The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley (2 page)

Here's something I'm bad at: feeling compassion for Harold Barton.

Not to worry, I still have my whole life to master this compassion game. There's no shortage of little-dog-bad-mouthers and prissy-poodle-know-alls (Marnie) so I'll have to practise transforming my thumping urge over and over again. And, just for the record, I'm not calling Marnie anything, since I don't want to become a bad-mouther myself, but really, is there anything more annoying than a know-all?

As for me, I'm a know-nothing.

Except for one or two things I do know. If you want to be good at guitar, you have to fall in love a lot and sing songs in your bedroom. Another thing I know is that it's hard to work out who you are, and it doesn't matter if you make a mistake. Also I know how to do a cartwheel.

You know what I just thought? (This isn't something I know, this is just a little stumbling philosophy according to Cedar B. Hartley, which happens every now and then, but don't worry, I'm not planning on becoming a philosopher because a philosopher can't be an acrobat, and a philosopher has to become serious and ponderous and wonder about things that other people can't be bothered wondering about, and who would want to hang out with you if you were that serious? Anyway, this is my first guess in the realm of philosophy.)

It's all about love.

Everything somehow depends on love, or is sad without it, or wants more than anything to find it.

Some people do strange things because of love. They become brave, or they go on diets, or they give away their favourite CD.

And love comes in different colours. Some of those colours just strike you with their brightness, while others are soft, or unremarkable, like the muddy, worn colour of your sneakers. But still you need that colour. You need its familiarity. You depend on it without even knowing, until one day something terrible happens, and then you see just how much you do need those familiar colours around you.

Which brings me back to Kite.

Chapter 2

The terrible, terrible thing happened because of me, in an indirect way, which makes sense because most things I do are in a round-about, indirect kind of curly way. That's because I'm a wanderer and I can't bear to stay on the main road.

Here's how it went.

First of all, I was a skinny twelve-year-old redhead with a dog called Stinky and a lot of things to find out. Then I met Kite. That's how I became Cedar B. Hartley, not-yet-famous acrobat in a small circus called The Acrobrats.

It was Kite who showed me how to become an acrobat. But it was me who showed Kite that we could make a circus. Life's great like that. It's like a big game where you have to join forces because, let's face it, you can't be good at everything. And there's a load of things I, for one, am very bad at. Here' s a list:

Feeling compassion for Harold Barton.

Anything that requires patience, like sewing.

Keeping my big mouth shut.

Maths, science, map reading, sticking to timetables, remembering homework and swimming butterfly, though my backstroke isn't bad.

Horse riding, because I never had a horse, though if someone has a spare one they don't want anymore I'll look after it with great tenderness. Also, if you have a dog that needs looking after I can do that too, but don't tell Mum I said so.

Chess, cards, Monopoly and most other sitting-down games, apart from Snap, which I love because it gets me excited.

Not losing things. For instance, every summer I lose my sunnies about fifty times.

Keeping my bedroom tidy. You should see Caramella's bedroom. It's lovely. But how does anyone manage to put their clothes away once they take them off? I always think I'll do it later, and then I forget.

I won't go on because if you go on and on about what you're bad at you can start to believe it matters, and if anything is going to matter it's not what you're bad at but what you're good at.

Kite is good at tree climbing and all sorts of acrobatics. Also, he's good at being calm.

Oscar is good at being berserk and original.

Caramella is good at art and at being a best friend.

Barnaby is good at making up songs and being charming and therefore at getting away with stuff other people wouldn't get away with.

Ricci is good at knowing old-fashioned knowings and at cooking stews.

Mum is good at caring for others and putting up with me.

I'm good at thinking up ideas.

And jumping.

So it was my idea that Kite should teach me acrobatics, and it was my idea to do a circus show with all the others. Then, because the circus went so well, I had the big idea that we could perform it at the community centre, and because a lot of people saw it there, including a certain somebody, the terrible, terrible thing happened.

It happened about six months and two days ago.

Caramella and I were on our way to training. We trained at Kite's house, out the back in his garage, where there are mats and a trapeze. We had my dog Stinky with us, since he always comes whenever I walk anywhere.

The house on the corner of our street belongs to the Abutula family, who come from Afghanistan. That's in the Middle East, which is a very angry place right now and a lot of people have to leave it and come and live here instead, because there are all these arguments going on about who owns the land. And since it's the adults who are arguing, there's no mum or dad who can say, ‘That's enough, go to your room, share your belongings, or say sorry and give it back to the rightful owner.'

The Abutula family came out here a long time ago. Hailey and Jean Pierre were born here and they're younger than us so they're not in the circus, but maybe they will be when they get a bit bigger. Their dad drives a taxi, but Mum says he's really a doctor and it's a shame he can't practise as a doctor here because we need more doctors, especially in the country, in places like the dreaded Albury. Jean Pierre is just a regular little boy who likes showing off and yelling out, and Hailey has a rabbit called Madge, so they're pretty nice kids. But, lately, Caramella and I had been noticing some strange goings on in the Abutula house. Lots of cars pulling up and lots of people we didn't know going inside and coming out again. And we hadn't seen Hailey or Jean Pierre out on the street. So we were doing just a wee bit of sticky-beaking on our way past. I was peeking through the fence. Caramella was keeping watch.

‘Can you see anything?' she said.

‘Nope, just some toys in the garden, a swing hanging from the lemon tree and JP's bike.'

‘Hmm, weird,' said Caramella, who was second chief sleuth. Weird because it wasn't weird at all and we were wanting and expecting to find something really weird, like circular burn tracks from a space ship or a toothless person hiding in the lemon tree.

‘Wait a minute,' I said. ‘Can you hear something?'

We both pressed our ears to a gap in the fence.

‘It's music,' said Caramella. ‘Strange music.'

‘Very strange,' said I, and we both nodded. We were relieved to have discovered more evidence, and as we walked on we pondered this extra clue.

‘I think there might have been people dancing inside the house,' said Caramella.

I shook my head. ‘No one dances in the afternoon. People only dance in the morning if they are especially happy, or in the night if they're in love, or if they're wanting to be in love.'

‘Who said?'

‘I did.'

‘When did you become an expert on when people dance? Was that when you fell in love?' Caramella giggled, because she's a great tease and she particularly liked to tease me about this very particular issue, ever since the infamous kiss. ‘I didn't see
you
dancing.'

‘That's because I'm not in love, dummy.'

However, we both knew I was
something
. But you absolutely can't admit it, whatever
it
is. If you admit something it becomes real, and once something is real it can be ruined. Whereas it's much safer if it only exists in your head; it's protected by your skull; it's not out in the open, like a sitting duck, as they say.

The kiss, however, happened right out in the open, and although I didn't see it, since I was too busy being kissed and I had my eyes closed, I knew it was a real thing. A real live kiss. I felt it and it happened to me all at once, and I figure it happened to Kite as well, since it seemed to just happen – bang! – like the immaculate conception (which actually probably didn't happen with a bang, it probably happened very, very quietly, like a lullaby, but anyway you get the idea). Neither of us
made
it happen. It was as if something else was directing the show. In fact if we'd thought about it I don't think we would have done it then and there, just after we finished our circus performance, in front of a whole crowd of people, including der-brains like Harold Barton who just had to go and yell out, ‘Lovers!' That made Kite blush and then I blushed and then we were so embarrassed that we haven't ever spoken about it, let alone tried it out again. That kiss was one hell of a sitting duck all right, but still I wouldn't take it back. Nope. No way. Not for anything. Not even for a holiday in Hawaii.

Of course Caramella knows everything, every little detail, every little thought that went through my head while my hand was being held and my mouth was being kissed, but still I can't say straight up, ‘I'm in love,' because I'm not sure I know what that is. A crush is different. I know about crushes because they happen all the time; they're so easy to get, you can get one without even really knowing the person you've got one on.

When I was a kid I had a crush on Puff the Magic Dragon, and I reckon Barnaby has a crush on Nick Cave from the Bad Seeds, but I know for sure he wouldn't want to kiss him. Mum has a crush on Hugh Grant, and she'd admit it out loud to anyone. I call these ‘public crushes'. They're kind of sturdy but perishable, whereas a private crush is much more interesting and vivid and tender. For instance, there may be a boy on your tram who you only see every now and then, but every time you do your heart starts to make you feel funny. You might have to tell your best friend about this kind of a crush. It's as if you've found a very fragile butterfly and you have let it live in your heart.

I have the most unusual crush of all, of course, because I'm leading an unusual life and so mostly I do things a little bit differently. My crush is on someone who has never ever breathed or wept or bled or farted. His name is Holden Caulfield and he doesn't exist, except as a character in a book that was written years ago, way before I was even born. It's Barnaby's favourite book, so I had to read it too, even though Barnaby thinks I don't really appreciate it 'cause I'm not old enough. I think I do appreciate it, because if ever I could meet Holden Caulfield I'd fall in love in one blow, as long as he didn't sneer or smell bad. (I'd probably forgive him if he smelt bad, but not if he sneered.)

So, it's about the most natural thing in the world to get a crush. A crush happens upon you the way a pimple does, just like that – pop! – without you even thinking about it. Only they're much more fun to focus on. Sometimes I suspect pimples could even be a result of all that heat a crush can make, cooking up things inside your head and making little red lumps out of it, on your skin.