Girl Running, Boy Falling Page 4

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And love exists,’ I tell her, ‘and unicorns run rampant down the main streets of Burnie.’

  The song changes to one about tears and songbirds.

  And wild birds sometimes fly home is the end of my sentence and the thing I do not say.

  Chapter Seven

  Auntie Kath brings me a cup of tea. Milky, two sugars. I take it with a ‘thanks’ and a smile. She doesn’t have to bring me tea—she knows that—but she likes to do it.

  ‘Let me look after you, sometimes,’ she says. ‘I know you don’t need it—big, independent girl that you are. But just indulge me, once in a while, okay?’

  Auntie Kath and I love English Breakfast the best. We like Darjeeling and Russian Caravan. We both hate Earl Grey. It tastes like soap.

  ‘I wish I could be like Grandma T and bake you scones and things to nourish you. But I’m afraid tea is the best you’re going to get from me.’

  ‘Grandma T raised you to only cook if you want to,’ I remind her. ‘She says that being a feminist is about choosing whether you want to be in the kitchen.’

  ‘I might want to be in the kitchen more, if I didn’t nearly burn it down every time I turn the stove on.’ Auntie Kath laughs. ‘Lucky I make good art, eh?’

  ‘You make great art. But you’re getting there’—I try for encouraging—‘with your baking. You’re getting good.’

  ‘Tiger, last night I made a sponge cake that looked like a beret,’ she reminds me. ‘But I will get there. Even if I make a fool of myself while I’m learning.’

  ‘Gloria Steinem said, “Whatever you want to do, just do it. Making a damn fool of yourself is absolutely essential.”’

  ‘I wonder if she said that when she was learning to make sponge cake …’

  I’m warming to my theme. ‘And there’s this poem that Wally showed me, one day, called Translations. There's something about women and love and baked bread.’

  ‘Wally, eh?’ Auntie Kath interrupts. ‘He’s a real Renaissance man, that one.’

  I shrug, my cheeks warming. ‘If they had Aussie Rules during the Renaissance.’

  Auntie Kath cocks an eyebrow. She is in her sculpting clothes—a ratty old t-shirt stained with clay and paint, with a pair of high-waisted jeans (circa 1995). It’s her uniform. Sometimes, she sleeps in her painting clothes. She only wears a different outfit when she’s got an exhibition opening for her work, or when she’s coming to my school to see me perform.

  I change the subject. ‘The stain on your top looks like a heart.’

  ‘That’s fitting.’ She smiles. ‘When I dress in my art clothes, I feel like I’m being the truest representation of myself. I feel like my inside world matches my outside one. My heart is really on my sleeve.’

  ‘Corny,’ I say. But I like it, really.

  I look down at my own clothes, wondering what they say about my inside world.

  I’m still in my black polyester trousers and Woolies work shirt. It’s crumpled now, and there’s an orange stain down the front from a Fanta bottle that exploded.

  The father said his toddler didn’t shake it. I have my doubts. She had a bloody wicked look on her little face.

  ‘Will Preen get this off, do you think?’ I ask Auntie Kath. She reaches across me to a pot of paintbrushes, extracts a red one, and proceeds to draw a huge, wonky heart all the way across my front. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But now your heart is on your sleeve, too.’

  I sigh. ‘New work shirt time.’

  ‘I already bought you a couple in the Target sale. You can wear that one to school. You might start a trend.’

  ‘Auntie Kath, I am the least likely person, in the whole history of people, to start a trend.’ I stifle a yawn.

  ‘Big night?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nah, it was okay.’

  Actually, bizarrely, it had been fun. Or, as close to fun as you can ever have while wearing a pastel green shirt and a neckerchief.

  Rhino, Flo and I spent our shift writing each other notes on stubs of receipt roll. Rhino sent me crazy jokes. Flo sent me cartoon sketches of Jamie being eaten by a mutant salamander. There was also the incident of a lubricant bottle tipping over behind the service desk. We discovered that no matter how well we wiped it up, the patch of floor remained slippery. And it was fun to slide on.

  Jamienator told us not to: ‘It’s an O, H and S risk, guys!’

  ‘Oh, just let us crazy kids have some fun, James,’ Flo said, in reply, waving him away.

  His ears went bright red, and he said he was off to tell Mr Blakely, the manager. We knew that he wouldn’t, really. He’d just hide behind the toilet rolls, for a while, thinking we were shaking in our boots, when really it was the best part of our night—knowing he was behind the toilet rolls with red ears.

  Melody doesn’t understand how I can handle working at Woolworths.

  ‘Those neck scarves,’ she cries. ‘And the way people treat you! I mean, God forbid their All-Bran scans at the wrong price. I mean, I am all for honouring the work traditionally done by women, but, ugh, Resey, you are not empowered to stand up for yourself when people are epic douchebags to you! Doesn’t that make you anxious and frustrated?’

  No. Because I have Flo and Rhino, and Jamie is amusing, and there’s new, weird fruit and veg to learn, and—mostly—people are friendly to you, if you’re friendly to them. I like Woolworths. I like working.

  ‘It’s fun working with Rhino and Flo. But I’m buggered now,’ I tell Auntie Kath.

  My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket.

  It’s sooooo sllllipppperrryyyy!

  How’s the shirt?

  ‘Melody?’ asks Auntie Kath.

  I shake my head. ‘Rhino. From work. Asking me about my shirt. Also, there was an … incident. With some lubricant.’

  Auntie Kath cocks an eyebrow. ‘Do I want to know?’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘Nothing like that, Auntie Kath—erk, it’s Rhino! We just spilled it, accidentally, and then there was some sliding …’

  Auntie Kath ruffles my hair. ‘I’m glad that you have fun at work. I do worry about you, with all your commitments, on top of school ...’

  I shrug. ‘I like being busy. Which reminds me ...’ I take a slurp of tea, and feel my chest warming. ‘I have a monologue to learn before I go to bed. Dangerous Liaisons. Les Liaisons Dangereuses, in fact.’

  I adopt the French accent I’ve been learning. ‘‘‘I learned how to look cheerful while under the table I stuck a fork into the back of my hand.”’

  ‘Heavy,’ says Auntie Kath, eyebrows raised. ‘All right then, my sweet workaholic. Go and waste your teenage years on study. But then, get some sleep.’

  ‘It’s not wasteful.’ I finish my tea and take Auntie Kath’s cup, too, to rinse in the sink. ‘It’s elucidating.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’re a little mystery, Therese Laurel Geeves. One minute you’re talking Aussie Rules, like you swallowed Jason Dunstall; the next you’re all high-brow. Elucidating? My giddy aunt.’

  I laugh. ‘Jason Dunstall? You can tell you haven’t watched football since the eighties. Anyway, who says I can’t be both? Who says I can’t love footy and know how to talk good?’

  ‘Nobody.’ Auntie Kath looks serious now. ‘Tiger, nobody says you can’t. Gloria Steinem definitely wouldn’t say it, and neither would Grandma T.’

  ‘Melody does. And she’s the uber-feminist.’

  Auntie Kath groans. ‘Melody is … still working it out,’ she says. ‘As are you. I’m giving Mel a free pass, because she … God love her, she tries hard. But, if anyone else ever tells you that—’

  ‘I’ll either devastate them with my sparkling wit and extensive vocabulary, or I’ll kick ’em in the nuts,’ I say, as I open the lounge room door. ‘Don’t worry, Auntie K. I got it sorted.’

 
; I do.

  I will.

  I might.

  I hear Auntie Kath get up from her stool and move back over to the sculpture she’s working on. It’s a girl, lying on her side, sleeping; a small creature, like a baby monster, curled inside her arms. When I ask Auntie Kath what it’s about, she only shrugs and says, ‘Sometimes I dream that I’m the only one who can soothe the monsters to sleep.’

  Dear Dad,

  If I thought,

  I could ever get this shit together,

  I’d stick the soles of my feet to this earth

  And wrap myself in its sky

  To stay here forever.

  Chapter Eight

  Wally isn’t at training.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ I ask Peter. He looks bemused, which gives me my answer.

  I shake my head. ‘He never misses training, and now two nights in a row?’

  ‘Two nights?’

  I forgot I haven’t told Peter about yesterday and Wally and the fountain. When I do, he raises an eyebrow. ‘Dodgy.’

  Some girls from Grade Nine walk past, their school skirts rolled up and their top shirt buttons undone. Peter’s eyes are full of pink love-hearts, like a character in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

  ‘Focus, Pete.’ I click my fingers in front of his face. ‘If Melody was here, she’d—’

  Peter shudders. ‘I know,’ he says, wearily. ‘And, hey, Resey, you know I’m not a complete arsehole, like she thinks I am, don’t you? I mean, sometimes I look at … at legs, and stuff. But I try not to. And the rest is all for show. The footy guys—’

  ‘Are actual arseholes. But, trust me, Pete, we all know you’re not. And, you know, Auntie Kath always says that a healthy sexual appetite is nothing to be ashamed of. But maybe you could be a bit subtler about it? Now, can we please get back to more important matters? Wally. Not at training.’

  The Grade Nine girls finally look our way and one of them curls their lip when they see Peter staring. My heart hurts a bit for him then. Despite all the bravado, Peter’s not the sort of boy those girls go for. He’s not the sort of boy they’re here for.

  Peter is weedy and nerdy and, even though he loves footy, he’s not great at it. That never stops him trying out though. Every year he pulls on his footy shorts and boots, and trots out there. Every year he trots back and says, ‘Always next season, Resey. Always next season.’

  Those girls don’t want a boy like Peter. And when he tries to make up for it, by being extra macho, it only ends up making it worse. Those girls want the boys with bulging biceps and permanent spots as full-forward or ruck. They want a trophy boyfriend.

  They want Nick Wallace.

  But Wally’s not here.

  ‘I’m going to find him,’ I say, pushing myself up from the bench.

  ‘Using what?’ Peter follows me away from the field, towards the bus stop.

  ‘He was at the fountain yesterday. Maybe he’s there again today.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ Peter’s caught up to me now. ‘So he misses training a couple of times. Maybe he’s not feeling well.’

  ‘He didn’t hang out with us at lunch time, either,’ I point out. ‘Was he in class?’ Peter and Wally are in the same core classes. The only electives I share with him are art and English lit, and we don’t have those on Wednesdays.

  ‘Yeah, he was in class,’ Peter says. ‘Wally’s always in class. He never wags.’

  ‘He never usually wags footy,’ I remind him.

  Peter nods. ‘Good call, Resey. So, the fountain you reckon? Hey, don’t you have musical stuff on now?’

  I shake my head. ‘Cancelled. Mr Lohrey’s in Hobart, I think, for some teacher professional development thing. I’m free to go on a Wally Hunt.’

  ‘Where’s Wally?’ Peter says, quietly. He sticks out his hand, as the Metro bus approaches.

  I don’t really believe he’ll be there. It seems too simple. In a movie, this would be the beginning of an epic quest—possibly with clues and coded messages—sending me and Peter all around Burnie, seeking our best mate. Jointley’s, the big creepy octopus sculpture, the West Park Oval grandstands, Fern Glade, or the Roundhill lookout. Peter and I would race around town, picking up breadcrumbs; learning about Wally; learning about ourselves. There might be a montage to the backing track of a song by Ed Sheeran.

  In the end, we’d find him and ourselves, and everything would make sense.

  Everything would wrap up in a neat bow.

  In real life there are almost never neat bows.

  In real life everything is messy.

  In real life we find Wally by the fountain.

  ‘Oi! Wallace!’ Peter’s voice echoes around the plaza. I jab him in the ribs. I’d been hoping for a subtler entrance. ‘Sorry,’ Peter says. ‘You go first.’

  Wally turns to look at us. His face splits into a huge, slanting grin. He doesn’t look fussed about being caught out. ‘Champ! Johnson! G’day!’

  ‘Hi, Wally,’ I say, as Pete thumps down next to Wally. I hover awkwardly opposite them. There’s nowhere else to sit. Wally looks over at me. He stands up.

  ‘Park here, Champ.’

  And I want to. I want to sit and gaze up at him and feel his warmth; the sunshine that radiates off him because he is golden.

  But I shake my head. Can’t have him thinking I’m some feeble female he has to leave his seat for. ‘I’m ’right, Wally. You stay there.’

  ‘We should all go somewhere else,’ Wally says. ‘You fellas up for chips? I can hear Jointley’s calling my name.’

  ‘You’re meant to be at training,’ Pete says, jabbing at Wally’s arm as we walk into the sunlight.

  ‘Who are you, my mother?’

  Peter laughs. ‘Hannah would be ecstatic to know you’re not at training.’

  ‘True.’ Wally rolls his eyes. ‘She’d have me wrapped in cotton wool and kept in the cupboard if she could find a ball of wool big enough. I’m all she has left!’ he says, in a melodramatic voice.

  ‘So, why weren’t you at training?’ Peter persists. I’m seriously regretting bringing him along. I thought he’d be cool but, of course, I should have known. It’s about footy. Pete is incapable of being cool about footy.

  Wally points to his knee. ‘Did it on the weekend, coming down from the bounce at the start of the last quarter. Don’t want Holland to notice it. He’ll have a fit, and there’s no way he’ll let me play against Clarence. I just need to give it a couple of days and it’ll be right as rain. I have to play against the Roos. Holland reckons there will be an AFL scout there because they’ve got MacMichael playing and, well, Holland reckons we’re the ones the scouts will be looking out for. So I have to play. This could be my big shot. I can’t risk Holland seeing me hobbling around. He’ll bench me.’

  I’m relieved. Relieved that it’s just a knee and nothing more. I just hope it’s fine by Saturday. Because, what if he isn’t at the top of his game then? What if the scout does come and Wally munts a bounce, or drops a mark, or kicks the ball to the opposition?

  What if he loses his dream all because of a stupid knee?

  What if—?

  ‘Resey, don’t look so stressed!’ Wally punches me on the arm. ‘Seriously, the knee will be fine. It’s nearly back to normal now. I’ll be awesome by the weekend.’

  ‘I was worried,’ I say, ignoring the way my arm feels hot now—not from pain but because Wally touched it. ‘You missed training two days and you were just staring at the fountain ...’

  ‘Making a wish,’ Wally says, shrugging. ‘Throwing in a five-cent piece and … you know. Any bit of luck I can get, I’ll take it. I’ll be wearing my lucky guernsey too. And my dad’s lucky socks.’

  ‘That’s just gross,’ Peter says, wrinkling his nose. ‘Those things are festy.’

  ‘Shut up, Pete,’ Wally gr
owls, but he’s smiling.

  We get to Jointley’s.

  ‘I’ll shout your chips,’ I say. ‘For more luck.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Champ.’

  ‘I want to. Chiko roll as well.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m shouting after the game on Saturday,’ Wally says. ‘I’ll buy spiders too. We’ll celebrate, all right? It’ll be great.’

  I nod. ‘Sure thing, Wally.’

  And I hope. I hope enormously we do have something to celebrate. I hope the scout loves Wally. I hope his dreams come true.

  But, at the same time, there’s a gnawing inside of me. Because if the scout does pick Wally, then he’s gone. And when he goes, the light goes, too.

  Wally winks at me then and passes me a piece of folded paper. I open it, while he and Peter are at the counter.

  There’s a smiley face drawn on the paper and underneath, it says:

  Don’t worry ’bout a thing, because every little thing gonna be all right.

  I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. He quotes poetry, but he also quotes Bob Marley. He’s everything. He’s everything, to me.

  Dear Dad,

  One day,

  I want you to see me flying.

  Chapter Nine

  Wally and I are sitting in the chook shed surrounded by a gang of rowdy pullets. We’ve raised them since they were chicks—Hodge, Mitchell, Franklin and Rioli. Wally named them after his favourite AFL players. I pointed out that ‘Franklin’ isn’t a very girly name for a hen, but he said that’s okay. Who says Franklin’s a girl, just because there’s no comb on its fuzzy head?

  ‘Maybe they’re non-binary,’ he said that day, when he gave them their names. ‘Maybe it’s not up to us to ascribe a gender to them, just because of their anatomy.’

  ‘Then … maybe it’s wrong to name them at all,’ I pointed out. ‘Maybe we should just let them choose their own identities.’

  ‘Fair call,’ he said, ‘but I like naming things. How about we give them footy player names for now and when they’re older they can tell us if the names match how they feel inside.’