Crossing the Line

For my dearest husband, Bill Condon

1

A
suitcase, my laptop computer and a backpack; this is what I bring with me. I’ve waited for this day for what seems like forever, counting down the hours, keeping my cool as much as I can. The house is a small bungalow no different from other redbrick houses in the suburb, a short walking distance to the railway station and the shops.

Marie briskly rings the front doorbell then steps back, surveying the uncut front lawn and tongue- clicking at the avalanche of garbage erupting from a split plastic bag on the porch.

‘Yep?’ The door is opened by a tall skinny girl with a face full of metal and a towel wrapped around her, her molasses-coloured hair stringy and damp from the shower.

‘I understand you were expecting us. The room for rent? I believe it’s all been arranged. Someone from the Department would have spoken to you.’ Marie pulls out a business card. Her manner, as usual, is prickly.

The girl rolls her eyes. ‘We knew you were coming. Didn’t think you’d want a frigging red carpet.’ My heart thumps with applause. Anyone who can tick Marie off as obviously as she’s ticked at the moment is an instant buddy.

Suddenly there’s a guy behind the girl. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And he’s cute, grinning with the whitest set of teeth you’d see on any TV commercial. ‘Come on in,’ he says.

His hand brushes against mine as he takes my bags. ‘Here, let me.’ Our eyes meet. His are green, flecked with little dots of translucent colours, gemstones of amber and opal. Very nice.

In the living room Marie’s disapproval is palpable as she stares openly and rudely around her, noting, I’m sure, the furniture covered in junk, the slight odour of cat poo, even the carpet fluff and wine stains.

Cute boy shoves a jumble of clothes onto the floor to clear a chair. Then he pushes aside magazines from the sofa. ‘Sorry about that.’ Again with the brilliant smile.

The girl has disappeared.

‘I’m Sophie,’ I say. ‘I love your place.’

‘Matt.’ He shakes my hand, looks directly into my eyes again. He’s so gorgeous! ‘I hope you like it here with Amy and me.’

Mrs Rules and Regulations takes over then. I’ve heard it all before and can’t wait for her to buzz off. Thank god she doesn’t stick around for long.

The moment she’s gone, Amy appears. ‘What a bitch! Is she your case worker?’

I nod, and suddenly it’s as though someone has pumped laughing gas into the room. The three of us crack up. Oh, I’m so happy! This is what I’ve wanted for so long; my first taste of Freedom.

Amy and Matt don’t waste any time in making me feel at home. With Marie gone, they take me on a house inspection. Like the living room, the rest of the place is messy, but it’s a nice sort of messy, not filthy, just lived-in. Amy’s proud of the backyard which is mostly overgrown but she’s been digging out a section in the sun for a herb and veggie garden. ‘I haven’t been living here long.’ She gazes around her. ‘It’ll take a while. Maybe you’d like to help?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Why not?’

‘We’re going to make dinner for you,’ Matt says when I’ve checked out everything. He grins and I try hard not to drool. ‘Take your time and come out when you’re ready.’

They leave me alone while I unpack my stuff. Mine is the smallest of the three bedrooms, but I don’t mind. Not only is it my own, but it even has a latch inside the door which means I won’t have anyone barging in whenever they feel like it as I’ve had in the past with foster parents and their kids. This is where I’ve wanted to be ever since I can remember, away from the watchful eye of strangers: my own space. I’ll still be under Marie’s care and with two flatmates, but at least they are close to my age and both seem really cool.

Someone knocks on my door. It’s Matt, waiting for me to open it, not assuming it’s okay to come in without my say so. I’m impressed.

‘Dinner!’ he announces.

I’ve had better meals than their chickpea curry and rocket salad, but this is the first time in ages that I’ve shared food with company I like.

‘I prefer a thick, bloody steak,’ Matt says, ‘but Amy’s a vegetarian and . . .’

‘. . . what Amy says goes,’ butts in Amy. She looks so determined and bossy that Matt and I laugh.

‘In your dreams,’ Matt tells her.

After the meal we settle down in the living room, Matt with a beer, me with a red wine opened specially for the occasion, and Amy sucking on a joint. She offers both of us a puff, but we decline. I tried smoking marijuana once but it made me feel lightheaded then sleepy.

‘So, tell us about yourself,’ Amy says without preamble.

I tell as much as I want, how I was raised by an aunt and uncle until I was about eleven and then they broke up, and how I was fostered for the first time.

I find out that Amy and Matt have both had dealings with the Department. Amy’s been through the foster system, same as me, but Matt isn’t willing to go into his story. ‘It’s complicated,’ is all he’ll say.

‘I was twelve when I was first fostered,’ Amy says. ‘It was really hard getting used to living with another family. And then there was another family. And another.’

We nod at one another. Been there, done that.

‘I’ve lost count of how many foster carers I’ve had,’ I tell them. ‘About six weeks ago my last fostering broke down. The Department put me in a youth refuge but I spat the dummy. It was such a dump. Told Marie I was seventeen, that I’d leave school and get a job and there was nothing she or the Department could do about it. But it didn’t work out. I stuffed up . . .’

Amy, her cat Persia on her lap, pauses from smoking. Matt puts down his beer.

Oh no, I’ve said too much. Opened my big mouth. Regular habit.

‘Don’t stop there,’ says Amy.

‘What did you do?’ Matt asks.

I am definitely not going to tell them details about the overdose. None of their business. Instead, I lie.

‘Nothing major. Boring stuff. But you know how the Department is – they overreacted. I had to go to a case management conference . . .’

‘Hate them,’ Amy interjects. ‘If you sneeze they want it in triplicate.’

‘. . . and it was suggested that if I
behaved
myself and stayed on at school, they might find a new place for me to live while I finished my last year. A good place, for once.’

Amy nods. ‘Right. So then I get a phone call from this guy I know at the Department who thinks it would be a good idea if . . .’

‘You moved in with us,’ Matt concludes.

‘Yeah, and I grabbed it with both hands.’ I smile. ‘This is a whole new beginning for me. New place to live. And I start at my new school tomorrow.’

Amy sighs heavily.

‘Sometimes I wish I was still at school.’ She sits on the carpet, her back against a chair. ‘I hated it when I was there but maybe I should have tried a bit harder. Still, I guess you don’t need an education to be a tattoo artist.’

‘Is that what you do?’ I say.

‘Hope to. One day. It’s hard to find someone who’ll give me a start.’

‘You’ll get there.’ I squeeze her shoulder. ‘Don’t give up.’

‘You at school, Matt?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. TAFE. Part-time. Still have a couple of years to go.’

There’s a short pause. I feel that I’ve said enough about my life. For now. Time to change the subject. ‘So, how does this place run?’

Amy takes the lead. ‘We buy our own groceries and share the rent, electricity and phone bills.’

‘Well, in theory we share the phone bills,’ Matt adds.

‘You on about the phone again?’ Amy counters.

‘Who, me? Just because you still owe the kitty ten bucks?’

‘Hey, I paid that. Then I took it out again to pay myself for cleaning the toilet because you didn’t do it.’

‘I missed one time!’

‘Okay, but then I fined you for leaving the seat up.’

‘I’ll leave the seat up whenever I like.’

‘Time out, you guys!’ I interject, but the argument continues.

‘Not in my house, you won’t!’

‘But this isn’t your house!’

I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle as hard as I can.

It stops them cold. They both stare at me.

‘I can fix this,’ I say. ‘Let’s take a vote. All those in favour of the toilet seat being left up, raise your hand.’

Matt’s hand is the only one to go up.

‘Those against . . .’

‘Ha-ha,’ smirks Amy as she and I raise our hands.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ I say. ‘You lose. Bad luck.’

‘I demand a re-count,’ he says. But he’s grinning.

Amy smiles at me. ‘I reckon you’ll fit in just fine here, Sophie. Two girls against one loser guy: now he hasn’t got a chance.’

That night. Sleeping. I am sketching in my dreams a scene of my childhood. Perspective doesn’t matter; everything is distorted and oblique as it is when you’re very young. My Aunt Arlene and Uncle Dutch’s faces loom large and clearly defined. Next, they are diminished and pale, like ghosts wafting in and out of sight. Sometimes they float close by and reach out and touch me. I am tucked between crisp white sheets that smell faintly of lavender, and Arlene is leaning over me, her ginger-ale hair lapping against my cheek, her face a mask, eyes hooded, skin mottled in shadow. She whispers to me in her sing-song voice, a children’s rhyme from the Netherlands. Dutch is beside her, huge and gentle like the Big Friendly Giant in that wonderful book he used to read to me before bedtime. And then, just as suddenly as they came to me, they are gone, and I’m alone, stretching out my hand and crying, begging them to come back, to take me with them.

2

L
ost?’

Her hair is dyed bright red and blue and sticks out from her head in dozens of braids. She has a nose ring and ear studs.

I’m standing at the school entrance trying to work out where the admin office is, while dozens of kids mill around me, shouting, swearing, talking on mobile phones, punching one another. It’s a jungle, and now there’s this odd-looking girl grinning at me.

‘Hi.’ Her smile reveals teeth white and perfectly formed. ‘You’re new around here.’

I’m always the new girl.

‘I guess so.’

‘You got a name?’

‘Sophie.’

‘I’m Greta Murphy. Doing your final year?’

I nod.

‘Good luck. Teachers treat you like slaves here. But most of them are okay. Except for Jenkins. He’s the deputy principal. We call him Mud Guards: all shiny on the top but dirty as hell underneath. You don’t want to get on his bad side.’

She talks at a hundred kays per hour, almost without drawing breath.

‘Come on, I’ll take you to the office.’ She grabs my arm and proceeds to charge through the throng.

‘Outta my way, coming through!’ she yells. The crowd parts. As we move along, she’s greeted from all sides. A popular girl.

‘What school were you at before here?’ she shouts above the playground noise.

‘Cheltenham.’

Greta halts abruptly. I almost collide with her.

‘That private college? The one that charges thousands in fees?’ Her face is close-up and personal; her eyes are unsettling – blue as summer sky and burning into me.

Almost ashamed to admit it, I nod.

‘Ohmigod! Your parents must be loaded.’

It’s too complicated to explain about my ‘family’, not that I’d want to anyway, especially to a stranger in the middle of a crowd, so I just shrug.

‘Why’d you leave?’

How nosy is this Greta? I say the first thing that springs into my mind.

‘Expelled.’

She grins. ‘I like you already. I expect all the juicy details at recess. Don’t leave out a word.’

We’re now at the office counter.

Greta gives me a thumbs-up. ‘You should be okay now. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Okay.’

‘Give ’em hell!’ She smiles all the way to China and gallops off as a bell rings.

I wait. I seem to spend half my life waiting. Waiting in Department office rooms mainly, but also in new school reception areas. I figure with all of my fosters since Arlene and Dutch I’ve been to seven schools. There’s always paperwork: name, address, former address and so on. God, I wish they’d hurry up.

‘Sophie?’

It’s the office assistant.

‘Mr Jenkins is ready to see you.’

I enter the office. He’s sitting at his desk, eyes down, writing. He doesn’t look up for the next five minutes. Arrogant pig. What is it about some men in power? He knows I’m here. Is it too much for him to show me just the tiniest bit of respect? Yes, way too much, obviously.

Offices tell a lot about people. His is as tidy as. Everything at ninety degree angles. There’s a shelf full of books, every one of them in alphabetical order. He’s anally retentive, that’s for sure.

Finally his face. Smiling. Big phoney.

‘Sophie!’ He says my name like an emcee announcing a stripper. Sleazebag.

‘Welcome to Cromer High.’

He pauses. Susses me out.

I maintain a blank face.

‘I see from your paperwork . . .’ Head down again, he flips through the thick sheaf of my school records. ‘You’ve been to quite a few schools . . .’ Head bobs up. ‘It looks like you’ve had a few problems here and there.’ Smile like a barracuda.

‘Just a few.’ I do my Nice Girl act. It won’t hurt to get on his good side – if he’s got one.

‘Yes. Hmm. Despite this you’ve maintained a very high grade average.’ Another barracuda job. ‘We like smart students at Cromer.’

He sure is smooth, trying to appeal to my ego – and succeeding. Yes, I do well at school, and yes, they’ve said I’m bright. I really love the challenge of learning and so far getting good grades has been the one constant in my life.

‘Now, young lass, let’s go through a few things.’

I bridle at his condescending tone, but keep it together.

‘Yes, sir.’

We discuss my workload and the looming final exams. I want to go on to uni next year so I need high marks. Not that I’m quite sure what I plan to do with the rest of my life. I love writing, especially poetry, so journalism sounds like a good option. Though journalists don’t write poetry, do they? It’s all so confusing sometimes. School. Jobs. Life. I wonder how anyone gets through it.

My mind is drifting as Jenkins blabs on until he stands and says, ‘Right. Time to meet your classmates.’

It’s always this way: a blur of faces, every one of them checking out the new girl. And a welcoming teacher who has no idea who I am. I keep a stone face and sit where I’m told, staring ahead at the blackboard. I don’t make friends easily; in fact long ago I gave up trying to be liked. I’m always moving on pretty quickly – hello, goodbye. So why bother in the first place?

‘Hey, Sophie!’

It’s Greta. I hadn’t noticed her sitting a few seats away. Her face lights up and she winks. I wonder why she’s so friendly. Probably gay. Just my luck.

At lunchtime she latches on to me. ‘You’ve gotta meet my friends!’

This is different. During break times I’ve always lurked around alone, totally ignored. I’m not exactly shy, but charging straight up to complete strangers and expecting them to cheerfully include me in their group is just not my style. Greta’s a true original, doesn’t seem to give a stuff what others think of her. She insists that I sit with her and her friends in a grassy corner of the schoolyard.

‘Tell us,’ Greta says, ‘we’re all dying to hear – how did you get expelled from Cheltenham?’

My little white lie has snowballed into something huge. If I can keep it going I might end up a legend. But do I want to lie to Greta and these guys? No, not really.

As I’m working out what to say, a gangly Year 10 boy barges up and shouts, ‘Hey, Greta, I hear Brian Pausacker’s got the hots for you!’

‘That loser!’

My new friends all hoot with laughter, Greta the loudest. ‘Tell him I’ve already got a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t, I’d rather suck on a lemon than go anywhere near that gross face of his!’

So perhaps she’s not gay at all – maybe she just likes me . . .

The other girls also give the boy heaps, and he racks off as fast as his skinny legs will let him. Maya, who sits to my left, is the quietest and the most conservative of the group – the opposite of Greta. No studs or rings, no off-the-wall hairstyle. She shares her sandwiches with me because, in my anxiety about the new school, I forgot to pack lunch or bring any money. The others are friendly, too. One offers to give me a spare textbook, while another promises to photocopy English literature notes so I’ll be up to speed. I feel completely at ease with them all and can’t believe my good luck. At the same time, a small voice is nagging at the back of my mind, telling me not to get too involved. So many times I’ve been in relationships that break down. It’s hard to trust. Still, what matters is the moment, and the moment, for now, is good.