A Little Wanting Song (22 page)

I pass Rose on my way out. She’s locking up her bike, so she doesn’t see me. I don’t call to her. I walk across the grass, over the spot where we talked the day I saved Dave. I get this feeling, an instinct. She wasn’t lying to me then. I think a few good thoughts about her and keep on my way.

The End of Her

She’s sitting on the hill
Hoping for a day
When her dreams don’t hit the road
She’s throwing rocks and yelling
At the sky and at the weather
She’s yelling at forever
That’s been breathing on her neck

She can’t start with him again
He’s got the end of her
He can’t give her ocean
And he can’t give her her

He’s staring where she sat
It’s the plastic that reminds him
Of something that they had
He says, “I’d give up sex forever
If she’d say we’re back together”
But he’s making promises he knows
It’d kill them both to keep

She can’t start with him again
He’s got the end of her
He can’t give her ocean
And he can’t give her her

I’ve watched Luke and Charlie sitting together most days this week. I watched them ride off along the street this afternoon and tip over in front of my house. It’s the first laugh I’ve had in a while. I would’ve paid money to talk to either of them. I haven’t had the guts to call Charlie since the river. I want to. I want to tell her and Luke that my house is a ghost town. Tufts of people rolling past. I’m grounded, but sometimes Mum says without looking at me, “Go out, Rosie. Just go out.”

I don’t sit at the freeway. It makes me think of old blue Fords and falling protistans and the things I did and the things I can’t have. I hate that Mum’s not talking to me, and I hate that Charlie and Luke aren’t talking to me, either, and I hate that even though I hurt people it doesn’t change that I want to get out of this place. Everything’s tangled inside.

Luke’s hanging around the shop late this afternoon, so I figure it’ll be all clear at the hospital. Most days I ride toward there and then ride back, because I’m sure Charlie’s told Dave, and I don’t want to hear all the things he’ll say. I get home and think it’d be better to hear something than nothing, so I ride out again and then stop halfway and come home. Today I ride all the way.

I sit on the edge of his bed trying to talk about something other than Charlie or Luke or the scholarship. “You’re quiet,” he says.

“Nothing ever happens here, so there’s nothing to talk about.”

“What’s up with you?”

“I’m grounded,” I say, just to say something real. “I told Mum to fuck off.”

He whistles. “Why’d you tell her that? Any other ‘off’ leaves room for parole. ‘Sod off,’ ‘shove off’—even ‘sock off’ is still pretty satisfying.”

“You’ve told your dad to sock off?”

“Once. He said, ‘What the fuck is “sock off”? Be a man and tell me to fuck off.’”

“So did you tell him?”

“No. Because that was the trap. There’s never time out for good behavior with ‘fuck off.’”

“Is your dad better since the accident?”

He nods. “People keep calling it an accident. That snake bit me on purpose. I’ve named it Sneaky. Sneaky had it all planned. I saw its face.”

“Maybe it was hungry,” I say.

“You’re standing up for the snake?” he asks.

“No.” I’m not standing up for the snake. “Hungry isn’t a defense.”

He laughs. “So I guess you haven’t visited me much because you’re grounded.”

I almost tell him then, just to get it over with. “And because of Luke.”

“Do you miss him?”

I nod, and Dave asks why I won’t take him back. I shake my head. “You almost finished your car?”

“Take you for a ride in it, Rosie, when I’m done. Charlie’s grandpa offered me work on the weekends when my summer job at the garage is over. Should have enough money to put a new engine in.”

“You haven’t kissed her yet?”

“She doesn’t talk about me?”

“Can you believe she has other things to say?”

“She talks about the strangest stuff. You know, she told me about this guy who set fire to his guitar. Sacrificed it even though he’d painted it and thought it was a beauty.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She told me, but I was too busy thinking about kissing her. So, are you coming to the talent quest? I’ll break you out if I have to.”

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d do anything for you,” he says. I know he would. Luke would have, too, only I pushed him away. Charlie as well.

“I have to go.” I kiss him on the cheek.

I take the long way home. The way with punishing hills. I ride fast so it hurts. Mum’s peeling potatoes when I walk in. “Can I go to the talent quest?” I ask.

“You should go. You should face up to Charlie. Face up to Dave.”

“You’re right,” I say, and she puts the potato she’s holding into the sink.

I call Dave at the hospital. “Mum says I can go. I’ll meet you there.”

“We have to keep up the tradition of giving shit to everyone in that thing,” he says.

“Antony and his brothers do enough of that for the whole town. I saw him buying stuff to throw. Says he’s smuggling it into the place in his underwear. The guy’s crazy.”

“Yeah,” Dave says. “But so’s anyone who gets on that stage.”

I finish my song today. It’s strange, sure. But not entirely unbeautiful. I sing it without my guitar for Grandpa while we’re clearing Gran’s path before the concert. Actually, I sing it while I clear the path, and he walks behind, telling me what’s a weed and what’s not. “It’s lovely,” he says. “She’s proud.”

“You still talk to Gran?”

“Every day. Last night we talked about the first holiday we ever had. It was before we were married, so she stayed in a room at one end of the hotel and I stayed in one at the other. I told her that story, the day I watched her die. I didn’t think she’d heard me until last night.”

I’d never thought before that Grandpa was with Gran when she died, that he’d held her hand as she fell away from
him. It must have been hard for him to know that he couldn’t catch her. I never thought before how hard it must have been for Dad because he didn’t get to hold Mum’s hand. Maybe that’s why he’s been so sad so long.

Grandpa stares out past the red flowers to the mountains. I look, too, and think about Dad and Mum and Gran and Grandpa and how it hurts to lose someone you should be able to keep. You can’t live worrying that you’re going to lose people, though. You can’t live worrying.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” Grandpa asks.

“I’ve got a feeling I might not stuff up,” I say. And we keep weeding the path till we can see clearly that view of the mountains, purple and blue in the distance.

“You’ll be great,” Dahlia says before I’ve even said hi.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t. So far tonight I’ve told my sister’s boyfriend and two telemarketers that they’ll be great. What are you wearing?”

“That blue dress we bought at the place that time.”

“Very hot. Your hair’s up?”

“Yep.”

“You’re still singing that song you sang the other day?”

“Yep.”

“You sound nervous. Don’t be nervous.”

“I felt like a rock star this morning for about three minutes.”

“Think about those three minutes while you’re onstage.”

“I was in the shower. Naked.”

“It works better the other way. You imagine you’re clothed and they’re naked. Wait, Dave’s in the audience, right? Your grandpa, too? Maybe your dad?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. No one’s naked. Keep it reality-based. You’re Charlie Duskin with a killer voice. And call me after.”

“I thought you were going out with Louise?”

“I am, but I’m keeping my mobile phone on, so call me. Whatever happens.”

“Even if it’s a new experience in humiliation?”

“Especially if it’s a new experience in humiliation,” she says. “Oh, and, Charlie, remember what you say to anyone who doesn’t like your music?”

“Shove it up your butt.”

I put down the phone while she’s still cracking herself up in the background singing about butts. They’ll let anyone into the in-crowd these days.

I leave a note for Dad telling him to meet us at the concert. I grab my guitar and my grandpa. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“Rock on,” he says. “That was a little message from your gran.”

“You think Dad’ll come?”

“He’ll come. Your gran and I didn’t raise an idiot.” He looks at me. “Neither did your mother and father.”

“I know,” I say, and do a last check of me in the mirror. Not entirely unsexy. Okay. “Let’s roll.”

Luke and Dave are in the second row when I arrive. Antony Barellan and his mates are in the front, sneaking eggs out of their underwear. The Barellan kids aren’t the only ones getting ready to yell and throw, either. It’s a tradition in this town. By the time the acts start, the place will be packed.

“Rose!” Dave calls, and points at a seat next to him. Luke doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even turn around. I shuffle past the other kids. “Charlie not here yet?” I ask. A glass smashing makes me jump.

“Not yet.” Dave passes me a packet of chips. “Everyone else in town is, though.” He looks behind him. “I reckon there’s at least a hundred.”

“A hundred and fifty,” Luke says, and the two of them start
punching each other as if the one who hits the hardest will be right.

“Oh God,” I say.

“What? Your mother doing her Madonna act again?” Antony turns around from his spot in front of me. I ignore him and point to the board next to the stage. Dave’s and Luke’s eyes find what mine have. “Shit,” Dave says.

“Uh-uh.” Luke shakes his head, turning round to check out the packed pub again. “I think you mean ‘Fuck.’”

Charlie’s name is written in red chalk on the board. She’s act number two, in front of Mrs. Danon and her dancing dog, Elvin. “What do you know?” Antony says. “Two dogs in a row.”

“We have to stop her,” I say.

“Maybe the crowd will like her act.” Dave’s too hopeful for his own good. “It doesn’t say what she’s planning on singing.”

“The blues.” I point at the long row of Barellan kids and their friends. A local talent quest is something no self-respecting kid does, at least not in our town. Charlie’s come a long way in the self-respect department lately. It’s my fault she’s getting up there. I’ve driven her over the edge.

“Maybe she really can sing and play the guitar,” Dave says.

“You ever heard her?” I ask.

“No. But just because we never heard her doesn’t mean she can’t.”

“Yes it does, Dave. People who are good at things do them. Charlie’s been pretending she can play the guitar and write songs and sing because she wants people to like her.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she get up there in front of everyone if she can’t play?”

And finally I’ve reached the moment of truth. “She’d humiliate herself to prove something to me.”

“I don’t get it. Why would she do that?”

“The same reason she stole the cigarettes and went with Luke and Antony to the quarry. She thinks I used her.”

“But why would she think that now?”

“I can explain later, but we have to stop her from getting up there.”