“What is it with girls and séances?” he asks. “My sister has them all the time.”
Justine is trying to calm the girls down.
“We were trying to contact Eliza’s grandfather, but now there’s an evil presence in there,” one of them cries.
“Who? The Blair Hair Witch?” Tara mutters.
Ryan and I look at each other comically.
“Did she just crack a joke?” he asks.
The Hair Bear girls refuse to go back into their cabin.
“There are no other cabins left,” Will explains politely, but the girls aren’t budging and I can tell he’s pretty shitty.
“Spirits are easy to get rid of,” I inform them. “You go in there, say eight Hail Marys while walking counterclockwise.”
Will and the prefects are not impressed. It’s obvious they got little sleep last night, and their eyes are hanging out of their heads. The séance girls, however, are looking at me as if I’m their hero.
I walk up the stairs to the cabin and Will follows me, but I gently push him back. “Nonbelievers are barred.” I look out at the crowd. “Believers, come forth!”
Tara, Siobhan, and I exit the cabin. We’ve spent ten minutes inside, hip-hopping while chanting a few prayers with mouths full of the Twisties and Pringles we found lying around.
We stand on the veranda and everyone below us stares in silence. Justine is still comforting one of the Hair Bear girls, and Eva and the rest of our cabin are killing themselves laughing.
“This house,” I say dramatically, like in a scene out of Poltergeist, “is clean.”
We get a massive cheer and applause. We wave a royal wave, and the Hair Bear girls are grateful and instantly our best friends, promising us free makeovers.
Will is looking at me, shaking his head with bemusement, as the others go back to their cabins.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re psychotic.”
“I got them back into the cabin, didn’t I?”
“What have you guys been doing in there? You’re perspiring.”
“Hip-hopping.”
He looks at me, as if he’s trying to work out if I’m having him on.
“You don’t strike me as a hip-hopper,” he says, laughing.
“I squeeze it in between ghost-busting.”
I look down at what he’s holding in his hand.
“Fart gas? Shame on you, Will.”
“Tom Mackee’s cabin. There could be more.”
“As if they don’t have enough natural emissions of their own.”
I feel reluctant to go and he seems to feel the same. It’s pitch-dark and we can only see each other’s outlines. We sit on the veranda and his hand comes across and touches mine and I slip my fingers through his and we sit like that for a while.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I’m thinking heaps of things, but they all require too much honesty and I don’t think I can take that at the moment.
“I’m wondering who came up with the concept of putting fart smells in a can.”
“Worse,” he says, hardly able to stop himself from laughing, and I just love the sound of it. “Imagine being their kid. Imagine going around saying, ‘My dad invented fart gas in cans. That’s how we made our millions.’ ”
It degenerates from there and we try to outdo each other’s grossness until he yawns and apologizes, and I can sense his tiredness.
“How much sleep did you get?”
“Hailler, the dickhead, got chucked out of his cabin because he wouldn’t shut up, so he ended up in ours and continued to not shut up for the rest of the night.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Rugby.”
“What else?”
I can sense his surprise. “Nothing else, just rugby. You?”
“Lots of stuff. And then movies. Have you ever seen The Last of the Mohicans?”
“I love it.”
“Really?” I’m over the moon. We share a movie. Finally, we’re on the same planet.
“Don’t you love the part where he says, ‘Stay alive. I will find you’?” I ask.
“I love that massacre scene,” he says, like an excited little boy, “where they’re walking down that path in the middle of nowhere and they’re surrounded by the woods and you know the Indians are going to attack and it’s so tense.”
Things that make you go hmmm.
I can sense him looking at me in the dark and I turn to face him, feeling the warmth of his breath on my face.
“What’s going on, Will? Speak to me.”
I don’t know where those words have come from. I’ve heard Mia say them. “What’s going on inside your head, Rob? Tell me.”
Will doesn’t speak, but his hand squeezes mine tighter.
“It’s like you have a plan and someone comes along and makes you want to change it all, but you still like your first plan, no matter how fantastic the second one makes you feel.”
“I’ve never planned anything, so I don’t understand the feeling,” I say.
“Well, I plan everything. I even plan my plans.”
“So tell me about plan number one.”
“First of all, but not in this order, there’s civil engineering. I know I can get between approximately 98.6 and 99.3 in the High School Certificate and that analyzing King Lear’s nervous breakdown on the heath is going to be the deciding factor in those marks.”
I can sense him looking at me in the dark as if I’m supposed to understand this dilemma.
I’m in love with a droid! Any minute now he’s going to start using formulae to work out how he feels about me.
“I know I want to kind of run away next year. Do the whole backpacking thing. Just get lost, you know?”
“You were so confused about the whole overseas thing and now you’re so certain,” I say. “Aren’t you worried about leaving your comfort zones anymore?”
“It’s like what you said at the wedding. About comfort not being everything.”
Great. Now he’s going to start taking my advice, when it’ll mean him leaving.
“I need to sort out the plan priority,” he says decisively.
“Tell me about plan number two.”
“I stay and hang out with this smart-ass who can tell me the difference between Trotsky and Tolstoy.”
I want to beg, “Pick plan two. Pick plan two.”
He kisses me and it’s not like at the party or the wedding. It’s soft and slow and familiar, and this time around I feel as if he’s in control of how he’s feeling and that there’s no regret or guilt on his part. But I taste a bit of sadness in that kiss and I don’t know whether it’s mine or his, but it makes us both tremble and not want to let go.
I sit next to Jimmy on the way home, and he teaches me how to play Nintendo with the precision of a surgeon.
“It’s hard, but you’ll get the hang of it,” he says, handing it over.
I beat him first go and I hand it back. He looks at me darkly.
“You’ve frightened me in the last two days, Francesca. I want you to go back to your pathetic self as soon as possible,” he says.
“Why?” I grin.
“Because you being pathetic makes me feel good about myself,” he jokes.
In front of me, Thomas and Justine are sharing a Discman, one earphone in each of their ears.
I put my face between them.
“Tuba Guy’s not going to be happy,” I say, doing the smooching sounds that Thomas always does when I’m speaking to Will. Behind me, Tara and Siobhan are asleep, heads against each other, mouths hanging open, a bit of saliva on the side.
I feel a wave of sadness come over me. I want the bus driver to turn the bus around and I want to spend the rest of my days in a whirlwind of the last few days. Of flirting. Of laughing. Of ridding the world of evil. Of folk songs. Of piggybacks. Of hip-hop dancing. Of foolishness.
And most of all, of forgetting.
I look past them to w
here Will and his friends are sitting, and he catches my eye for a moment and smiles. It’s a weird smile, but it reaches his eyes and I bottle it. And I put it in my ammo pack that’s kept right next to my soul. The one that holds Mia’s scent and Justine’s spirit and Siobhan’s hope and Tara’s passions. Because if I’m going to wake up one morning and not be able to get out of bed, I’m going to need everything I’ve got to fight this bastard of a disease that could be sleeping inside of me.
chapter 30
I TURN SEVENTEEN. It’s on a really bad day for Mia. One of those days that make me think she’ll never get better. Some days aren’t just a step back, they are a mile. This morning she’s crying and it’s painful to hear and my ears ache from the sound of her sobbing. I can hear my father’s voice, comforting her, like it always does. But the heart-wrenching sound doesn’t stop. There’s just so much grief there, and I stick my pillow over my head and wish the day away.
No one remembers it’s my birthday, and I’m glad because I just couldn’t bear putting on a smile and pretending to be happy about being a year older. The Stella girls don’t ring. No one rings. Not my grandparents, not anyone, and the worst thing is that it’s Sunday and I’m not at school with my friends, and it’s the loneliest day of my life.
Birthdays in the past were spectacular. If it wasn’t a thousand presents, it was a dinner out, and the birthday person got to choose. Mia let us have wine and we’d make toasts. People would look at us and I could hear them say, “What a great family!” Were we too smug? Does God punish the smug? Does what we had automatically transfer to some other family who didn’t have it but now do, courtesy of our despair?
My father walks into the kitchen. “Go take Luca up to the Abouds.” No “please,” no softness toward me in his voice.
“And then where do you want me to hide?” I ask snidely.
He stares at me, but I don’t care because I don’t know who he is anymore. I used to see him smile every day, but I haven’t seen him smile for months. People used to always say he should grow up, but a grown-up Robert isn’t fun. Bring on the immaturity, I want to say. He’s still staring, and for a moment I don’t recognize the look in his eyes.
“You blame me for this, don’t you?” he says.
“Luca!” I call out, still looking at my father, straight in the eye. “The Abouds want you to come over.”
“Don’t you?” he persists.
“I don’t need to. You’re doing a better job.”
I walk up the road with Luca and Pinocchio.
You blame me for this, don’t you?
I can’t get the words out of my head, both his and mine. Deep down, when I analyze how I feel, I realize that there is resentment and it’s not toward Mia. It’s toward my father. It’s like this bubble that’s inside me that I keep thinking is going to burst on its own because it’s too weak to withstand. But it’s not. It just builds up and builds up, and every word that comes out of his mouth, every feel-good sentiment, every bit of optimism, makes me want to yell hysterically. And in this whole mess, this whole period of everything aching, it’s thinking this way about him that makes me feel as if I’m slowly bleeding inside.
On Monday, the only thing that gets me out of bed is the fact that I hate this house so much that I’d rather die than stay here.
I spend the day on Ms. Quinn’s sofa. Once upon a time she’d work quietly, put off phone calls while I was in there and not allow anyone to disturb us. Now she’s become so used to it that life goes on around me. The normalcy of routine in that office, in itself, is a comfort.
At one stage I have no idea what time it is. I wake up and Will’s sitting on the floor, his back in front of me, leaning against my sofa.
“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning back so our faces are level.
I can hardly speak but I try. “I was born seventeen years ago,” I tell him. “Do you think people have noticed that I’m around?”
“I notice when you’re not. Does that count?”
I close my eyes again and go to sleep.
When the afternoon bell rings, Justine is standing outside Ms. Quinn’s office, holding my bag. I bet she’s carried it around all day.
Our group of four walk across the park in silence. At one stage, Siobhan bumps me with her hip. It’s one of those are-you-okay bumps. I bump her back. Already I’m feeling a bit better, even though I dread the idea of going home. As we walk through Grace Bros., Justine drags me to one of the cosmetic counters.
“Let’s get makeovers,” she suggests.
“Waste of money,” Tara says. “All we’ll be doing tonight is homework.”
“Francesca?”
I nod. “Why not.”
When it’s over, the four of us rave about how beautiful we look. Even Tara is fascinated with herself.
“I’ve got the best idea for tonight,” Siobhan says. “Thomas is going to watch some band down at Coogee. He said we could come along. It’ll be fun.”
“It’s a school night,” Justine argues, getting that pink stressed tinge in her cheeks.
“We’re celebrating.” Siobhan grabs my face. “It was her birthday. Look how sad she looks.”
I think for a moment. “What band?”
“Some punk band he’s into.”
I look at Tara and Justine hopefully.
“We won’t get in,” Tara says firmly.
“We will,” Siobhan says. “I’ll get us in.”
“The lying’s too complicated,” Tara argues.
“Only because you make it complicated,” Siobhan complains.
I can tell that Justine is having a stress attack at the idea of it.
“It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to convince her. “I can tell my dad I’m staying at your place, and you can tell yours that you’re staying at Tara’s, and so on and so forth,” I plead. “You can ask Tuba Guy as well. This is your opportunity to ask him out, Justine. It’s a music thing. It’ll make sense.”
“And how do we sneak back into my house without my parents hearing?” Tara asks.
“I’m the expert,” Siobhan says, clapping gleefully. “Leave it to me.”
Thomas and his friends and Jimmy meet us outside the hotel at 7:30. Tuba Guy has arrived before us and is already being terrorized by Jimmy, who I can tell has just asked him his hundredth question.
“You look great,” Tuba Guy says as we stand around. But he’s mostly looking at Justine.
“It’s just the makeup,” Tara says in her practical tone, because I can tell she’s embarrassed by the attention she’s getting from the guys.
“We know that, Tara,” Thomas says. “We’ve seen how ugly you look underneath it all.” But he is staring at her. Sometimes, I think he has a crush on all of us but it is Tara who makes his heart beat fast, although he’d rather die than admit it.
We walk inside. The place is semi-packed and we try hard to look discreet. The band is set to play in another room at 9:30, so we decide to make ourselves comfortable in the lounge. Jimmy shouts out to someone he knows, and we push him into a booth.
“We’re trying to be inconspicuous,” Justine says.
“Chill,” Thomas says as we make ourselves comfortable. “You chicks get hot and bothered about anything.”
“Why is it that you always sound like someone out of a bad seventies movie?” Tara asks him.
“Because I’m trying to compete with the I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar image you have, Helen.”
“It’s Ms. Reddy to you.”
We discuss who is going to get the drinks.
“Tara and I will go,” Siobhan says, having already eyed the young bartender.
Thomas puts two fingers together and does a smooching sound.
“Maturity, Thomas,” I warn.
There’s something so exciting about doing something illegal. You feel as if the whole world is looking at you, but no one really gives a damn. When a waitress comes to clear the table next to us, Justine starts babbling about the university degree she’s d
oing.
“Huh?” Thomas asks. “What is she talking about?” he asks me.
I kick him under the table and Jimmy’s killing himself laughing, very loudly.
When Siobhan and Tara come back with our bourbons, we make a toast.
“To Francesca!”
They raise them up in the air as the waitress comes back.
“On her nineteenth birthday,” Justine blurts out.
“Did she repeat?” Tuba Guy asks, confused.
“So did Trombal give you anything?” Jimmy asks, nosy as usual.
“A compliment. That was enough,” I say, thinking of him in Ms. Quinn’s office.
“Trombal doesn’t know how to give compliments,” Thomas says. “The other day I’m trying to put some work in for you, Francesca, and I’m saying that you look like the chick in the toothpaste commercial, you know, the one with the short dress and the big tits?”
I’m ever so slightly horrified.
“Please don’t assist me in any way, Thomas,” I beg of him.
“Well, Trombal’s like, ‘No. She looks like Sophia Lauren’ or something like that, and I’m thinking, you loser! Here I am trying to pay her a compliment and you can’t even pretend that Francesca’s hot.”
“Did he just insult me?” I ask Justine.
“Yes, but the tragedy is that he thinks he’s paying you a compliment.”
Then something clicks into place. “Sophia Loren?” I say, remembering Will’s father calling me Sophia at the wedding.
“You’ve heard of her?”
“Sophia Loren is, like, the most beautiful woman in the world,” Tara tells him. “She’s an Italian actress.”
“Then why haven’t I heard of her?”
“Because you’re too busy watching toothpaste commercials. She’s, like, in her sixties. . . .”
“He’s comparing you with an old person? He has no idea.”
“How can we explain this to you, Thomas?”
“He’s not going to get it,” Siobhan says, already bored.
“Let me try.” Jimmy faces Thomas. “From what I can remember from this film, The Boy and the Dolphin, Sophia has big tits.”
“Ahhh,” Thomas says, nodding.
“Is that all you guys notice?” Tara asks, disgusted.