Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey (11 page)

I read Summer’s message on my
iPhone at lunchtime on Monday and my heart flips over. There are times when being in
Australia feels like being on a whole different planet, and this is one of them. My
sister needs me and I’m not there to help – that sucks. I tap out a quick
reply.

Summer, you are beautiful and
clever and strong and you’ve come a long way since August. I don’t
think I’ve ever told you how proud I am of you, but I am … so
proud.

Christmas is going to be
stressful. Food’s everywhere, right? But food can’t hurt you, little
sister. It’s not the enemy. This is just a wobble – everyone has them,
even me. You think I’ve turned over a new leaf, ditched the drama queen
strops? Think again. I mess up sometimes – lots of times. But I am trying, and
that’s what counts. I won’t stop trying, and I know you won’t
either because you are not a quitter, Summer Tanberry.

Love you lots,

xxx

After school, I stay back at study club
with Tara and Bennie, then waste a couple of hours window shopping and drinking
smoothies in the local mall. It’s a welcome distraction. I need to speak to
Mum alone, to tip her off that Summer is struggling, but the time difference means I
can’t call yet – everyone will be sleeping, and later my sisters will be
getting ready for school and it’ll be chaos.

I miss that chaos sometimes. Back home I
often had to barricade myself into my bedroom to get a minute to myself – you never
knew what to expect from one minute to the next. Skye might be making a dress out of
the bedroom curtains or playing crackly, ancient jazz records on her gramophone;
Summer could be practising
grand jetés
in the hallway and Coco might be
playing violin dirges in the nearest treetop. Dad’s house is quieter. He
doesn’t get home till past seven o’clock and twice last week he worked
really late again. I felt a bit sorry for Emma, but let’s face it, I did not
come to Sydney to hang out with my dad’s girlfriend.

By the time I get home, Emma is setting
the table and lighting candles in the dining room as Dad decants takeaway Indian
food into fancy dishes and sets them in the oven to stay warm. Both of them are
dressed up, Dad in a sharp suit and Emma in a blue satin slip-dress with a collar of
pearls.

‘Swit-swoo,’ I say to Emma.
‘What’s going on?’

Dad glances up, frowning slightly, as if
he’s forgotten my existence. ‘Client dinner,’ he says. ‘All
very last minute. We need to just make one last push to clinch the deal, and
I’m hoping that a friendly, family setting will help them see that we’re
the company to trust. I thought you were at a sleepover?’

‘That was Saturday,’ I tell
him. ‘Can I call home? I won’t be long, promise. I need to talk to Mum.
I’m a bit worried about Summer –’

Abruptly, Dad’s fist slams down on
to the kitchen table, making the empty takeaway cartons clatter and jump.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’
he yells. ‘I have important clients arriving any minute. Your sister is fine!
All this fussing won’t do her any good. You are in Sydney now, with me. You
need to step away from Tanglewood, get on with your life!’

The words feel like a slap, and my chin
tilts up, defiant. ‘You’re saying I can’t call home?’ I
challenge. ‘Seriously?’

‘I’m saying you can’t
use the landline,’ Dad grates out. ‘Seriously. Not now. It’s not
necessary and it’s not convenient. You have a mobile, don’t you? And a
brand-new, top-of-the-range laptop, just a week or so old. Use them, if you really
need to, but I won’t have you disrupting this dinner party with some pointless
telephone drama, all at my expense.’

I can’t quite believe what
I’m hearing. Pointless drama? Summer is falling to pieces back home and my dad
doesn’t even care.

Emma moves between us, trying to calm
things down. ‘Hey, hey, you two,’ she says brightly, as if we are
squabbling five-year-olds. ‘No fighting! Honey doesn’t mean it, do you,
pet? Stop worrying and get your glad rags on and we’ll have some fun
–’

Dad turns on Emma. ‘For
goodness’ sake, woman!’ he growls. ‘Can you take this seriously?
It’s bad enough that I’ve had to order food in because you’re not
able to cater for a straightforward dinner –’

‘Greg!’ she protests.
‘This was a last-minute thing; there wasn’t time to cook, you know that.
I just thought –’

‘You didn’t think at
all,’ Dad argues. ‘Either of you. That’s the whole
trouble!’

I had forgotten Dad’s temper, but
suddenly the memories flood back – Dad storming out of the house and not returning
for hours, or days; Mum crying; the rages that flared up out of nowhere and took the
floor out from under our feet. I take two steps back, eyes wide, body tense. My hand
closes on the bedroom door and I stumble backwards suddenly, away from the conflict.
Dad glares at me.

‘I’ll stay in my
room,’ I whisper. ‘OK? I wouldn’t want to ruin your
party.’

Emma’s cheeks are pink with shame.
She looks as if she might argue, but Dad doesn’t give her a chance.

‘Fine,’ he snaps.

I close the door and throw myself down
on the bed, shaking with shock and fury. How can Dad be so selfish, so unfair? Maybe
I have seen his anger in the past but it has never been directed at me before. I
never thought it could be. I was his golden girl, his princess … but he
seems to have forgotten all that.

Someone switches on the CD player and I
hear a car draw up, then the sound of voices, laughter. It all sounds brittle,
fake.

I take a deep breath and text Mum to
check she’s around and alone, then Skype her to explain about Summer’s
message, keeping my voice bright and steady. Mum says she will talk to the clinic
right away, make sure Summer gets extra support.

‘Try not to worry, Honey,’
she says. ‘They told us to expect the odd setback; it’s part of the
illness. Thanks for letting me know so quickly – and for being there for Summer when
she needed to talk.’

I bite my lip. I wasn’t there, was
I? I was a million miles away.

I cut the call and at last the tears
come. I am not sure they’re for Dad and Emma; I think they are for Mum and me
and my sisters, for long-ago rows I buried away so that I almost forgot they ever
happened at all. But they did – I know they did.

I sit alone in the darkened room,
listening to the music and chat drifting out from the dining room. You would never
guess that half an hour ago, the air was crackling with anger and accusations. If
you didn’t know any better, you’d think this was the perfect dinner
party, with bright, chatty, friendly people eating delicious food and listening to a
Katie Melua CD.

If you didn’t know any better,
you’d think everything was just fine.

On Tuesday morning, Dad and Emma act like
last night’s blow-up never happened. If it wasn’t for the lingering
smell of vanilla candles, the empty wine bottles in the recycling bin and the
dishwasher still steaming with sparkly clean plates and glasses, I’d think I
dreamt the whole thing, but there is something too careful, too practised, about the
way the two of them behave at breakfast. Dad is at his most helpful, squeezing fresh
orange juice and making pancakes, but Emma’s smile seems forced.

Dad’s trying to make up for last
night, I know, but although I smile and gulp down an orange juice I can’t
forget that shocking flash of anger and arrogance. I can be selfish and moody too,
sometimes, but I’m not that bad, surely? Is this how scary it feels for my mum
and sisters when I get mad? I can’t even think about that.

School feels like a welcome retreat from
the drama, and I lose myself in the dull routine of it. A surprise science test, a
poem to analyse in English, a packed lunch eaten in the sunshine while talking about
the rules of flirting with Tara and Bennie … these things seem valuable
suddenly, small fragments of normality.

After school, I walk to the beach cafe
to see Ash. He’s busy serving drinks when I first arrive, so I pull up a bar
stool and start on a two-page French essay about my life. Dutifully I look up a few
useful phrases; my favourites are
demi-soeur de l’enfer
(stepsister
from hell) and
délinquant juvénile
(you can guess that one, right?). Sadly,
though, I am not sure Australia is ready for my life story; in the end I go for a
slightly adapted version, where families are happy and not broken, and coming to
Australia is a treat and not a punishment. It’s not dishonest,
exactly … it’s just that it isn’t the whole picture.

‘Writing me a love letter?’
Ash teases, and I laugh and tell him it’s just French homework.

‘Speaking of love letters,
though … my friend Tara has a little crush on you.’

‘Not my type,’ Ash says,
serving iced coffees to a couple of elderly ladies before fixing a fruit smoothie
for me.

‘Bennie then?’ I tease.

‘She’s great, but no,’
he says. ‘Spark’s just not there.’

‘No pleasing some people,’ I
say. ‘What is your type, anyway?’

‘I’ll tell you some time.
Maybe.’ His eyes snag mine then slide away, and both of us are smiling. Ash
likes me, I know he does, and even though his kind, hardworking boy-next-door style
is a million miles from my own usual type, my heart still races a little bit
whenever I’m with him.

‘Is it weird to be so far away
from your mum and sisters?’ he asks, and the comment feels a little too close
to home; my mind has been on Summer all day.

‘It must be tough. How do you get
your head around it?’ Ash pushes, and like a fool I open my mouth and let the
truth spill out.

‘I don’t. Sometimes – I
guess since my parents split up – I feel as if I’ve been divided into pieces,
like a jigsaw. I don’t know if I can ever feel complete until all the pieces
are joined up.’

‘Think it’ll ever
happen?’ he asks.

‘No chance. Jigsaws are going out
of fashion – nobody has the patience for them any more. I am destined to wander
around for the rest of my days with bits missing everywhere …’

I hold a hand up, faking a horrified
look, as if I can see right through it.

‘Everything’s where it ought
to be from where I’m standing,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘No
jigsaw-shaped gaps.’

‘I hide them well,’ I quip.
‘And it’s ironic, but if I work hard, I kind of forget what a mess my
life is! Blaming you for that, Ash. I’ve never had a work ethic
before!’

Ash laughs. ‘The hard work will be
worth it,’ he says. ‘It’s a way of opening up the future –
you’ll see!’

‘I’m not thinking about the
future so much as trying to keep my head above water,’ I admit. ‘What
about you?’

Ash grins. ‘I want to get good
grades in my Higher School Cert, then travel … do a gap year before uni.
Then I might study journalism and end up being a war correspondent or a teacher or a
writer. I’m still deciding.’

‘I’d like to jump off the
whole treadmill the moment I can,’ I admit. ‘I hate school. I think
I’m allergic to rules and uniform and homework. And exams.’

Ash raises an eyebrow.
‘You’ve always got your nose in a book; I don’t see it bringing
you out in a rash exactly.’

‘I have a lot to catch up
with,’ I tell him. ‘I wasn’t an A-star student back home, and the
syllabus is different here, so I’m way behind. I’d like to prove I can
do it, but what can I say? I get bored easily, and my biggest talent is chaos. Some
days I feel like a runaway train, no brakes, no nothing. It’s just a matter of
time until I plough right off the tracks …’

‘Train crashes aside, what would
you really like to do?’ he asks. ‘If there were no school, no
exams?’

There are a million smart answers to
that, answers involving all-night parties, unsuitable boys, London bedsits,
rags-to-riches fantasy stories. Trouble is, I can’t summon up much enthusiasm
for any of it, and my smart answers evaporate, leaving me with nothing.

‘I like to draw,’ I say,
surprising even myself. ‘Apart from chaos, it’s the only thing I’m
any good at.’

‘Art college then?’

‘What are you, my personal
tutor?’ I tease. ‘We’ll see. How about you? Where will you go on
your gap year?’

Ash laughs. ‘There’s so much
of the world I want to see – Sri Lanka, where my family were from originally, and
Britain because … well, it just seems so cool. I’d like to see for
myself if it actually is!’

‘Don’t go to
Somerset,’ I warn him. ‘I grew up there, and it’s the land that
time forgot.’

‘You say that like it’s a
bad thing,’ he says. ‘It sounds kind of awesome.’

‘Tanglewood
is
awesome,’ I concede. ‘In a quiet, sleepy kind of way. It’s really
cold there now, according to my sisters. Coco says there’s frost on the grass
most mornings …’

‘I’d love to see
it!’

‘They shot a TV film right next to
where we live, a few months back,’ I say. ‘If you want to see what the
place looks like. Coco and I were extras – we had to dress as Edwardians and wander
about in the background while the real actors did their stuff. The film’s
airing in the UK tomorrow night, so by Thursday I’ll be able to see it on
Watch-Again
 …’

‘No kidding,’ Ash says.
‘I’m talking to a movie star?’

I shrug. ‘You know me, full of
surprises.’ I feel a sudden impulse to get closer to Ash – he makes me want to
confide in him, trust him. Could it be he understands me properly, that maybe, just
maybe, boy-next-door
is
my type after all? ‘You can watch it with me,
if you want!’ I add as casually as I can.

Just then, a group of teenage girls
crowd the counter, bombarding Ash with a complicated list of requests for smoothies
and ice cream. He heads for the fridge, raking a hand through his hair.

‘Look, I can’t do the film
thing on Thursday,’ he calls over to me. ‘I’m busy.’

Ash has told me how uneventful his life
is outside work, so how come he’s suddenly tied up the minute I suggest
something? I’m not used to boys saying no to me; it’s not even as if I
was asking him on a date or anything. Not exactly. What if he already has a
girlfriend? My mates fancy him, and the teen girls flirting away as he lines up
multiple smoothies and sundaes seem to feel the same way.

Hurt curdles inside me, but I fix a
smile into place.

‘No worries,’ I call back,
sweeping school books awkwardly into my bag. ‘I’d better go, tons to do,
you know how it is.’

Ash calls after me as I push my way out
of the cafe, but I don’t look back; my eyes are stinging, as if I might cry,
and I really, really don’t want him to see that.

The next morning I wake at four, as if
some internal alarm clock has started shrieking in my head. I pull the pillow over
my head and grit my teeth, but images of yesterday fill my head, images of Ash
looking awkward, his eyes sliding away from mine.

I feel so stupid for asking him to watch
the TV film with me; I wanted him to see the place where I grew up, and yes, I
wanted him to see me the way I looked that day, wearing a beautiful vintage dress,
my hair and make-up carefully styled. The trouble with letting people get close to
you is that they turn round and hurt you. My dad did it, Shay did it … you
think I’d learn.

Even Riley has gone cold on me again. He
hasn’t messaged once since our conversation on Friday morning, and I
haven’t messaged him – I have some pride. It’s pretty much all I do
have, along with my best friend Jet Lag.

I shove the pillow away, ignore the pile
of school books and open up my laptop.

I type a message.

Riley? You around? How come
you’ve gone all silent on me lately?

xxx

I press Send, then swear under my breath.
It’s too late to regret it now; the message has gone, lost in the nothingness
of the Internet. My heart flips over as a message appears in my inbox.

Honey? What’s up?

My cheeks colour. He’s online, but
he hasn’t messaged me, even though he knows I’m always awake at this
time. Shame seeps through me.

Nothing much … just
wondered what you were up to.

I’m trying for a light, banter-ish
tone, but I’m not sure it’s working. An answer comes back almost at
once.

Busy with uni work. Had a couple of
deadlines, you know the kind of thing. What’s going on with you?

The message is a world away from our
flirty chats last week. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I can
feel Riley’s interest ebbing away like the ocean when the tide turns.
Bennie’s right – maybe you really can’t have a relationship on social
media. You need to hang out together, chat, laugh, hold hands. If I could see Riley,
I could keep him interested, I know I could. With just words to work with,
it’s not so easy.

I think quickly before I reply.

Things are cool. Waiting to see my
small-screen debut this week. I was an extra in a TV film a while ago, back
home. It’s being screened in Britain tonight and it’s on
Watch-Again
tomorrow … weird, huh?

xxx

A minute later, an answer appears.

You’re a movie star? Serious?
Wish I could see that!

I smile. Riley is way more enthusiastic
than Ash was, and that’s an ego boost if nothing else. Do I dare ask
him
over? How fine a line is there between brave and desperate? My
new-leaf promises crumble to nothing as my fingers fly over the keyboard.

You could come over and watch it
with me, if you like …

xxx

I hold my breath, and an answer
appears.

Sure! I don’t have lectures
tomorrow, so tell me your address and I’ll come once you’ve finished
school. Give me your mobile too, just in case.

I grin, typing out my address and mobile
number. My inbox flashes up with a reply.

Cool! See you soon, gorgeous!

I pick up my pillow from the floor and
hug it tight, smiling in the half-light.