The Accident (10 page)

There isn’t, but Rose-Marie doesn’t give a damn about whether it rains or not. In fact, she’d probably prefer the drought lasts forever, so she doesn’t have to deal with rain messing up her hair. She’s just doing her bullshit dutiful wife thing. It makes me want to run away as fast as I can, and that’s on a normal day. Today, if I have to deal with her shit much longer, I’m going to lose it.

But, even itching to get out of the house, I don’t rush it. Scamming parents is about timing: hit them with all the information at once, and do it when they’re distracted. I wait till Terry’s pulling the defrosted meat out of the fridge, then: ‘I’m not in for dinner tonight, remember.’

Terry puts the meat tray on the draining board. He raises an eyebrow, the cynic. He’s harder to con than most of them. ‘What are we supposed to remember?’

‘Told you last week. Jem turned eighteen today so we’re taking her out to dinner, just a group of us girls.’

‘It’s a Monday night.’

‘I know, but it’ll mean a heap to her. We won’t be late. We’re just going to Pancakes on the Rocks. Besides, I was home all Saturday night doing that essay, I’ll go nuts if I don’t get some time out. I’ve done all my homework.’ The words roll off my tongue so easily. Too much practice.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t buy it, but he nods. ‘Don’t be late.’

I learned all about guns and cows and sheep from Peter White. He and Marianne had four boys of their own, and if Marianne was hoping that I would be the girl she’d always wanted she must have been sadly disappointed. In two weeks I could drive the sheep just as well as ten-year-old John. I lasted there for a year and a half, till I’d learned all there was to learn and discovered I was bored.

In six months with Sharna Appleby I learned about a) makeup and b) the tricks of the closet drinker. Jesse, my older foster brother, used to raid her secret supplies. Didn’t take long to figure out what sort of places were good for hiding.

Learned how to play chess and how to never lose at noughts and crosses when I was six. With every new house, I learned new skills—how to barter in Spanish, how to make money on the stockmarket, how to drive a tractor and play the violin and pour the perfect beer. And none of them is as consistently useful as the art of telling people only what they want to hear. I was probably four or five when I discovered that people couldn’t get mad at you if they never found out. If people want to call that manipulative, so be it. Far as I’m concerned, it’s simple survival.

before
after
later

School becomes routine. The uniform becomes familiar. I guess I always knew it would, but it makes me sad somehow, too, as if now I’ve really left the old me, the old school and who I was behind.

Morgan is in the darkroom most days, and we chat. I tinker with photos, taking the time to ensure every negative is dust-free, every print perfect, because I’d rather be in there talking about Chagall and Picasso than sitting in the classroom listening to Sarah Bancroft recount the excesses of her social life.

I manage to get through till the last week of term one this way before Shepherd pins me down and demands to see what I have. I spread out my contact sheet and prints for her to see.

‘What is it?’

‘Architectural photography.’

She frowns, plays with the key necklace around her neck. ‘The angles, sharpness of the image, the contrast… Technically, your images are perfect. But what’s it
about
?’

‘It’s about how the manmade environment outlasts generations.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s just not engaging me. What could you add to it? Do you do mixed media?’ She reaches for my diary and starts flipping through the pages. I almost reach out to stop her, knowing what she’ll find. Plenty of scribbles and sketches, vague mindmaps of stuff I could do that wouldn’t involve too much time or emotional investment. All pretty shoddy, compared to what I used to do. I wouldn’t be back at school if I wasn’t prepared to put the effort in, do the mechanics of it, but at the end of the day I just want to get home. Go bush with Iago and try to avoid getting caught in another one-sided Mum argument. No more pouring heart and soul into an artwork or a drama piece. The things that used to seem so important to me just don’t matter anymore.

‘This is all your research? What about your work from last year, at your old school?’

‘That’s all in a separate diary.’

‘I want to see it. Can you bring it next lesson?’

‘I don’t know where it is…’ I hedge.

‘Find it. I want to see what you’re capable of.’

I take Iago down to the bush and I stretch out on my red gum and stare up at the sky. My art diary from last year is in a pile with all the rest of my art diaries, in the bottom of my wardrobe. I know exactly where it is because I haven’t touched it for nearly a year.

My SLR is resting on my stomach, the strap wound around my wrist in case I lose my balance. The gum isn’t much wider than me, and even though I’m here every other day I know it’ll still only take one wrong move for me to end up in the knee-deep creek below. The SLR is a familiar weight, a familiar shape. Squat and square compared to the digitals, but it still takes kick-arse photos.

It’s loaded up with black and white film. The bush is a bit overdone, really, if you look through my negatives collection. I shift precariously onto my stomach, point at the fresh growth wrapping itself around the rotting branches and snap away half-heartedly, knowing Shepherd will get mad if I’ve got nothing. I get a few shots off before Iago starts whining.

‘All right, all right.’ Time to keep moving.

We trudge up the hill. He knows the track as well as I do. He’s surprisingly spry when he gets into the bush, launching himself over fallen branches and through the overgrowth like a puppy. Every few metres he stops and looks back, checking that I’m still coming, that I’m keeping up.

We get to the top and both take our time to catch our breath. The sun is starting to go down and I know Mum’ll be home soon and mad if she finds out where I am. Part of me instinctively guilts up at the thought of it, but it’s in the back of my mind. I feel safe in the bush. I can’t really believe in consequences, or any reality beyond trees and birds and Iago and me.

‘What do you want to do?’ I hear his voice, Robbie’s voice, my doctor’s voice, the school counsellor’s voice. They all ask the same question. What do you want to do?

And my answer has never really changed, although it’s got harder to believe. I want to change the world. I just don’t know how anymore. And I’m afraid that it’s going to demand too much of me.

I get home and walk into the middle of a warzone. Mum’s home early, and she’s mad. She breaks off from whatever she’s shouting at Alan and goes off at me in Italian.

‘
Dove siete stati?
’

‘Mum!’ I cut her off. ‘I’m fine. I had to get some photos for my major project, that’s all.’

I could answer her in Italian, but I won’t. Alan speaks enough phrases to make polite conversation with the rellies, but that’s it. I feel rude having a conversation like that in front of him. It excludes him. And I’m annoyed at her because I know she does it deliberately. She was born here; she speaks English as well as anybody else. And she’s doing it more and more since Robbie…

Mum storms out. She hates it when somebody interrupts her flow instead of just taking it. I love Alan but he needs to learn how to stand up to her.

I follow her into the kitchen.

‘What did Alan do so wrong, anyway? Why do you have to pick on him all the time?’

‘
Non è il vostro problema!
’ She waves a spatula at me.

‘Yeah, it is my problem! And speak English, Mum.’

‘Your stepfather has no respect for my work!’

She always calls him that when she’s annoyed. ‘Your stepfather’. Typical irrational Mum. Alan has always been her biggest supporter and she knows it.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He called my PA and cancelled a week’s worth of my appointments. He has some crazy idea about going off to France. I have four clients scheduled that week.’

Somehow the more worked up she gets the calmer I stay. ‘The holiday was my idea, Mum.’

‘So now you’re talking about me behind my back?’

It’s not even worth arguing with her. ‘Just stop getting so mad at Alan all the time. He’s only trying to help.’

‘Well, he doesn’t know.’

‘Doesn’t know what?’

She stops, as if I’ve asked a question she’s not willing to answer.

And a thought occurs to me, something so horrible yet simple that I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. Is she putting the blame all on Alan simply so she doesn’t have to blame me?

before
after
later

Our extension English teacher is starting to stress because we haven’t covered everything in the syllabus and we’re running out of time. I have ancient history and then legal and by lunch my hand is about to drop off, I’ve done so much writing. Anthony tells me to suck it up. He’s just spent a double period in the hall while his drama teacher and the cast rehearse
King Lear
.

‘They only have two weeks till opening night. Lordley was screaming at them, saying the whole thing was going to be a disaster.’ He pauses, shrugs. ‘He gets like that every year, though. It’ll turn out okay. Morgan was there, she’s actually pretty good.’

When I get home I nearly don’t see Lauren on the couch. It’s not somewhere I would ever think to look for her. She’s the sort of person who thinks you’re wasting time if you’re not multitasking—that if you’re going to be watching TV it’d better be something educational and you’d better be making yourself useful at the same time, like tidying the place up. But she’s just sitting there, knees drawn up and not even a textbook in sight.

She looks up at me, draws her arms folded across her chest as if she’s cold. There’s something, a look, about her, that I don’t know at all. Vulnerable; it gives me goosebumps. If she wants to talk about her feelings, I’m outta here.

‘Where’s Morgan?’

I stare at her, trying to make sense of her. ‘She’s got rehearsals at school till five.’

‘How’s she getting home?’

‘She’ll get a lift with someone.’

She nods, looks around the room as if she can’t handle making eye contact. Tells the coffee table: ‘Dad’s back.’

‘What?’ I’ve misheard her, I’m sure.

‘He’s in Sydney. Got a job at one of the big firms in the city.’

‘How do you know?’

‘One of my lecturers knows him, they used to work together.’ She adds, ‘He’s got a new wife and a kid.’

I take the news the way it was delivered: quietly. Without a word I drop down onto the other couch, surprised. I don’t feel upset, I don’t want to get angry. I don’t feel anything, really.

I used to wonder, from time to time, what sort of new life he would build for himself. After a few years, when the airmailed presents and letters had long ceased arriving, I began to forget that we had ever had a father. I haven’t thought about him in years. I can’t even remember his face. Does that make me a terrible son, or him a terrible father?

‘Does Mum know?’ I ask finally.

‘I doubt it.’