Nona and Me Page 5

  But I don’t want him to meet her. I don’t want her to meet him. And I can’t explain why, maybe not even to myself.

  I move quickly down the corridor and open Selena’s door, quiet as can be. Benny is sprawled out, taking up most of the double bed, wearing just boxers. Selena is … is she naked under that sheet? I try to keep my eyes averted while I sneak in and extract my bag. As I’m emerging I hear Mum slam the troopie door outside. Nick comes out of the kitchen, holding something up. I squint a little then realise what it is. Mum’s tea-towel dress.

  He’s grinning. “Is this yours?”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “In the laundry. I was looking for a tea towel and I think I found ten.”

  I grab it off him and stuff it in my bag.

  Nick can’t contain his laughter now. “Is that a dress?”

  “No.”

  “It looked like a dress. Did you make that?”

  “No! Shut up!”

  He’s laughing hysterically.

  I can see Mum walking up the driveway. I start for the door, desperate to head her off.

  “I’d better run.”

  Nick is still grinning. “No kiss goodbye?”

  I turn to face him, unsure. Is he joking? I don’t want to run back and kiss him if he is. But I don’t want to snub him if he’s not. I can hear Mum’s footsteps approaching the front door.

  Nick makes the decision for me. He walks straight up to me and kisses me on the lips. “See you soon, yeah?”

  My heart is singing as I step out the door, quickly shutting it behind me. Mum is one step away from knocking. She stops, surprised to see me appear.

  I say, “Hello.”

  She looks confused. I quickly make up an excuse. “The other girls are still sleeping.”

  “Ah.”

  We walk to the car and get in. I sneak a look back at the house, hoping for another glimpse of Nick, but I can’t see him.

  Mum starts the rattly engine, and asks, “How was the party?”

  “Good.”

  She glances over at me. “You look tired.”

  I don’t usually lie to my mum. I never need to. But today I do. “We stayed up talking.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “Your breath.”

  I freeze. I didn’t get to brush my teeth. I can’t tell – do I smell of beer? Or Anya’s wine and orange concoction?

  She takes another sniff. “BBQ sauce.”

  I’m so relieved I laugh. “I had a bacon and egg roll for breakfast.”

  “I thought you said the girls were still sleeping?”

  I swear, mothers have a sixth sense. She never asks me this many questions. It’s like she smells my lies along with the BBQ sauce. I cover quickly, “They are. I just made one for myself. I was starving.”

  She notices the tea-towel dress poking out the top of my bag.

  “Did people like the dress?”

  I try to keep a straight face as I say, “Loved it. Total hit.”

  *

  It’s Monday morning and I’m walking into the school yard. I feel like everyone is watching, talking about me behind cupped hands. Did you hear what happened at Libby’s party? Nick Bell and Rosie Grains hooked up. She’s had a crush on him forever.

  Then I remind myself that no-one else knows what happened, beyond us leaving together. Just me and Nick. And Benny and the girls. Both Selena and Anya called for the goss on Sunday. I told Anya the basics; Selena got the full story. She was a bit grossed out at the thought of her brother jumping on me, but decided her sisterly disgust was a small price to pay if Nick and I become a real couple and can double-date with her and Benny.

  I head towards our spot on the benches. Even from a distance I can see that Nick and Benny are already there, playing basketball. My stomach somersaults. Nick shoots a hoop and announces his victory with a loud holler. I’m almost holding my breath as he looks up at me and, yes, winks. Acknowledgement. Encouragement? Is it possible that we might become an actual couple? I’ve never had a real boyfriend before. Xavier Martin hardly counts – we only kissed once last year, just before he moved to Perth.

  Selena and Anya are grinning as I sit down next to them. I have a sudden flashback to how things were when Nona arrived. The girls huddled here, talking about me in whispers. Things couldn’t be more different now. Selena hugs me like we haven’t seen each other in years. Anya moves back to make room for me in the middle, forcing a smile. I can tell she’s feeling on the outer. I know because, until lately, that’s been me. Three isn’t a good number for a group of girls. Someone’s always left out.

  Nick comes over and sits on the bench parallel to ours, slinging one leg either side. He grins at me, “Morning.”

  Benny sits down right behind Selena and wraps her in a hug. She squeals and shoves him away. “Gross! You’re all sweaty!”

  But they’re laughing.

  Benny leans in and kisses Selena. Anya pretends to throw up. “No PDAs, please.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  It’s a standard retort from Selena; she uses it all the time. But today Anya pulls back a little. “Yeah, I’m really jealous. Why couldn’t someone dry-hump me in front of everyone at the party?”

  She means it as a joke, but doesn’t manage to hide the bite in her voice.

  Nick says, “Oooooo.”

  Benny says, “Please. We were a little classier than that.”

  Selena is not impressed. “Benny, you’d better start asking your friends who wants to hook up with Anya.”

  It’s a classic Selena put-down. Backhanded. Slightly ambiguous.

  Anya tries to pretend it’s all still just jokes. “Not necessary.”

  “Oh no. I insist.”

  I look from Selena to Anya and back again, wondering what will happen next. The bell goes.

  Benny kisses Selena goodbye, teasing Anya with a “No tongues this time. That okay with the PDA police?”

  Selena shoots Anya a look, daring her to answer.

  Nick falls in next to me. He lets his fingers graze mine. “See you at recess?”

  I inhale delight. “Yes. Here?”

  “Where else?”

  He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and he’s gone.

  Recess. Here. Today they are two of the sweetest words in the English language.

  8.

  1997

  We’re standing outside the transition classroom of Nhulunbuy Primary. Me, Nona, our mums and the smalls. The sky is an ominous dark grey, heavy with rain. I am dressed in a brand-new school uniform; the tag scratches at the back of my neck. Shiny black shoes pinch my toes. I eye Nona’s bare feet enviously.

  Other kids and their parents hurry past, and disappear inside. Mum holds her hand out towards me. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

  Nona’s voice is small. “Bye, Rosie.”

  Tears well in my eyes. Panic floods my chest. “I don’t want to … Mummy … please don’t make me go …”

  Mum crouches down and folds me in her arms. “Rosie, everyone’s gotta go to school. Nona will be starting tomorrow.”

  “I want to go with Nona.”

  She tucks my hair back behind my ears. “Oh, darling. You know you going to Top School wouldn’t work …”

  Top School is in Yirrkala. It’s bilingual. They teach in Yolŋu Matha and English.

  I look at Mum with pleading eyes. “Then why can’t Nona come here?”

  Guḻwirri’s voice is gentle but firm. “Nona has to learn in her own language. It’s important for her. To be strong.”

  I know she won’t relent. Guḻwirri works at Top School as an assistant teacher. There’s no way that Nona won’t go there.

  My cheeks are wet with tears.

  Nona says, “Don’t cry, yapa. I can see you after school.” Guḻwirri nods. “Yo. Every day.”

  I look out at the playground. The smalls have run off and are playing on the
slide. Yumalil laughs as she helps Lilaba up the steps. They slide down together, one in front of the other. I feel a deep yearning in my chest.

  A few spits of rain hit my cheeks.

  I look back at Mum and take her hand.

  I follow her, slowly, inside.

  9.

  2007

  I text Nick. Nick texts me. Just stuff like:

  Wot R U doing now?

  Science :-(

  BLTs 4 lunch @ canteen. Want me 2 get U 1 2?

  YES. YUM.

  But these silly little things make my day. Every time I feel my phone vibrate with a message, my heart starts dancing. It’s been a twenty-four-seven disco lately.

  At home, Mum starts to get suspicious.

  Beep beep. I quick-draw my phone.

  “Is that Selena again?”

  “Um, Anya.”

  She is less likely to get annoyed if she thinks it’s Anya. I’m not ready to tell her about Nick. Not until I know we’re a definite, steady couple. We’ve sat together at school both days this week, but he hasn’t mentioned the weekend, let alone the D word (date). Still, it’s only Tuesday. There’s still hope.

  Over dinner with Mum and Graham, I feel my mobile vibrate. I try to sneak my phone out of my pocket and Mum finally snaps.

  “For God’s sake, put that thing away! We’re eating dinner here.”

  She glances at Graham for backup, but he just looks amused. Graham’s her boyfriend. There have been a couple since Dad. It’s hard in a community like this; people pass through. I get that. None of my primary-school friends stuck around more than a few years. Lily moved to Perth, and Evie to Karratha. Dana went to boarding school in Queensland. That’s how we ended up, floating and lost, just me and Anya, in Year 7.

  Graham’s been working as a doctor at the clinic for almost six months now. I know Mum is hoping he’ll renew his contract and stay. I have to admit, he’s a catch for an old guy – smart, with a dry sense of humour and twinkly eyes.

  He’s teasing now. “Teenagers, huh?”

  Graham can always get a smile out of Mum. She shakes her head. “Well, honestly.”

  Graham says, “We had a staff dinner down in Melbourne before I left. One of the younger nurses just sat on her phone the whole time, laughing at messages that came in and replying. At a staff dinner! As we were eating the meal, and during the toasts. She didn’t seem to think it was rude at all.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t even know,” says Mum.

  I roll my eyes. “I know, okay?”

  Mum finishes her mouthful of steak. “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because … what if it’s something important?”

  “That Anya forgot to tell you in the last ten texts?”

  Graham is laughing as he says, “Give her a break, Jen. Go on, check your phone.”

  They’re both looking at me now. I open the message and read it. It says:

  Slo cooked lamb 4 dinner. My fave. Wot R U having?

  Mum prompts, “Well? Is it important?”

  I tuck the phone back into my pocket. “No.”

  “There you go. No phones at the dinner table,” says Mum. “Put your phone where I can see it, please.”

  I reluctantly place it next to me on the table.

  Mum says, “Not there. Put it away somewhere.”

  “Geez, fussy!”

  As I move it to the kitchen bench, the phone vibrates again. I sneak a glance at the screen. It’s another message from Nick.

  The rest of dinner is torture. I shovel it down, as fast as I can, listening to Mum and Graham rave on about the pros and cons of technology and how all teenagers are tech-addicts. Then I put my empty plate on the sink, grab my phone from the bench and sprint back to my room. I open Nick’s message. Please, please, please let it be about the weekend. It’s not. It’s a reference to The Simpsons. It just says:

  Flanders!!

  This is something we’ve started doing, texting quotes from stuff we watched on Saturday night. I smile and text back:

  Doh!

  We could go on like this all night. And we do.

  *

  Dad calls every Wednesday night at seven thirty, just after the news. It’s one of the few things he and Mum still have in common – they both love the ABC. Which is lucky for them, because it’s one of the only channels that gets reception in Yirrkala. I keep begging Mum to get Foxtel but she says it’s “not in the budget”, which really means “I like having a monopoly over the TV.”

  Tonight, she clicks off the news just as our landline starts to ring. I know it’s him, so I pick up the phone and put on a horrified voice as I say, “Did you see that story about Christmas Island? More boat people jumping the queue.”

  I’m joking, of course. Dad hates that expression. He’s a total lefty. I can hear the smile in his voice as he counters, “Coming in the back door.”

  “Taking the place of real refugees.”

  “Shame!”

  His low, throaty chuckle reverberates through the phone. “What’s happening in Yirrkala?”

  He always asks this, and the truth is, I never know. After Nona left, I stopped spending real time in the community. Bush trips weren’t the same, so I stopped going. Now I pretty much just go from home to the bus stop into town. I wave at local people, but I never stop to talk. I don’t know what I’d say if I did.

  Dad is waiting for an answer, so I say, “I’d have to consult the expert on that one.”

  I call out, “Mum, what’s happening in Yirrkala?”

  She calls back from the kitchen. “Actually, sad news today. That old lady died. You know the one in the red house? Ganiwu’s grandma.”

  When someone dies here you’re not allowed to say their name. Cultural reasons. I relay the news. Dad knows exactly who she’s talking about anyway. “She’s been sick for a while, hasn’t she?”

  I don’t want to become stuck in the middle of a conversation about people I hardly know, so I say, “Do you want to talk to Mum about it?”

  Dad is quick to answer. He and Mum generally avoid talking. “No, no. It’s okay. How are you, anyway, blossom?”

  “Good.”

  “How’s school?”

  “You know. Just the usual.”

  I take the cordless phone into my room and shut the door so Mum can’t hear – hypothetically, anyway, since the walls in our house are thin fibro and stop thirty centimetres short of the ceiling. Mum reckons it’s to allow ventilation, but I’m convinced it’s to torture teenagers by eliminating any sense of privacy.

  My voice is almost a whisper as I get to the juicy bit. “Except … I’ve kind of started seeing someone.”

  “You mean like a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Selena’s brother.”

  “Ah, the infamous Selena.” Dad’s never met Selena, but he’s heard a lot about her. Unlike with Mum, I tell him almost everything.

  “His name’s Nick. He’s in Year 12.”

  “Year 12?”

  I can hear the concern in his voice, so I quickly add, “He’s really nice, Dad. You’d like him.”

  I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but it’s a fair bet Dad will never meet Nick. Dad lives in an Aboriginal community that’s even more remote than ours. It’s called Yilpara and is about three hours south of here, AKA in the middle of nowhere. In the dry season, when the road’s open, he drives up once a month to get supplies. We usually meet up for a coffee or a milkshake after school, but he’s always keen to head off so he doesn’t have to do the whole drive back in the dark. I can’t imagine him hanging around just to meet my boyfriend.

  Dad asks, “What’s he into?”

  I think of my dad’s interests: music, culture, Indigenous politics, carpentry. I want him to like the idea of Nick, so I think of his posters and say, “He likes … nature (surfing) and people (girls) and art (graffiti).”

  It’s half-true.

&n
bsp; “Does your mum like him?”

  “Um, I haven’t really told her about him yet.”

  “Rosie …”

  “I don’t know if it’s serious.”

  “You called him your boyfriend.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I don’t know yet.”

  “Semantics.”

  “You know what Mum’s like. Remember when I told her I liked Andrew Miller in Year 6?”

  “Not really.”

  Dad left us when I was in Year 2 so he’s a bit vague on anything after that.

  “She made this huge big deal about it and kept asking me every day if I’d talked to him yet and teasing me about having a crush and asking if I wanted her to invite him and his parents over for dinner. It was excruciating. And so uncool. She’s not like you, Dad.”

  “Is that a compliment to me or an insult to your mother?”

  “Both?”

  “You should give her a chance, blossom. She wants to know about your life – that’s no big crime.”

  “We just don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “What kind of relationship do you have, then?”

  “She talks, I listen. Not the other way around.” My words have gradually dried up, between when Nona left for Elcho and now, while Mum’s have expanded to fill the silence.

  Dad sighs. “Well, at least you’re talking to me, I guess.”

  “Exactly.”

  I change the subject, raising my voice to normal pitch again. “What’s happening in Yilpara?”

  His voice becomes animated. “It’s crazy here at the moment, Rosie. There’s so much positive stuff going on. We want to trial this tourism thing, kind of like what they do in Bawaka now. Having tourists and corporates come and visit and experience Yolŋu culture.”

  I’m only part listening as I say, “Sounds good.”

  “And the Blue Mud Bay case is progressing. It could be a real breakthrough – if we win sea rights …”

  A message beeps on my mobile. Nick.

  Want 2 hang out on Sat?

  Finally! I text back, grinning, as I “mmm” and “right” and “yeah” to Dad.

  4 sure.

  Dad talks on, not even noticing that I’m hardly listening now. Once you get him talking about Yilpara politics, he can go on forever.