The Accident (13 page)

Lauren never went to schoolies. It’s a tradition she views with scorn, like she does any sort of organised social event. To her, anything less than a stubborn refusal to participate in a social activity is a betrayal of one’s right to independent thought. She took off to Papua New Guinea for two months instead, using money she’d saved up at her after-school job.

‘Don’t you have homework?’

‘This is my homework.’

Realising that line of attack has no legs at all, she looks me up and down. Notices my jeans. ‘Seriously?’

I know straight away what she’s talking about, but I feign ignorance, just because it’s one of the few weapons I have. ‘What?’

‘Are you wearing designer jeans?’

From her voice you’d think I was wearing something made of puppy fur. Yeah, I’m wearing Diesel jeans. Morgan, in one of her generous moods, announced a few months ago that she was taking me clothes shopping, because ‘it’s the only chance you have of ever getting a girlfriend’.

I’m not so stubbornly set on being an outsider that I was going to turn her down. I don’t really care what I wear, but if looking like I belong is going to make my life easier, why not? Even Morgan was pretty happy with the end result.

An exasperated noise from Lauren, a sort of frustrated sigh. ‘Why do you have to do that?’

‘What?’

‘Act like everybody else. Follow the herd.’

‘Be normal, you mean? What’s so wrong with being ordinary?’

‘Ordinary people don’t change the world.’

‘But what if I don’t want to change the world? What if I just want to live a normal life and just be happy and try to make the people around me happy? Why is that so wrong?’

‘Because it’s lazy and selfish.’

‘I wear designer jeans and that makes me lazy or selfish? Why do you waste all your energy on making such a big deal out of stuff that doesn’t even matter?’

Normally a comment I would keep to myself, it slips out before I can think. Lauren stares at me. Surprised, I think, that I’ve argued back. I push away the feeling. Of course I want the world to be a better place. Doesn’t everybody? That’s why people give money to drought-stricken countries and malnourished orphans. But life here goes on, too.

‘Look at the world! People have just sat back and done shit-all for too long. People like you who just sit back and think other people are going to solve all the problems. So we’ve got global warming and terrorists blowing people up and still people don’t really care, unless it happens to
them
, or their families or people they love…It’s just shit.’

It’s a standard Lauren rant. Sometimes I think she doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, she just needs to say something, to vent her frustrations at a world she can’t fix.

She leans against the side of the house, as if the tirade has worn her out. More quietly. ‘Only a quarter of HIV-positive people in Zimbabwe have access to antiretrovirals. That’s three thousand Zimbabweans dying unnecessarily every week. Tuberculosis kills about two million people a year worldwide. Malnutrition kills five million children…that’s thirty thousand a day. What are we going to do about it?’

We
? Since when was this stuff I had to worry about? I have English essays and history assignments and hours’ worth of homework to do. I have exams coming up and schoolies to get out of.

‘It’s not up to us to solve all the world’s problems,’ I say, defending myself. ‘We can’t do everything.’

‘Yeah, well, we should at least be doing something.’

She disappears into the house. I try to get back to Chaucer but it’s too difficult to concentrate, so I head into my bedroom to work on my maths homework. Morgan arrives home about half an hour later; I can hear her banging around in the kitchen. I find her tipping raw pasta into a microwaveable container. When Morgan’s upset, she cooks.

‘What happened?’

‘I’m mad.’

‘About what?’

‘Everything.’ She slams the fridge door shut, explodes. ‘You haven’t even got tickets.’

‘What?’

‘Exactly.’

Tickets…I’ve got so stuck inside my own head it takes me a second to realise what she’s talking about. Her play. They’ve been selling them at school, and I keep thinking I should buy one and not knowing if Lauren would come watch it. If we could get Mum out of the house to come too. Delaying, really, because I think I know what the answer from both of them will be, and I don’t want to have to face it, for Morgan’s sake.

‘I never said I wasn’t coming, I just haven’t got one yet. I was going to see if Lauren and Mum were coming.’

‘I don’t want them there.’ She shoves the pasta container under the tap and twists the water on violently. It hits the pasta and sprays back out in all directions. She swears.

I’m not brave—or stupid—enough to offer to help. Instead, I slide onto a bar stool and pick up the mail someone’s tossed down on the granite countertop. A water bill for Mum, a bank statement for Lauren and—

‘What’s this?’

Torn scraps of paper and envelope. I turn one piece over and there’s handwriting on the back. The tight scrawl immediately makes my stomach drop. Dad’s. I didn’t think I’d even recognise it after all this time.

I turn the pieces over one by one, carefully sliding them into position like jigsaw puzzle pieces, until I have two complete A4 pages in front of me. I can hear Morgan sorting violently through the cutlery drawer but my eyes are stuck to the page, skimming the words. It’s an apology and explanation and entreaty all in one. I wonder if it was Morgan who tore it up, or Lauren. I can picture Lauren tearing up the envelope the moment she recognised the writing, without even glancing over its contents. Leaving it out on display just to prove that she doesn’t give a damn.

‘How come you didn’t tell me?’

When I finally look up, I find Morgan standing there with hands on her hips and angry tears in her eyes. She still grips, absurdly, a spatula in her left hand, resting it against her leg.

Morgan was always the tantrum thrower. I don’t remember ever throwing a tantrum. I can’t even remember the last time I cried, the last time I actually felt anything passionately enough.

‘We only found out last week.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No.’

‘Were you going to tell me?’

I don’t know the answer to that question. I get the feeling no matter what answer I give her she’ll be upset. I slide down off the bar stool and hold out my hands, wanting to make peace, somehow. ‘Morgs…’

Not interested. She pushes past me, not to her bedroom but towards the front door, scooping up her shoes as she goes. She’s still in school uniform, but that doesn’t seem to be holding her back.

It’s nearly eleven when I hear her arrive back home. A car drops her off, some P-plater with a giant muffler, from the sounds of it. A few minutes later I hear her in the bathroom, throwing up.

Maybe it’s not the whole world we need to save. Maybe we should be starting one person at a time.

before
after
later

It was Jonah Morris who taught me how to jam up the public phones. Three o’clock in the morning walking from his place to mine, and we had to stop twice for him to take a piss against a gum tree.

‘C’mere, Ellie.’ Pulled me against him. His mouth was hot and tasted of beer as he kissed me, tongue as clumsy as his legs. I pushed him off.

‘Your fly’s still undone.’

‘Nobody’s looking.’

Nobody around to look. Too late and too early for the truckies heading up the highway, or even Mrs McCormack, who’d take her Alzheimer’s for an early morning walk and not be able to find her way home. Just the two of us, on the road, two k’s from Brian and Shirl’s rundown place on the hill.

Servo up ahead of us. Dark and deserted, with a streetlight in front that lit up the public phone. Jonah grabbed my hand—his was sticky (with what, I didn’t want to know) and tugged.

‘C’mon. Show you something.’

He put the beer bottle down rather than let go my hand. Propped it on the edge of the shelf that held the phonebooks: watched the beer slosh in the bottle, back and forth, only a gulp or two left. Jonah wouldn’t drink it anyway. Always tastes like shit, he said, and started working the keypad. Hit the right numbers enough times and…there you go. Out of service. For the third time this month. I hadn’t known it was Jonah; wasn’t surprised, though. Sort of idiotic thing he’d think was hilarious.

‘I am awesome.’

‘You’re a dickhead.’

Didn’t even flinch, just grinned. God I was sick of that place, of Brian and Shirl, even Jonah. Two months in that stinking hole in the middle of nowhere.

I tugged the hand holding mine, not trying to get away but pulling him. Hating him in a way, but wanting to lose myself whatever it took. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere dark.’ He had a whole other set of tricks to get up to in the dark.

I learned lots of things from Jonah, but nothing that would get me anywhere except in trouble.

‘Hold on…’ I slap the groping hands off me. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can’t what?’

‘Can’t do this. Have to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘Home.’

I can’t even remember this guy’s name. Scott? He drops his hands to my hips and starts to work them upwards under my top as he kisses me. He tastes like beer, like Jonah Morris. After a while, they all taste like Jonah. I pull away from him again, more determined this time, though I know I’m losing the battle. Why is it always so much easier to just let them?

‘I’m serious. I have to go.’

‘Ten minutes.’

Nearly nine. It’ll take at least thirty minutes for me to get home. Depends on whether the buses are running on time. I could stay another five… The thought of having to face Terry and Rose-Marie decides it for me. My first time out of the house in a week, and I won’t hear the end of it if I stuff up. Pull away, half regretful, half indifferent.

‘Sorry. Next time.’

Tash is snoring. Blocked nose. Flat on her back, covers kicked off, breathing noisily through her mouth. She has a dozen pairs of pyjamas she loves to wear but when she overheats they end up all over the room and she sleeps in just her nappy.

Drop a kiss on her forehead. Feels warm and sweaty. A cold starting, or just the warm night? Nearly the end of April and we’re still getting these summery nights. I’m sure Terry has some boring explanation why.

‘Eliat.’ Rose-Marie standing at the top of the stairs in her DJs silk pyjamas. She’s obviously been waiting up for me. Hair and makeup still faultless. She doesn’t even have to think about being perfect. From her impeccably manicured nails to the way she sets the dinner table, it’s just how she is. God, I hate her.

‘Lounge room.’ She gestures downstairs.

Terry is already in there. Ten minutes late and I’m up for night court.

They sit together on the leather lounge, the framed Ken Duncan on the wall behind. Rose-Marie has tidied Tash’s drawing table and put all her toys away in their boxes.