Between Us Page 5

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why she was checking him out in class.

  Why she came to lunch.’

  ‘I never said it was!’

  ‘Well, Mac practically did. And you laughed.’

  ‘So? I’m easily amused.

  I laugh at knock-knock jokes, for Godsake!’

  I can barely look at them.

  ‘I’m gonna head off.’

  Will reaches out.

  ‘Wait. Where are you going to go?’

  I shrug him off.

  Mel says, ‘We’re coming.’

  Her voice is firm.

  They trail me out of the school grounds.

  As we reach the main road,

  Mel slings an arm over my shoulder

  and pulls me close.

  ‘Jono, don’t get into one of your funks about this.

  It’s not worth it.’

  I say, ‘I don’t funk.’

  But the storm clouds are already gathering around my head.

  ANA

  Zahra explodes as soon as our feet hit the stairs. ‘I can’t believe you made us sit there the whole lunch. Do you know how much trouble we could get into if we’re caught smoking?’

  ‘But we didn’t smoke.’

  She barely hears. ‘They write it down as a character concern on your visa application. I’m not joking – if you’re underage it goes on your file. It happened to a boy just before you came and next thing you know his application for refugee status was denied.’

  I feel my blood run cold. I imagine Maman’s terror if that happened to us. I say, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  Zahra tugs at the long sleeves she wears under her uniform despite the heat. An ever-present reminder of the scars beneath. A private horror story carved into her skin. She went through hell in Iran, and she and her mother have already been denied refugee status twice.

  Guilt overwhelms me. I say, ‘We don’t have to sit with them ever again.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll be invited again anyway.’

  She’s probably right. The mood changed after I told them we’re in detention. I thought Ibrahim might say something supportive, but he was silent. Maybe he doesn’t like people who come by boat. In English class one day he said he waited years in a refugee camp in Kenya.

  Zahra is ranting now. ‘And all the swearing. And did you see those two kissing? Like they thought they were in the movies. And the way they all sat? Legs out. That boy – Mac – even scratched himself … down there.’

  I suppress a smile and ask, ‘How did you know that girl? Mel?’

  Zahra keeps her eyes on the stairs. ‘I had Music with her last year.’

  ‘She remembered your name.’

  For a moment, Zahra looks uneasy. But then her usual cheeky, flippant manner returns. ‘Well, I am pretty memorable, Anahita.’

  JONO

  I sink into black,

  as we sit in the park

  at East Point.

  Will pulls out a couple of pre-rolled doobies.

  We smoke in silence,

  Mel and Will perched

  one either side of me.

  Like that will make me feel like

  I’m not alone.

  I think of all the people

  – all the women –

  in my life

  who have left.

  Mum, then Priya,

  and Lara.

  Now Ana’s rejection,

  another weight on my feet.

  Stupid to think …

  Stupid to hope …

  Stupid to say …

  I smoke

  until black becomes grey.

  KENNY

  I stare into the half-empty fridge, trying to construct a meal in my mind. I can hardly think straight with the relentless thrashing of drums from the shed in the backyard. Jonathan is at it in his little sweat box again. His friend Will gave him the drum kit when he got sick of playing it. I wouldn’t let him have it in the house, so Jonathan cleared a space in the shed. I thought – no, hoped – that he’d soon give up. But drumming seems to be the one thing Jonathan has chosen to stick with.

  I pull a carton of eggs from the fridge, and place a frying pan on the stove. A simple dinner.

  I wonder if Jonathan has eaten yet, and open the back door. The noise becomes louder; an assault of angry, thudding beats. The last thing I want is another confrontation. But the boy has to eat. He’s too skinny as it is.

  I approach the shed, reminding myself that I’m a dragon: fiery and strong. But that’s part of the problem, really; Jonathan was born in the Year of the Dragon too. We always seem to be clashing over something.

  I open the shed door. It slams against the lawnmower, sending bikes clattering against the wall; unused relics of a past long gone. The lawn where the kids used to play totem tennis was dug up to make Minh’s garden. One of the bikes is Roxanne’s, rusty and cobwebbed. The other two are Lara’s and Jonathan’s, both too small for them now. I should sell them, really. I could use the extra cash; the latest electricity bill is sitting on the bench inside, and my car rego is almost due.

  I wave for attention, but Jonathan either ignores me or doesn’t see.

  I try again, calling, ‘Jonathan! Jonathan!’

  The banging finally stops.

  ‘What?’ He glares at me.

  He’s been smoking again. I can see it in his eyes, smell it on his clothes, his hair.

  The dragon opens one eye. It’s an effort to keep my voice even. ‘You want dinner?’

  ‘Nuh.’ He starts drumming again. The dragon stands up on his haunches. I reach over and snatch one of his drumsticks out of the air. The wood stings as it slaps my palm.

  Jonathan pushes his stool backwards and stands. ‘What the fuck, Dad? Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

  I hold the drumstick tighter. Fury floods my veins. I never talked to my parents like this back in Vietnam. I never would’ve dared.

  Jonathan is ranting now. ‘Seriously, stay the fuck out of my life. Why do you always have to interfere?’ He pushes his face forwards into mine; it is angry and distorted. ‘Did you tell a girl from your work to look for me? Did you?’

  My whole body contracts. It’s all the confirmation he requires.

  ‘You think I need people like that fucking bothering me at school?’

  My mind struggles to catch up. Jonathan must’ve met the girl from the bus and told her to get lost, probably in worse language than that. I tell myself I should be relieved. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened in a potentially bad situation. A situation I created.

  But that attitude.

  That language.

  The dragon’s breath is hot in my ear.

  I tell myself to breathe. Just breathe. Stay cool.

  I hold the drumstick out towards him, then catch sight of something on the floor. An iPhone, plugged into an extension cord running out the window of the shed.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He follows my gaze. ‘Will loaned it to me.’

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  I pick up the phone and unplug it. ‘No phone means no phone, not that you borrow your friend’s.’

  Confiscating his phone has been the only discipline technique that’s worked. And now it seems I don’t even have that.

  ‘Fine then,’ he says. ‘I’ll give it back.’

  He holds out his hand, but I shake my head. It’s a small victory but I’ll take what I can get.

  ‘No. I’ll return it myself tomorrow,’ I say.

  ANA

  I sleep fitfully, skimming over dark pools of nightmare, and wake gasping as a crack of lightning seems to explode right next to my head. A rumble of thunder follows quickly after, the sound crashing over me, as powerful as the swell of an enormous wave. It carries me up into the dark then slams me down again. Hard.

  The rhythm of panic is loud in my head. My eyes search the dark void around me. I see a glowing exit sign, then another flash momentarily illum
inates the space.

  I am on my mattress, on the floor, in our room.

  The earth beneath me trembles, then there’s a sudden onslaught of noise, as if thousands of people are throwing rocks at our roof. Rain. The storms here are violent – everything wild and larger than life.

  Frogs join in the cacophony. I’m scared of them; they are so loud. I picture enormous killer frogs waiting in ambush, croaking outside my door, and huddle down into the safety of my blanket, pulling it up around my shoulders.

  The fabric feels wet. And then it hits me. The sour, acrid smell.

  I realise Arash is whimpering; I didn’t even hear him above the roar of rain.

  ‘Ana … I wet the bed again.’

  He was toilet-trained just before we left Iran, but on Christmas Island he started to regress. On Nauru it got even worse. We put him in night nappies now, but they always seem to leak.

  I look to Maman, but – somehow, miraculously – she is still asleep. I don’t want to wake her, so I push the urine-drenched blanket to one side and stand, lifting Arash up and out of the wet sheets. He latches his small arms around my neck, as another rumble of thunder crashes through our room. I hold him close, feeling the sticky warmth of his little body.

  ‘It’s okay, Arash. It’s okay. I’ll clean you up.’

  KENNY

  I ring the doorbell and wait, looking around the vast tiled porch. The morning sunlight makes it gleam pearly white. I hear the click of heels approaching the door from inside. Will’s mother, Tracy, opens the door, all cream linen and glittering earrings.

  ‘Kenny. Hi. Come in.’

  I follow her through the foyer – do houses have foyers? – into the kitchen. The back of the house is a series of sliding doors, facing a pool surrounded by tropical garden and manicured lawn. Inside, it is cool and air-conditioned; I rub sweat from my face, then wipe my hand on my shorts, hoping Tracy doesn’t see.

  Luckily she’s distracted by a fancy silver machine. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, no. I won’t stay. I just wanted to return this.’ I place the phone on the marble bench. ‘Jonathan borrowed it from Will.’

  ‘You didn’t have to bring it yourself.’

  ‘I was hoping we could talk. I wanted to ask … I think my son is drinking alcohol. Smoking marijuana too. I think he does these things with Will.’ I wait for a reaction, but Tracy just nods, so I continue. ‘I worry about what it does to their brains. They change, you know? The boys. They change. They’ve always played soccer, but this year, nothing. Drop out. And now Jonathan, he just sits around. Listening to terrible music. Banging the drums in the shed.’

  Tracy looks sympathetic. ‘Kenny, our boys, they’re growing up. We have to let them experiment. Make their own choices. Even if they do things we don’t like.’

  ‘I just worry, you know? Jonathan is … weak. Not like your son.’

  She frowns. ‘I don’t know about weak –’

  ‘Last year …’ I trail off, unable to find the words. The memory of seeing Jonathan like that still pains me. I’ve never been good at handling depression; Roxanne suffered from it too. I’m sure it’s part of what broke us, my inability to understand. I can barely comprehend the state Jonathan was in last year, even now. All I can do is try to protect him from ever getting that way again. Shield him from potential harm, as best I can.

  Tracy says, ‘Last year was tough for Jono. With Roxanne leaving, and then the breakup with Priya – he’s had a lot to deal with. But that doesn’t mean he’s not strong.’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘He’s said he doesn’t talk to his mum?’

  My skin prickles. I’m automatically defensive. ‘That’s his choice, not mine. She does call him. I can’t force him to answer.’ I struggle to bring the conversation back on track. ‘Tracy … about the drinking and the smoking …’

  ‘Sorry. Yes?’

  ‘I thought maybe could work together. Come up with a plan to get it under control.’

  I’m relieved to see her nodding agreement. ‘I’ve already laid down some ground rules. Jono didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I only let them drink and smoke here, where they’re fully supervised. I don’t want them out stoned or drunk in the street, mixing with God knows who. And they know if I catch them with anything else, anything harder, there’ll be trouble.’

  I stare at her, but she seems blind to my incredulity.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a stage they’re going through. It’ll pass. But, in the meantime, I hope it puts your mind at ease knowing I’m keeping an eye on it,’ she says.

  I force myself to nod.

  ANA

  I sit slumped in my chair in the computer lab. I’m so tired that the screen in front of me seems to blur. The teacher’s voice drones from the front of the room. Ms Turner isn’t here today. Jono and his friends aren’t either.

  The fill-in teacher has an American drawl to her words. ‘Now Ms Turner asked me to get you to look up things about Darwin. So use the internet – but don’t waste time. I’m going to be coming around checking you’re doing the right thing.’

  I feel her pause behind me, so I open the search engine and type in: Darwin. A stream of English appears in front of me, screeching down the page.

  The door to the computer lab opens and there’s Jono. Alone.

  Zahra was right: there haven’t been any more invitations to lunch. When he sees me, he scowls or looks away.

  He mumbles, ‘Sorry I’m late. Went to the classroom.’

  The American waves him in. ‘Take a seat.’

  He slinks past her to the closest spare computer, in the corner, next to me. I offer him a small smile, but he doesn’t seem to register that I’m here. He chucks his diary and a few pens on to the desk then logs on. Plugs his headphones into the monitor and clicks on the mouse.

  Video clips dance onto the screen. I can’t help myself. I have to watch. I wonder what kind of music it is and wish I could hear it too.

  He catches me looking and glares.

  I quickly glance away, but within a minute my gaze has crept back to his screen. The clip ends, and he types in something else. My eyes wander down to his fingers, the keyboard, his pens. His diary. Words cover it like tattoos. Up the top in big red letters someone has written NIPPY.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Jono’s voice startles me.

  I flinch, but force myself to respond. ‘What is the meaning?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nip-py.’ I point to the word.

  He’s dismissive. ‘You know, like, Nip. Japanese.’

  ‘You are Japanese?’

  ‘Nah, they just call me that ’cause of these.’ He pulls one of his eyes up at the corner, stretching it into a thin slit. ‘My Dad’s from Vietnam. You’ve seen him.’ He spits out his words, like they taste sour.

  I struggle to understand. ‘So you are from Vietnam?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been.’

  There is no warmth in his voice or his eyes. It is nothing like when we talked about birds.

  I think the conversation is over, but then he taps at his keyboard, and clicks on another YouTube clip and says, ‘This is the only Vietnam I know.’

  A picture of a white woman in a shiny kitchen pops up. I frown, confused.

  He says, ‘Not this. After the ad.’ He holds a headphone out in my direction.

  It seems like a small peace offering, so I take it and put it in my ear. We wait and the image changes.

  Suddenly we’re in a green field with a group of soldiers, guns blazing. A helicopter descends, and Jono nods towards the screen. ‘Have you seen this? Tropic Thunder. It’s fucking hilarious.’

  The hack of machine guns is loud in my ears. My body contracts, like it’s preparing me to run.

  I watch in horror as a solider is shot in the back of the head. Blood spurts upwards like a fountain. Another soldier tries to plug it with his finger, but the blood won’t stop, won’t stop, won’t stop.

  And Jono is laughing
. Laughing! ‘Watch this.’

  Blood is everywhere. In their faces. Their mouths. Their eyes. And I’m drowning, gasping for air.

  The headphone yanks out of my ear, as I push my chair back and stand up.

  The teacher blurs into my line of vision. ‘Are you alright?’

  But I can hardly see her. The world is a red smash of flesh.

  I stumble towards the door.

  JONO

  The teacher stares at me, accusingly.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.

  Should I take her to sick bay?’

  ‘Yes. Please. Just go.’

  I hurry into the hall.

  ‘Anahita, are you okay?’

  I don’t think she hears me.

  Her eyes are wild.

  Breath shallow in her chest.

  I say, ‘Maybe you should sit down.’

  But she keeps walking.

  I call after her. ‘Sick bay’s right here.’

  She finally swings around,

  her face a devastation of tears,

  eyes jagged black.

  I think she’s going to yell

  or scream

  or swear at me.

  But she doesn’t.

  Just pushes past me,

  through the sick bay door,

  and pulls it shut behind her so it:

  Clicks.

  Me.

  Out.

  I tell the teacher she’s okay.

  But I know she’s not.

  ANA

  I curl into myself on the sick bay bed, as the nurse bustles around me. Memories tumble like an avalanche into my mind. I see myself, younger and smaller, through the haze of years …

  … I am standing in the lounge-room doorway, trying to stay out of sight.

  Maman sits on the good couches, opposite an Iranian police officer. He has a pile of photos in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask, but if you could just have a look. We need you to identify him.’

  Maman takes the photos, hands trembling, and looks through them, one by one.

  I see a man’s body splayed on the side of the road.

  A skull of exploded red.

  A curve of grey-white bone.

  Baba’s nose.