Cracked Page 12

  ‘Thanks.’

  I try to settle my breathing. Being near Robbo is like having stood up too quickly.

  ‘You’re famous then, eh Jones?’ Rob teases as he hands me a bottle. He puts on a stupid voice-over voice. ‘The Fernwood greenie vandal strikes again.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be a vandal.’

  ‘What did you mean to be?’

  ‘An activist.’

  ‘What, like Che Guevara with a spray can?’

  ‘You know about Che Guevara?’

  ‘Just because I play football doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain. I’ve seen The Motorcycle Diaries.’ He grins at me with those perfect teeth. ‘Besides, everybody knows the T-shirts.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Though I gotta admit, it wasn’t what I was expecting when Mum got out the DVD.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘Something more like The Dukes of Hazzard.’ He laughs.

  I laugh too and the sherbet Cruiser zings on my tongue and frees it from its awkward tangling. I tell Rob about Banksy and how my aunt gave me the DVD of his movie, Exit Through the Gift Shop. ‘The film is weird, and wonderful, and I think I’m in love with his hands,’ I say.

  ‘You’re the weird one.’ He hands me another Cruiser. ‘But everyone reckons you’re a champion, Jones.’ Rob sculls his beer and reaches for another.

  This second Cruiser is so yummy I’ve nearly finished it already. Rob leans back and crosses his ankles. He has a broad chest and square shoulders.

  Nothing like Keek’s wiry body.

  ‘So what was gonna happen to the chopper dude in the suit?’ he asks.

  ‘In my pieces?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You saw them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  It is as if he’s kissed me, smack on the lips.

  ‘The echidna was going to put him and his road six feet under and plant a tree on him,’ I say. ‘The bulldozing of the orchids was going to send the echidna over the edge, and then later the orchids would bloom from under the tree.’

  ‘Ha! But what if he came back as a zombie?’

  ‘Look around. I think he already did.’

  Rosemary appears at the back door. ‘Are you two coming in or what?’

  ‘Or what,’ says Rob, then he grabs my hand, pulls me up and half-carries me off into the dark. When he puts my feet to the ground, I run with him. We get to the next street down from Rosemary’s house and fall laughing to the footpath on the corner. After the laughter, there’s a stillness. ‘You left your beer behind,’ I say to break it, though I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He pulls a crumpled rollie from his top pocket. ‘I’ve got this.’

  I know what it is. At least, I think I know what it is. Rob puts it to his lips and lights up, the twisted end bursts into brief flame before the tip glows. The feeling of being a rabbit in the headlights is back, but I don’t say a word and when Rob hands me the joint, I take a drag as though it were something I do every day. I manage the drawback twice before I choke.

  After I’ve coughed my lungs up, it seems natural to go from sitting up smoking to laying down on the concrete smoking, comfortable in the arms of Rob Marcello. A couple of cars drive by and that makes us laugh. The sky is cloudy, but then a few stars come out and that makes us laugh, too.

  We lie there for ages. Just lying there, periodically chortling at anything that occurs – a bat flies overhead; the wind blows; there are more cars. It’s peaceful.

  I could stay forever, but Rob says, ‘We’d better get going.’

  We walk back, Rob with his arm across my shoulders and me with my arm around his waist, but when we get to the front door, he disengages. ‘You should come to the oval sometime,’ he says.

  The door opens, there’s a footy-roar of ‘Robbo’ and he’s dragged in by the tide. Rosemary pulls me into the kitchen.

  ‘Did you hook up with Robbo?’ she demands.

  ‘Not really.’

  She screams and hands me a Cruiser. ‘That would be hilarious.’

  ‘What would?’

  ‘You and Robbo.’

  I guess it would be, so I laugh.

  Rob has disappeared. I can’t find him anywhere. But the kitchen has filled up with kids shouting and laughing. It’s fun. The whole upper school seems to have been invited, even the superbrain. I feel special because the party is for me, even though half of the people here don’t even know I’ve been into graffiti, let alone got caught. It’s strange, but good, to be at the heart of things.

  I’m stopped in my tracks when Thyme practically shoves her drink in my face and says, ‘It’s wrong to vandalise stuff.’

  ‘It isn’t vandalism.’

  ‘Oh bullshit it isn’t. You’re full of shit, Clover. You’d do anything to get attention.’

  For a hideous moment, I think I’m going to cry.

  ‘Harsh,’ says Rosemary and punches Thyme in the arm, hard. A couple of boys laugh.

  Thyme says, ‘I’m changing the music,’ and we peel off in opposite directions, her to the computer and me outside, grabbing another Cruiser from the fridge on the way.

  I find Parsley sitting on the porch.

  ‘Hi, Natalie. Mind if I sit here?’

  ‘It’s a free country. Got any smokes?’

  I hand her the packet and she shakes one out.

  Parsley blows her smoke out in a novice’s puff. ‘Your friend was here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That McKenzie kid. He turned up a while ago.’

  I jump up. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  I sit. Jumping up made my head spin. ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘You were off up the road with Robbo.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him that, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Though actually, it’s no one’s business who I spend my time with.

  Parsley puffs. ‘But Ellen did.’

  ‘Bloody Thyme, she hates me.’

  ‘Thyme? Ha! Rosemary and Thyme – that’s funny. Don’t take it personally. She hates everyone.’

  We sit there for a while. I toss up whether to ask Rosemary if I can call Keek’s house. But it’s too late.

  ‘Don’t cry, Natalie.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  She sniffs and sits up, but her not-crying is worse.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Is it Jason?’

  ‘He’s so different away from the rest of them.’

  ‘So’s Rob.’

  ‘Robbo. Jason. They’re weak as piss.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll find out, if you hang around with Robbo long enough.’

  ‘Where are they, anyway?’

  ‘They’ve gone off in Josh’s ute with Katie and some of those other girls. There’s about ten of them, all piled in the back.’

  Josh Eldrich is Jason’s older brother and their footy coach. He’s twenty-one, but hardly seems any different from the Under 18s he coaches.

  ‘Rob too?’

  ‘Robbo too.’ Parsley picks up my Cruiser, polishes it off, throws the empty in a bush and heads inside.

  Sitting alone in the dark, the sounds from the house feel sinister. Someone’s cranked up the music and I hear thumping from the lounge room with shouts and giggles and I’m suddenly convinced everyone in there is laughing at me, stupid enough to be sucked in by Rob Marcello.

  I sidle up to the kitchen door and peer in. It’s empty except for Trung and – oh God, Al – macking-on in the corner. I’d noticed she was finally wearing a bra – I guess she’s more grown up than I thought. A bubble of loneliness swells in my throat, making it ache. I don’t know what’s wrong with me: it’s not like I want to be friends with Alison Larder. There are no Cruisers left in the fridge so I grab two beers, stuff them in my bag and sneak off.

>   It’s eerie, walking in the dark. Everything has tipped to the left and my knees are marshmallow. It takes me over half a scary hour to get to Keek’s place and by then, my head has detached.

  The thought of creeping through Keek’s freaky back garden by moonlight is more than I can cope with. As it is, I manage to get lost in the smaller front garden, attacked by a random tree that wants to imprison me. I thrash about in a panic. When it lets me go, I fall in a fuchsia bush and sit drinking beer until I’m pretty sure I know which window is Keek’s bedroom, and clamber out to knock on the glass with a stick. His face appears, pale and scared. I scream, then laugh.

  Keek hurries out wearing a hoodie pulled on over his pyjamas and crocs with socks. I point to his feet and snigger.

  ‘Shh!’ he hisses at me. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Do you want a smoke?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says with a sigh. ‘But shut up will you? My parents will freak. Come down the back.’

  ‘Want some beer?’ I say. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Down the back means following him through the gate and along the path between the cages. I hold on to him with one hand and finish my beer with the other.

  The cages open out into a play area near the back fence where a big cactus looms out at me like a teenage mutant ninja aloe vera. ‘Whoa there, Leonardo,’ I say, laughing.

  Next to it, Keek’s old cubby is a cube of peeling blue weatherboards with a gabled roof, red-painted doorway and a funny round window with a blue curtain. A Shrek torch hangs from the ceiling. I think of Alison and our cubbies made of tree branches and sheets. Mum used to bring a basket out to us, laden with home-baked goodies, fruit, dog crunchies, and candles in jars for the dark and we’d winch it up the Golden Ash. We loved that tree. I lived inside the pictures I drew up there. So did my dad.

  ‘Are you all right, Clove?’

  ‘Yes. No. I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Are you really going to be sick?’

  ‘No.’

  But I collapse at the foot of Leonardo and chuck my guts up.

  Keek brings me water. Then a camping mattress, pillow and blanket. He makes me a nest in the cubby and once I’m settled, hangs a towel for the door.

  ‘Thanks.’ The word lurches out of me on a wave of nausea. I pull down the towel when I lunge outside and Keek uses it to wipe my face and mouth. I lay out there for ages, breathing and heaving, certain I’m going to vomit up my stomach lining and die.

  Eventually I let him tuck me into the nest with an empty ice-cream container for a bucket. He wraps a blanket around his own shoulders and sits with me.

  ‘I’ll have to go in soon,’ he says.

  But we are both shocked awake by his father in the morning. His mother stands behind him in her dressing-gown, her crumpled face under hair ghostly with fear. Mr McKenzie bundles me into his car to take me home. He won’t let Keek come.

  ‘Get in to your mother,’ he yells.

  It seems a long, silent car ride and when we arrive, Lucille barks. Mum opens the door and, bleary, hurries down the stairs, almost tripping over Lucille. ‘Oh shit, God, is everything all right?’

  Mr McKenzie crosses his arms. ‘No, it’s not all right, Penny. I’m sorry, but Phil won’t be allowed to come around to your place until your daughter cleans up her act.’

  Mum steps back like she’s been slapped.

  ‘Clover turned up at our place in the middle of the night, drunk, if the smell of her is any indication, not to mention the vomit in my garden. And the two of them spent the night in Phil’s old cubby.’

  ‘Is this true, Clove?’

  I nod. ‘Can I go in? I’m sick.’

  Mum opens the flywire and almost pushes me inside. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  I crawl onto the couch. They’re arguing. Lucille ramps up her short, incessant, old-lady barks.

  Mum yells, ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

  Mr McKenzie’s voice cracks with anger. ‘You don’t know what Maria’s like.’ Mum retaliates with, ‘But none of that is the kids’ fault—’ He says, ‘Get some bloody control of your daughter—’

  And then they’re shouting over the top of each other until Mum, shoving Lucille ahead of her, storms inside and slams the door so hard a painting falls off the wall. One of hers, called ‘Crucifixion of the Feminine’. The dog shares a few joyous parting remarks and trots to me, wagging her tail.

  I would probably feel less guilty if Mum stayed angry, but instead she’s terribly, terribly disappointed. It envelops her like a depression-scented mist. She puts a pillow under my head, throws a doona over me, feels my head for temperature and puts a glass of water on a table by the couch. ‘Drink that. In sips.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  She rubs calendula cream into my visible cuts and scratches. ‘What happened at Rosemary’s?’

  ‘She had a party.’

  ‘Did you know she was going to when you went there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did something happen at the party? Why did you go to Keek’s?’

  ‘I got . . . I dunno. No, nothing. I was sick.’

  ‘You should’ve come home.’ She rubs the last of the cream into her own hands.

  ‘I wish I had’ve.’

  Mum half-heartedly pats me on the shoulder. ‘Well, if there has to be a next time, at least you know you can come home. Drink. You’re dehydrated. Do you need a bucket?’

  She doesn’t go back to bed, but is still slouching around in her pyjamas and dressing-gown at three in the afternoon when Keek turns up.

  ‘Come in,’ she says wearily.

  ‘I’m not allowed,’ he says, coming in.

  ‘I know.’

  He fiddles with his bike helmet. ‘Mum’s freaking out and Dad’s being a dickhead.’

  ‘Isn’t the first time,’ my mother says, and shuffles off to her bedroom. She sticks her head back out to say, ‘You know you’re welcome here any time, Keek,’ and shuts the door.

  Keek stays near the front door and pats the dog. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Pretty much. Thanks.’ I feel full of tears. ‘And thanks for—’

  His face tightens. ‘Are you going out with Robbo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you hooked up with him last night?’

  ‘No. Well . . . sort of.’

  Keek’s face crumples as if he’s found out I’d been torturing kittens or something. It isn’t fair.

  ‘He treats girls like—’

  ‘Like what?’ I shout.

  He practically spits the word, ‘Whatever,’ and stomps out.

  ‘Keek? Keek, don’t go. Where are you going? Don’t be a dick.’ But by the time I’ve disentangled myself from my sickbed, he’s on his bike, heading off. ‘Get back here,’ I scream down the street. ‘Or I’ll never speak to you again.’

  He doesn’t even turn his head.

  I crawl into Mum’s bed, Lucille following, and Mum pats me while I cry. I settle down and it’s comforting to lie here for a while.

  She disturbs the peace by saying, ‘You didn’t sleep with anyone, did you Clover?’

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Well, Robbo.’

  ‘Robbo?’

  ‘It’s a small house, Clove. Tell me you didn’t sleep with Robbo.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with Robbo.’

  ‘Now I don’t know if I can believe you.’

  ‘Trust me, Mum. I did not, could not and will not have sex with Rob Marcello.’

  ‘Hmm.’ My mother’s face is a mixture of scrutiny and compassion. ‘Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Have you learned your lesson?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  She stares at me. I try to stare back, but opt for snuggling in, instead.

  ‘Well . . .’ she says at last. ‘I can’t be bothered cooking. Set the computer up in here.’ She gets up and throws on her clothes. ‘I’m getting pizza and DVDs.’

  ‘And oran
ge juice.’

  ‘And orange juice. And ring Rosemary and tell her you’re all right. She’s probably worried to death and afraid to call in case she gets you in trouble. And, Clover . . .’ She seems suspended, staring.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t sleep with Keek, did you?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Well, David thinks you did. You spent the night together.’

  ‘We’ve spent heaps of nights together.’

  ‘Yes, but here. In separate beds. It’s different.’

  ‘Mr McKenzie hates me.’

  ‘David is . . .’ Mum wriggles as though shaking him off. ‘And that doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I’m a virgin, Mum. All right?’

  ‘Good.’ She throws a laugh at me. ‘So am I.’ She disappears out the door, then pops her head back in. ‘I’m saving myself for Jimmy Page.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ I yell as she runs off down the hallway. ‘He’s the biggest slut ever!’

  ‘Don’t talk about God like that!’ she yells and the front door slams.

  While Mum’s gone, I set up the computer then have a shower. It feels good to be in clean pyjamas. When I phone Rosemary, she cracks the shits.

  ‘Thanks for helping clean up.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she says, though obviously it does. ‘Heaps of people crashed and helped so it wasn’t too bad when my folks got home. Except for the smell. Where did you go?’

  ‘I’m sick. I came home. Sorry.’

  ‘You can make it up to me by doing my art homework. That stupid Andy Warthog thing Sardine’s making us do. Just don’t make it too good.’

  ‘Warhol.’

  ‘See, you’re the right man for the job. By Tuesday.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. It was a good party.’

  ‘It surely was. Everyone was slaughtered.’

  ‘Got to go, my Mum’s back.’

  ‘Is she angry with me?’

  ‘You? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Cool. I like your mum.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s hilarious.’

  I put the phone down suspecting my family has just been insulted.

  Lucille is all over Mum like she’s been gone for a week. ‘I must’ve lost twenty dollars somewhere,’ Mum says, half-patting the dog and half-fending her off. ‘I’ve searched my bag and the car. I can’t find it anywhere.’ She pushes Lucille aside. ‘Come on old girl, give me a break.’