Good Oil (15 page)

B
UBBLE GIRL

Meandering home from the bus stop after school, my head lolls from one side to the other, my eyelids droop, but my mouth perpetually curves upward. I try to recall the day just passed. When Jess refused to get up and dressed, I just left her there, left her for someone else to deal with. I don’t remember making Mum tea or toast for breakfast. I don’t remember having feelings one way or another about my father’s directive that I – who had to leave for school in a few minutes – vacate the kitchen space until he – who had nowhere to be at any particular time – finished making his tea, as I was ‘in his way’.

I blurted out the glorious story to Penny before rollcall. I don’t remember feeling angry when Scott and company arrived at lunch. I’m pretty sure I did badly on the history test, but I haven’t really thought about it since.

I am completely focused on the phone call from Chris that is surely coming this evening. What will be said? What do couples talk to each other about? I’ll tell him about my day; he’ll tell me about his. I’ll tell him I love him; he’ll tell me the same. I’ll tell him I have longed for this day; he’ll tell me the same.
When am I seeing you?
he’ll say. We’ll arrange to have dinner after work on Wednesday night. We’ll go to Rino’s again, but this time he’ll sit close to me and hold my hand under the table. After dinner he’ll walk me home with his arm around me.

My family sits down to dinner at 7.30 p.m. He hasn’t rung yet. He’ll ring when he’s had his dinner.

‘How was the party last night?’ Mum asks.

‘Fine. Good.’

We eat in silence.

‘Is everything all right, Amelia?’ Mum again.

‘Yes!’

When the meal is finished Mum and Dad light up their after-dinner cigarettes. I clear the table, scrape the dishes, rinse them and stack them on the sink edge. Dad is supposed to load the dishwasher when he is home. I take the phone from its cradle and check the dial tone. I retire with it to my room and sit cross-legged on my bed.

It’s nine-thirty and still nothing. Maybe he’s watching
Media Watch
. What time is
Media Watch
on? He might think that it’s too late to call me now.

After much deliberation, and with the beginnings of panic creeping into my throat, I snatch the phone up and dial his number.

‘Robyn Harvey speaking,’ says a woman who I guess is Chris’s mum.

‘Can I speak to Chris, please.’

‘Just a moment, love.’ She sounds kind. ‘Chris!’ she calls. ‘Phone for you.’

Muffled footsteps and then Chris’s voice. ‘Hello.’

My chest tightens.

‘It’s Amelia.’

‘Hi.’

He sounds . . . what? Dismayed? Gruff? Surprised? Annoyed?

‘How are you?’ I venture.

‘I have the mother of all hangovers.’

‘Oh, that’s no goo—’ ‘Can I call you back?’

‘Huh?’

‘Can I call you back, Amelia?’ He sounds impatient. ‘In ten minutes?’

‘Sure.’

And he hangs up.

I look at the alarm clock. 9.34 p.m. I wait.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I jump out of my skin.

‘Yes!’

Mum opens the door but doesn’t enter.

‘I’m going to bed now,’ she says.

‘Okay,’ I say, with a touch of irritation. Why is she telling me this tonight? Usually she just goes without saying anything, making me wonder whether I should take the initiative and go into her room to kiss her goodnight. But whenever I do I’m just confronted by her tired face.

Now she stands there, observing me sitting on my bed with the phone in my lap. Her eyes move to my unpacked school bag, my desk devoid of books and my desk lamp off.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asks again.

‘Yes!’ For one terrifying second I think I might cry. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Mum.’

9.45.

9.50.

9.55.

I jump when the phone finally rings, and pick it up quickly.

‘It’s me,’ he says tonelessly.

‘Hi.’ I grit my teeth against the havoc taking over my central nervous system.

‘I’m not usually a fan of cliché,’ he begins, ‘but I’m going to have to open with “About last night”.’

I exhale a faint giggle and wait for him to continue.

‘As you would be aware, I was drinking heavily last night which led to me becoming disinhibited and losing control of my actions.’ He sounds as if he is reading from a prepared speech. After a few moments I realise he is.

‘I apologise for coming onto you the way I did,’ he continues.

‘You didn’t—’

‘But I’m sure you know there is no question of us having an ongoing romantic relationship.’

There it is. My eyes fill with tears. I’m afraid to speak lest my voice betray them.

‘Why?’ I manage to squeeze out.

‘Because you are fifteen and I’m twenty-two, we have nothing in common socially and are at completely different stages in our lives.’

I know he knows I’m crying. He can probably hear my efforts to stifle it.

‘You couldn’t participate in my life. I couldn’t participate in yours. It wouldn’t work. I need someone who can come to the pub with me and my mates, who can go away with me for weekends, who I can introduce to my family and, to be frank, someone I can have sex with.’

‘I’d have sex with you!’

‘
Don’t!
’ he says sharply. ‘Don’t even say that.’

Tears roll down my cheeks.

‘I’m sorry about all this. You were drinking too. It was just one of those things.’ He must realise how lame that sounds. ‘I’ll see you at work. Bye.’

He hangs up.

I lie down on my pillow and let out all the sobs I’d been keeping in my throat.

UGLY

The next morning I lie in bed after the alarm sounds. My eyes are sore and caked in gunk.
I suppose I’d better go to school,
I think. Mum, Jess and Dad have already left. Mum had to drop Dad at the airport early. He’s teaching a few classes at the University of New England this week. Modern Drama something or other.

I iron my school shirt in the kitchen and manage a few sips of tea. I leave much later than usual and the buses are full and much slower. I slink into rollcall late. Mrs Chambers doesn’t say anything, but marks my name off on the roll. I’m never late.

Penny catches up with me at our lockers shortly after recess bell.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says.

‘Chris.’

‘What now?’

‘He said it’s all off. He says he was just drunk. He says it’ll never . . .We’ll never . . . He never . . . He read all the reasons why not from a piece of paper.’

‘Oh, sweetie. What a gyp.’

I slam my locker door shut. ‘Yeah.’

We walk outside into the sunshine and head down to join our group on the grass.

‘Are we good for Saturday?’ I ask. ‘I’m going to need some serious chocolate therapy. I might even need you to dye my hair for me.’ Our usual fallback Saturday ritual is going to the movies, sharing a bucket of popcorn and then sleeping over at either one’s house, watching movies and eating chocolate late into the night.

‘I can’t this week.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I’ve got a thing.’

‘A family thing?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to the end-of-season party,’ she says, trying hard to sound casual.

Every year on the Saturday that the First VX rugby team at the boys’ school plays the last game of the season there’s a huge party at one of the players’ well-appointed houses. It’s strictly invitation only and attended by the coolest, sportiest boys and the best-looking, most up-for-it selection of girls. I’m gobsmacked – half wildly curious about how Penny had managed to get invited, half jealous and miffed.

‘How?’ I stop walking, which forces her to stop too.

‘Scott’s sister is in Year Twelve. She goes out with one of the guys on the team. She got Scott and some of his friends invited – including me.’

‘You’re going with Scott, then.’

‘Well, sort of. His sister’s driving and I’m going with them.’

‘But they’re a bunch of wankers, remember? The alpha males and the female prizes for their achievements?’

Penny says nothing.

I wait for her to make some reference to me going too. She remains silent.

‘What if I wanted to come too?’ I ask pointedly.

‘There’s . . . there’s no more room in the car,’ she says lamely.

‘No more room in the car,’ I repeat. ‘Well fuck you then!’

The day passes without further incident. At lunch I sit quietly among my group, saying nothing to Penny or anybody and pretending to study for a test.

I don’t cry.

In double English we watch the film of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. Sitting at one of the desks in the back row I put my head down on my arms and study the grainy wooden veneer of the desk, which is an inch from my eyes. I doze fitfully.

Mrs Cumming doesn’t say anything but I catch her looking at me when I wake.

The bus trip home is the usual assault on my senses. Three alpha-male footballers torture a tiny nerdy-looking Year Seven boy. He fights back, the brave little soul.

I meander home from the bus stop, not due back at work until the following night.

When I get home, Mum is about to head out the door. She says she’s going to a superannuation seminar at her school.

‘There’s a barbecued chicken in the fridge for you and Jess, and stuff for salad. Get her into the bath before six.’

The front door slams behind her and I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I can hear Jess watching
Play School
in the living room. I put my bag down on one of the chairs around the kitchen table. There’s a paralysing ache somewhere in my chest, but no sign of tears. I realise I haven’t eaten all day.

‘Melia!’ calls Jess. ‘Can I have some Milo?’

Little madam doesn’t even say please
, I think.

‘Can I have some Milo
what?
’ I shout back.

‘Pleeeease!’

‘Little madam,’ I mutter, and make the Milo.

At five o’clock she wanders into the kitchen where I am sitting at the table in front of an empty tea mug.

‘TV’s finished,’ she says leadingly.

‘Mmmmm.’

‘Can you play with me?’

‘No.’

‘Ohhwwwwwuh.’

‘Go and find something to play with for a little while and then it’ll be bath time, then dinner time.’

‘There’s nothing to play with,’ she sulks.

And then I just lose it.

‘DON’T
WHINGE,
JESSICA!’ I shout.

Her little eyes widen.

‘JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! GET AWAY FROM ME! GO
AWAY
!’ My voice cracks at the end of the outburst. I fling my head down on my arms where they are resting on the table and wail. I feel her little hand on my arm.

‘Melia . . .’

‘GO AWAY!’ I scream into the table.

Little footsteps sprint away, up the stairs and into her room above, where the door slams.

I cry and cry, until my shirtsleeves are sodden and my body exhausted. I hear little sobs coming from the room above me. I get up, blow my nose and splash some water on my face at the kitchen sink. I take several deep breaths. Then I climb the stairs and knock on Jess’s bedroom door.

‘Jess.’

I open the door. She’s sitting on her bed with one arm holding Prize Teddy, who does indeed look fetching with his new Nanna-knitted scarf. I sit down beside her.

‘I’m sorry I yelled at you.’

She’s silent.

‘I’m
really
sorry I yelled at you.’ My voice quavers. ‘I’m upset today.’

‘Why?’

‘A boy at my work is being mean to me.’

‘Like Felix?’

Felix is a boy at Jess’s preschool who often pushes her over in the sandpit. I’ve threatened to go to her preschool and show this Felix the back of my hand, but Mum always tells me not to talk like that.

‘Sort of.’

She nods. I hold out my arms and she flings herself across the bed and into them. Holding her tight I breathe in great lungfuls of her skin and hair.

‘I’m going to run your bath and make dinner while you’re in there.’

Jess has long baths, where she plays out all sorts of dramas with her duckies and various unfortunate-looking Barbie dolls. Crystal Barbie, once resplendent in her polyester ball gown and tiara, is now naked and sporting a crew cut.

Jess nods and pulls off her socks. I wouldn’t stoop so low as to ask her not to tell, but I hope that she won’t mention my episode to Mum.

Half an hour later we are seated side by side in front of the television, watching one of Jess’s DVDs and eating cold chicken and salad. The phone rings. It’s Penny.

Being mad at Penny is not sustainable. She is the reason why I don’t feel alone in the world. We’ve been friends since Year Seven and best friends since Year Eight. Penny is my most intimate relationship and I don’t know how to position myself in the universe without her by my side. If not for her, I would be some Holden Caulfield-style loner, alienated and miserable. I’m outraged as all get-out, and taken aback that she is going to this party without me, but I can’t stay mad at her. The Chris stuff is unbearable enough; I need Penny. I need to beat a retreat back to our safe harbour.

‘Have you calmed down yet?’ she asks.

‘Only just.’

‘My dad wants to split up from my mum,’ she says dully.

‘Shit! Why?’

‘I don’t know. She can be pretty hard work sometimes.’ ‘I guess. Did you overhear them talking about it?’

‘No, he told me about it in the car on the way to school today.’

‘Has he told
her
?’

She was silent for moment. ‘No. Not yet. And it’s bad timing with Jamie just home from Banksia House.’

‘Do you reckon he’s serious?’

‘Seems to be.’

‘Where would he go?’

‘I don’t
know
, Amelia!’

I can’t believe this. Penny’s mum and dad are like . . . I can’t believe this.

‘Dude. I’m so sorry. I don’t get it; your parents are . . . you know they seemed . . . Didn’t they?’

‘Hmh.’

‘Do you want to come and stay here for a while?’

‘No, I’d better . . . no. But thanks.’