You Don't Even Know (15 page)

“Not as hard as it is for her.” Vicky turns to face me. “I'd be here every minute if I could, but it's tough. Not the drive, that's easy. The problem is the time it takes to get here and back again. I work two jobs to pay for everything. I had three, but …” Her chin wobbles. “Three made it impossible to visit at all.” She sits straighter in the chair. “Still, once she's awake, we'll take her home. That'll be great. Her friends Tammy and Granger can visit. You'd like them. And Ash too. He's Mackie's brother. He's lost without her. And her father should be able to drag himself out of his house to visit.”

I try to think of something to say. “Can I do anything?”

Vicky smiles. “Talk to her when I'm not here. Make sure she knows we need her.”

“Sure.” A weight presses against my chest.

A weight pressed against my chest as I reached the school gates. After the funeral, Mum arranged for Harvey and me to have the rest of the year off from school.

For Harvey, that had meant hanging around home playing computer games and watching DVDs or rowing with Dad and Ethan.

But for me, it meant finishing essays, reading and preparing for end of year exams, thanks to Dad and De Jong who decided it would be in my “best interest” to keep up with my work. I may as well have been at school. At least staying home meant I didn't have to talk to anyone.

Seeing as Ethan had finished VCE exams the day before everything happened, he did what he liked. If I was him, I'd have stayed home. But not Ethan. He hung out with Stav, partied and came back hammered, if he did come home at all.

And Dad didn't say a thing.

But if Dad caught me watching TV or listening to music, I was lazy. If I said I'd finished my school work, he banished me to do revision, even after exams, or tidy my room, or do any number of bizarre things. And if he was in the family room or kitchen when I entered, Dad left.

It almost became a game for me to see how long he could stand being near me. Almost.

Normally, Christmas meant a massive pool party at our place with all of Dad's friends complete with Santa arriving on the back of a fire truck. But that didn't happen.

Dad even cancelled his work Christmas break up and he had never done that before, not even two years ago when Grandma died the same week as the party.

Summer holidays were different too. Dad kept working, taking Ethan with him, which meant no staying at the beach house or barbecues or late nights or yachting or surfing or skindiving. Just day after long day at home.

Harvey hung out with his friends, Zac and Ange, mainly at their places. Mum drifted along in a drug haze, and I stayed in my room. The only time I left was if Mum, instructed by Dad, insisted. When she did manage to nag me out of there, I'd tell her I was going to see Bart or Smurf or even Tilly. But what I really did was catch the tram into the city and hang out at the Fitzroy Gardens or, if it was hot and I had cash, the museum or cinema. Basically, anywhere I didn't have to talk to anyone and where no one knew me.

When I returned home, Mum never questioned where I'd been or who I'd been with.

Turned out I was a pretty convincing liar. When I quit my job, I told Mum and Dad there wasn't enough work at the rec centre for me. When Mum asked about Tilly, I told her everything was fine and when she asked about water polo, I told her competition had been cancelled. And nobody questioned any of it.

But, two and a half months after Mia's funeral, the school year was about to start, which meant I had to leave my room and face people again. And lucky me, Dad had arranged for me to check-in with the year eleven coordinator before school, who it turned out was Simon De Jong. Like me, he'd gone up a year.

As I passed year seven kids, a moving mass of too big uniforms, I consoled myself that seeing De Jong would be about as bad as my day was going to get. Backpack loaded with new books, I trudged up the driveway, to the office, where all three secretaries were on the phone. The older one, wearing more make-up than Mum when she went out, raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“Need to see Mr De Jong.”

She directed me with a pointed finger to the maroon chairs by the door. I slumped in the seat, backpack at my feet and waited.

When De Jong arrived, he beckoned for me to follow him to his office. From behind his desk he looked me up and down. “Welcome back, Hudson.” His eyes seemed to bore into my heart. “How are you?”

“Yeah, great. Tiptop!”

Chin pulled in, he nodded. “Terrible business with your sister. My condolences.”

I shifted the backpack on my shoulder.

“So, Hudson, if there's anything the school can do.”

“I'm right.”

His lips twitched. “Alex, our welfare office, Mrs Tr–”

“I said, I'm right.” I stared at the polished wooden desktop.

He cleared his throat. “Very well. There is, however, something we need to discuss. Your hair.”

Of all the things I expected him to say that was not one of them. “My what?”

“Your hair.” He opened a drawer in the filing cabinet beside him and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Its length and,” he glanced at me, “style, contravenes school policy.”

“Haircuts haven't kind of been on my radar, sir.”

“I understand that, Alex.” His voice was more human than I'd ever heard it. “However, your appearance is a reflection of how you view yourself and the school. St James has a reputation to uphold.” He handed me the A4 paper. “You are after all a senior student now, and as such, need to lead by example.”

I glanced at the page. The school's hairstyle policy. The short version of which was neat hair, no colouring, no mohawks or shavings. Beneath that was a list of consequences.

Only the second made my stomach flutter.

Failure to abide by the college's regulations will result in:

1. Suspension until hair is attended to
.

2. Parents being informed
.

3. In the case of repeat offences, the principal will decide on further action
.

Dad's thunder-faced warning about “keeping my head down” at school, and how he didn't want a single call from De Jong this year echoed in my head.

“Now, considering your circumstances, I think suspension is unnecessary. However, I will need to speak to your parents and ask that they ensure your hair is attended to before tomorrow.”

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. “Sir, Mum and Dad have enough to deal with.”

“Indeed, but I'm already flouting school rules.”

“Heaven forbid.” I stared so hard at his desk that my vision blurred. “Tell you what, how about I clear off and get my hair cut now. That way you won't have to flout any rules.”

“Alex, there is no need for this,” he scurried around his desk and placed a hand on my forearm. His nails were oval shaped.

I flicked his hand away and stalked from the room.

My phone buzzed as I reached the school gates. I took it from my pocket and scowled.

“Father – Work” flashed beneath a picture of Dad standing next to Goofy at Disneyland.

I leaned against the school fence and pushed answer. “Yeah.”

“Is this Alex Hudson's phone?”

Dad's secretary. “Hey, Julie.”

“Alex, your father asked me to call.”

“Figured.”

“He said … never mind what he said. Are you okay, Alex?”

“Fine, Julie.”

Julie sighed. “Alex, go to the hairdresser and then straight back to school.”

“How mad is he?”

“On a scale of one to get your haircut? Get your haircut. Now. Do you need his credit card details?”

I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the thirty dollars Mum had given me to buy a new school shirt. “Nah, I'll be right.”

“Okay, but, Alex, phone back if you need anything. Promise?”

“Promise, Julie.”

“Good luck, Alex.”

I knew she wasn't talking about the haircut. I pushed off the wall and trudged down the hill to the main road. Traffic droned, rushing to who knows where. I wished I was in a hurry to be somewhere, anywhere, but here.

At the intersection, I looked left, towards Mum's hairdresser, then right to the shopping centre near the train station where a new salon with barber's chairs and hairdressers wearing black jeans, T-shirts and lace-up boots had opened last week. Yesterday, on the way back from buying text books, pens, folders and stuff, Mum stopped at the level crossing to wait for a city-bound train. She glanced at the salon and screwed up her nose. “Hipsters. Will never survive in this neighbourhood.”

I turned right towards the level crossing.

After the haircut, I went home and sprawled across the sofa, watching a DVD. I was still there, eating cornflakes, when I heard the front door open and footsteps on the entrance slate. I turned off the TV.

“… keep up that great attitude, Ethan, and you'll be transferred into the office.”

“You reckon?” Ethan's voice reminded me of a bouncy puppy. “Working the yard is good, but I'd like to get a handle on the business side of things.”

I stared at the sodden flakes in the bowl. Dad and Ethan hardly ever came home in the middle of the day. Keys clattered and glasses clunked on the stone bench. The bottles in the fridge rattled as the door opened.

“Want a toasted sandwich for lunch?” asked Dad. “There's chicken.”

For a split second I thought he meant me.

“Yeah, cool,” said Ethan.

My left leg cramped. I shifted to ease the pain but knocked the bowl which sent the spoon clattering to the floor.

“Did you get that haircut, like I told you?” snapped Dad, the lightness gone from his voice.

I swallowed. What had seemed a good idea a few hours ago now felt like a ridiculous choice. “Like Julie asked?”

“To my standards?”

“To the school's.” Not a complete lie. A bit of product to hold the top and fringe in place and my haircut would fit school policy.

“Well, show me,” said Dad.

I placed the bowl on the coffee table, stood and turned to face him.

“Jesus,” he spluttered.

Ethan froze, drink near his mouth.

Dad's face reddened. “You look like one of those poofs from that boy band.”

Ethan's laugh was like fingernails down a blackboard.

I ran my shaking hand over the short back and sides of my head. The fringe flopped over my left eye. “Pretty happy with it actually. Fits the school policy, no worries.” I folded my arms. Dad stared, his neck now as red as his face. His silence gave me courage. “Kinda cheap too.”

“You
paid
someone to do that?”

“Bobbi at Hair-Art near the level crossing. Cool place.”

Dad snatched his car keys from the bench. “Car now, Alex.”

And like the pathetic, spineless dweeb I am, I walked to his car.

I was out of the back seat, door slammed behind me, before the car came to a complete stop.

Dad bellowed, but the beamer's windows trapped his words.

An iron bar had wrapped around my chest and squeezed tighter and tighter. Inside, I stormed to the stairs.

Mum called from the kitchen as my foot hit the first step, “Alex? Is that you?” Her heels clicked against the foyer's slate floor. “Alex.”

I'd reached the landing. “Leave me alone.”

“You're only making this worse.”

I thundered back down to the foyer. “Worse?” I screeched. “How the hell can it be any worse? Look at me!” I touched the top of my head, recoiling at the feel of the bristles.

Mum's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh.”

“Yeah.
Oh
. Big hero snatched the clippers from the barber's hand and shaved a chunk out of my hair. He told the guy to do the same to the rest.” Tears prickled my eyes. If I cried, Dad won.

“Maybe if we …”

“What, Mum? Buy a wig?”

“It makes your eyes look–”

I raised my hand. “Don't, okay? Bloody well don't.” I sprinted up the stairs.

Paul walks into the room, holding a bundle of papers. The air rushes out of me as a groan. Brochures about death, teenage angst and dealing with feelings, I know it. Like everyone else, he's been sucking up so I'd relax and let him probe my useless brain. Well, he can shove his brochures right up his–

“Hey, Alex. I'm headed home, but wanted to drop these off first. We can talk about them tomorrow.”

“Actually, I changed my mind.”

Paul frowns. “What about?”

“Talking.”

“Right.” Paul sits in the vinyl chair, bundle of papers on his knee. “Any reason?”

“Don't have anything to talk about.” I jerk my head at the brochures and fold my arms. “So you can take that stuff about grief with you. I'm dealing with things my way.”