Six Impossible Things (7 page)

Walking to school, I wonder how long I can avoid answering the phone. I decide it’s got to be for as long as she’s running the stupid business. And seeing as how our livelihood depends on the business being a success, it looks like I’ll never answer the phone again. Just as well no one’s ringing me.

First period is science. They – we – are doing a biology unit.

I’m looking into the dish trying to take deep, even breaths. We’re inspecting raw eggs. The teacher, Ms Peale, is enthusing. ‘See the stretchy chain-like substance between the yolk and the white? It’s called the chalaza.’ She writes the word on the whiteboard. ‘There are two in each egg; they anchor the yolk in the thick egg white. Some of you may be lucky enough to see brownish lumps of protein in your yolks; that’s undeveloped embryonic matter.’

I’m feeling the familiar swooning dizziness that happens just before I faint. Don’t let it happen in front of Estelle. Please. Get a hold of yourself. Resist. Avoid public humiliation. Breathe.

Ms Peale presses on. ‘Put you fingers into the egg white. Feel that slidey, albuminous viscosity. And note the yolk’s tough outer membrane; it’s called the vitellene membrane. Touch it. Feel that bouncy resistance. In a fertile egg the luscious yolk will nourish the growing embryo.’ I try to put my mind anywhere other than this slimy puddle of goop.

Jayzo and friends help. I concentrate on their idiotic asides, and the swoony feeling fades back a bit. Forgetting that
the
guiding principle of underage sex is avoiding pregnancy, they are offering to fertilise the eggs of Dannii and the transposable brackets. Like I’m the expert. But at least I’ve got some basic theory up my sleeve.

I see Estelle look at them in disbelief. I try to catch her eye to share a disbelief moment, but her glance skates across me, as though I’m not here.

Then Ms Peale gets me from left field. ‘By the way, yolk is also the word for the greasy secretions exuded by sheep’s skin to keep the wool soft.’

I’m really struggling to keep it together when I see Jayzo’s friend, Deeks, swallow his raw egg, nearly gag, then grin triumphantly. He’s won ten bucks.

I crash.

Ms Peale’s worried face is the first thing I see when I open my eyes. For one weird and scary beat I have absolutely no idea where I am. It comes back to me like waking into a bad dream. Ms Peale and a girl called Lou are helping me get into a chair and keep my head down.

Between flicking bits of raw egg around, and hanging it on me, Jayzo and crew are probably having their best ever science lesson. ‘You’re a dickhead, Cereal,’ Jayzo says.

‘It’s Cereill,’ I manage.

‘Cyril, next time you’re feeling faint, please sit down with your head between your knees or go out for some fresh air, okay?’ Ms Peale says.

‘It’s Dan, not Cyril.’

‘Have you fainted before, Dan?’

‘Yes. It’s not a big deal.’

‘No big deal for Cereill to act like a girl,’ says Jayzo in a laboured attempt at humour that has his friends rolling in the aisles.

‘You’re a real wit, Jayzo. The seven letter variety,’ says Lou. She smiles at me sympathetically. I glance over to Jayzo to see how he’s handling the stinger she’s thrown his way. He looks blank.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Lou. ‘He can’t count and he can’t spell.’

Lou breaks away from some plasma companions to sit with me at lunchtime. She reminds me of Fred, and it’s not just the glasses and pimples. She gives me the lowdown on some of the people sitting near us.

‘First girl to put out at a party. Can get drugs from her older brother. Hooked up with five girls on New Year’s Eve and they all got glandular. Mean and stupid and a jock. (Jayzo.) Not mean, but unapproachable, keep to themselves. (Estelle and her friends.) Parents are heroin addicts. Medicated for ADHD. Parents are political advisers. Smart, but plays dumb. Frequent flyer at the Children’s Court. Nice, but uncool. Stabbed a kid with a compass in grade five. Older sister had an affair with the maths teacher who got fired . . .’

‘What about you?’ I ask Lou.

‘Smart, not mean, not popular, problem skin, will emerge like a butterfly one day and pretend not to recognise Jayzo and his moronic compadres when they carry my groceries to my smart but fuel-efficient European sports car.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll probs still be a caterpillar, but I should be able to sort out the pimples.’

‘What about me?’

‘I don’t know yet . . . Doesn’t say much, faints, new . . .’

‘Already unpopular.’

‘Only because of Pittney blabbing about your academic record and your private school. That’s more than enough reasons for you to be despised by them . . .’ She nods in Jayzo’s direction. ‘How come you changed schools?’

‘Expelled. Playground violence. Rampant drug use.’

She laughs.

‘No, why really?’

‘We’re – broke.’ And broken.

‘And what’s with the eggs and fainting?’

‘It happens sometimes with stuff that’s slimy, raw, or just disgusting. I guess I’m a bit phobic. I start feeling hot and sick, and then . . . you saw what comes next.’

‘I don’t have any phobias, personally, but my favourites are arachibutyrophobia, which is –’

‘Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.’

‘Very good. And I like triskaidekaphobia, too. Fear of the number thirteen.’

‘My favourite is luposlipaphobia.’

‘Which is . . . ?’

‘Fear of being chased by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly waxed floor.’

She laughs. ‘Bullshit.’

‘Yeah, it’s a Far Side cartoon,’ I admit. ‘But it’s still my favourite.’

We look at each other with shy relief. It’s the look two odd socks give when they recognise each other in the wild.

T
HREE SHIFTS IN AT
the op-shop, and it feels like a lifetime. Or a life sentence. How could I be so stupid to sign on thinking it was a paying gig? Mrs Nelson being one of the nicest people on the planet just makes it worse.

I don’t think she needs the extra hands, either. But I can’t talk to her about it. I don’t want to seem like a quitter. Today it’s me, three women, and a guy on a community service court order. Six of us. It’s too crowded behind the counter, so Mrs Nelson gets me to tidy some shelves. I slightly overload one and it crashes. Lucky for me, only a couple of things get broken. Plus tidying up the mess gives us all something to do. We’ve had one customer in the last forty-five minutes.

I’ve just wished for the hundredth time for more customers, so time will stop dragging, when Jayzo, Deeks and Dannii arrive, all slurping slurpies from the service station. How can they when it’s so cold?

‘Hey, look, it’s Cereal,’ Jayzo says, sauntering in.

‘Cereill.’

‘What are you doing in the povvo shop, Cereal?’

‘I work here.’

He nods insolently at Mrs Nelson. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your mum?’

‘She’s not my mother,’ I say, in a tone of such firm denial I realise it must sound insulting.

‘Sozza, pal, your girlfriend, then.’

Deeks and Dannii snigger. I go bright red and try to ignore them.

Mrs Nelson steps up and asks if she can help them with anything.

‘No way,’ says Dannii, with a long slurp. ‘We’re totally like just looking.’

The three of them ask the price of half the contents of the shop. The community service guy is sweating, and the old ladies are tutting and frowning.

As they are leaving, Jayzo ‘accidentally’ spills what’s left of his slurpy into the trolley of one dollar books – some of our biggest movers. I apologise and try to clean up, feeling obliged to look agreeable when the old ladies go on and on about the young people of today and speculate that they were probably on ice. The community services guy and I share a smile over that one. They were just on sugar and terminally low brain-wattage.

Then I have a time with Mrs Nelson who wants the names of ‘those young bullies’ so she can ring the school. I manage to persuade her they’re just ‘troubled’, and ask if I can go ten minutes early. Mrs Nelson seems almost relieved.

My mother is at the front door when I get home, looking more than usually pleased to see me. Before I can get inside, she’s shoving an armful of Howard’s food, bowls and toys in my arms, handing me Howard, on his lead, and telling us to scram. She can’t remember if dogs are allowed to live on premises where food is being prepared for sale, and doesn’t have time to check the regulations before the inspectors are due to arrive.

‘Where should I take him?’

‘I don’t know. Just disappear for an hour.’ I stand there, not sure where to go.

‘Move it, Dan. They’re due now,’ she says, giving me an encouraging little shove.

She could at least be polite when banishing her only child.

There’s too much stuff to lug along for a walk in the park. Fred’s place is a good ten minutes away. That leaves Estelle – certain embarrassment, or Oliver the stables guy – possible murder or kidnapping.

Estelle looks at me, Howard, and all the stuff, clearly astounded to see us at her door.

‘If you’re running away from home, you probably need to run a bit further,’ she says with an encouraging smile, going to close the door.

‘It’s my mother . . . I mean, it’s Howard.’

She leaves the door open just a crack.

‘If you’re looking for a foster family for Howard, it’s not us. Sorry. We’re just not that nice. And everyone around here knows he pees inside.’ She shuts the door firmly, or maybe it’s the wind.

I walk down half a block and turn right at the house with the bikes and Tibetan prayer flags on the veranda, into a bluestone lane, then right again and I’m in the lane that backs on to our house. I keep walking and stop outside the back door of the stables building. There’s music coming from inside. The Pixies, ‘Motorway to Roswell’. My dad had that CD. Where did all our music go? We haven’t got it. Did my dad take it? Did the liquidators get it?

I guess this means stable guy is home. Should I risk it? Then it occurs to me that I don’t need to. No reason I can’t just sit down here and wait for an hour. Problem solved.

If it weren’t so cold I’d be perfectly comfortable leaning here against our bright blue recycling bin. I can smell Howard’s chewie sticks; they smell deliciously like bacon. He’s still living the high life on the supplies Adelaide had stockpiled. I wonder if humans can eat the dog chews. If they smell this good, how bad can they taste?

A high-tech electronic click and buzz sound, and a gate swings open a bit further along the laneway. Estelle emerges with an armful of newspapers.

She almost jumps out of her boots at the sight of me sitting here between our respective recycling bins. Maybe it looks as though I’m about to eat a dog chew. What’s the right thing to say in this social situation?

I go for, ‘Hi.’

‘What the hell . . . ? What are you doing here? Have you locked yourself out?’

At that moment I hear my mother’s voice. She’s talking to the council inspectors.

‘Bins never come through the house, they’re collected from the laneway,’ she says.

Her voice is getting closer, ‘I’ll bring the bins in now, and you can see for yourselves. I keep them just over here.’

‘That’s your mum, isn’t it? So you can go in the back gate,’ Estelle says.

I shake my head furiously. There’s too much to explain, no time to do it and I can’t manage to get a word out.

‘What’s wrong?’ Estelle asks, perplexed. ‘Have you been kicked out?’ She looks at the dog food. ‘Are you hungry?’

Howard starts barking and whining, as though he’s worried. Join the club.

Instead of giving Estelle a rational answer, I shake my head again, and wave my free hand back and forth in front of my face in a demented ‘shut up’ or ‘I can’t talk’ signal attempt, as our old gate is being jiggled and unbolted right behind my back.

Estelle is increasingly bewildered as I gather Howard and all of his paraphernalia, scramble to my feet and run off down the lane as fast as I can manage, just as the gate creaks and swings open.

Howard, excited by the sudden activity, barks his head off as we run. I don’t dare look back. When I reach the end of the lane I duck, panting, into the first open gateway. It’s the yard area of the corner shop. The fence that backs onto the laneway is covered with jasmine that is either holding it up or pushing it over. Inside the yard are stacks of empty pallets and crates, bins and an outside toilet. A black cat and two tabbies take half-hearted swipes at each other in a puddle of winter sun. I grip Howard’s lead. He’s barking and the cats are meowing, but his tail is wagging like mad. He mustn’t have the cat aggression gene.