyway, I tried to talk them round. I pointed out:

• That the tickets were nonrefundable, so it would be dumb to waste them on a matter of principle;
  
• That Rich Uncle Brian had tried to talk me out of it as well, but I had insisted (and he can never say no to me. Not really);
  
• That it was my money and I could spend it on what I wanted. And I wanted this
  .
  

So, it is easy to guess what happened when I put all these arguments forward in my normal persuasive fashion
.

They still refused to go
.

Mum got all teary and Dad got all angry and they said it wasn't going to happen. There was talk of confronting Rich Uncle Brian and telling him a few home truths
.

But we are going. They just don't know it yet
.