Six Impossible Things (18 page)

‘Dan! Where have you been?’

‘Running.’

‘You left before six?’ The tone is high-pitched incredulity.

‘Er, yeah.’

‘But you run in the afternoons.’

‘Usually, but not always.’

‘And what’s Howard doing in a backpack?’

Oops.

‘He’s got a bit of a sore leg.’

‘So why didn’t you leave him at home?’

‘I thought he’d enjoy the – scenery.’

‘In the dark? How long have you been gone? Your bed was stone cold.’

‘Not that long. How come you’re up so early anyway?’

‘I’m making stuff for Phrenology.’

She fixes me with her X-ray ‘I haven’t got to the bottom of this’ look, which doesn’t augur well, and goes back to the kitchen.

I grab Estelle from the sitting room where she’s frozen, eyebrows-up-in-alarm position, and we race back upstairs. Before she climbs the ladder she gives me a quick hug.

‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’

T
HE FINAL PIECE OF
the great Sydney con is the phone call from Janie’s ‘mother’ telling school she won’t be in today. We appeal to Lou – level-headed, deep-voiced Lou – who pulls an Academy Award-worthy performance out of nowhere. So, done and dusted, and all we need to do now is wait to hear if Janie wins.

As the day wears on, Estelle has checked her phone three gazillion times. She has to keep checking because it’s on silent. So when the text finally comes through during the last period Estelle is so wired for it that she screams, pretends she’s seen a wasp and is told to act her age. And after all that the message is: NEARLY THERE, HAVE FUN IN MATHS HA HA X

After school Estelle waits for me as though it’s a regular thing that we walk home together. She nibbles at her sleeve and invites me to put in an earbud and listen to some Hot Chip. Our shoulders and upper arms bump together from time to time and it feels, to me at least, like we are joined by the sort of electric charge you see in old horror movies when they’re doing a brain transplant. She seems oblivious or immune to any such effects. But maybe I do from the outside, too.

‘Do you want to come to mine and see how she goes?’ Estelle asks.

Do I?

‘I’ll get us a DVD,’ I say, trying to remind my heart that it’s a super-fit muscle and not a drum getting the crap beaten out of it.

‘Cool.’

I go inside, do a cursory sniff of armpits. Okay. I lick the back of my hand, let the spit dry and smell it – apparently a better breath checker than breathing into your cupped hand. Also okay. I let Howard come with me to Oliver’s to choose a DVD.

‘What do you think about
Donnie Darko
? It’s one of her favourites. And if you like that movie, you can always enjoy a new viewing. And it’ll be one more thing we have in common.’

Howard barks his approval/disapproval.

‘If, by that, you mean I shouldn’t know she likes the film, you’re right. If you mean we’re going to bond over the film, also right. If you’re wondering how I reconcile the two positions, I don’t know.’

He does the worried whiny noise. It either means he wants to pee or he thinks I’m morally compromised.

The credits are rolling on the film, we’ve finished a pizza and I’m wondering if I can ask Estelle who she is taking to the social. I’m assuming it’s disc boy. I can’t decide if I can bear hearing about it or not. Now we’re in a new phase of our relationship – ie we
have
a relationship – she might think she can confide in me and tell me how much she likes him. I definitely can’t handle that. Probably better not to know. I’ve just decided it’s definitely better not to know when a text beeps into Estelle’s phone: DIDN’T WIN, CRAZY, LOVE YA X

Estelle rings straight back and we get the low-down. Even though Janie didn’t win, the audience loved her film – lots of laughs and big applause. One of the reasons it couldn’t win was the copyright problems caused by the cast: Barbie, Ken, and the Power Rangers.

‘I didn’t even think of that,’ says Estelle.

‘Neither,’ yells Janie, ‘but the honcho guy loves my vision. He said stay in touch.’

‘We love your vision, too,’ says Estelle.

‘Who’s we?’ Janie wants to know.

‘Me and Dan,’ Estelle says, smiling at me.

‘Don’t miss the bus,’ I yell.

We’re still buzzing when we hear the sound of a key in the front door. Estelle jumps up in alarm.

‘Someone’s breaking in. And they’ve got a key!’

I look around for a weapon and pick up the remote – not as deadly as I might have wished but it was that or a large book on someone called Cy Twombly.

We both stand, ready for action.

But it’s only Vivien. She comes in with her arms full of folders and a laptop bag slung across her chest.

‘Mum?!’ says Estelle, trying to recover from the shock.

‘I do live here, darling.’

‘But it’s Friday. You’re never home till late.’

‘Well, sorry, but the gallery’s bedlam. I can’t escape my phone and I need some clear space to
think
.’

She turns around. Someone is coming up behind her as she takes her key from the door.

Estelle’s face turns white as she hears, ‘Vivien, hi.’

Panic in her eyes, Estelle silently mouths ‘fuck’ and hisses, ‘It’s Janie’s mum! What do we do?’

I shrug, helpless. For someone who has foreseen this very problem there isn’t a single light bulb flickering on.

‘Sarah. Come in,’ says Vivien.

‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ asks Sarah.

‘Escaping from work, so I can get some work done.’

‘Good luck. I won’t come in, but can you give this to Janie? One night without a toothbrush is fine, but two? That’s going to get furry.’

‘I didn’t even know she was coming. I’m so sorry – negligent mother! My headspace is entirely taken up with the show. Estelle, where’s Janie? Sarah’s brought her toothbrush.’

I can see Estelle is as much at a loss as I am. Is she wondering whether she can try, ‘in the shower’ . . . ‘in the garden’ . . . ‘gone through the back of the wardrobe . . .’?

‘And she’s staying tomorrow, too? That’s great company for Stell while I’m so busy,’ says Vivien.

Janie’s mother is now standing in the hallway looking confused.

‘But . . . she was here last night.’

‘No . . . Thursday? No! She wasn’t, was she, Estelle?’ Vivien is momentarily concerned that she has vagued out so completely on household arrangements that she doesn’t even know who is staying here.

‘Sarah, do come in for a bit. I haven’t seen you for ages. You can tell me what I should know about school. Our children. Life. The universe . . .’

Estelle knows she can’t fake it. Vivien would eventually recall last night’s dinner, and that Janie wasn’t there.

Right now would be a perfect time for me to step in and save the day, but I still don’t have a clue what to say.

Janie’s mother is reading Estelle’s concerned look.

‘My God, what is it?’

Estelle and I look at each other, recognising a dead-end street when we see it.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s fine,’ says Estelle. ‘There’s absolutely no need to worry.’

‘What on earth do you mean, Estelle? Where’s Janie?’ asks Vivien, ushering Sarah in and closing the door.

‘She’s about to catch a bus home, very, very soon.’

‘Very,’ I add. Truly dismal, but it’s all I’ve got.

‘What bus? From where?’ asks Vivien, snapping with impatience.

‘Actually – Sydney,’ says Estelle. ‘Please don’t get mad.’

Janie’s mum sits down as though her leg bones have gone wobbly.

Five minutes later my mother is sitting in front of us too, and the interrogation is on in earnest.

It’s fair to say they are angry, furious even, and without having to confer Estelle and I realise it’s best to just roll over on this one. There are times when mounting a defence only makes things worse. So we agree we’ve been stupid, irresponsible, immature, deceitful and encouraged a friend in risk-taking behaviour.

Once Sarah has spoken to Janie on the phone and reassured herself that she is indeed okay, Estelle attempts to exonerate me from the crime.

‘It was all planned before we even told Dan. All he tried to do was make sure we were safe walking to the bus depot. He even tried to talk us out of it.’

‘We don’t need any persuading that you and Janie are the evil masterminds here,’ says Vivien from narrowed purple lips.

‘And I don’t care how small a role you played in this, Dan, it’s not okay,’ my mother says. ‘And when I asked you a direct question about it this morning, you lied.’

‘It wasn’t exactly lying,’ I begin. My words freeze as I register how angry she is. We head for home.

‘You’re grounded for a month and it’s not negotiable,’ Vivien is telling Estelle.

‘But what about the social?’

The last thing I hear is Vivien saying, ‘You must be joking!’

By the time we get home my mother’s anger has turned to disappointment, which is a lot harder to handle.

We sit at the kitchen table and she’s looking at me, her eyes filling with tears. I feel so low. I’m situated somewhere between the sole of my shoe and a grimy footpath, between a snake’s intestines and the sliding desert sand, or even lower, between sewer lines and the earth’s burning core. I was also between a rock and a hard place, in a tight spot, in over my head, in deep . . .

‘
Are you even listening to me
??’

Uh-oh, yelling and sad. I tune back in and pay full attention.

The agreeing with accusations continues. I feel just like Howard when he rolls over, stomach up, legs in the air. I am your abject subject. You are so, so right – I am so, so wrong. And the thing is, I agree with her. She feeds me the exact arguments I had given Estelle and Janie about why it wasn’t safe for a young, unaccompanied girl to go to Sydney; why it wasn’t okay to lie about your age; why there needs to be a relationship of trust between parents and children. On this last point, our paths split. Parents don’t need to know absolutely everything, but if they’re likely to find out anyway you might as well come clean up front.

Listening and nodding I realise that I, myself, could be a perfectly plausible parent. I know all the lines.

‘I’m not going to ground you, Dan,’ my mother is
finally
winding up. ‘God knows we need you to keep your job.’ This prompts a fresh round of tears. I don’t point out that grounding usually only applies to ‘fun’, social activities. She’s having a wallow and who am I to stop her?

‘I know you’re a sensible boy and I’m glad you tried to talk the girls out of this stupidity. I’m going to look on this as an aberration. I need to trust you. It’s the only way we can get on together.’

I nod, encouraged, maintaining my best solemn and guilty expression. It’s looking good; I’m getting off pretty lightly.

‘And you are extremely lucky this didn’t cause any damage to Oliver’s place.’

Here, I really have to bite my tongue, but I nod again, wondering what damage one girl sleeping on his sofa for a couple of hours could possibly have caused.

‘Anything could have happened. She could have started a fire. She could have left the place open and vulnerable to burglary . . .’

As I imagine Janie spontaneously combusting and setting the whole place alight, my mother trails off. I don’t think she’s convinced even herself that Janie could have done much harm.

‘You are going to write a letter of apology to Janie’s parents for your part in this plan.’

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? Won’t it just prolong the pain?’

She quenches my objection with a look containing about a cubic kilometre of icy water.

So I write:

Dear Ms Preston and Mr Bacon,

I am writing to apologise for my part in facilitating Janie’s trip to Sydney to attend the awards ceremony for the Hanging on the Telephone competition.

I truly regret helping her in this potentially dangerous undertaking. Anything could have happened but thank God it didn’t.

Please accept my apologies and the assurance that I will speak up more forcefully against it if a similar scheme is ever planned with my knowledge. Which I am sure it will not be.

Yours faithfully,
Dan Cereill