Saving Jazz (11 page)

I sat on the bed. ‘Thank you so much,' I said. She waved my gratitude away.

‘Did you build this as a guest room?' I asked.

‘Amongst other things.' Aunty Jane wheeled my suitcase to the wardrobe.

‘Was this going to be your workroom?' I asked as it suddenly occurred to me.

‘Yes,' Aunty Jane put her hand up to stop my protestations. ‘Don't even,' she warned me. ‘This is a perfect space for you. You can't live in the house surrounded by the brat pack. You're a girl. You need space. You need privacy.'

‘But your work?' I felt guilty. She had built this to create her pot hangers and tea trials. She hadn't even got to use it before she gave it to me.

‘Honey, I've run my business out of the back room for this long. I'm so used to it. Don't. Promise me you'll let me do this for you. Don't take away the thrill I get out of giving you this room. That would be rude.'

I snapped my mouth shut and nodded.

‘Now have a shower — I even got this thing plumbed. Through there,' she pointed to a timber panelled door that blended in perfectly with the wall. ‘It's little, but it has a shower, basin and loo.'

‘Thank you so much,' I said meekly.

‘And enough of that too. Get sorted and we'll talk later.'

I didn't know whether to kiss her — that wasn't part of my family's repertoire — but I had to hug her.

‘One last time,' I said, hugging her. ‘Thank you.'

‘One last time,' she agreed, returning my hug.

Aunty Jane provided me with a sanctuary, but more importantly she gave me support and love. I know I would have made it — but if it hadn't been for her, I'm not sure how.

The night I arrived, after the boys were in bed, we had a council of war meeting in the lounge room. Aunty Jane and Uncle Rob shared a bottle of red. I drank tea — one of Aunty Jane's relaxing brews. We discussed my options.

‘First, school,' Uncle Rob said. He pushed his hair back with one hand, a gesture I learnt was his trademark. ‘What do you want to do?'

I shook my head. I never got to make decisions with my parents — I was always told where I was going, what I was doing, what I should look like, what my future would be. ‘I don't know,' I said. The idea of going back into a school environment filled me with dread.

‘I don't think a standard school is suitable right
now,' Uncle Rob said, as if reading my mind. ‘You've got all the other stuff to deal with and I think the last thing you need is being around kids who are following the action.' He was right. I knew that when the video went viral, kids in the city had commented on it. If I attended a normal school I'd be
that
girl — the one who did
those
things. I'd never be free of it.

‘Distance Ed,' Aunty Jane said. She looked at Rob, who nodded in agreement.

‘Great idea, babe,' he said, ‘you're not just a pretty face.'

‘That's why he married me,' Aunty Jane tapped her head, ‘up here for thinking, down there for dancing. Do you know intelligence is inherited on the X chromosome? So all boys get their intelligence from their mothers.'

‘I got lucky,' Rob said, ‘the boys will be clever like their mother and not as dumb as me.'

‘You're not
that
dumb,' Aunty Jane said. They shared a smile and I watched in wonder. I had never seen my parents engage with each other like that. There was always aloofness between them. I could almost imagine them referring to each other as Mr Lovely and Mrs Lovely in conversation. Until now, I'd
never realised how Jane Austen my parents had been.

‘Distance Ed,' I mulled this idea over. It would mean I'd get to stay here, holed up in this sanctuary — away from the hate of the wider community. No idea had ever felt so appealing in my life.

‘I'll make some calls tomorrow,' Aunty Jane said. ‘As for tomorrow, we've got a few things to do. You need to learn the public transport system — so you're not a prisoner in this house.'

‘I don't mind being a prisoner,' I said.

‘Yes, well, I still want you to be a teenager — you still need to get out and about.'

Later in bed I thought over the last twenty-four hours. So much had happened, and for the first time in ages it had been positive. I felt a glimmer of hope — I might actually get through this ordeal. But as for getting out and about, where would I go, and who with?

In the morning I awoke disoriented. I sat up in bed and gazed around as I slowly remembered where I was. I stepped out and walked to the main house. The back door was open, but the house was empty
and the kitchen looked like every dish and piece of cutlery had been used. There were crumbs over the bench, on the floor, even on the dog. I was wiping the last plate up when Aunty Jane walked in the front door.

‘Morning,' she said offering me a takeaway coffee. She looked at the kitchen in astonishment. ‘Granite benchtops!' she exclaimed loudly. ‘Who'd have thought under all that crap there was granite!'

I laughed and hung the tea towel on the hook.

‘Seriously, Jazz, you're not here as the hired help. We have a roster in place. It's community work.'

‘I have to be allowed to help,' I held my hands up at her protestations. ‘Otherwise I won't feel like I really belong here.' And already, so quickly, there was nowhere else in the world that I wanted to belong more than here, in this house, with these crazy and alive people. It was so much better than living in a mausoleum. ‘And besides,' I said stealing her line, ‘you wouldn't want to take away the thrill I get out of doing this for you. It would be rude.'

Aunty Jane laughed, a really loud laugh. ‘Jazz, that isn't going to be a problem. You already belong with us.'

The first week at Aunty Jane's was full of new beginnings. Aunty Jane certainly didn't waste any time in getting me settled into the city. Firstly, she got me a referral to a psychologist.

‘You need this for so many reasons,' she explained, driving me to the psych's office. ‘Also, in order to be eligible for Distance Ed we need a psych to agree to the special circumstances.'

‘But what about the cost?' I asked. So far I'd been at Aunty Jane's for a week and the cost of living had never been raised. I needed to know that I could contribute to the living expenses, and as far as I was concerned washing dishes and running a vacuum over the floor wasn't enough. Aunty Jane watched me out of the corner of her eye.

‘Your mum's been in touch,' she said softly.

‘Mum?' I was surprised. Since we'd broken the land speed record escaping Greenhead (and I always thought of that drive as an escape) neither one of my parents had been in touch with me. At first I'd expected a text, or a call, but as the days passed I realised they were just as relieved as me about our parting ways. It still hurt. ‘What did she say?'

‘She wanted to know how you were,' Aunty Jane eased the car into the psychologist's car park and turned the engine off. ‘Believe me, I was going to tell you — I just wanted to make sure you were settled in first.' I was feeling totally nauseous. Was I expected to take this as a token of my mother's interest in me? It couldn't be further from the truth — it was a clear, neon signal of her disregard for me. ‘I told her you were doing alright, that we were working out school and things. That the kids love you and so do me and Rob.'

‘And?' I knew there was more, ‘what did she really want?'

Aunty Jane shook her head, ‘She wanted to let me know that she and your father wanted to provide an allowance to you and expenses to me and Rob.'

I nodded. Of course. Keep everything businesslike. Don't burden anyone, and if you have to, then make sure you pay for it. That was their way. ‘Are they giving you enough?' I asked bitterly.

‘Hey,' Aunty Jane put a hand on my arm, ‘I don't want their money.'

‘No, I'm sorry,' I put my hand on hers in horror. ‘I'm not upset with you and Uncle Rob. They
should
give you money. And it better be enough. It's just,' I shrugged helplessly, ‘that's all they can do for me, you know? They can't love me, so they just pay for me.' Tears rose again. Every time I thought of them in their cold mortuary I wanted to weep.

‘I know, honey,' Aunty Jane squeezed my hand, ‘I know it seems like they don't love you, but they really do. They just have a funny way of showing it.'

‘Well,' I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, ‘I guess the psych is really going to believe I qualify for Distance Ed now, hey?' I laughed, even if it did sound forced.

The psych was a small dark-haired woman named Karan. She had the paperwork filled in and submitted to Distance Ed ready for Term Two. She
also had me booked for weekly appointments so we could work through my many issues, particularly those regarding my parents and my upcoming criminal trial. Karan was non-judgemental. She explained to me a lot of things about my behaviour and the need we had for approval and a sense of belonging. By the end of the term (I had been off school nearly eight weeks and at Aunty Jane's for most of it) I felt confident that I would be able to study and complete Year 10.

I also got a job. At the end of Aunty Jane's street was a coffee strip, very trendy and very busy. Aunty Jane and I would take turns each morning to fetch the coffee, which we would invariably drink in the backyard, chatting about the headlines in the daily paper (collecting the paper was the coffee-getter's responsibility). This must've been the first time in my life I ever had meaningful conversations with an adult. In fact, with anyone. I was slowly starting to realise how insular my Greenhead existence had been. But anyway, I digress. Aunty Jane and I constantly argued over who made the best coffee. She said Chicco, I said Skinny Cow. Day after day this light banter continued until I decided I would
win the debate once and for all — even if it meant stooping to low levels of trickery and deceit. This was my plan: get two takeaway cups from Skinny Cow, go to Chicco and buy two coffees, transfer them into my favourite shop's cups and present them to Aunty Jane. She'll proceed to screw up her nose, huff and sigh as she drinks her (favourite) coffee and tell me how like wet cardboard it tastes and how that shop should be shut by the Health Department pronto (or something in this vein). When I reveal that it's actually Chicco's coffee she has just bagged out, she'll have to admit that Skinny Cow is superior.

And this is what happened: after procuring my cups from Skinny Cow, I go behind enemy lines for the first time: Chicco. I notice the barista the moment I walk through the door. He is medium height, strong build (I see his biceps through his tight shirt), dark Italian complexion and I place him at about eighteen. His face is perfection, he has to be the hottest guy — in real life — that I've ever seen. Think Channing Tatum and you'll get close. He smiles at me and asks what I'd like.

‘Two skinny lattes,' I say, and as I rifle through my bag for my purse I absentmindedly take out the
opposition's cups and put them on the counter.

‘Oh no!' I look up at his loud exclamation. He has picked the cups up and is staring at them in horror. ‘What is this? My beautiful girl — you're seeing another barista?' He is feigning hurt indignation — I know it's an act, but it's drawing attention my way, the last thing I want in the world. ‘What has happened between us, bella? I thought we were so tight.'

‘Sorry,' I gather the cups up and tuck them in my bag, mortified. ‘It's a trick on my aunt, you see,' and I try to explain my clever plan, which now sounds decidedly stupid.

‘Your aunt?' he looks at me with his soulful brown eyes. ‘Is she as beautiful as you?'

‘No,' I say, and then wave my hands in the air. I'm going from mortified to horrified. ‘I don't mean she's not as beautiful as me, she is. Not that I'm saying I'm beautiful. I'm not. Not beautiful, that is. I mean,' I keep waving my hands stupidly, ‘anyway, she's not really my aunt.'

‘So who is she, this not-aunt of yours?' he asks quizzically.

‘Jane Lovely,' I say shaking my head, wishing he'd
make the coffee so I could get the hell out of there and never come back. No matter what Aunty Jane thought of their coffee, I was never setting foot in this shop ever again. ‘She is my aunt, but by marriage I mean.'

‘Oh, Miss Jane Lovely,' he beams at me, ‘She
is
lovely. The loveliest woman in the world.' He sighs softly. ‘That is, until I met you. What's your name?'

‘Jazz,' I mutter.

‘Ah, beautiful music, musical Jazz, she drinks shiraz,' he starts singing this made-up song as he finally makes the coffee. ‘I'm Frank,' he smiles. ‘Cups?' he demands of me.

‘Pardon?' I just want to pay and go. Or just go.

‘The cups from the
Cow
,' he spits the word out. ‘I'll play this trick with you, see. And when you know my coffee is better than theirs you'll come and work with me. I'll give you a job as a barista and then you'll marry me.'

I shake my head at him. He may be hot but he's several coffee beans short of an espresso. ‘Sure.' I hand him the cups and he tips the coffee in them.

‘So it's a deal? If she says this coffee, Chicco's, is better than Skinny Cow's — despite this elaborate
hoax — you'll agree to work for me. Marriage, we can discuss later.'

‘Sure,' I repeat. At that point I'd agree to anything just to get out of there.

‘Promise?' he says, taking my hand to shake.

‘I promise,' I agree, returning his strong grip.

‘See you soon, my little Shiraz,' Frank calls after me.

I watched Aunty Jane over the rim of my cardboard cup. I wanted to tell her about Crazy Frank, but that would have blown my trick, so I waited. She sipped the coffee and frowned. She raised an eyebrow and looked at me, then sipped again. I could barely stand the tension.