Fake Page 3

  Usually she’s kind of embarrassed, kind of defensive. Today she’s pissed. Her head jerks up, her lips thin. ‘Colin is my friend.’

  ‘He has a name instead of a diagnosis?’

  She snaps the laptop closed. ‘I would have thought you might have a little more empathy for a person’s suffering. Obviously I thought wrong.’

  The tight feeling in my belly becomes a hard ball of why-the-crap-did-I-open-my-mouth. I grip the bench top to stop myself pressing my palms to my cheeks to ease the heat there. She’s great at making me feel about as big as a grain of sand when I’ve said something mean.

  I shrug. Something I know drives her mental.

  Whatever Colin’s problems are, I’m sure they are real and much bigger than mine, but I just don’t have room in my head for some anonymous man on the net.

  I lean over and dump my dishes in the sink with more force than is necessary. Just to remind Mum I’m actually here in the flesh. But she’s gazing out the window. Her mind is clearly still on her blog of the moment.

  I’m nearly out the door when she calls softly, ‘Wait.’

  I turn. The quiet word would have reached me even in my bedroom because there’s something vital about it. Mum’s voice has a wobble.

  She’s not looking at me though. Her attention is focused down, at her hands. There’s something gripped between them and it takes me three steps back into the kitchen until I can make it out.

  A perfectly crisp, white envelope.

  The ball in my belly expands to fill my chest and constrict my lungs. Breathing takes a monumental effort. My knees turn to mush.

  She holds it out to me and her hand is steady. Her brown eyes are all on me now. ‘This came for you.’

  From here I can see the bold, tight handwriting, soldier-upright on the front. ‘It’s not my birthday.’

  I feel dumb as soon as I say the words and scan Mum’s face for hurt that I’ve recognised who it’s from so quickly. I have nine matching envelopes in my room. One for each year since we left the Beige Life.

  She doesn’t react. ‘I didn’t know whether to wait a few days – after what happened with Joel – but since you said you were fine …’

  ‘I didn’t mean it.’ I blurt the admission.

  Both brows go up in her forehead. ‘You said …’

  I fight a laugh. ‘Not fine enough for this.’

  She should have known I wasn’t fine enough for this. My father tried to call a few times after we left. He came by once, nominally to see me for some kind of visitation. We went out for cardboard-tasting ice-cream and I didn’t say a word. All I remember him saying was that the dumbest thing he ever did was lose Mum. I wanted to shout that she wasn’t some kind of possession he misplaced.

  And I wanted to scream, ‘What about me?’ But even at eight, I refused to play the clichéd child from a broken home.

  Mum never made me see him again, but she faithfully delivered the letters on every birthday. I didn’t open them but I couldn’t quite bring myself to ditch them. I told myself at least for the two minutes it took him to write me the card that he’d have to remember I exist. He’d be reminded of what he’d done.

  And the envelopes kept coming. Envelopes just like this one. But this one is different. He’s never just written to me before. It’s not my birthday and I don’t want to play this game. ‘You can keep it.’

  Her smile holds the sympathy I wanted earlier and perhaps explains her distraction. ‘It’s not addressed to me.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ I yell. And even as I run down the short hall to my bedroom, I hate that he’s made me into the stereotypical melodramatic teenager I don’t want to be.

  With shaking hands I catch myself before slamming the door – that would top it off – but I can’t help burrowing my head into my pillow so my tears have some semblance of privacy. My feet burrow beneath the heavy orange throw rug I that I picked up three Choose-Days ago because of the un-matching red square down the bottom. Someone hand stitched the piece into place, preferring to mend it despite the glaring evidence there was once a sizeable hole.

  Today the story implicit in the blanket doesn’t help. No scenes appear in my head with heroines muttering perfect dialogue. I cry until thoughts of drawing more attention to myself walking into school late with red-rimmed eyes take over from the piles of hurt inside. I sit up and message Chay.

  Cure for red eyes?

  I know she’ll assume it’s over Joel and that is superfine by me. I don’t want to talk about my father. We’ve never talked much about him before and I’m not going to start now.

  Cucumbers. Seriously

  The response comes in less than a minute. She’s probably already at school since her house is a less than fun place to be most mornings.

  Thanks

  Ten minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in my favourite worn jeans, boots and a black tank top. I hesitate in front of my clothes rack. My soft, cosy black woollen jumper calls my name. In it I’ll be comfortable and warm and able to disappear.

  My hand is on it when I hesitate.

  The envelope, the dumping and the fake guy are enough to carry around with me today. Would skulking through the hallways really be so bad? Surely I deserve a few days of skulking time.

  And let Lana see how much you’re hurting?

  It’s like I can hear Chay’s voice.

  I let the soft material slip through my fingers and pull out the vintage violet jacket I bought from a garage sale. It’s stiff and old and fits way tighter than I’m used to. Still, Chay pronounced it H.O.T. and she’s more into fashion than I am. A dash of coloured gloss on my pale lips and I’m nearly ready.

  To complete the outfit, I slide on an old tarnished locket I bought on my first Choose-Day outing back when I started high school. It took all my pocket money and even then I borrowed some cash from Mum, but I needed to have it. The goldy colour is pretty but it’s the inscription on the back that drew me. It’s rough, as though the person wasn’t an experienced engraver and reads simply ‘Always Yours’ with three kisses below. I’ve never been able to open it to see whether there’s a photo inside, but I like to imagine it’s part of a great love story.

  Either way it’s pretty sweet.

  I creep to my door and ease it open, hoping the old, rusted hinges won’t give away my exit. I’ve always found the dramatic storm to my bedroom kind of hard to come back from. At the time I’m filled with rage or sorrow or something overwhelming and worth creating a scene for, but afterwards, when the rush has faded …

  I mean, it’s not as though I can stay in here forever but neither can I wander back out to Mum as though nothing happened.

  I freeze. My ear presses against the small gap. Is Mum waiting with the envelope? Busy on her blogs?

  Talking to her about it isn’t an option. I don’t want some speech about why I should or shouldn’t open the envelope. There’s nothing she can say I haven’t already thought about. Nine years is a long time to mentally debate what I’d do if my father ever reached out beyond the annual birthday thing and every time I’ve come to the same conclusion.

  He can get lost.

  My breath is ultra-loud. In and out. Makes it hard to hear anything at all. I hold it, forcing myself to listen until my lungs burn and my head begins to spin.

  No sound at all from the kitchen.

  I exhale. Good. No mother-daughter chat required. No analysis of my feelings or discussion of what’s going on in my head.

  Pipes clunk beneath my feet as I cross the kitchen floor. A sure sign the water in the salon is on full. Mum’s first client must be here. My shoulders relax from the tension of a possible mid-cucumber-swiping meeting. She’ll be busy now until closing.

  The cucumber sits wrinkled down the bottom of the crisper underneath the lettuce. It’s a remnant of something Mum threw together for a visit from one of her old friends from the city. Neither one of us eats the stuff.

  Instead of the knife making a clean cut, the soft g
reen skin bows and crushes beneath the serrated edge of the blade. I try again, but only manage two slices because the rest is rotten. Back in the safety of my room I sit at my white, wooden, restored desk and lean back before placing one piece of green slime on each eye. A shudder spreads through me. The flesh of the cucumber is cool and soothing but the funky smell makes my nose wrinkle and throat close up.

  ‘This had better help,’ I growl at my absent friend.

  After two minutes, I can’t stand the feeling of being a walking – or more accurately leaning – salad plate any longer. The heat from my eyes is gone but a faint sting has replaced it. I wipe the slime from my eyelids and use a concealer to finish the repair job.

  The tiny make-up mirror on my desk magnifies each eye to scary proportions. Neither shows any evidence of the bout of tears or the sleepless night that preceded it. The whites surrounding the ordinary brown colour are clear and the lids not too puffy and swollen.

  It’s a win for home remedies and Chay’s beauty expertise.

  Now I can face the school halls, my head high. Or at least without feeling like a billboard for heartbreak and humiliation.

  With my pack on my shoulder, I intend to head out the back way but the unmistakable sound of the dryer drifts up from the salon below. Mum’s still busy. The laptop in the corner catches my gaze and I stop at the bench.

  Mum’s never mentioned any of the writers of her blogs by name before.

  Colin.

  Nothing about the name is striking or memorable on its own. Yet she spoke it with a hint of possession. A defensive claim of this person quite at odds with the anonymity of the net. Usually if she mentions a tale that’s touched her it’s ‘the poor woman who lost her mother’ or the ‘heartbreaking cancer victim.’

  I’ve crossed the kitchen and I’m standing in front of the closed laptop before I make a conscious decision to do so. My fingers grip the cool, black case. She probably didn’t shut it down. All I have to do is lift the lid and I’ll know exactly who this Colin who has her so interested is.

  Or I could ask her.

  But that would involve talking. And as fast as she was to berate me for my attitude earlier, she wasn’t all that forthcoming with the details.

  I pause for a long moment and then spin and descend the stairs at a jog. I don’t have time for snooping.

  Nothing will make me late for school today.

  CHAPTER

  4

  As agreed, I wait for Chay in the empty science block toilets before the bell. I made it in without seeing anyone I know, although I’m pretty sure a group of boys at the school gate mentioned my name. Before laughing.

  I’ve never moved so fast to get away. All while trying to appear casual and unconcerned. I bet Coach would improve my athletics attitude grade if he saw that effort.

  That embarrassment fresh in my mind, I stand in front of the mirror and practise the knowing expression Chay talked about last night when she explained the plan for the fake guy. The one that’s supposed to tell the world I don’t care about Lana’s bitchy stunt and that I’m completely over Joel.

  ‘Are you all right? You look like you’re going to be sick.’ The question comes from some anonymous year nine girl with a sweet concerned smile and far too much make-up.

  Heat rises in my cheeks and I turn away from the mirror. So much for that expression. ‘No. But thanks.’

  She washes her hands and exits with one last sympathetic glance.

  I turn my back on my reflection.

  Where is Chay? I bet she could show me how to act like I’m not the laughing stock of the whole school.

  My phone buzzes.

  Meet up at break. Long story

  Crap. Now I’m going to have to walk out of here alone. And first up I have history. One of the subjects I share with Joel. The dread I’ve been trying to ignore rises up as an acid taste in the back of my throat.

  Will she be there? Outside the room, perhaps. Loitering in the hall for one last kiss to last the hours until they share a break.

  I cover my face, rubbing at the stinging in my eyes. It won’t go away.

  The first bell signals my move out of the safety of the girls’ bathroom. My insides are quivering but I’m holding my head high and trying to project casual confidence. It’s not something I’ve managed in all the years I’ve been at this school so it’s unlikely to work today. But the alternative is to hide out forever – and that will make the dream of getting into a uni where I can finally be my own person pretty hard.

  Images flicker through my brain like one of Mum’s old family movies on speed. The envelope I didn’t open. Lana’s smirk. The pity on Joel’s face. Chay’s cherry red lips in an encouraging grin. The fake guy in his tux. And Sebastian.

  Always Sebastian.

  I shove the image away. I don’t even know him and I don’t want to. The whole mature, mysterious act doesn’t work on me.

  Then I blink and he’s in front of me on the path. Real. Flesh and blood – I’m guessing he is anyway.

  And the air of mystery and aloofness surrounding him dries my mouth and scrambles my brain, leaving my tongue thick and stupid. I’m beginning to think I can conjure him with some hidden mind powers.

  He stops in front of me. His pine eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me think our meeting isn’t accidental. ‘Hey, Kath.’

  I blink fast, irritating my stinging eyes even more. He knows my name?

  Hot on the surge of unexpected joy comes a painful realisation. Of course he does. I’m famous around school now, thanks to his sister.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply. And it takes all the prepping I did in the bathroom not to drop my head and look shyly at the ground.

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and his mouth opens a beat before he speaks. Is he nervous? Unsure? Then the hesitation is gone. ‘Look, I know she can be mean, but it’s nothing personal.’ His eyebrows come together beneath his messed-up-as-usual hair. He studies me even more intently than normal. ‘At least, I don’t think it is.’

  His gaze drops and then lingers. I’m not sure whether he’s checking out my body or the locket I slipped on this morning. And I don’t know which I’d prefer. The locket means he might have an interest in old stories and mysteries, and if it’s anything else then he might just be interested in me.

  I try to follow what he’s saying. It’s not easy when I’m breathing in his fresh, clean scent with every breath. His hair is still shower-damp where the wind hasn’t blown it dry. ‘You’re here to apologise for Lana?’ The lift from seeing him, the anticipation I didn’t even want to feel, fizzles away like a kid’s party balloon left out in the sun.

  He looks down then. At the toe of his sneakers sketching a line in the dust.

  It gives me the opportunity to let myself look at him properly. His electric blue sneakers are different to the orange and navy I noticed the first day he showed up looking way too grown up to be an ordinary student. Today his jeans are dark blue and battered in a perfect mix of bought-that-way and worn to be uniquely Sebastian and he’s wearing a black, hooded jacket with a soccer logo across the back. His shoulders are even wider this close, like he could carry the weight of the world on them, and the hint of stubble on his jaw suggests he’d be man enough to. His once pale blue t-shirt is almost white and bare of any logos or brands. It’s caught up at his waist so I can see his black leather belt and ancient-looking buckle. An item so out of place with the rest of his style I can’t help staring.

  I get that same tingle I do when I find a tale in an antique on a Choose-Day with Mum. There’s a story in that belt, and for a second curiosity overwhelms everything else.

  But then he sighs and I remember who he is and why I’m here.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to pry or anything, but I saw you go this way with your friend yesterday after we collided.’ He shrugs. ‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

  This is my moment. This is what Chay meant when she talked about whether I coul
d be a victim or stand up for myself. I don’t want this boy to feel sorry for me, to think I’m someone he needs to check on because his stunning little sister has left another broken heart in her wake.

  I aim for a casual grin. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ And if instead of airy and light the words come out with a squeak, I figure it’s at least a start.

  He rubs at the back of his neck. ‘You were, ah, with that guy she’s hooked up with, weren’t you?’

  My shoulders lift in a shrug I don’t need to force. ‘Not really.’

  Not as far as that guy was concerned anyway.

  Just me and my hopes and my lifetime crush, but standing here with Sebastian I’m struggling to even picture Joel. And I hate it because I don’t want this boy to fill my thoughts. I don’t want to end up hurt again so soon. With someone like Sebastian, there could be no other outcome. He’s not like the other guys here and his sister hates me.

  In my attempt to look anywhere but at Sebastian, I see a familiar shape loping into the computer building. The skinny arm of Bobby Moss waves and I lift my hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘How do you know Bobby?’ Sebastian asks. ‘I’ve seen you talking to him before.’

  My belly flips. He noticed me before yesterday?

  ‘He’s Joel’s brother,’ I explain, but I’m still marvelling that this aloof guy has noticed plain old me.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t see any of the rest of the year speaking to him.’

  I don’t know whether the scorn in his voice is aimed at them or me. Bobby is young. He’s in year nine and a year younger than most of his year thanks to his brilliance with all things maths and science related. But he’s a nice kid and I’m not ashamed to know him. ‘I tutor him in English but he’s a friend too.’

  Sebastian doesn’t say anything for a minute and I look up. Into smiling eyes. Eyes filled with warmth for me. ‘I helped him with a password lock in the computer lab last week. He seemed pretty decent.’

  So the scorn was for everyone else.

  The attitude adds to Sebastian’s allure. Why would he care that I’m friends with Bobby?