The Problem With Crazy (2 page)

“A reminder that we’ll hold all clapping till the end of each letter,” Miss Lucas, the assistant principal, disciplined the parents as I crossed the stage to their side.
Because nothing disrupts a school assembly like unruly clapping.

“Kate Tomlinson,” Mr McDonald said. I walked up to him and shook his hand, ignoring the stench of stale sweat seeping from his shirt. I took the certificate from Miss Lucas and stood front and centre on the stage, right in front of the photographer to get my formal shot. On the left-hand side of the floor in front of me, three quarters of my year lined up, holding their certificates, too. Sometimes, being almost at the end of the alphabet was a blessing. At least I had a reprieve on smiling from letters A to S.

“Okay, taking your photo in three, two—”

“Yyyyyyes! That’s my daughter!”

The voice came from the very back of the auditorium, accompanied by over-enthusiastic applause. My heart stopped beating for several seconds, stuck somewhere in between my throat and my chest.

What.

The.

Hell.

“Good job, Katie! Good—yob.” I hadn’t heard it for more than a year, but the voice was easily recognisable. It was my father.

My “dad”.

I scanned the room till I spotted him. He was pumping his hands together, standing in the doorway, his mouth slack-jawed, eyes alive with enthusiasm. His voice was slurred and loud, too loud. When he’d left home, he’d been drinking a bit, and Mum and I had hoped his absence would have toned down his boozing.

Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

I quickly glanced down to the floor beneath me, hoping that perhaps, by some weird stroke of fate, the parents and students with surnames A to S had failed to notice the display. It was no use. A hall of attentive eyes was flicking from me, to my dad, to the principal—back, back and forward, like spectators on an episode of
Jerry Springer
.

I was stunned. There was nothing in the student handbook about what to do when your father shows up drunk to your graduation. A few titters from students and parents alike spread throughout the room.

“Uh, I must remind you that you need to, uh, hold your applause to the end.” Mr McDonald pushed his thick, tortoiseshell-framed glasses back up his nose as he attempted to take control of the situation.

It was no use. Instead of stopping his applause, Dad took this as a sign he should focus on making his vocal celebrations heard, instead of using his hands.

“My! My girl!”

My heart stopped its momentary statuesque state and sprang back into life, beating in double-time, as if to make up for any seconds lost. What was going on? Had Dad lost his mind? Even when he’d been drinking a bit before he left us, it was never during the day, and it was never like this.

No parent was supposed to do this, ever. As a teenager, the embarrassing things you were supposed to worry about included freaking out your mum would pick you up from school wearing slippers and a dressing gown. Or—worse—that you’d go to a party and she’d ask to meet the parents.

Not this.

Never anything like this.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaay Katie!”

This time, one of the teachers walked over to him, no doubt asking him to shut the hell up. My face was a mixed bag of emotion, a smile still plastered from eye to eye, but the corners unsteady, weighted by disappointment and embarrassment. Why was this happening to me?

It was at that moment, with my face full of unspent emotion, that I was blinded by the photographer’s flash and instructed to move on as they announced the next student’s name. I shuffled my feet and went to join the crowd of kids already standing in front.

I kept my head down and pushed my way to the back of the group, not wanting to meet anyone’s sympathetic eyes or hear the accusation in my classmates’ voices. Mostly, they looked away, a few snickers doing the rounds.

“Who gets drunk at, like, ten am?”

“It’s eleven, you moron,” I snapped, my voice hushed so as to avoid detection and possible detention. I didn’t know who’d made the snide remark, but I wished she hadn’t. The worst part was their comment was nothing I wasn’t thinking myself.

I chanced a look to the back of the hall. Mum approached Dad, reached out to grab his arm, and then took a step back as he jerked away from her touch. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he couldn’t stay still. My jaw dropped, ever so slightly. How could one person change so much? This wasn’t the father who used to push me on the swing, help me with homework and pick my mum up when he got home from work, spinning her in the air like she was the most precious thing in the world.

This man was a mess.

“Kate, what’s going on with your dad?” Stacey said, pushing her way through the throngs of students to reach my side. Her tanned arms were folded in front of her chest, her lips tight with concern.

The collective whispers around me faded to a hush. No doubt everyone was just as curious as she was to know why my father was acting like a first-class moron.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. I looked down, studying the cracked, wooden floorboards at my feet. It was simple. When I got home, I was going to kill him. If he was there when I got home, that was. Who knew? Maybe he was going back to wherever he’d been for the past year when the ceremony ended.

I could only hope.

“I’ve gotta get back to my place up front, but we’ll talk about this later, yeah?”

I nodded and tried to swallow the huge lump in my throat. It was hard to breathe. I could feel the makings of a panic attack coming on.

“Ahem.” The principal cleared his throat. Unfortunately for me, no one noticed. Everyone, both students and parents alike, watched as my dad was escorted out of the room by two male PE teachers, their hands on opposite shoulders in vice-like grips.

God, if you kill me now, I’ll never drink again
, I silently bargained. Not that I really drank much anyway, but still.
Also, a hole in the floor would be ideal.

Silence once again settled over the hall after Mr McDonald completed a sufficient amount of “ahem”-ing and coughing.

“Sean Toohey,” he said, and the ceremony proceeded as normal. Well, as normally as a ceremony at a normal, everyday high school can proceed after a parent has shown up drunk and yelled at his kid in front of the whole school. You know: the hushed-whispers-occasional-glances-in-my-direction kind of normal. The crazy kind.

“Ladies and gentleman, I give you the class of 2014.” The principal swept his arm in our direction. Around me, I felt bodies stand up straighter, jostle for position.

“You may now clap.”

The hall erupted into an outburst of cheering, those with only one child applauding with extra zeal and enthusiasm. I saw Stacey’s mum perform a few lazy golf claps. Stacey was the youngest of five. It was no wonder she was such an over-achiever.

After the applause died down, the sea of adults converged upon the mass of students to offer congratulations, hugs and, in some cases, presents.

“A Beemer? Dad! You bought me a Beemer?”

“Yeah, I’m proud, too.”

“Can we go now?”

I tried to ignore the rush of voices and focus on getting to the front of the hall and the safety of outside as soon as possible. I felt a few people’s stares as I shouldered my way through the masses, but at least only a few of the adults recognised me as the daughter of the drunken guy. Most of my fellow classmates were still stunned, stuck in the safety of our alphabetical-order fold, unable to move for the onslaught of parental congratulations.

I grabbed my phone from my pocket and held it in front of me, pretending I was doing something, anything; anything that wasn’t being stuck in this moment. I pushed the heavy wooden hall door, and it opened with a screech.

All I had to do now was bolt to the car park, get in my crappy excuse for a vehicle, and drive. Maybe I’d take a day trip to Sydney, focus on my future life rather than my past. Although I did still have to pack for the boys’ tour in four nights, and living on the road for six weeks would require a great deal of preparation.

“Kate! Congratulations.”

Hearing her shrill overtones made me cringe. It was all I could do to not throw my arms toward the sky and shout, “Why me?”

Dave’s mother was lovely, but she was very over-the-top, seeing me as the harlot who’d trapped her son. Two years ago, when I’d started dating Dave, she’d sat me down to have the “sex talk”. I later found out she hadn’t even had that discussion with Dave.

“We are all so worried about poor Deborah—I mean, your mother, dear,” Mrs. “
Call me Cathy
” Belmonte shook her head. She was a bigger lady, who insisted upon wearing bright and colourful prints that Dave absolutely hated.

“It’ll be fine,” I mumbled.

“And so embarrassing for you. Come here.” She pulled me into her cleavage and I struggled to take a breath under the scent of her thick perfume, a cross between potpourri and the samples aisle at a pharmacy.

“I’m fine, really. I should go, anyway, I—”

“We love Deb, don’t we, Dave?” I hadn’t noticed him appear by his mother’s side. “Please tell her that she can come around any time.”

Help!
I mouthed the word over Cathy’s shoulder to my longstanding boyfriend, but he didn’t make a move. His face was blank. I drew my brows; what the hell was his problem? Normally, Dave and I would laugh about his mother’s OTT displays of affection. Alarm bells sounded in my head. Image was very important to him. Was he pissed about what had happened with Dad?

“Well, it’s been nice seeing you, but I really should be going.” I finally managed to push myself out of Cathy’s surprisingly strong, pale arms. I looked up at Dave, who stood there, still as a rock. His face was marble, a white sheet. “Are you going to head off now, too?”

“I don’t think so.” My heart fell through my body till it wallowed somewhere in my freshly polished black school shoes.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night at my house, then.” I smiled sweetly and stretched up to kiss his cheek. His body stiffened against me. “Stop being a jerk,” I hissed in his ear. Like this thing with Dad was my fault.

“Bye, dear.” Cathy leaned in for another hug, oblivious to her son’s sudden lack of manners.

“Bye, Cathy.” I accepted the embrace with a tiny grimace.

“You can come over any time for dinner,” she called. I power-walked toward the parking lot. “And don’t forget, I’m trusting you to take care of my boy this summer.”

I raced through the quadrangle of stale brick buildings to the leafy green trees and loose gravel that framed the parking lot. I jammed a key in the lock of my tiny, yellow Corolla from the 90s, slamming the door behind me once I was safely seated on the cracked brown leather seat. I just wanted to get out of there and drive, drive for a long time and forget this morning ever happened.

I started the car and felt a sense of purpose roll through me as life took to the engine. Soon Dave would snap out of it, and he’d start getting excited about the tour again—get excited about us. I’d get to leave this town and see the country. Maybe I’d even get to organise another tour, really kick off my event management career.

I’d never have to talk to Dad again, if I didn’t want to.

I pulled out of the parking lot and drove aimlessly, a trip around the cliff tops that framed the beachside town where we lived. I let the salt air blow through my hair, sending it streaking behind me like a kite. The music was up loud, almost to the point of distortion: a driving rock beat with big guitar riffs from Dave & the Glories’ first EP.

I got home late and went straight to bed, not checking in with Mum beforehand. I was done with family today. The tour could not come soon enough.

N
ORMALLY, MY
life was incredibly average. The next morning I woke at an average time and ate an average breakfast, while Mum fussed around the kitchen asking all the average mum questions like, “You’re definitely not going to college this year?” and “This tour with the rock band … there won’t be drugs or anything, will there?” and even, “While you’re away, make sure you include a good mix of fruit and vegetables in your diet.”

A lot of
yes Mum, no Mum
.