A Little Wanting Song (16 page)

“Dave, you whispering in my ear at six in the morning is not the way I want to wake up.” I switch the phone to my other ear and turn on the lamp.

He whispers some more.

“Speak louder. I thought you said ‘jail’ for a second.”

“I did say ‘jail.’ Charlie and I got caught returning the car Luke and Antony stole to get to the quarry.”

“What?” My voice rises about ten decibels. “Dave? Are you there?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t hear you. I think I’m deaf now.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“There’s a jail cell with ‘Dave was here’ scratched onto the wall. You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Your dad must be angry.”

“He’s taking it better than I thought. I’m only grounded till I’m sixty.”

“Tell me you at least did something with Charlie before you went into lockdown.”

“Very romantic, making out in a prison cell with a toilet in the corner and Constable Ryan looking on.”

“I’ll bring her to visit when the heat’s off.”

“She’s pretty pissed at you, Rose. She thinks maybe you’re being her friend as a joke.” There’s quiet, and I know Dave’s scratching his head and searching around like he’ll find the right words in the air. “This is the last time I’ll ask,” he says.

“It’s not a joke,” I tell him. “I’ll go say I’m sorry.”

“Check she didn’t cop it from her old man, too.”

“It’s so typical that Luke and Antony are the only ones getting off without trouble.”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to wake up hung over at the quarry with my bike the only way to get home.”

“God, Dave, I love you.”

“I’m glad someone does,” he says as his dad yells things I can’t listen to and shouts at him to hang up.

Grandpa and Dad are already moving around when I open my eyes. I lie in bed and listen to their background music. It’s Grandpa who raises his voice first. “She’s not fine, Joe. She’s alone most of the time.”

“She’s got friends down here.”

Grandpa snorts and I hold my breath, but he doesn’t tell. “You’re not around half the time, and when you are you’re busy with the shop or sleeping. You don’t spend any time with her, Joe.”

“Dad, it’s none of your business.”

“She’s my business. You’re my business. Arabella would be turning in her grave at the way you’re acting.” Grandpa’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You couldn’t have known, Joe.”

I wait for one of them to speak. To tell me what that means.
You couldn’t have known
. Possums run inside the roof. Grandpa tries to scare them out every now and then, but they’re settled. “Don’t talk about her,” Dad says, and walks past my room. The door clicks sharp on his way out. The possums scuttle at the sound.

Grandpa didn’t tell Dad about last night, and he didn’t ground me, either. Cool, sure. But not entirely fair. “I did a bad thing. I let Dave take the blame,” I say to Mum and Gran. “I went to jail.”

They don’t argue with me as I go about punishing myself this morning. I get the little trolley and use it to load boxes from the storeroom at the back of the kitchen.

Grandpa looks up from the accounts when I’m on my third trip for washing powder and soap and peas. He leans his head out to the empty shop. “Are we expecting a rush on people needing to get clean and eat peas?”

“You never know.”

“It’s a beautiful day. Rose has called five times.”

“I have to stack shelves.”

“For how long?”

“Forever. People come, they buy, I stack.”

“Okay, Dante.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Never mind.”

“You could ground me.”

“I’ve had about enough of punishment in this family,” he says, looking back at the accounts.

“Do they add up?” I ask.

“They never add up, Charlie.”

I go back to my peas. I’ve been stacking for an hour when Grandpa walks out of the kitchen. “Rose called again.”

“Tell her I’m not in.” I keep my eyes on the shelves.

“Or you could tell her yourself,” Rose says.

I look up and she’s standing behind Grandpa. “I’m not in.”

“I just want to check you’re okay,” she says, and Grandpa leaves us alone.

“I got arrested,” I tell her, and keep stacking.

“I know.”

“I got Dave arrested.”

“I know.” She walks over and looks down at me. “I’m sorry about the camping trip, about you overhearing us.”

“Charlie Dorkin, Charlie Dorkin,” I sing quietly. “You must have really hated me.”

“I didn’t know you then. But you were always hiding up that tree, staring at us.”

“Maybe I wanted to join in,” I say.

“Maybe you should have asked.”

“Would it have made a difference?” I look at her and she’s thinking about it. She’s actually thinking about it. “Get lost. I don’t need people pretending to be my friend.” I rip open a box of washing powder while she hovers. “I said get lost.” She kneels beside me and stacks boxes.

“I’m not pretending,” she says after a while. “You’re funny. I never noticed that before.”

I keep stacking.

“Dave says I’ve lived in this town too long.” She lines up
labels. “Maybe I have. I wanted to meet different people so bad, and then when I met you I gave you shit because you were weird.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m saying I like being your friend now.”

“You’re not saying it very well.”

“Sometimes it feels like Luke and Dave don’t hear me unless I’m talking about cars or sex or fish and chips. Mum doesn’t hear me unless I’m saying something she agrees with. But you listen to me.”

I rip open a box of toilet paper and we stack it together.

“I’ve been playing your music before I go to sleep. It makes me feel like there’s something else other than plastic chairs out the front of a shop.” She sits back and looks at the rows. “You plan on forgiving me?”

“I’ll think about it after we’ve unpacked Grandpa’s order. There’s more toilet paper, washing powder, nappies, some canned beans. That’s just to start.”

She goes into the storeroom and fills up the trolley. We keep unpacking and stacking. “Last night was my fault. I’m sorry.” She sits on her heels and looks at the neat piles of canned food and toilet paper and washing powder. “This place,” she says. “Tell me there’s somewhere other than here.”

I look at her, staring at the shelves, shoulders slumped toward them. I look at the rows of peas all the same, sealed in tight. “There’s somewhere other than here,” I say.

I stack box after box of canned peas and toilet paper, and I see my life in those neat little piles. “This place,” I say to Charlie. “Tell me there’s somewhere other than here.”

She doesn’t tell me to have a little patience. She doesn’t tell me I’ll get the things I want when I’m older. She tells me what I want to hear and then says to sit outside. She makes me chips and says, “When you want something really bad that you might never have, then the only thing to do is eat chips. It’s either that or chocolate.” She brings some of that out, too.

She puts them on the table between us and says, “I get the last one, though. As long as we’re friends, I get the last chip.”

“Fair enough. Fight you for the last piece of chocolate, though.”

We eat quietly, and then after a bit she says, “I think—and I’m not sure, but maybe—it’s not entirely crazy to say that Dave might kind of like me.”

I look at her. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“Okay, maybe it is crazy.”

“No, I mean, are you fucking kidding? Of course he likes you.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? He breathes heavy when you’re around. He either likes you or he’s allergic to that truckload of aftershave he’s started wearing.”

She’s laughing when her dad walks up the path. “Hey,” Charlie calls. “Nice day.”

He nods like some customer said it to him. He lets Charlie do what she wants not because he trusts her. It’s because he doesn’t notice her. I’m looking at a family photo that’s been sliced through the middle, and she and her dad are on separate pieces. Maybe it happened when her mum was cut out of the picture. Maybe it was always that way.

Mum might yell half the time and not listen properly the other half, but if I said something like “Nice day” to her she’d do a dance. If she didn’t answer, I’d say it again and again till she did. Charlie just shrugs but she doesn’t do it like other people do. She resettles her skin. I look across at my house. Dad’s at the mailbox. “Nice day,” I call out.

“Sure is, Rosie,” he says. “Lucky I’m working nights. I get to enjoy it.”

I don’t do it to be mean. I do it to show her what things
should be like. The sun’s creeping over her and she shifts back into shade and closes her eyes.

“Is your dad always so quiet?” I ask.

“I guess.”

“He’s never really talked to you?” It’s brutal, but brutal’s what it is.

“Before Mum died, he was a different kind of quiet. Early-morning kind of quiet.” She sits up and puts her toes in the sun. “I remember him teaching me how to make toast when I was about seven. I said, ‘It’s just toast, Dad,’ and he put me on the counter. He said, ‘It’s never “just” with food. You take good ingredients, good bread. Don’t be impatient, Charlotte. Toast till it’s golden. Spread real butter right to the edges.’”

“That was good toast you made the other night,” I say.

“He’s one of the top ten chefs in Melbourne. He taught me right. I can’t cook anything other than toast, though. We had this father and daughter day once. I think I was in Year Three or Four. Every kid had to make something for their dad. So I made these biscuits. I read the recipe and mixed the batter. I wanted them to be sweet, so I doubled the amount of sugar. Mum helped me put them in the oven.

“That morning when we were getting in the car, I tasted one and realized I’d used salt instead of sugar. Dad said he was excited about my present and I couldn’t tell him. He got out of the car at school, and I said it real quick to Mum. She covered her mouth and tried not to laugh because she could see I was panicking. ‘I’ll fix it, Charlie.’

“So she came in with us. We did the father and daughter
things, and then it was time to give our gifts in front of everyone. Dad opened his, and I kept saying to Mum, ‘He can’t eat them. Do something.’

“She held me back while he opened the tin and ate one. The look on his face only lasted a second. Then he smiled and ate five biscuits. Mum and I had to leave the room because she was laughing so loud. ‘He’s eating them!’ she kept screaming. ‘He’s eating them.’ Mum had the best laugh. The sort that took you with it.

“On the way home she was still cracking up. Dad looked at me in the rearview mirror and said in his dead-serious voice, ‘They were very good, Charlotte. I’m thinking of adding more salt to my recipe.’”

“You ever remind him of that day?” I ask.

“He doesn’t like talking about her.”

“So what do you talk about, since she died?”

She thinks about it and resettles her skin again. “Sometimes we talk about the weather.”

I push the chocolate across. “Last piece is yours,” I say.

“Stay away from Charlie, Luke. I don’t want you hassling her to steal again.” I left the shop and came straight here. Talking to Charlie was like sitting in a summer storm. Sweet grass and wind and just cool enough to set my skin rising. I don’t want Luke hurting her or telling her about the scholarship, which amounts to the same thing.

“I didn’t hassle her. Taking stuff from your own dad isn’t stealing.”

“Crap, Luke. You used her, and you know it.”

“You can talk,” he says.

“It’s different for me. I’m not using Charlie to get a packet of cigarettes. I’m not even using her. I might tell her about the scholarship, and I might not, but either way I’m her friend now.”

“She’s not yours, Rose,” he says, and I feel the same way I did watching him with Andrea Cushifsky

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what I said.”

People say such stupid things sometimes. “Are you going to tell her about the scholarship?”

“You think I’d wreck everything for you?”

“I don’t know, Luke. I didn’t think you’d almost kill Charlie. How stupid can you be, getting into that car with Antony when he’s been drinking? You could have been killed as well.”