Pulling the Moves (3 page)

But then Mum’s not exactly Elle McPherson, either. She’s short and dumpy, even though she’s been on this massive pre-wedding diet. I hope my genes don’t make me take after Mum. No, I couldn’t, I’ve got long legs up to my armpits and Mum’s a short-arse, close to the ground. I’d hate to look like Mum in twenty years’ time.

‘Getting nervous about the wedding?’ I ask Steve as we barrel along.

‘No. Are you?’

‘Me? No, why should I?’

‘Your mother’s starting to get a bit edgy,’ says Steve. ‘Wonders if she’s doing the right thing. I just had a call from her, something about a smashed cake and Sam doesn’t like her wedding dress.’

‘Sam didn’t say anything about not liking her dress,’ I snap. ‘He said she looked lovely. And you should be glad the cake got smashed up: it was gross.’

‘She’s upset about something, that’s why I’m going to see her.’

‘Pre-wedding nerves.’

I’ve read about them in magazines. We should’ve gone ahead and given her a hens’ party with a male stripper, to take her mind off getting married. I wanted to, but she went psycho and said she’d lock herself in the dunny if we did. I would’ve liked a male stripper.

Fern’s cousin Cordelia had a hens’ party and male stripper. Fern said it was a disaster but it sounded a full-on rage to me. It was the stripper’s first job because he’d just got out of jail the week before, and when he drank a few beers he went berserk. He heaved a chair through the window (with Fern’s Aunty Lil on it) and kicked in Cordelia’s car because she wouldn’t go out with him. Then some of Cordelia’s friends gave her heaps of Cointreau and shoved her on a plane: when she got her head together she’d found she was in Brisbane! I thought it was a hoot, but when I told Mum it made her even more determined not to have a party.

Steve pulls up outside our house. We both get out and walk round to the back door. Mum’s still in the kitchen, slumped at the table drinking this erky green
health drink which is supposed to stop her wanting to eat. Just the look of it makes me want to throw up.

She raises her head and looks with red-rimmed eyes at Steve. She looks like she’s been on skunk for a week!

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone!’

She starts bawling her eyes out. Steve pats her comfortingly on the shoulder.

‘Good one, Mum. What are we supposed to do with the dresses, the reception, the presents?’ I yell.

‘Not to mention the groom,’ says Steve calmly, massaging Mum’s neck.

‘Where’s Sam?’ I snap. If that little worm’s been putting crazy ideas into Mum’s head I’ll kill him.

‘Gone to Strapper.’

‘This late?’

‘That’s where he said he was going.’

Steve puts his arms around Mum and gives her a cop cuddle.

‘What if I make you a nice cup of tea and we talk about this?’ he says quietly.

‘You can’t talk me round, Steve. I … I …’

She sobs and sobs. Steve fills up the kettle and rattles round getting out the mugs and a plate for the
biscuits. I just sit there, gazing at Mum. For once in my life I don’t know what to say. How can she jilt Steve right before the wedding? Okay, like I said, he’s not Mr Macho but he’s all right, he’s not dead ugly, and he seems to love Mum. I mean, when you’re her age blokes aren’t exactly battering on the door. You have to take what you can get.

Plus now I’m sort of used to the idea of having Steve round. Not living with us, mind. But if Mum marries him, I won’t have to look after her in her old age. Fern’s sister has their grannie living in a flat in the back yard. She’s always griping and grizzling. I couldn’t stand it.

‘Come on, Mum,’ I soothe. ‘It’ll be fine. Steve will make a wonderful, kind husband.’

Steve sits at the head of the table, drinking his tea. I stare around, wishing I wasn’t part of this nightmare. Same familiar kitchen, cream walls and ceiling, pine table and chairs, blue and white plates on the dresser, blue and white checked curtains on the window over the sink. Fridge chugging away in the corner. Mum
can’t
be jilting Steve in our comfy kitchen.

Mum suddenly raises her head and looks straight at me. ‘Answer me honestly, Leanne, do you really want Steve to live here as your stepdad? You don’t
really mind?’ snuffles Mum.

‘No,’ I go, crossing my fingers. I don’t really want to be living anywhere with Steve, especially Snobsville where they’d planned to get a big house only I wouldn’t move there, but at the same time I
do
want Mum to get married to him.

Mum looks at Steve as he puts down a steaming mug of tea in front of her.

‘Do you really want to marry me, Steve?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ he says.

‘And you really want to live here with Leanne and Sam?’

‘Of course I do.’

I see him cross his fingers behind his back. Ah. So he doesn’t really want Sam and me as part of the package deal. I open my mouth to tell him to get lost when I realise that Mum’s stopped blubbering and she’s gazing at him as if he’s Ra the Sun God or something.

I decide to keep my mouth shut. Somehow this’ll all work out for the best, so long as the whole city doesn’t find out I’ve got a cop as a stepdad living with me.

‘Maybe you should spend tomorrow in bed resting,’ says Steve to Mum. ‘I think the strain’s
getting to you. Leanne can look after things.’

‘Sure,’ I go. ‘I’ll wheel the stove in so’s you can cook.’

Steve gives me this look.

‘Only joking,’ I go.

There’s a crashing noise outside.

‘What’s that?’ says Steve, going immediately into Cop Crouch position.

‘Just Sam accidentally running into the garbage bin on his bike,’ says Mum. ‘He does it all the time. You’d think after all these years he’d know where the bin is, wouldn’t you?’

Sam comes into the kitchen.

‘So where were you?’ I ask. ‘You didn’t go to Strapper.’

‘Nope. I rode down to the mall.’

‘In the dark? No lights?’ goes Mum.

Steve looks stern. If he goes into cop mode and fines Sam right here in our kitchen, the wedding’ll be off for sure!

‘I wanted to get you guys a wedding present,’ Sam says, all the Big Eyed Innocent Child. He does it so well!

What a suck.

‘Here you are,’ he says, and drags out a parcel
wrapped in wedding paper from his jacket pocket.

‘Oh, how lovely of you, Sam,’ Mum gushes. ‘Isn’t he sweet, Steve?’

Mum unwraps it. A plain brown box.

‘Nice box,’ I go.

Mum opens it. Inside there’s a china mug with flowers on it. Big deal.

‘It’s a Loving Cup,’ says Sam.

Oh,
per-lease
!

‘In ya dreams,’ I go. ‘It’s an ordinary, everyday “Made in Macau” mug, you mug.’

‘LEANNE!’ says Mum, glaring at me.

‘It’s not,’ says Sam. ‘See? It’s written on the side. “Loving Cup”. And what you’re supposed to do is make a cup of tea or coffee and each have a sip from it. It stops you fighting and brings you good luck. It’s all written here on this paper.’

He drags out the instructions from the box and passes it over for me to read. So I do.

What a load of crap!

But Mum goes all misty-eyed and pours her tea from the old mug into it. We all have to take a sip from her new Loving Cup. I don’t feel loving; I feel like wringing Sam’s scrawny neck. But then …

‘I think I’ll borrow it,’ I say. ‘Fern seriously needs to
use this mug!’

But Mum isn’t listening. She’s gazing at Steve. He’s looking at her. Oh, mush, mush, mush, I can’t stand it.

‘Come on, Sam, let’s watch some wicked TV,’ I say.

‘But I …’

‘Don’t you know when two’s company and four’s a crowd?’

I drag him down the passage. He stops dead in the doorway of the lounge room.

‘Leanne.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think Mum should marry Steve?’

‘Why not?’ I go, switching on the set. ‘We all need someone special in our lives, don’t we?’

I sprawl on the sofa. Sam stands gazing at the TV, but his eyes have that “nobody home” look he gets when he’s gearing up to think. Then he flops down beside me on the sofa. He taps his knee, which means he
is
thinking. I can almost hear his brain cells scraping together like sandpaper.

Someone special. Someone special for Sam. He’s probably thinking of Chani. Or maybe Mel. He’s over Bin, that’s for sure.

Someone special. For me, Leanne Long Legs Studley. But
who
?

I go out into the passage and call Fern. The phone rings for a while then she answers.

‘Just wanted to say sorry for being a bitch,’ I say.

‘Yeah? Go jump off a tall building into a small safety net with a large hole in it, Leanne Studley!’ She slams down the phone.

I wonder how long it took her to make up that line. Probably been practising for hours! Usually Fern’s not quick on the comeback.

You can’t say I didn’t try to fix up our fight. I’ll have to wait and see what happens on Sunday.

But first I’ve got to survive tomorrow.

And Saturday!

I’m at home. It’s the night before the wedding and Mum, Steve, Leanne and I are watching TV. I look at Steve. He’s got his arm along the back of the sofa, and he keeps stroking Mum’s hair.

It suddenly hits me. I’m not going to be the man of the house any more. Steve is. After tomorrow we’re supposed to be one big, happy family. They’re not going on a honeymoon, either. Steve can’t get time off work, yet. I’m going to have to sit here, night after night, watching Steve paw my mum, watching him be boss of the TV. Watching him be boss of this house!

I do what I usually do when I’m feeling bad. I act stupid and tell this corny joke. No one laughs.

‘Grow a brain, man,’ says Leanne.

‘Grow one yourself,’ I go.

Which is stupid. She’s one of the brainiest kids in the school. Leanne raises her eyebrows. I feel like thumping her.

‘Quiet,’ goes Steve. ‘The ad’s over.’

We’re all watching this dumb late night movie. I want to watch something else, but never mind. I plonk myself down on the sofa. This movie just might improve.

‘Have you done your homework?’ says Mum without taking her eyes off the TV.

‘What? This late? On the night before the wedding? Give me a break. Anyway, what’s the use? I’m never gonna get more than a “C” unless you pay for a brain transplant. I …’

‘You’d pass if you bothered to go to school,’ says Leanne smugly.

‘Look who’s talking,’ I yell. ‘Look who ran away from home. Have you forgotten that, Leanne?’

‘What are you raving about?’ goes Mum, swivelling her eyeballs from the box.

‘Fern saw him yesterday jiggin’ school. Roller bladin’ in the mall at eleven
ay em
…’

Great. You just dumped me in it up to my neck, Leanne Studley, I think, as Mum starts crackin’ the
sads.

‘Why weren’t you at school?’

‘I only took a few hours off,’ I say.

She goes crazy. ‘How’ll you ever
get
anywhere? How’ll you ever
be
anything?’

‘Leave me alone,’ I yell. ‘You’ve got Wonder Woman, Miss Leanne Studley. You don’t need another brain. And I …’

‘Go to your room,’ bellows Mum.

‘I won’t. Why should I?’

‘Do as you’re told, Sam,’ says Steve quietly.

‘Stay out of it. You’re not married to Mum yet,’ I say shortly.

‘Sam! Apologise to Steve.’

I feel bad. I like Steve. But the hassle of this wedding’s getting to me.

‘Sorry, Steve,’ I go. ‘It’s just that …’

‘Aw. Get lost,’ says Leanne. ‘All you do is moan and moan. The surf’s not up, the sun’s not up, your life’s not up … you go on and on.’

‘I’ll get lost all right. Permanently, if that’s what you want.’

‘Good,’ says Leanne. ‘Hurry up. Then we might get some peace.’

I storm out, banging the door. Why do I let Leanne
get to me? She’ll probably end up a space scientist making rocket fuel out of lupins, and I’ll end up a dole queue scientist. I’m not dumb. I’m seriously average. But I’m not real brainy and I never will be!

I leave the house, fuming. Why can’t they understand? Why is Leanne such a pain? It wouldn’t hurt her to be nice for a change.

I walk and walk the streets till I’m almost frozen, and decide it’s stupid, and start walking back again. But I don’t want to go home. Too late to go to Cooja’s. And it’s too cold to sleep outside.

Our house is in darkness when I get back. Nice of them to care enough to wait up for me.

Steve’s panel van’s still parked in our driveway. Has he stayed the night? Then I remember that he’s going to put his van in our garage when Mum moves the Falcon out, so that his cop mates don’t graffiti it. He’s probably taken a taxi back to his flat. But maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s jumping all over Mum’s pre-wedding bones. If they’ve had sex before in
his
flat, that’s different. But not before he’s married her, not in
our
house. Just who does he think he is?

They all must’ve gone to bed. I try the door and it’s not locked. Well, that was nice of them, big deal, but I’m not spending the night under the same roof as
Steve. And Leanne. No way. Tomorrow I’m moving out, round to Cooja’s place. But where will I sleep tonight?

I look at Steve’s van. Maybe …?

He’s supposed to put it in the driveway but half the time he forgets. Maybe …?

I try the rear doors. Unlocked. Steve’s usually so fussy, but in the pre-wedding madness he’s forgotten. Good one.

I climb inside and curl up in the back on an old rug. At least it’s warm in here.

I drift off …

‘Right. Get goin’. Give her the gun.’

Huh?

I blink. That’s the roof of a panel van. Where am I? That’s right,
Steve’s
panel van, I remember now. But what’s happening?

The motor throbs. We’re moving. Backing down the driveway. Then tyres screech as we roar off up the street. I raise my head, twist, and peer at the driver’s seat.

There’s a kid I’ve never seen before clutching the wheel, a kid about my age, with a major undercut and braids, wearing a leather jacket. Next to him is a
blonde-haired girl, and another dude with long, reddish hair next to her.

‘Hey. What’s goin’ on?’ I say.

They all jump, and the driver, who can hardly see over the steering wheel, shorter than me, turns his head.

‘Watch it!’ yells the girl.

We’re heading straight for an electricity pole. The driver jerks on the wheel and we straighten with a screech of tyres. He’s got to be doing 90 k at least!

‘We’ve got a passenger,’ says the kid with the red hair.

The driver swears and plants his foot. The old panel van groans as he crashes the gears and we bucket around the corner.

‘Hey,’ I go, hanging over the seat, getting angry. ‘Who said you could drive this car, mate? Who said …?’

‘Shut ya face,’ says the guy with the red hair, twisting round to glare at me.

I decide to shut it.

We squeal around another corner and I roll across to the other side, crashing against the panel work with a bone-jarring thump. The girl’s turned right round, leaning over into the back. Under the street
lights as we zip round a bend I notice her face. Dead pale.

‘Hey,’ I yell. ‘Tell him to stop.’

She blinks, once, twice.

‘Fix him, Zac,’ says the driver.

The kid with the reddish hair leans over, reaching for me. He’s got two nose rings and the meanest dark brown eyes you ever saw on a kid. I twist away.

‘Another word and you’re out,’ he snarls, ‘and we ain’t stoppin’, either. Take ya choice.’

I think about it. Being pushed out of a speeding van wasn’t how I’d planned to die. And I’m no hero. So I sink back onto the rug and try to get my brain cells to work. Maybe if I jump out when they come to a red light? I sit up again and try to figure where we are. The driver screams out of the side street and onto the highway. He’s burning rubber like there’s no tomorrow.

‘Got some grunt in her, eh, Macca,’ goes Zac.

Should have. Steve dropped in a good reconditioned V8.

The engine growls like a hungry lion as the driver nods. I catch his eyes in the rear vision mirror and I shudder. He’s on speed for sure, pupils like pinpoints. No reasoning with him if he’s out of his
brain on speed. The other guy doesn’t seem so hyped, but Zac’s more … mean. The girl sighs as the panel van rockets down the road. Well, everyone reacts differently on goey, I’ve been told. It’d be better if the dude called Zac was driving, but. He’s still with it. As for Macca … he’s going for the chequered flag, thinks he’s in the Grand Prix. I get a look at the speedo—140 and increasing. I feel my guts tighten and I’m scared I’m going to throw up.

‘Handle,’ I tell myself. ‘They’re only kids my age joy-riding, high on drugs. You can outwit them. Stay cool.’

Macca laughs, a high-pitched, out of control kind of whinny, like a freaked-out horse.

‘This is livin’, Cola,’ he goes to the girl.

Cola? Weird name. And one to remember if I ever get outa this alive. One to tell Steve the Supercop. This is crazy. They’ve pinched a cop’s car!

Where are we? Ah. There’s the KFC sign. I know where I am. And there’s a set of traffic lights coming up soon. Yessssss. I can see them. Orange. Going to …
red
. I get ready to bail. I tense as I cautiously crawl back, trying to keep my balance. I reach for the handle and …

Macca pushes the accelerator flat to the boards and
we roar through on the red!

You know how they say when you’re about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes? Well, it’s true. From birth right up to now like a fast forward movie. Only we don’t all die in a mangled heap of metal. We miss two cars by centimetres and bore on down the highway. What are cars doing out this late? Or early? The clock on the dashboard shows 2:00.

I shut my eyes and focus on the home front. Has Mum checked to see if her fourteen-year-old son has come home? No way. They’ll think I’m in my room sulking, listening to “Killing Strokes” on my cassette, headphoned so they don’t get woken by the loud music. Or sound asleep in my bed.

The van bucks and groans as Macca stuffs a gear change. Just as well Steve isn’t here to hear it. He’d turn Cop Blue in the face for sure.

I’ve had an ordinary life so far, I think, as Macca gets back control. I’m too young to die, yet. I haven’t
done
anything. Haven’t had sex with a girl. Haven’t bungee jumped, haven’t been snow skiing, been overseas, haven’t even been to Ayers Rock. Haven’t got the top score on “Robocopter” on the video game at Bruisers.

Haven’t even finished school. Sometimes school’s
one big yawn, but it sure beats bashing around in the inside of this van!

I’ve still got a lot of living to do. I’m s’posed to get a job, dah, dah, di dah dah, get married, have two point three kids and live happily ever after.

‘Hey. Slow down, will ya?’ I scream at them. ‘You’re gonna kill us all.’

But Macca just plants his foot. We’re going 150, a tonne and a half. He must be spinning out of his brain.

‘Scared?’ says Cola, turning her head to look at me. She’s got these dark eyes. She looks kind of frail and delicate, and I wonder what she’s doing with these two hoons.

‘No.’ My voice breaks. It often does that. She’s right onto it.

‘You’re packin’ death,’ she says.

‘Am not.’

‘Are so. Scared outa ya brain.’

‘Dream on,’ I go. ‘
You’re
the one who’s scared.’

She blinks, then turns and stares straight ahead.

‘Cool it, creep,’ goes Zac, swinging round to stare at me.

Then he grins. His teeth are brown and broken. He’s got these weird pointy ears. He looks like a rat.
‘Hey, what’s ya name, creep?’

‘Sam.’

‘Yeah, right. Sam. Now, if ya don’t want ya face rearranged, keep ya mouth shut.’

‘But … where are we goin’?’ I say.

‘Dunno. Where we goin’, Macca?’

Macca shrugs.

‘Wherever this highway takes us, man.’

‘Portland,’ I sigh.

‘Where, man?’

‘Portland. It’s the furthest city in Victoria, population …’

‘Hey. Did I ask for a geography lesson?
Did
I?’

Zac’s hand shoots out and grabs the front of my T-shirt, yanking me forward so hard that my nose hits the back of his seat. I see stars. I see his fist raised and now I know I’m going to die!

‘Cops,’ goes Cola suddenly.

I hear the wailing of the siren. Good. Steve’s mates to the rescue. I straighten up.

‘Pull over,’ I say to Macca. ‘You can’t outrun the cops.’

‘Yeah? Watch me.’

I can’t believe it. This hoon actually thinks he can outdrive the cops? We’re nearly hitting 180 ks. I didn’t
think this shit box Holden could do it, even with the V8. It’s a wonder the wheels haven’t fallen off. The motor’s going to blow up for sure. The engine’s screaming. I can see the blue flashing light coming up fast. The cops are closing in, better car, better driver. This Macca kid’s lost the plot. We’re nearly airborne.

‘She’s got real grunt,’ yells Macca, as we zoom off, leaving the cops for dead. No, not dead. That word’s too near the truth. The wailing gets fainter, the flashing blue light fades into the distance as we roar on through the night.

‘Yay, that’ll teach ya, pigs,’ goes Zac, as the van bounces and Macca fights to hold onto the wheel. ‘You’ve lost ’em, Macca. They’re ratshit. Let’s go.’

The cops have given up? But they
can’t
. They’re supposed to be ace drivers. What’s going on? I sit up just as we rip through another set of red lights.

‘Are you colour blind?’ I yell, panic making my voice go squeaky. ‘Don’t you know red means
stop
? You’ll kill us all. You’re a maniac. And this unit belongs to a cop, and all his mates are going to be after you lot. And tomorrow I have to be at a wedding and …’

The van lurches and I hit the panel with a thump.

And this time I
really
see stars. And planets.

I wake up. Something’s wrong, that is apart from my aching head. We’ve stopped. I’m groping towards the rear door handle. I’m outa here. But my head’s whirling and I sink back onto the rug and gaze out the window.

They’re arguing.

‘This unit sucks too much juice,’ Macca’s saying.

In the half light I can see that he’s real skinny. The goey does that to you if you have too much. His leather jacket hangs off him like a tent and he’s got thin legs in tight black jeans poking out underneath, with high-top runners stuck on like two bookends. His face is pale and pinched-looking, with thick eyebrows, a scar across one cheek, a slightly hooked nose, and a thin mouth. I notice his hands begin to shake. Yeah. Coming down. And he’s starting to feel it.

Zac’s a bigger build, more muscly, with surprisingly brown skin against the red hair, and dark, angry eyes. He’s got a grey army great coat on over blue jeans, and jackboots. I wouldn’t like to get a kick from those. I see tattoos on his hands as he holds them up. He’s got an arrow through a pig’s head, a pro job, and a home-made “ZAC” done with a series of dots.

They keep arguing.

‘Well, ya don’t need this unit, man,’ says Zac.