Ballad for a Mad Girl Page 5

  Halfway along I change my mind, but it’s too late. I can’t turn safely—no U-turns allowed. I have to keep going. I can’t close my eyes or I’ll crash Gummer’s house on wheels.

  If every second above ground is precious, why does someone spend their last minutes on earth doing something as mundane as shoving groceries into the back of her car? One minute Mum was here and the next she wasn’t, carved up by a truck driver on the corner of Waites and Blaine on her way home from shopping. Dad, Cody and I take a three-block detour to avoid passing the intersection and that tiny white shrine—not something we built, not really hers.

  Someone tends it, keeps it fresh and white, but not us.

  Most people probably have a story about the time someone they love didn’t come home or went missing for a short time, just slipped from the edges of their vision, even for a moment. Mothers, sisters, brothers, children. And maybe a million awful thoughts took root in their minds, and they were sick with worry, sweating, pacing, waiting for news. But we didn’t do that. Cody was asleep on the couch. Dad was outside, priming the pump for the dam. I was practising a card trick in my room. Nobody noticed Mum hadn’t come home until the police arrived and everything stopped. Even when Sergeant Miller got us all together, we just stood looking at each other. Dad said to Cody, ‘What’d you do?’ Cody shrugged and said, ‘Nothing worth a home visit,’ and I remember thinking whatever it was, if it was bad, I wouldn’t be able to go to school camp on Monday.

  The lights turn red. The Ford lurches to a stop. It’s right there: the white cross, adorned with faded plastic flowers. I rest my head on the steering wheel and suck breath. Plastic flowers. The ache behind my eye is back, as if the capillaries are exploding. I’m vaguely aware of a car behind the Ford, tooting.

  Maybe I didn’t get the grieving part right; maybe I didn’t let it out. Like when Diesel gets grass seeds between his toes—Dad said you have to leave the wound open until it drains of poison. With no exit, a single seed could travel all the way to his brain. What if madness is really grief, trapped inside? You think it’s gone but it’s still in you, worming through your flesh, infecting everything.

  ‘They don’t get any greener,’ Gummer says. ‘Are you okay?’ He sits up, leans out the window, and gives the driver behind a lazy finger. ‘Pull over, Grace.’ His expression is so sad and stoned and kind, I burst into tears.

  Gummer ends up piling his things on our couch. Nobody ever remembers inviting him—he shows up, parks on the lawn, helps himself, leaves his stuff lying around so he has an excuse to come back, and disappears in the morning without thanks or goodbye.

  Dad and Cody accept his presence and his stink. They give him beer. They talk to him more often than they talk to me. Cody reckons Gummer is some kind of genius under the stoner veneer; Dad says he puts up with Gummer because he gets a lot of agricultural work from the Gomersalls. I suspect he likes his company because he’s easy.

  At seven o’clock, Gummer has already eaten everything remotely resembling food from our pantry and fridge. He says, ‘Want to go get Pete-za?’

  ‘I’m grounded.’

  ‘Go,’ Dad says.

  I stare at him.

  ‘What? You think I like having you moping around when Ice Road Truckers is on? Go.’

  Lumpy’s is the best pizza bar in Swanston. It’s only the best because of Pete. Every pizza is a custom-designed wood-fired work of art; you only have to say your name over the phone or show your face, and Pete knows what you want. He keeps his uncle Lumpy out the back, sour-faced in a sweaty singlet, spinning bases and stoking the fire.

  ‘Ladies,’ Pete says when we walk in. It’s quiet for a Thursday, only one couple in a booth at the back. If he’s surprised we’re here he doesn’t show it. ‘Are you eating or visiting?’ He has flour on his nose.

  ‘Gummer ate all our food,’ I say. ‘So, eating.’

  He selects a small base, spreads Lumpy’s special sauce and adds my toppings: roasted pumpkin and capsicum, Gruyere cheese. He’ll add a sprinkling of fresh baby spinach after it’s cooked. For Gummer, it’s a large with BBQ sauce and everything except olives, plus extra mozzarella. Pete calls it The Gumbo. Kenzie likes Hawaiian (The Wallflower), Amber doesn’t like pizza (A Travesty), and Mitch always orders pepperoni plus pineapple (Baby Spice). Pete makes himself an Anchovy Pastie, which is disgusting and would probably be a calzone if it wasn’t an affront to all calzone.

  Mine’s called The Disgrace.

  ‘Mitch and Kenzie came in earlier,’ Pete says, wiping the counter. ‘They’ve definitely done it.’

  It sets off a chain reaction: a spark in my brain that lights a fuse in my blood and ends up burning a hole in my belly. I’m not hungry anymore. ‘Shut up, Pete.’

  ‘Charming. I’m only telling you what I know.’

  ‘Shut up, Pete,’ Gummer says. He sits down in the booth nearest the counter. ‘Grace saw the shrine today.’

  ‘Shut up, Gummer.’ I sit across from him, pick up a shaker of Parmesan cheese and tip a pile onto the table. ‘It’s no big deal.’ I pinch the pile into a pyramid.

  Pete’s quiet until the couple at the back leave, then he turns up the radio and starts dancing to ‘Mambo No. 5’, trying to whip his own arse with a tea towel. ‘I’d like a little bit of Monica,’ he says. ‘Except there’s a rumour she has chlamydia.’

  I laugh until my face hurts and for a moment everything is okay.

  Gummer says, ‘You’re burning my Gumbo. And I need to pee.’ He leaves the booth.

  Pete sighs and slices the pizza. He brings us two glasses of water and slides the trays onto the table. ‘One Disgrace. You know I have to get Gruyere in special, just for you? Bon appetit. Do you think Gummer’s lighting up in the toilet?’

  ‘Thanks. And maybe.’

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ Pete says.

  My thumb throbs. The clean dressing is now covered with cheese. I didn’t need a shot after all—the doctor said a booster lasted ten years. ‘I put a nail through it.’

  ‘For laughs? Or for stupid?’

  ‘An accident.’

  Pete purses his lips. ‘Phew. Thought you were going to tell me you had experienced the stigmata.’

  ‘Not recently.’ I don’t like his tone—Pete’s always been my biggest fan.

  I’m eyeing my pizza and it doesn’t appeal. The Gumbo does, however, so I help myself to a slice. Gummer’s standing in the back of the shop, talking on his phone.

  ‘Is there something wrong with yours?’ Pete says pointedly.

  ‘He won’t mind. Gummer would eat roadkill if we locked him out of our houses.’ Pete watches as I roll up a second slice and feed it down my throat. ‘What? I’m hungry,’ I say, mouth full. Three slices. Four. I’m usually the last to finish but now I’m barely chewing. It’s as if I haven’t eaten in days. There’s sauce on my wrists and oil on my chin. I wipe my hands on my T-shirt. Five.

  Pete’s shaking his head. He throws me the tea towel. ‘Grace has her nose in your trough,’ he says to Gummer, who’s come up behind him. ‘It’s fascinating and kinda gross.’

  ‘You’re eating offal?’ Gummer slides into the booth.

  Offal is what I call processed meat. I don’t eat it, as a general rule. Now I can feel it: my last mouthful clumped at the back of my tongue, grease and gristle in my teeth. One minute I wasn’t hungry and now I’ve eaten like I was starving. I spit the mouthful into a napkin and groan.

  ‘I feel weird.’ I rest my forehead on the cool table.

  Five minutes ago I had a hole inside me that threatened to cave in if I didn’t fill it; now the hole is filled, it’s like I voluntarily gorged myself on five slices of evil.

  ‘That was like watching a freakin’ pie-eating contest.’ Pete laughs.

  I look up. ‘Quit laughing. I’m not your entertainment.’

  Gummer is staring at me with the same sad, gentle expression. ‘Grace saw the shrine today,’ he says again, as if that explains everything.

&nbs
p; Me: Sorry I missed you yesterday. Sorry I didn’t call you back :)

  Kenzie: No biggie. I only waited for half an hour.

  Me: Gummer gave me a ride.

  Kenzie: Lucky you.

  Me: I thought you weren’t coming :(

  Kenzie: Well I did.

  Me: Can we talk? Meet you at Reilly’s usual time?

  Kenzie: Can’t, I’m already at school. English essay due today, remember?

  Me: I know. Thanks for the reminder. I did mine. I can help if you want.

  Kenzie: When???

  Me: Last night. Couldn’t sleep. Stayed up till 3.

  Kenzie: How very unlike you. Congratulations.

  Me: Don’t be mean :(

  Kenzie: I have to finish this. Talk later.

  Me: Okay xxx

  The last class on Fridays is double Art. It’s another subject I bumble through. I don’t mind art theory. It’s just facts and dates and critical responses; either you get your facts straight or your response is perfectly valid even if you don’t know what you’re talking about. But making art—I suck. We all know I suck. Kenzie’s quite good and Gummer’s insanely talented—he’s been obsessed with Giger since primary school—but I have a serious disconnect between my eyes, my brain, my fingers and the paper.

  The art room smells of turpentine and a new brand of Mrs Miskov’s incense, something fruity and exotic. Immediately, my headache returns. Mrs Miskov tells us to set up for life drawing. Most of us groan. The studio vibrates with the click-clack-scrape of easels and whispering paper.

  Kenzie sets up her easel next to mine. She leaves twice the usual gap between us, crowding Gummer into a corner. He glances at me and raises his eyebrows.

  I shrug. ‘Five bucks says it’s the plastic pears.’ Mrs Miskov loves making us draw pears. ‘“Think of the fruity flesh as the sensual curve of a woman’s buttock”,’ I mutter. ‘“Pay particular attention to the dimples.”’

  Gummer snickers. Kenzie throws me a warning look and turns away, waiting serenely for instruction. I let loose a theatrical sigh at the worst moment: set-up is complete and the class is quiet and still.

  ‘Grace Foley.’ Mrs Miskov swishes over to me. A purple bandana pins down her crazy hair and she’s wearing one of her long, jingling skirts that make her seem as if she’s levitating.

  Great. She’s going to put me on charcoal ration duty, or worse, pencil sharpening. I’ve sharpened more pencils in the last five years than there are comments on my school record.

  ‘Choose a subject, Grace.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A subject for life drawing today. A person.’ She smiles and sweeps a semi-circle with her palm. ‘Anyone you like.’

  Hands pop up. If you pose, you don’t have to draw. If you pose, you nap. Arnold Pettigrew puts his hand up. He’s bony with see-through red ears and oversized nostrils. He’d be the popular choice for a laugh, but this isn’t caricature drawing. I’m not shooting for laughs today.

  Amber eyes me steadily from the opposite corner. She wants to model, I can tell, but she won’t put her hand up. It’s undignified. If I choose Amber, it’s nepotism; if I don’t, I’m disloyal. And it’s clever of Mrs Miskov to make me choose—either way I wear some blame for an hour and a half of silent torture. Damned, whatever I do.

  ‘Grace? We don’t have all day.’

  ‘Amber,’ I say. I owe her for what I said.

  Amber smiles and a few guys clap. She slips off her shoes and wanders into the centre of the studio, swaying her hips. She starts unbuttoning her dress.

  ‘Clothes on, Amber,’ Mrs Miskov says, followed by a chorus of boos. ‘Strike a pose. One you can hold for a while, please. Grace, hand out the charcoal.’

  Amber drags a chair into the centre of the studio and sits, slouching. She presses her knees together, sets her feet apart, and folds her arms. Her eyelids droop.

  ‘Get started. Remember to focus your eye on the negative space. Loose elbows and wrists.’ Mrs Miskov leaves the studio.

  I take a box of variegated charcoal from her desk and work my way around the room, passing out the sticks. I set aside a few pieces for myself. It’s quiet, apart from chalky squeaks and the odd snap and grunt when somebody presses too hard.

  I study Amber. Where do I start? Her face? Her legs? What the hell is negative space again? The only negative space is between her ears.

  Gummer’s busy sketching already.

  Amber watches me from beneath clumpy lashes. She’s left the two top buttons of her dress undone.

  I peek at Gummer’s sketch to see that Amber has no head—he’s started with her chest. The quiet, Amber’s intensity, the teacher’s absence—it’s a moment ripe for comedy. I glance at Kenzie. She knows what I’m thinking. She shakes her head and the moment is lost when Mrs Miskov returns.

  Sighing, I turn back to my easel, staring at the blank sheet until black dots begin to dance on the paper. Fifteen minutes already gone. The needle’s at the back of my eye. My head is pounding now and my ears buzz with a persistent hum. Surely everyone can hear it? The smell of incense clogs my throat; my arms feel impossibly heavy, as if they’re strapped to my sides. I recognise the panic beginning to course through my bloodstream, wrapping its tentacles around my organs. When I look at Kenzie I can’t remember a single thing about us; it’s as if I knew her once, long ago, and she’s nothing more than a fading memory.

  Someone is breathing too loudly.

  I dip my fingertips in the dust in the bottom of the charcoal box and paint cloudy smears, leaving a ghostly white silhouette in the centre. The dots still dance. If I squint they look like a line of marching ants. Or tiny numbers. All I have to do is play connect the dots. I pick up the stick and follow the numbers: hard, black lines. The charcoal shatters but I go on, trying not to let the numbers get too far ahead, or I’ll lose them. I grind each piece to a nub, and when I run out I use my fingers and the corner of an eraser, working the dust, smudging: light here, dark there. An eye. Lashes. A bridge of nose and one slender arm, reaching. Her hand must be pressed against the glass; I can see it clearly in my mind, but I can’t quite master the delicate spread of her fingers. I can’t find the shape. She glares at me accusingly. Brisk lines to lower her arm and conceal her hand in the fold of her dress; her eye loses its gentleness and becomes hard, glittery. I reach for a fresh stick to cover up the shadow of her hand and work it: vertical dark slashes with lighter sections, and markings like whorls of wood. Horizontal, now. A frame. The image spills over the edges of the paper, bleeding into the board. The numbers have disappeared but I don’t know how to stop. I’m ruining it. Too much darkness. The hum sounds like a jeering crowd now; the panic is gone, replaced with a deep, unrelenting sadness that seems like the last emotion I will ever feel.

  Snap. The charcoal breaks.

  ‘Grace.’ A tug on my elbow.

  My hands fall. I lean against the bench behind me. Where has the time gone?

  ‘Okay.’ Mrs Miskov claps her hands. ‘Finish up now. Turn your easels.’

  ‘Grace.’ Kenzie is squeezing my arm. ‘What the hell?’ She peers closely at my drawing and recoils. It’s her turn to look at me as if I’m someone she doesn’t recognise.

  The loud breathing is mine. I created this. Me, but not me. I feel disoriented, as if I’ve just woken up. Kenzie seems frightened. She steps closer to Gummer and whispers. He looks across. His expression twists into something like disgust. No…it’s envy.

  Mrs Miskov works her way around the studio, inspecting our drawings. ‘Interesting, Jenna. You’ve shown a lot of improvement. Matt, try varying the thickness of your lines. Great, Tori. Very expressive work.’

  Amber’s close behind her, frowning, disappointed with much of the work.

  ‘We have to get rid of it,’ I mutter to Kenzie. Wherever this thing came from, I want it to go back there. I pick at the tape holding the paper, but Mrs Miskov is waiting.

  ‘I didn’t finish,’ I say.

  ‘Grace, I’d l
ike to see your work, please.’

  Slowly, I turn the easel.

  Mrs Miskov gapes and steps back. Her hand flutters at her throat. ‘Well,’ she says after a long pause. ‘This is unexpected. It’s quite unsettling, isn’t it?’ She turns to address the group. ‘Notice that the mistakes are still evident. Rather than erasing the line of the arm here,’ she points, ‘Grace has simply worked over the top, which leaves an impression of movement. Here and here, the lines are overworked. They’re a little vicious. A bit more restraint and this might have been remarkable. What do you think of Grace’s interpretation, Amber?’

  Mrs Miskov’s face is seven shades of purple. She’s babbling. I know it; she knows it. If I was capable of speech, I’d babble, too.

  ‘That’s not me,’ Amber says. ‘The girl is wearing pyjamas. And either Grace has been practising or…’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or she’s passing off somebody else’s work as hers,’ someone says.

  Mrs Miskov appears relieved to be offered an explanation. ‘Is that true, Grace?’

  Amber is right. The girl’s hair is longer. Her face is thinner. Her eyes are arctic, not brown and soft. She’s framed by a window, not sitting in a chair. And the angle is all wrong, as if she was observed from below rather than from across the room.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say finally. Kenzie. ‘Kenzie saw.’

  But she only shrugs and makes an apology with her eyes. ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘I need an answer, Grace.’

  Dozens of eyes are staring me down. I’ve always loved being the centre of attention, but not like this. ‘Dark magic,’ I say, and it comes out sounding cheeky and not thoroughly freaked out, which is how I really feel.

  ‘Sometimes you go too far with your pranks, Miss Foley.’ She rips the tape from the easel, rolls the drawing into a cylinder, and hands it to me. ‘I’ll see you after school in the front office. We’ll discuss it further there.’ She claps her hands. ‘Pack up.’