Sick Bay Read online

  ‘It’s at a hotel!’ Elle squeals, reading ahead.

  ‘No way!’ Tessa says as she holds up the invite and a sprinkle of fairy dust flutters down over her lap and into the dirt.

  ‘Cool,’ I manage, pretending to be engrossed in reading. It’s not that I’m not excited about Lina’s party; it’s just that it’s complicated. And my friends don’t understand how complicated.

  Lina giggles and starts to explain the party. ‘It’s only three weeks away.’

  She pulls her phone out from her lunch box and shows Tessa and Elle photos of the pool, while I sit back and watch.

  My old friends in Sydney would never have a pool party at a hotel. They were into playing sport and fighting the boys for their right to use the oval at lunch. My new friends are different. They are all about clothes and hair and matching pencil cases. Lina has brown eyes, blonde, shaggy long hair and perfectly manicured nails. She’s been doing gymnastics since she was two and is always showing off. Tessa and Elle could be sisters. They’re both dark-haired and they wear shorts and stripy t-shirts. And the three of them always have their denim jackets tied around their waists.

  ‘Just look at the size of the beds!’ Lina tells me, holding the phone up to my face. I scroll through the photos. It all looks very glamorous.

  ‘It’s going to be great,’ I tell her.

  ‘I’m going to see if my mum will let me do something like that too,’ says Tessa.

  ‘Me too,’ says Elle.

  Lina laughs. ‘That’s an awesome idea. Let’s all have our sleepover birthday parties in hotels in the city. We’ll be like the hotel sleepover club.’

  I tune out while Tessa, Elle and Lina make plans that I doubt will involve me. Lina grabs my arm, her orange-painted nails flicks of foreign colour on my pale skin.

  ‘You can come, R, can’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, course. As if I’d miss it.’

  She sighs dramatically, relieved. ‘Just had a thought that maybe your mum might not let you … you know …’

  ‘She’ll let me. It’s your birthday!’ I might have to get my sister Jenna to help me work on Mum. She’s the expert in negotiation. And if that fails, then she just lies. To be honest, though, there’s no way Mum will let me go. As if.

  Lina beams at me. I smile back but start running scenarios through my head. Maybe I can suddenly get sick the night before the party. Excuse myself that way. It worked last time I was supposed to go into the city with them for an afternoon of shopping. I definitely can’t tell them the truth. That Mum doesn’t trust Lina’s mum to look after me – that Mum doesn’t trust me … I need to head the conversation elsewhere. And fast.

  ‘What’s up with Meg?’ I say.

  ‘Weirdo Meg?’ Lina asks.

  I can just imagine how Mum would react if she could hear this. She’s already down on my friends, but this would seal it.

  ‘Yeah. She was in Sick Bay last Thursday, but she wasn’t actually sick.’

  Tessa laughs and it’s a mean sound. ‘Sick in the head maybe!’

  ‘What’s with the slippers, though?’ I ask, knowing this is bound to reel them in.

  ‘Is she wearing slippers to school?’ Lina leans in, liking this bit of information.

  ‘I haven’t noticed.’ Elle shrugs. ‘I guess I don’t pay that much attention to her.’

  Pleased we’ve moved away from the birthday party, I stretch out my legs and watch my friends eating their lunches.

  ‘Yeah. Old ratty ones. I’ve dubbed her Slipper Girl,’ I say, feeling a flutter in my stomach. Sorry, Meg, I think, but you’re the perfect distraction.

  ‘Slipper Girl … I like it,’ says Lina, grinning at me. ‘Next time I see her, I’m going to call her that.’

  The flutter in my stomach just became a stampede.

  ‘What did Barber want you for?’ Lina asks. She abbreviates all the teachers’ names to surnames only.

  ‘She asked me to do a graduation speech.’

  ‘Not fair! I asked her if I could do one,’ says Lina sulkily.

  I hadn’t realised it was such a big deal. ‘You can write mine if you like. I don’t want to do it,’ I say lightly.

  ‘Who else is doing it?’ Lina asks.

  ‘Slipper Girl,’ I whisper, feeling slightly wobbly as I say it.

  Lina’s eyes widen and she starts shaking her head. ‘No. Way. She won’t even go to graduation! Angry!’

  Elle and Tess have slipped into silence. I’ve noticed it happens a bit when Lina is talking.

  ‘Seriously. Why would she choose her?’ Lina’s sharp brown eyes drill into my face like somehow I caused it to happen.

  ‘I don’t know. Apparently she’s a good writer,’ I say.

  ‘No point being a good writer if you haven’t got anything to say!’

  Lina leans back against the tree, and I can tell she’s thinking hard. Maybe I can ask Ms Barber to let Lina do the speech instead of me.

  ‘Look, R,’ says Lina. ‘Nick’s looking over here.’

  I turn and stare across at the oval. Kids are screaming and laughing and trying to play chasey right through the middle of a game of footy. A couple of teachers stand and chat on the edge, eating their sandwiches and making sure nobody gets hurt. It takes me a minute to see Nick. And when I do, I notice that he’s not looking over here. He’s actually playing soccer with his friends.

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘You missed it!’

  ‘Lina!’

  She shrugs.

  ‘TBH, I don’t like him anyway,’ I tell her.

  ‘He’s cute. I like his freckles,’ says Tessa.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll say,’ says Lina. ‘Really cute. You should go to 7-Eleven with him.’

  Without thinking, I laugh. ‘What for?’

  Lina looks hurt and it surprises me. ‘A Slurpee or something.’

  I laugh. ‘I don’t think Slurpees are on the list of Mum-approved foods. She’d kill me if she found out I had one.’

  ‘Well, you have to get better at hiding things, Riley,’ she says coldly.

  ‘If I’m going to have to lie about a Slurpee then I’d rather have one with you guys than with Nick Zarro!’

  Lina shrugs like she thinks I’m being uncool, but I know the only reason she wants me to hang around Nick Zarro is because she likes his friend – Matt Park. I lean back against the base of the gum tree and take out my thermos from my lunch bag.

  ‘Pumpkin and potato soup again?’ Elle asks as I unscrew the lid.

  ‘I’m hoping not, but we both know Mum is a creature of habit!’ I make a dramatic gesture to lift the lid, unveiling the orange gloop. ‘Yummy,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Tessa, trade?’

  She shrugs and holds up her sandwich. ‘It’s cheese.’

  I grin and pass over the thermos. Tessa’s mum is Italian and she makes these incredible cheese sandwiches with thick white chewy bread and soft sweet cheese. Tessa prefers my soup. And I prefer pretty much anyone’s lunch to mine.

  Every day Mum makes my lunch even though every day I offer to do my own. When she’s finished making it, she writes down the grams for everything and slides the Post-it Note into my lunch bag so I won’t have to work anything out. Bit tricky, though, when my lunch changes from a cup of specially measured pumpkin and potato soup to a carbohydrate dream.

  I should estimate grams for the cheese sandwich. I should be honest with Lina about her party. I should be able to test in front of my friends. Instead, I bite into the crust of the sandwich and listen to them chatter on and on about sleepovers, graduation dresses and boys and almost feel like I’m one of them.

  Meg

  It’s Tuesday afternoon so I leave The Bag at home and carry my dirty clothes, and some of Mum’s, to the laundromat a few blocks away. We do own a washing machine and clothes dryer, although they aren’t
exactly operational right now. Dad used to keep everything working in the house, so now he is gone, if things break down they stay broken down.

  A bit like Mum really.

  We could get someone in to fix stuff, but we can’t afford it. Still, at least we own the house. Dad bought it years ago with his first big carpentry job, long before the suburb became fancy.

  The Lost Sock is not the closest laundromat to our house, although it is the nicest. It also has the best name and a mural of lonely single socks that is always being added to by the lady who runs it. She’s the other reason I go there. She’s my dad’s younger sister, by five years, and she helps to start the machines without me having to put any coins in.

  Like me, her real name is Margaret, and like me, she doesn’t call herself that. I’m Meg and she’s Peggy. I don’t call her Aunty Peggy because she says it makes her feel old. Every few weeks she has different coloured hair. I like guessing what colour it will be, but I’m usually wrong. This week I’m betting it’s a straw-brittle yellow.

  It’s only a twenty-five-minute walk to The Lost Sock, although I have to pass about nine restaurants and cafes and the only things I’ve eaten today are three crackers and a brown banana. Sarah offered me some cake too but it was coffee flavoured (yuck) so even though my stomach was growling, I refused.

  I was wrong about Peggy’s hair. Today it’s bright electric blue, not straw yellow. Even through the window I can see how vibrant the colour is. She’s at the back counter, folding white towels. Her t-shirt is black and long like a dress, and I wonder if it’s something someone left behind. She’s often dressed in found objects, and sometimes, if they’re too small for her, I end up with them. That’s how I scored my favourite faded Gumby t-shirt that I wear almost every day to school.

  She looks up as the little bell rings announcing my arrival. Peggy has the same blue eyes that my dad had and they are almost as bright as her new hair colour; if she’s staring at you, her eyes are like laser beams, boring deep inside your mind. I drop my backpack of washing onto the floor.

  ‘You’re late, Meg,’ she says warmly.

  ‘And you’re blue.’

  She grins and rubs her fingers through her short hair, making it stick up even more. ‘Do you like it?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘I’m thinking I might keep it for a bit.’

  I laugh. ‘You always say that. I give it a week or two, no more.’

  She smooths her hands across the top of the folded towels, then bags up the pile, ready for collection.

  ‘Number seven’s free,’ she says, nodding at the row of washing machines.

  Even though I’m the only one in here, most of the other machines are chugging away, cleaning clothes and heating up the room. The Lost Sock is always warm and slightly damp, even in the middle of winter. When I first started coming here after our machine stopped working, Peggy told me how happy she was that I stayed while my clothes turned and cleaned because most people shove in their coins and wander off for a coffee.

  I up-end my backpack into number seven and wait for Peggy to come and sprinkle the good detergent over the top. She always saves me some and won’t let me use the cheap stuff from the vending machine. She says it’s been there since the last owner.

  ‘Here, put this on so we can wash Gumby,’ she says, handing me a black top with a silver unicorn on it.

  I dash out the back through the little shuttered door and swap tops. Peggy knows Gumby’s my favourite t-shirt, although I make sure she doesn’t know it’s pretty much my only t-shirt.

  I toss Gumby at the lid of the machine like I’m shooting a goal. It falls short. Peggy scoops it up and adds it in with the detergent, slamming the lid down after it. Within seconds the sound of water whooshing into the barrel starts and I place both hands on the lid, feeling the vibration.

  ‘That top suits you,’ she says, tugging on my sleeve. ‘You should keep it. It’s been here for ages. You can’t always wear Gumby!’

  I suspect that it’s Peggy’s way of politely giving me new things that fit and things that weren’t bought years ago. Even though I’m short and seem to be taking my time in the growth department, most of my old clothes are pretty ratty looking and it’s not like Mum takes me shopping on a regular basis.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Behind us the tumble dryers flip clothes back and forth; it’s a strangely comforting sound.

  ‘You hungry, Meg?’

  I raise an eyebrow. We both know the answer to that.

  I follow her to the back room where the walls change decoration as fast as her hair colour. This week she’s stuck up posters for some band I’ve never heard of. She pours me a glass of raspberry cordial from the jug she makes up.

  I sip it and smile. ‘I love bright red drinks, don’t you? They taste twice as good as any other colour.’

  Peggy laughs, recognising the quote. She gave me Anne of Green Gables for my tenth birthday and I’ve read it seventy-three times.

  ‘Sweet or savoury, Miss Anne?’

  I pretend to think. ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Don’t know why I ask. It’s always the same answer,’ she says.

  ‘Okay, savoury then.’

  She ignores me and places an old wooden board on the rickety table in the corner. She opens a paper bag and slides out a puffed-up Boston bun, covered in the brightest, whitest icing and coconut I’ve ever seen. My stomach rumbles at the sight and I almost have to hold my hand back to stop it snatching the bun from the board.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about when I worked in a bakery? I was just a bit older than you. At the end of the day if we hadn’t sold all the buns, I’d get to lick all the icing off,’ she says, hacking into the end of the bun with a blunt knife. ‘Your dad always made me bring home a bun for him too. He loved this stuff.’

  She gives up on the cutting and pulls a chunk off with her hands, placing it on an orange-and-purple patterned plate. ‘There’s butter in the dish if you want it.’

  I don’t. I just want to lick the icing and then eat the bread as quickly as I can so she’ll offer me more.

  ‘Any movement on the kindred spirits front?’

  With a mouthful of icing I shake my head, wondering which of the girls in my class would even know what a kindred spirit was. Besides, I’ve given up searching.

  ‘Sometimes it takes a while to find our people,’ says Peggy quietly. ‘That’s why books are so helpful,’ she adds, smiling.

  I watch as Peggy twirls her electric blue fringe around her finger and then lets go. My hair is about as unremarkable as the rest of me. It’s just brown. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have hair as red as Anne with an ‘e’.

  ‘You’re wearing slippers?’

  Nothing escapes Peggy.

  ‘They’re comfortable.’ I avoid looking at her, although I can tell she’s watching me.

  ‘Unfortunately nobody leaves shoes in a laundromat … but I could take you shopping?’

  I shake my head, desperate to say yes. ‘No. It’s okay. But thanks.’

  Peggy has offered to take me shopping a couple of times lately. Although it’s better for my mum if she doesn’t. I don’t mind her giving me t-shirts that have been left behind but Mum is funny about Peggy offering us money or trying to help out. Anything Peggy does has to be well disguised.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  I swallow before I answer. ‘She vacuumed yesterday. And tidied the house. That’s positive, isn’t it?’

  I watch as Peggy stares at me for a second and I know that she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she changes knives and cuts a couple of slices from the bun, adding them to my plate.

  ‘Has she phoned that lady I told you about?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Peggy gave me a name for Mum last time I was here. It’s a doctor she thought might be helpful.
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br />   ‘I could try to talk to her again, if you like?’

  I know that Peggy is only trying to help, but Mum isn’t up to visitors. The last time she tried, it didn’t go so well. Afterwards Mum stayed in bed for a week.

  I shake my head. ‘No. It’s okay.’

  Peggy reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. ‘She loves you. You know that, don’t you? Grief does strange things to people. She’ll get there.’

  Peggy’s the only adult around who knows about Mum’s sadness. She remembers who Mum was before. How funny and silly she could be. How she was always cooking and gardening when Dad was still alive. I try to remember her like that, but each month it’s getting harder because those memories feel so long ago.

  The bun is so sweet that my mouth puckers as I dive into the next slice.

  ‘When you finish that, there’s leftover curry in the fridge,’ Peggy says, licking stray icing from the ends of her fingers. ‘I made heaps. Maybe you could take some home for your mum?’

  Peggy is constantly making us meals. And constantly pretending she’s made too much of something, like spaghetti sauce or lasagne, and then she parcels it up in plastic tubs so I can take it home and reheat it.

  Peggy puts down two cups of cold milk on the table. My cup is unchipped and hers is missing a handle. On Tuesdays when I visit, we always drink cordial first and then milk.

  ‘Did you hand in your English essay?’ She licks her milk moustache and stares at me over the rim.

  ‘Yep. Ninety-five per cent,’ I tell her.

  ‘You should have got one hundred per cent! That essay was amazing.’

  ‘I think you might be biased,’ I say, grinning to myself.

  She shrugs. ‘I know a good essay when I read one. Do you need to use the laptop tonight?’

  I shake my head. ‘I just have to work on a speech for graduation and I can do that with a pen,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  Peggy laughs. ‘We didn’t graduate from primary school. We just finished!’

  I drain the last of the cold milk, feeling the chill of it on my teeth. ‘I know. It’s a strange new tradition.’