All I Ever Wanted Read online

  He smacks the disco ball with a fat hand.

  ‘Yeah, baaall,’ I say and reach for my phone on my bed. Tahnee. Tahnee again. A cryptic text from Tahnee. She never bothers correcting predictive text and her messages read like a poor translation.

  Then I notice my box of Lonely Planet books is gone. I’d taken them down from my bookcase and boxed them up because their weight made the shelves sag. I run a quick inventory, but only the box is missing.

  Of unkind cuts, this one’s made with a blunt knife, then salted.

  I know better than to tackle Mum when she’s glued to the shopping channel, so I change the baby. The nappy is soaked and reeks of ammonia. I pick it up with some tongs, wrap it in newspaper and leave it on the kitchen table like a prank pass-the-parcel. I stack the baby on my hip. We hover in the kitchen doorway, pretending to be interested in creepy Victorian dolls dressed in doilies, until the segment moves on to power tools.

  Mum says, ‘Put the kettle on, Mim.’

  ‘Where are my Lonely Planet books? The ones in the box next to my bed?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Tkautz has them. I gave them to her for her garage sale next Sunday.’

  ‘You what?’ I shout. The baby jumps and starts to cry.

  She warns me with a look. ‘Calm down. They were in a box. I thought you were finished with them. Anyway, what’s the point in reading something you’ve already read? You read them over and over until you’re cross-eyed. Stupid books about other people’s adventures.’

  As always, I’m torn between love and loathing. ‘I want my books.’

  ‘Well, they’re gone. Get over it.’

  ‘You don’t get it, I need them.’

  Those books are my maps. They show me that there is something else out there; they give me hope. They keep me from going crazy in this place.

  ‘You’ll need more than a pile of books to get away, Mim.’

  Sometimes she just knows what’s in my head. I’m angry with her, but mostly with myself. I feel so helpless. Like I’m swinging on a pendulum and it’s too high and too fast to jump off. I jiggle the crying baby and he burps sour sick onto my shoulder.

  ‘Oh thanks, that’s great. Who is this?’ I hold him away from me by the armpits and he dangles mid-air.

  ‘Your nephew.’

  ‘Another one? By the way, that’s the last time I do your dirty work.’

  She props herself on one elbow. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Pick up your own package next time.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, excuse me, princess. Give me the baby.’ She flaps her hands at me. ‘Give me the bloody baby.’

  I put the baby on her chest where he sinks into the quicksand of her.

  ‘One thing, I ask you to do one thing for me, and you can’t even do that without complaining.’ She hisses, ‘Go on, piss off. Ingrate.’ She’s blanking me. Pretending to watch the telly.

  My room’s too close for escape, so I go out the back. I stick my iPod headphones in and tune out to something soulful and deep. Cooling concrete steps on the back of my legs as the sun ducks below the tin fence. The last whisper of the day. A commuter train passes, almost empty because it’s after eight. My chest is tight like I’ve been crying, but my eyes are dry.

  These two wars. The first will play out on the street. There will be phone conversations, a calling-in of favours, maybe an exchange of money. The package will be repossessed. There will be blood and retribution.

  The second will be a war of silence. Words can be absent, but with my mother you get the gist of it anyway. She oozes disappointment.

  I feel reckless.

  I stare at the shed and wonder if the beast is dead.

  THREE

  I drank champagne for the first and last time two years ago, at Matt’s twenty-first. It reminded me of Tahnee: pale, sweet, little bubbles of nothing, and good fun if you’re in the mood. She doesn’t waste air on formalities. Never hello, or goodbye, or how are you. She skips debate and goes straight to the vote. We’ve spoken nearly every day for nine years. We first sat next to each other in the classroom when we were seven years old and our lives have run parallel ever since. We lost our teeth at the same time, we swapped clothes, toys, families. We played only with each other, we didn’t need anybody else. Shared the same hopes and dreams, told each other everything. Only lately, things have changed.

  I hear her barge through the front door, barge into my room and, before I can react, the screen door smacks me on the ridge of my spine.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says and sits on the step. ‘Look at my face.’

  I look, but fail to see her point.

  She grabs my hand and pulls me up. ‘Let’s go in your room. Hey, is your mum wearing a tent? That orange thing she’s got on.’

  ‘It’s terracotta, and yes, I know she looks like Uluru.’

  My bedroom is actually a sunroom, a tacked-on covered porch with glass slats for windows. In summer it’s too hot, and in winter too cold, but the alternative is the room next to Mum’s. Even with the slats closed, on a warm night like this, the bugs get in. There are leggy shadows on the ceiling where the mosquitoes lie in wait and frenzied moths spin around the light bulb.

  Tahnee poses in front of the small mirror on my wardrobe door. Her skin is pink and shiny in the glare. She has mosquito bites on her neck and a hickey on her shoulder.

  ‘Notice anything different?’ She turns her face from side to side.

  I do, but I pretend not to. ‘That was one hell of a mosquito.’

  ‘How can you not know?’ she wails.

  I know what she’s done. She doesn’t look any more like a woman than she did yesterday, but I can tell. She’s done it. There are beats of silence and a great gap between us, as if she’s been away for a year and come back different.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say, because that’s what she wants.

  She rants and I listen.

  Everything about her is in-your-face, like a pop-up book, all colour and texture and gloss. We used to look so alike most people would take us for sisters, but that was before we sprouted lumps and bumps and curves and stopped wearing matching outfits.

  Tahnee’s primped and painted, high on spiky heels and something else. Her hair is almost completely blonde now, waist-length with a copper-coloured layer underneath. When she’s excited or upset, she gets hyper-animated and her hands move like sock-puppets. Her upper lip is pierced and sometimes I forget and go to brush the stud away.

  I’m a black and white caricature, an outline. Sharp lines and angles, but no dimension. My hair is long, dark brown and prone to ringlets—gypsy hair that reacts like a barometer. It expands and contracts, depending on the weather. Tahnee frequently launches random attacks with a pump bottle of No-Frizz, but not much can tame it. As I look at myself over Tahnee’s left shoulder, I see a lanky, brown-skinned wild girl standing in her shadow.

  It hits me that she’s far beyond me now, almost out of reach.

  ‘Where?’ I stare at her.

  ‘In Ryan’s car. Out by the wetlands. He’s such a romantic.’

  I imagine it. Sticky fumblings in the back of a Subaru, a haze of vampire mozzies that rise up from the stinking bog, fogged windows, the boom of bass. I wanted something more for her. I wanted her to want something more.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ I say.

  She lets her jaw hang for a moment, then she moves on to that prissy frown thing she does when she’s really pissed off. She twists the ends of her hair extensions.

  ‘It was no big deal, Mim. It’s not like I gave him a kidney.’

  ‘You promised. We promised each other we would be different.’

  She bites her lower lip and pulls at a clump of mascara sticking to her lashes. Tahnee can look herself in the eye when she’s in front of a mirror, something I can’t do. I squint, or try to catch a glimpse as I’m passing, but I can’t just stand there and look at myself the way she does.

  ‘I tried, I really did. Maybe it isn’t as important to me as it
is to you. Can’t you just be happy for me? It’s over, it’s done. I’m still me.’

  ‘That’s the start of it then,’ I say, shaking my head. There’s a lump in my throat that feels like a piece of dry bread, stuck there.

  ‘The start of what?’

  ‘Well, the end, really.’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m sixteen, not eleven,’ she huffs. ‘The only reason I haven’t done it before is you never want to go anywhere or do anything. It’s all about you and your stupid rules. You’re so worried that you might turn into your mother, you’re scared to do anything. Your rules are about all the things you can’t do, not about the things you should be doing. Like having fun and experiencing life.’

  ‘They’re not stupid. How else am I going to get out of here?’ I keep my voice low so Mum can’t hear. ‘You’ll be experiencing life via an umbilical cord if you keep shagging Ryan. Then you can tell me all about it, firsthand.’

  ‘You’re no fun any more. We used to have fun,’ she sulks.

  ‘You’re the one who changed, not me,’ I hiss. ‘Your definition of fun is puking in a bush, and trying to get your feet on both side mirrors of Ryan’s car.’

  Tahnee smirks. ‘That was kind of fun.’ She stabs her chest with her finger. ‘And I can, for your information.’

  ‘Can what?’

  ‘Get my feet on both side mirrors.’ She drops down into a perfect split, wiggles her toes and puts her hands above her head like a gymnast. ‘See? Nothing forgettable about my debut, honey. He’s hooked. Guys love that shit.’

  ‘Ah, you are wise as well as bendy,’ I say in my best Confucious voice, trying not to smile. I can’t stay mad at her for long.

  ‘So, you forgive me?’ she pouts.

  For leaving me behind? ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ she asks, grabbing a tube of my lip gloss, which is crusty from heat and under-use. She dabs it on, picks bits from her lips and throws it down in disgust.

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie.

  ‘Hey, have you seen Jordan? I heard he’s not going to uni. He’s taking a gap year.’

  ‘I saw him today.’

  ‘Really. Where?’ Her gaze is distant to match her tone. She fidgets with some jewellery, a bottle of perfume, a CD. But there’s somewhere else she wants to be.

  ‘Never mind.’ If I tell her what happened I think I’ll probably cry and I’ll lose my edge. That and the fact that her dream’s come true—if you can call it a dream—and mine’s gone arse up. So much for parallel lives. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Nah,’ she says, but I know when she’s lying.

  ‘Was it okay? I mean, are you going to do it again?’

  ‘It was fine. Honest. Anyway, I have to go. He’s picking me up.’

  Great. At home with my mother on a Saturday night. ‘Do you love him?’ I ask, because I’m a romantic.

  She snorts. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Warm-up stretches first,’ I tell her as she leaves.

  FOUR

  In the morning, Mum and the baby are gone. The eight o’clock train wakes me most Sundays, but usually I can slide back into sleep. I’m surprised that I’ve slept at all after climbing into bed with a churning stomach and a fizzing brain, like I had too many energy drinks.

  Fat blowflies butt against the kitchen window because Mum’s left the screen off and already the glass radiates heat. I spray the flies and wait for them to stop spinning before I pick them up with a tissue.

  The ratty nest in our lemon tree is falling apart and the baby wood pigeons are almost ready to fly. Only two weeks ago they were still pink with bulging eyes covered with purple skin. They pant like puppies, only their tongues don’t hang out. The parents play tag team, one in, one out.

  There’s not much in the fridge but I unearth some bacon in the freezer. I shove it in the microwave and wait for the ding, arm myself with a Bar-B-Mate and grab the bacon and a table fan from Mum’s room. It’ll be stinking hot in the shed today.

  Gargoyle’s where I left him except his back end is on the blanket and there are slobbery wet puddles by the bucket. He growls. The smell of his distress is thick and putrid.

  ‘It’s okay, ugly boy, it’s okay,’ I soothe.

  I unwrap the bacon and chuck it at him. It hits his nose with a wet slap and he sighs, a sound that’s strangely human. He turns his head away from me and the bacon.

  I might have to tell Mick Tarrant that his dog’s here. The thought makes me tense and I play through the scenario, just to be sure.

  Knock, knock.

  Hi, Mrs Tarrant. Mim from down the road. Oh, that’s a nasty cut, did you have a fall? Hello, little guy. I have a tissue, let me wipe your nose for you. What a cutie. Sorry to bother you, is your husband home? Gargoyle’s crawled into our shed and it looks like he’s eaten bait. He might need the vet. Oh, here he is. Hey, Mick. Wanna come get your dog?

  Here the neighbourly scene dissolves. I picture Mum coming home to find Mick Tarrant on her property. I’m dead. I see Donna Tarrant dragged screaming into the house for daring to answer the door to me. She’s dead. I see Mick kick his useless dog. He pulls out a shotgun. Gargoyle’s dead.

  The last time I knocked at their door was years ago. I was collecting sponsors for the MS Readathon, already dreaming of my prize because I can read like lightning.

  Mick’s heavy paws grabbing my twelve-year-old breasts, his bourbon-soaked breath at ten in the morning, his bad teeth, hulking body, and my confusing shame. I ran home. I stayed quiet for two days until Mum badgered the story out of me. I remember the fight, in the middle of the street, with Mum swinging a golf club, the boys just swinging, and Mick Tarrant threatening to give her little girl more than just a feel.

  Then, the truce. Mum said if she ever saw Mick near her property she’d happily pay for a bikie hit. Mick said if he ever saw a Dodd on his, he’d shoot first and ask questions later. And that was that. Old feuds are like cracks in the pavement: we all step around them but the cracks get deeper and wider anyway.

  About a year later, I saw Donna Tarrant in the chicken shop. She mumbled something about not having enough money for her chips and left them on the counter.

  So. Gargoyle will have to crawl back out of here by himself.

  Benny should be up by now. I lock the shed and the house, grab a longneck from the outside fridge and cross the street. A whippy wind pushes me across and a fine mist of cool water hits my face. Mrs Tkautz is spraying her plants, damping down the dirt. The woman has no respect for water restrictions.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Tkautz,’ I offer, to be neighbourly.

  I can read her lips. Godless child.

  Just keep on spraying, you old witch, that birdseed of mine will sprout up nice and green in a couple of days.

  Benny’s not in his chair. I peer through the front and side windows, checking in case he didn’t make it. Looking for his legs flat out on the floor. We all know it’s just a matter of time until one day he doesn’t wake up. But he’s not in the house, so I check the fridge on his porch. It’s empty. No beer. He’ll be wandering along the tracks somewhere. I take the longneck with me, so I can lure him home when I find him.

  The tracks are fenced behind the houses, but there are a dozen ways to get through. I wish I had put on more than thongs and shorts because the grass is dry and high, scratching my legs, making me itch. The longneck is sweating. I wipe it over my arms so the hot breeze feels like air-conditioning.

  Where our street ends, the olive trees begin. Rows of them alongside the tracks, black with fruit, endless as the rails. He can’t be far. When he’s drunk he always heads for the bottle shop. When he’s out of beer and money he goes to the tracks.

  Before I know it, I’m at the old signal tower. It looks out of place here, like a lighthouse in a paddock, tall and white. I smell stale urine in the doorway and cubes of glass crunch under my feet. Still, it’s an old friend, and I stop to say hello.

  The rope still hangs in place, swinging, except some
body has tied a noose in it. I slip off my thongs, put the bottle down next to them, and climb. It’s harder going than I remember. Nearly six metres, and my feet are soft and raw. When I get to the top, I walk out onto the bridge, a narrow gangplank that hovers mid-air over the tracks. Heat haze makes the distant hills shiver, like a mirage. From here, our street is a cartoon town. Just harmless little boxes.

  ‘Benny!’ I call.

  Nobody. Just wind.

  There are two narrow doors, one leading to the staircase that snakes from the ground floor, the other in the control room upstairs. They’re both locked and barred. Matt and Dill passed down the key when I turned teenager and they supposedly grew up; a serious ceremony after midnight with blood vows and secret handshakes. I reach up above the door frame and the key is still there, where I left it, pressed into a wad of old chewing gum.

  I shimmy back down the rope and let myself in through the bottom door. Inside, the air tastes like hot metal. Once, I let Tahnee come here but she freaked out and wanted to leave. Said it was too scary, too many spiders, no air.

  The steps are covered with writing, all of it mine. I will finish school. I will not take drugs. I will not get tattoos. I will not drink alcohol. I will not say ‘fuck’ all the time. I will not have sex until I’m over 18. I will not be like everybody else. I will only trust myself. One day I will leave this place and never come back. I will not turn out like my mother. This is my plan. The rules. How not to be. If I’m ever going to get out, be different, more than, other. I’m afflicted by name and by pedigree. I can’t let myself be like these people. I don’t need to study the rules; I know them, I live by them. Except that I did a drug deal yesterday.

  I climb the steps into the control room. The heat is stifling.

  In here, most of the graffiti was done by the boys. Band posters and ticket stubs are taped to the walls and girls’ names are scrawled with affection, or crossed out and slandered. Dillon’s rules were more along the lines of living fast and dying young; Matt’s biggest ambition was to break the Guinness World Record for the most people to share a bucket bong. Two years between them but they may as well have been born twins. One always picks up where the other leaves off. Matt would scheme; Dill would take all the risks. Matt would theorise that gravity was affected by velocity; Dillon would ride his bike off the shed roof onto the trampoline. Matt’s dark and complicated; Dillon’s charming and easy on the eye. The Boondock Saints, Mum calls them.