The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley (15 page)

Mohammed sometimes appears for a moment, stands in the doorway, but leaves as soon as anyone notices him. I've never even seen him smile.

After the class, I stay behind. I'm kind of exhausted but also determined. I have to make up a good act for the audition. And I have to practise my handstands, my round-offs. I have this idea that what I want to be able to do is a handstand on a skateboard, like this:

The problem is, the only person I can think of with a skateboard is Harold Barton, and as if he's going to lend it to me. As if.

I get on my bike and head home. I take the back streets, ride on the road and keep thinking. See, I haven't told anyone, not one single person, not even Caramella, about my plans and, let me tell you, it's killing me to keep such a big secret. It's unnatural for a girl like me. I'm getting pressure-cooked inside and I can't open the lid one little bit, even though I'm about to steam up and burst. I can't tell Caramella or Oscar because they'd think I was deserting. I can't tell Aunt Squeezy because then she'd be torn between Mum and me, and I obviously can't tell Barnaby because he's not on my side. Besides, Mum would kill him if he took me up to Albury without telling her, so I have no choice but to stow away.

Anyway, I quite like the idea of stowing away. It adds a certain thrilling edge to the whole plan. Unfortunately, just as I am basking in the glory of me as a stowaway, I notice that I'm swerving, as I only have one hand to steer since the other is caught in my jumper, which I am trying to take off without stopping, and now I'm heading straight for a pole.

I have a suggestion to make to you.

Never try to take off a jumper while riding a bike and dreaming up glorious situations all at the same time. Because it's absolutely humiliating when you crash into a No Standing pole with a jumper over your face and one elbow thrust in the air.

Not only that, it hurts.

Not only that, other people could see it happen, especially if it happens right opposite the tram stop on Nicholson Street.

‘Hey, Klutz, I thought you were s'posed to be coordinated.'

It's Harold Barton. He's sauntered over from the tram stop and he's laughing, though it actually seems he's trying not to. I don't give him a second look. Instead, I'm picking myself up and inspecting the damage. Blood and bruise on the ankle, handlebars kind of twisted.

‘Yeah, well I
am
coordinated. I can't help it if the pole isn't. Didn't you see it swerve towards me?'

Harold actually bends down and picks up my backpack. He ignores my excellent comeback and focuses on the bike. ‘Boy, those handlebars are rooted.'

‘Yeah.' I know nothing about handlebars but I forlornly agree, only because I want to get Harold in an agreeable mood. (I believe in signs, and this can be the only good reason to have crashed so inelegantly.) It seems I am meant to ask him. First I wind up my jeans so as to reveal my bloodied ankle injury, then I limp forward in a pitiable manner.

‘Hey, Harold, maybe I could borrow your skateboard?'

‘Why? So you can steer it into a pole?' His voice has gone sneery again. Already I'm beginning to regret asking. There's nothing he'd like more than to be able to withhold something from me.

‘No. I've got a job in Fitzroy. Every Wednesday. Now my bike is stuffed, I thought I could use a skateboard for transport. But, hey, there's plenty of other people I can ask.' I turn around and decide to limp away, dragging whatever shred of dignity I have left with me.

I've gone at least five fragile steps before he yells out to me, ‘Hey, Klutzo, if you tell me the truth, it's yours.'

I stop. Could I even contemplate really telling Harold Barton the truth? Of all people, he's the least trustworthy, the least deserving, least sympathetic, yet the most likely to be able to lend me a skateboard. Before I know it, I've spun around.

‘Harold, can you keep a secret?'

He raises his eyebrows and gives an ever so slight nod.

That's all I need. After all, I just crashed, and maybe my lid fell off in the moment of impact. In fact, maybe I just need to tell someone, anyone. While I'm telling him his expression doesn't change, not even when I mention the stowaway bit. There's no sign he's impressed, nor even interested, though he doesn't seem uninterested, either. Of course, I leave out the most important truth, which is the fact that I'm in love with Kite and if I don't get up there I might lose him to Lola, the hot, hip-whirling hoop girl. Let's face it, Harold Barton wouldn't understand romantic plot points.

After I've finished, Harold frowns and starts to ask me questions about the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, which I answer impatiently since I don't actually know much; and also I want to get on with the deal, which was that if I told him the truth he'd let me use his skateboard for my act.

‘Well, I'll think about it,' he says, pulling the peak of his cap down over his face.

‘You'll think about it?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But you said if I told you the truth you'd hand it over.'

‘Yeah, well I'm considering whether the truth is worth it, aren't I?'

I look at him contemptuously, and if he can't see me because his cap is pulled down so low he can surely feel the heat. I don't even answer. I'm too mad. I just turn my back on him with a loud sigh and start pushing my rooted old bike home, and slowly I begin to worry. Why oh why did I trust a big faker creep like Harold Barton? What if Harold Barton blows my plan? He only has to mention it to Mum and all will be ruined. The more I think about it, the bigger the worry becomes. And by the time I get home I'm an anxious, limping wreck.

Chapter 26

That evening, Aunt Squeezy comes home with an ultrasound picture of her baby. I'm sorry to say, but it looks like a large beetle. Mum sticks the photo on the fridge, but Aunt Squeezy seems sad. I tell her not to worry, probably even I looked like a beetle when I was a growing thing inside my mother and now look, I'm almost normal – well nothing like a beetle, anyway.

Aunt Squeezy says that isn't what's making her sad, she's just sad that she's alone. I tell her she isn't alone because we're her family and I'll help her change nappies and so will Mum. Barnaby probably won't, but he'll do other stuff like put the baby on his shoulders just the way Dad is doing to me in the photo I have of him.

I know that Aunt Squeezy might prefer a real dad to carry her baby on his shoulders, so I say, ‘You know what? I never really had a dad and look at me, I'm okay. A little unusual and a bit demanding and occasionally unruly, but still, if you get a good mum you can survive. Look at Inisiya, she doesn't have a dad either and she's not even unruly. Also, there's other possible dads you can find, like Ruben.'

Aunt Squeezy grins and glances briefly at Mum, who blushes and sinks into a chair, probably because I just said she was a good mum. But I can tell Aunt Squeezy has given up her sadness because she seems interested in my dadless theories.

‘So, you like Ruben?' she says. Before I have a chance to answer, Barnaby himself walks in. He's holding a skateboard, which he puts on the floor, points in my direction and pushes towards me with his foot.

‘Courtesy of Harold Barton,' he says, eyebrows raised. ‘I thought you guys were enemies.' He gives Mum a look and she in turn gives me one.

‘We are.' (I feel the panic rising again.)

‘Well, he was just leaving this on the doorstep when I arrived, and he asked me to give you this as well.' Barnaby reaches into his back pocket and with another suggestive grin he flicks an envelope across the table. It's sealed and it has my name written on it.

Just to prove there's nothing schmaltzy going on between Harold Barton and me, I grab the letter and rip it open in front of everybody. Inside there's another sealed envelope addressed to the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, plus a note that says, ‘Good luck with your trip to Albury. Please pass this letter on from me to the head of the Flying Fruit Fly Circus. Thanks, Harold.'

Boy, am I in a pickle. I can't read that aloud. I feel the blood creeping up towards my face and I desperately dive into my mind to find a way out. It delivers me with a brilliant half-truth.

‘Oh, it's just, he wants me to forward a letter to Kite. That's all. The skateboard's a bribe, I guess.'

‘A bribe,' says Mum. ‘You don't even use skateboards.'

Luckily, Barnaby steps in before I have to deal with that one.

‘Hey, why don't you give it to me, then? I can deliver it next week when I pass through Albury.'

I'm not sure if he believes me. I can't tell if he's testing me, laying a trap, or if he's just trying to be helpful. (Unusual.)

‘Nuh,' I say, standing up. ‘It's okay. I'll send it, 'cause I've got to send one of my own anyway.' I look away from Barnaby because he knows me well enough to see through any faking, and then, just because I'm feeling a bit hot under the collar, I pick up the board, tuck it under my arm and slink out saying, ‘Anyway, I'm going to see if it's any good.'

‘Don't be long, dinner will be ready soon,' calls Mum, as I bang the door behind me.

It's unusually quiet in the street. Our street is a dead end, a small dead end, so there's no through traffic, which makes it seem like it's just ours, as if all of us who live here own the street. Which is why people like Ricci and me and Caramella and the Abutulas treat the street like it's our front garden – for hanging out in. But this afternoon I'm the only one here. I sit on the board.

For one thing, I'm burning, burning, burning to open Harold Barton's letter to the Flying Fruit Flies. Even though he's given me the skateboard, it all seems a bit suspicious, a bit Secret Operation. It isn't ticking or anything obvious, but I stare at the envelope. Why did he just leave it at the door? I still don't trust him. I still figure he must be up to something. But does that entitle me to open a letter that's not addressed to me? I have a feeling it doesn't. This is an annoying feeling to have. It's getting in my way, creating a little battle in my head between what I want to do and what I know I shouldn't do. I stuff the letter in my back pocket and try a handstand on the skateboard, which is much harder than I thought it would be. Luckily, the challenge it presents takes over and for the next half hour I doggedly try and try to hit a balance, and I forget about the letter (at least until a week later when I am packing my bag for my stowaway trip to Albury).

After about fifty tries, I heave a big huff and march over to Caramella's. She's on the couch, cross-legged, doing a drawing.

‘Hey, Caramella, can you help me? I need some spotting. I'm trying to do a handstand on a skateboard but I can't seem to hit it.'

‘Why are you trying that?' she says.

‘What are you drawing?' I go over and have a peek. It's a pencil drawing of a sad, young face. I don't know how she makes it look sad and young, because the mouth isn't turned down. The sadness is in the eyes. Caramella screws up her face at the drawing, and holds it away from her.