Nona and Me Read online

Titters as Ms Naylor continues. “For your end-of-year assignments, you’ll each be creating a triptych.”

  There are a lot of blank expressions.

  She says, “Does everyone know what a triptych is? Yes? No?”

  I feel her eagle eyes scanning the class. I slouch lower in my chair, but she’s onto me. “Rosie. Can you help us out?”

  “It’s a painting with three panels.”

  “You got it.”

  Selena mutters, “Suck.”

  I catch Anya watching us from the other side of the room. She sits with Anita White now. Anita’s in one of those groups that don’t really get invited to parties. Selena made sure of that in Year 9. Anita didn’t invite her to a sleepover, so Selena spread a rumour about her being a stuck-up slut. She even wrote her number on the wall of the boys’ toilets with the words “For a good time”.

  Ms Naylor is still talking. “So who can guess what the theme of the triptych is?”

  A few voices ring out in a groaned chorus. “Identity.”

  It isn’t a hard guess. We’ve been doing variations on the same theme all year. Self-portraits, collages, sculpture, all asking the same questions: Who are you? How do you portray that? What makes a person who they are?

  Ms Naylor opens her supplies cupboard. “You can use any medium you like – oils, watercolours, pastels, acrylics, charcoal …”

  Selena pretends to think it over. “Hmm … what medium do you think says ‘me’?”

  I shoot her an amused look. “Um … fluoro highlighters?”

  “’Cause they’re bright?”

  “I was going to say artificial.”

  “Bitch.”

  But we’re both grinning.

  “We’re going to start our planning today,” Ms Naylor says. “So feel free to sketch ideas, or cut and paste from magazines, or look through books for inspiration …”

  Selena has her Girlfriend magazine out in a shot. She scans the contents page. “Top ten Aussie bachelors of 2007. Sounds like inspiration to me.”

  “I thought you were taken.”

  “No harm in window shopping.”

  She turns to the relevant page as I sketch three rectangular panels in my book.

  Selena gives me a coy smile. “So you were saying … have Benny and I …?”

  “Forget it.”

  “If you’re thinking about screwing my brother, I don’t want to know.”

  “Selena!”

  She loves shocking people by coming straight out with things other people would never say. I look around, checking no-one has heard. Luckily they’re all too busy talking, sketching, trawling books for ideas.

  “So are you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You brought it up!”

  I trace unnecessarily around the edges of my three panels, making them darker and darker. I’m buying time. I have no idea what I want to fill them with.

  After a few moments, Selena inches her chair closer to mine, lowering her voice to a whisper. “The answer is yes. Benny and I have …”

  She bobs her head to finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to say the words.

  I’m surprised and hurt. I knew they’d come close but … “What happened to telling me?”

  “We only did it a few weeks ago. In the holidays.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t say something.”

  She shrugs. There’s not much she can do about it now.

  I hesitate, then ask, “Did you like it?”

  “You know …”

  For a girl who loves making outrageous statements, she’s strangely non-committal.

  I probe again. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away? We had a deal.”

  The deal was whoever sleeps with anyone first has to tell the other, with all the gory details. We made the deal after watching She’s the Man one night. We both love trashy chick flicks.

  Selena says, “I was going to tell you … it just didn’t come up.” She grins. “No pun intended.”

  I’m not letting her off that easy. “So?”

  She pretends to be engrossed in her magazine, before saying softly, “So … maybe I wish I’d waited. Just a bit, you know … ’til I felt totally ready.”

  A rare look of vulnerability flickers across her face.

  Then it’s gone as she says, “So don’t hurry to screw my brother, okay? God, even the thought of it is enough to make me want to vomit.”

  I shoot her a mock-disdainful look and say, “Haha.”

  I’m more confused than ever.

  *

  A car horn blares around the community. It comes closer, louder, fuller, rounding the corner of our street, then fades away in the direction of the oval. It means someone has died. Someone dies in Yirrkala every few weeks.

  I keep getting dressed for school.

  Mum comes to my door, leaning on the doorframe as she says, “You know what I hate? I hate that when I hear that horn now I think, ‘Who died this time?’ and then I think, ‘How will that inconvenience me?’ You know? Who’s not going to be painting? Who won’t come to work because of the funeral? That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  “You’re just being honest.”

  “Sometimes I think I’ve been here too long.”

  Mum’s words surprise me. I can’t imagine her anywhere else.

  For a moment, I dare to hope. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

  If she left, then I could too. Not now, but for uni. We could both move to Sydney.

  She sighs. “Of course not. This is my home …”

  The thin wisp of hope vanishes in the air.

  Mum gives me a wry smile. “… not that it’s been great for my love life.”

  Her mobile is ringing. She moves back into the lounge room to answer it.

  I brush my hair and tie it back, checking my reflection in the mirror. Selena is always on at me to wear makeup, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. For one, it’s expensive. For two, I don’t really know how to put it on.

  Mum reappears at the door. Her face is ashen. “I feel even worse now. It was family of Rripipi’s, a nephew or something. Young guy, died in a car crash. I told your momu we’d pick her up and go in to the morgue. Will you come?”

  “I’ve got school.”

  “Rosie, this is family.”

  “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

  “You promised you’d make an effort –”

  “If I knew him, if it was close family, I’d be there.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  Mum’s shoulders sag. I know she hates dealing with these things alone, but I stand firm. “Come on, Mum. You’ll have Momu with you.”

  I grab an apple from the fridge and head out the door.

  As I close it behind me, the car horn wails past our house again.

  22.

  2000

  We are standing in front of Bolu’s body, in the lounge room of Rripipi’s house. I stare at his still face. He could be sleeping, but I know he’s not. His eyes are closed and there’s a red and gold fleecy blanket pulled carefully up to his neck. All around us there are people crying, wailing, mourning. I can hear the constant clap of bilma and smell the waft of smoke.

  Nona is sobbing. She sits next to the body and gently strokes her dad’s face. She gestures me towards her but I’m frozen to the spot. I don’t want to touch him. I’ve never seen a dead body before – well, not exposed and not this close up. I’ve been to funerals, of course, lots of them, but Mum always holds me back from the parts she thinks are too distressing. Today, she didn’t have a choice. Dad drove in from Gapuwiyak as soon as he heard the news. He insisted I be here for all of it.

  I feel something push against my leg and look down. Rripipi is tearing at her hair, doubled over on the concrete floor. Her grief is so raw I can hardly bare to look. Mum pulls me aside as two aunties bend to help her up. She throws herself down again. I hear the slap of skin on concrete. I
cling to Mum’s legs. She wraps her arms around me.

  Guḻwirri appears at our side.

  Mum hugs her and kisses her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Yapa.”

  I hear Guḻwirri murmur, “It was a heart attack. This morning. Eight o’clock this morning. We’re waiting for the boys to come back from Bawaka.”

  The crowd shifts and jostles. A group of men approach the body, holding spears. I catch sight of my dad amongst them. A slither of white between black. He’s the only Ŋäpaki there. He knows the dance, though. The motions, the ritual. He has taken part in this so many times – he has done it since childhood – but this time it’s for his brother. His eyes look wild and angry and sad and lost.

  Mum touches my arm. “Come on. Let’s go outside.”

  I look back at Nona. I want her to come with us. I want us to be together. But she is bent over her dad’s face now, kissing his forehead.

  She doesn’t see me at all.

  She doesn’t see anyone but her dad, lying there motionless. Dead.

  I let Mum lead me out.

  23.

  2007

  Art is cancelled so that all the senior classes, Years 10 to 12, can attend a “talk”. We stroll in a haphazard line from the art room to the hall. Normally, I’d hate to miss Art, but today I’m relieved. My triptych is still three blank rectangles.

  Ms Naylor slows to walk beside me. “How are you feeling, Rosie?”

  “Okay.”

  Selena watches on, curious.

  Our teacher tentatively asks, “Did you know him? The boy who died? He lived out at Yirrkala, didn’t he?”

  I shrug, embarrassed by her attention.

  “Was he a friend of yours? Or family?”

  I’m careful to be honest. “I didn’t know him.” I want to end the conversation.

  She finally takes the hint. “Well, if you need extra time for your assignment … you know … if you have to attend ceremonies or anything like that.”

  “Thanks, Miss. I’ll let you know.”

  She picks up speed, heading to the front of the line.

  Selena grins. “Lucky you. Extra time. Why say no?”

  *

  Selena and I take a seat on the cool floorboards. Mrs Reid is up the front of the hall, calling for attention. Once we’re quiet she says, “Good morning. We called this meeting this morning for a very sad reason. I’m sure some of you already know … a boy died last night. It’s not culturally appropriate to say his name, but some of you may have known him, particularly the Yolŋu students. He came here a few years ago before transferring out to Yirrkala.”

  The students are silent. Death is common in Yirrkala, but in town it’s still rare.

  All faces are turned to the front, listening intently as Mrs Reid continues. “I know there are rumours flying around, so here are the facts. The boy was hanging out with his friends in Yirrkala. They were drinking. The boy decided he wanted cigarettes. He asked around and couldn’t find any. He decided to drive into town and crashed into a tree.”

  She takes a deep breath. “There are a lot of issues wrapped up in this. He shouldn’t have been drinking. Or driving, for that matter. But the fact he died is a tragedy. He was only fifteen years old.”

  There’s a wave of mutters. I hear some kids near us trying to figure out who it was.

  Mrs Reid waves her hands to indicate silence. “If you want to talk about this, there are people here for you. The school counsellor, Mr Martin. Myself. Mrs Roberts, your vice principal. Any of your teachers. If this worries you, please talk to us. We’re here.”

  She winds up the meeting, and students move to talk in clusters. Some approach the teachers up the front. Selena takes my hand and starts to pull me across the hall. I can see her target; Nick and Benny are chatting to two of their basketball mates, Reggie and Matt. Matt is a lanky guy with acne. Reggie’s short, nuggety and fast. I’m not huge fans of either of them, but apparently they’re good players, perfect for two on two.

  Nick laughs with them about something and they shove each other, pretending to scuffle. Benny forces a smile. Aiden walks past and glares. I wonder what that’s about. We reach the boys. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Not much.”

  “Sad, huh?” says Selena.

  Benny nods, “For sure.”

  The others are still sniggering.

  Selena looks at them. “What’s so funny?”

  Nick says, “Nothing.”

  Reggie and Matt are smirking.

  Nick takes my hand. “Early recess. Reckon the canteen’d be open?”

  *

  I walk to the car park to meet Nick for my regular ride home from school.

  Aiden is slouching towards the bus stop, scrolling through his iPod. As he passes me, he mutters, “Don’t you catch the bus home anymore?”

  My step falters. I turn to look at him. “What?”

  He blushes, embarrassed, but repeats it anyway. “Don’t you catch the bus after school anymore?”

  His tone is strange, like he’s annoyed or something.

  I try to keep things light. “Got a better offer.”

  “From Nick Dad-bought-me-a-brand-new-ute Bell?”

  I’m taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. “Are you guys not friends?”

  “Are you joking? The guy’s a racist dickhead.”

  My eyes narrow in confusion.

  “Did you hear him in there? After the meeting? He was singing ‘Another One Bites the Dust’.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, he did. I heard him.”

  This whole conversation is surprising. I’ve never heard Aiden say more than a few words – and now he comes out with this?

  He scowls. “You’d better run or you’ll miss your ride.”

  He shoves his headphones in and keeps walking.

  *

  I sit quietly in the passenger seat as Nick starts the engine.

  He looks over at me, sensing my mood. “You good to go?”

  “Yep.”

  He turns the radio on. Triple J fills the space between us. We start to drive out of town. Aiden’s words jostle and argue in my mind. Would Nick really sing “Another One Bites the Dust”? Sure, I’ve heard him make jokes before, but a fifteen-year-old boy just died. To laugh about it would be heartless. And Nick’s not heartless; he’s sensitive and kind. But why would Aiden make something like that up?

  We’re approaching Yirrkala now. The signs pass in a blur. I’ve noticed at the bottom of the new one someone has stencilled No Intervention, no racism. It’s done in the exact same font as the rest of the sign so it blends in. I’ve thought about pointing it out to Nick, not for the politics, but as clever graffiti. Graffiti for a reason, a cause. But now doesn’t seem like the right time. We swing left into the community, and Rripipi’s house comes into view. A line of bright-coloured skirts hang drying on the verandah. She’s sitting out the front on the beat-up blue couch. I recognise her grey afro immediately. She raises a hand in greeting. I wave back as we zoom past, leaving a trail of light brown dust dancing on the road behind us.

  Nick asks, “Who was that?”

  “Who?”

  “The old lady with the crazy hair. I’ve seen you wave to her before.”

  I take a deep breath. Here goes. “She’s my adopted grandmother.”

  I watch him carefully, gauging his reaction. He doesn’t flinch or falter, just asks, “So she adopted you?”

  I try to make it easy to understand. “Not me – my grandmother. She was adopted here, ages ago, by that old lady. The whole thing trickles down, though, which means I’m adopted too.”

  “I’ve heard about this.”

  I’m surprised. “Yeah?”

  “Why do they adopt people?”

  I think before answering. “I guess it’s their way of placing you in their world.”

  I am almost holding my breath, hoping he understands. He nods, like he’s considering my answer. Then he says, “Yeah, but that
doesn’t really mean anything, does it?”

  I flinch. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know Jono from school? In my year? He was adopted. I remember him telling me about it. He said he’d see some guy at the beach and they’d say, ‘You’re my uncle.’ And Jono was like, ‘Sure, whatever, I don’t know you.’ Or a lady would see him in town and ask for money – you know, ’cause he’s her ‘brother’. It’s a bit of a scam, isn’t it?”

  I try not to sound emotional. “I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “I guess it’s like any extended family. With some people you’re close, others you’re not. You can see a lot of them, or a little. You can hang out with them, or never see them.”

  “Like you.”

  I’m about to protest, when I realise he’s right. I say, “I used to do stuff with them … when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Mum and the ladies went fishing almost every day. And we went on bush trips – looking for munydjutj’ – these little berries – or wild honey, or yiḏaki – trees to make didgeridoos. Or camping at Nona’s dad’s homeland, Bawaka. It’s amazing out there. We’d go hunting …”

  “You mean serious hunting? Like, with a spear?”

  I’m disappointed that out of all my precious memories this is what he’s seized on, but I’m also relieved. I’m sure Aiden’s got it wrong. Nick’s not racist, he just doesn’t know much about Yolŋu culture. A lot of people don’t. It’s hardly a crime.

  As he pulls into my driveway, I manage a small smile. “Yeah. With a spear.”

  *

  “Look who followed me home.”

  Mum smiles over at me from where she’s buttering bread in the kitchen. I see the profile of a Yolŋu guy sitting in one of our armchairs, a small girl curled sleeping on his lap. He turns to look up at me. “Hi, Yapa.”

  I realise it’s Lomu. I manage a surprised, “Hello.”

  I’m glad Nick didn’t come in.

  Mum explains, “I gave your wäwa and gäthu a lift back from the hospital. I wanted Lomu to come and see Bill about work.”

  I ask, “Any luck?”

  Lomu shakes his head. “Bäyŋu. Wasn’t there.”

  Mum says, “Maybe if you come tomorrow morning. I know he needs someone to prepare barks. I mean, if you’re sure you want to work.”