Crossing the Line (2 page)

3

W
hile the rest of the world is asleep, I hop onto Matt’s bike – which he said to borrow anytime – and head off. I love this time of the day before people intrude with their busyness and the air is fresh. The streets are deserted as I cycle through suburbia until I come to the pool: beaches on both sides of it stretching golden and unbroken to the next headlands.

I have the water all to myself. In I step, cautiously, gasping and heart thudding, toes, ankle, shins, thighs, ever deeper. Head under . . . Oh! It’s freezing!

And then I launch into the first lap, gliding away from the world. As I swim, light flickers to create washes of watercolour swirling in arcs of cellophane greens and silvers. The world below my goggled face is a repetition of concrete and lichen. As I follow a crack that runs the length of the pool my body ceases to exist. Vaguely I’m aware that behind me the water churns as I glide forward, arms rotating, over and through, over and through, on and on.

Now there is nothing within me but peace.

When my body tires and I’m almost out of breath, I become aware of others moving around the pool, on the blocks, beside me in the water. That’s when the magic ends.

Amy’s at the breakfast table, head poised over the Saturday newspaper, circling ads in the classifieds.

‘Not looking for a new place, I hope?’ I squat beside her with a bowl of muesli.

‘No.’ She looks up. ‘Garage sales. I love them. Ever been to one?’

‘Nope.’

‘Matt makes fun of me, but half the stuff in our place I bought way cheap at sales.’

She points out a couple of chairs, the curtains, a stack of CDs, a print on the wall.

‘I’m just about to go. Wanna come?’

Before long we’re in Amy’s VW bug, roaring down streets. She speeds like she’s out to win a Grand Prix, takes corners on two wheels, swears and honks at other drivers.

‘This your car?’ I ask, wondering how she can afford one on the youth allowance.

‘A friend’s,’ she says.

Curious, I dig deeper. ‘How old are you, Amy?’

‘Old enough.’

‘Yeah, sure. But are you old enough to have a licence?’

‘You know what?’ she says. ‘There’s too much red tape in this world. Why do I need a licence? I can drive. Look at me. I’m doing fine, aren’t I?’

Suddenly she swerves to avoid a pedestrian, just missing him.

‘See?’ She grins. ‘Only a top driver could have got out of that.’

At the first stop we check out tables chocka with all sorts of junk. Nothing much interests me, but Amy’s stockpiling – glassware, cutlery, a crimson scarf, an astrology book (no back cover), cute ornaments . . .

‘Look at this!’ she keeps exclaiming.

When it comes to buying, she’s a mistress of the barter.

‘Fifteen dollars.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘All right – ten. But I won’t go any lower.’

‘That’s a rip-off – see you later.’

‘Wait.’ Deep sigh. ‘What’s your offer?’

Finally she gives the poor man five dollars and she’s the proud owner of a boxful of assorted junk – though she calls it treasure.

Then we’re on to the next sale.

It’s funny how people sell their belongings for a song. I don’t have much, but what I do have is for keeps. My things are part of who I am. What I treasure most is the stuff from my life with Arlene and Dutch. Photos mostly, but toys and books, too. I’ve kept a nightgown with tiny pink and purple elephants on it that Arlene used to wear. Sometimes when I’m lonely and missing them, I hunker down under my doona and hold the nightie close to my face. I imagine Arlene’s smell and the feel of her arms around me. Dopey, I know, but still, that’s what I do.

‘You having fun, Sophie?’ Amy grinds the car gears and curses again at a driver who’s too slow. I grin, and nod.

All up we visit ten sales. After about five I’m over it. Not Amy. ‘I do this every Saturday morning,’ she tells me proudly. ‘Love it!’

After the sales we park at the local mall and wander from shop to shop, mostly checking out new CDs. Amy’s into New Age music. I like it too, and she promises to record her favourite chill-out tracks for me. I think of her full-on driving and decide she needs to have some calming music on in the VW – playing loudly.

‘Must get some incense!’ She makes it sound like it’s life or death. I tag along as she charges into a store. Several minutes later, after much deliberation, I hear: ‘Should I get musk or vanilla?’

I presume this is a question for me. But she answers it herself.

‘What the hell, I’ll get them both.’

Then, before I realise what she’s up to, she’s stuck two boxes into her skirt waistband and is ambling down the aisle looking like innocence personified.

‘Move it,’ she says. ‘We’re outta here.’ She strolls ahead and I pretend not to be with her. I can’t believe she’s so brazen about shoplifting.

‘You could have been caught!’ I say when we’re away from the store.

‘No chance.’ She smiles at me like she should be congratulated. ‘They never miss it. Besides they overcharge like crazy. Incense is much cheaper at the markets.’

I’m thinking: So why don’t you buy it there – instead of stealing? But I keep it inside my head. I don’t want to get offside with her when I’ve just moved in. It’s easier to let it go. Still, I don’t like it.

‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ Amy says. And then, as though reading my mind, she adds, ‘Don’t worry, I never nick stuff from friends.’

We’re having a chai tea later at home when our conversation turns to Matt. Actually, I’ve steered it in his direction.

‘So how available is he?’

Amy raises her eyebrows. ‘You interested?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Me either. Anyway, I don’t know him much more than you.’

‘How come? You share a place with him.’

‘Yeah, but only for a few weeks. I’m almost as new as you, Sophie – or is Soph better? Which one do you like?’

I’m about to say I’ll take anything, but then a dash of Amy’s mad personality rubs off on me and I tell her grandly, ‘You may call me Sophia . . . Lady Sophia.’

‘I’ll call you a goose!’ she replies, as we both laugh.

‘Sophie, Soph – both are fine,’ I say.

‘Anyway,’ she pauses to take a sip of her tea. ‘About Matt – all I can tell you is that there’s a photo of him and a girl in his room. She’s got her arms around him so maybe she’s his girlfriend.’

I thank her for that info but can’t help wondering what she was doing in his room. I’ve had enough snooping in my life. Hate it. I do like Amy but I don’t know yet if I trust her. I tell myself,
be careful.

‘Come here, My Lady.’ Amy beckons me over. ‘I’m going to braid your hair.’ I go along with it. Keeps her happy. And secretly, I like the closeness of it. She spends the next two hours, when she could be doing a dozen other things, attending to and transforming me.

‘You look gorgeous.’ She angles the mirror on all sides so I can check out what she’s done.

‘Not true . . . But thanks, Amy. Thank you.’

A strange chick, this Amy. Generous. Impulsive. Shoplifter. Snoop. But friend, too, I hope.

Later that afternoon I duck down to the shops and buy a posy of roses as a thank you for her kindness.

4

I
love my new place. True, it’s often messy, but it’s my first real home since Arlene and Dutch. Living with Amy and Matt is great. We’re equals.

Today Matt invites Amy and me to a soccer match.

‘It’s our team’s grand final,’ he explains.

‘So why should that interest me?’ asks Amy.

‘I’m playing.’ Matt glares. ‘It’s us Rebels versus the Eagles, didn’t you know?’

Amy snorts into her coffee. ‘So you’re inviting us to sit in rain, hail and snow and watch you he-men run around for hours and hours playing with a ball, and we’re supposed to cheer our guts out?’

Matt’s face colours. ‘Well, if you’re not up to it . . . ’

‘I’d love to go,’ I volunteer, sneaking a sideways look at Amy. I’m as keen about soccer as she is – watching grass grow is more entertaining but I figure some time alone with Matt is worth a little sacrifice. She shakes her head and casts her eyes upward as if I’ve put the feminist cause back a few hundred years.

‘Have fun. I’m going away for the weekend anyway.’ Amy shrugs. ‘Not that I’d go if I were here. Boring, stupid game.’

Matt returns fire. ‘Yeah, I suppose it is boring – if you’re too dumb to understand the rules.’

‘What’s to understand? You kick the ball and if you can’t get to it you punch whoever’s closest. Isn’t that how it works?’

‘Wow.’ Matt grins. ‘You sound just like my coach.’

‘Hey.’ Amy points a finger at him. ‘If I were your coach I’d tell you to try holding your breath – for an hour or so.’

Matt pauses to think of a snappy reply. But Amy blocks her ears.

‘For once,’ she says, ‘I’m having the last word.’

He nods, admitting defeat.

‘I’ll be in my room when you’re ready, Matt,’ I say, trying to look eager, but of course not too eager.

‘Sucked in,’ Amy mutters.

With time to puddle around, I gaze out through the window onto the busy street. At last the Department has given me an allowance to buy some curtains. Now I wonder what colour and pattern to choose. Something soft and pretty. Yeah. There’s money in the budget too for bed linen and a new doona . . . I could make this room really special.

As I move about, pulling up my bedcovers and picking up clothes, I make a mental note of what I need: a bedside lamp, maybe some posters. Desiderata, which I love. Or a photo of a beach on a sunny day. So this is what ‘home’ feels like . . .

Snuggled up on the bed, I think about writing a poem in my journal. Out the window I watch leaves swishing around on a tree. For so long I was like those leaves, blown about and bossed. Finally I have some control of my life.

All too soon Matt taps on the door. ‘You ready?’

‘Sure am.’

I grab my jacket, hide my journal, and we’re off.

‘Thanks for coming, Soph.’

He opens the door of his van for me. I act as though I’m accustomed to this gallantry.

‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Good day for a drive.’

‘Perfect.’ He turns on his bright smile. And the day looks even better.

There are only the two front seats in the van. The back is crammed with boxes and masses of tools. Matt notices me giving it the once over, and I get the naughty schoolboy grin.

‘Sorry about the mess.’ He shrugs. ‘What can I do? It just keeps following me around . . . I’ll clean it up one of these days . . . Maybe.’

I’d like to ask him what’s in the boxes, but he might be a mad bomber and that knowledge would very likely ruin the day, so I don’t ask. But as the engine roars to life, he volunteers the answer anyway. ‘Got all my workshop gear in there. I’m into making things.’

‘Yeah, like what?’ I’m glad to have something to talk about.

‘I’m doing this course at college . . .’

Little by little he joins the dots that make up his life. Nothing personal yet, but I’m patient. His face glows when he tells me about an award he won at high school.

‘It was a national science competition – you know, hundreds of kids would have entered. Got lucky there. Bit of bribery never hurts!’

His face has road maps when he laughs. When he gets really old there’ll be deep grooves in it. But I like that kind of face.

‘You didn’t bribe anyone,’ I say. ‘What did you win it for?’

‘Aw, just some fruit-picking gadget. No one ever manufactured it – all too hard and expensive. But winning the prize was good. Made me think about being an inventor. That’s why I took this course in engineering.’

Not once, as we drive, are there any awkward gaps in our conversation. Matt opens up like he doesn’t when Amy’s around.

At last, I think, a guy with some brains. And ambition. The boys at my new school – and they are all boys, not mature like Matt – generally seem so childish that I wouldn’t want to hang with them. Matt talks about all sorts of things, the neighbourhood, our house – and, most impressive of all – he even asks questions about me. With some guys, I really don’t think they realise there are other people in the universe. Matt wants to know about my hobbies, subjects I like at school. He sidesteps any delicate areas, which I appreciate. One day we might get to talk about the tricky bits of both our lives. Too soon yet. Now it’s just good to talk, nice and easy.

I ask him about Amy, sure there has to be a problem. Seems to me they’re always fighting.

He sees it differently. ‘Nah, it’s not fighting. We bump heads now and then, that’s all. We’re good mates, really. It’s just that Amy wants to be the boss of the world and she can’t, because that’s my job.’ He chuckles to himself, and then adds, ‘I wish.’

Matt switches off the engine, reaches over for his sports bag and then turns to me. ‘Well, here we are! Hope you like the game.’

‘Sure I will,’ I say. ‘Soccer’s great.’

Did I really say that? Oh boy, I’m glad Amy didn’t hear me.

‘Trust me,’ he says, ‘it’s going to be fun.’

I follow him over to the clubhouse where there’s a cluster of supporters and guys dressed in Matt’s blue and white colours. I get the usual round of introductions and handshakes – too many names to remember.

‘She’s my flatmate,’ Matt insists when someone ribs him about me being his new girl. I nod, backing him up, but I’m quietly pleased that anyone would think that.

‘See ya soon.’ Matt winks as he and his team troop onto the field, while I’m left alone with the soccer groupie crowd. Most of them are girls my age or slightly older, probably here to cheer on their boyfriends. One of them notices that I look a bit lost so she comes over.

‘I’m Tracey,’ she tells me. ‘My guy’s out there doing his thing. We’re getting married. Boyd. Did you meet him? Spiky red hair. Tall.’ She points him out.

‘Aw, yeah. I see him.’

She moves closer. ‘Now just between us – what’s this I hear about you and Matt? Are you two seeing each other?’

I shake my head. ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just his flatmate. There’s another girl who lives with us, too. Amy.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘And she’s not his girlfriend either,’ I add.

‘Well. Fascinating.’

‘What’s so fascinating, Tracey?’

‘You’re the first girl he’s ever brought to a game.’

I shrug.
Disinterested. Don’t care. So what?

I hope she buys it.

Of course I care. It’s intriguing, promising. It makes me happy. But then I rein myself in –
slow down, Sophie
– I’m in no hurry for the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I’m too tied up with my final year schoolwork for that. Don’t need the hassle. Nah. Forget it . . . well, for a while anyway.

We watch as Matt passes the ball to Boyd. He pokes around, feints to the left; lofts it to Matt who lets it bounce off his chest. He’s not too shabby and neither is Boydie boy. Together they weave in and out of opponents, passing the ball to one another until they’re in sight of the goal posts.

‘Go, Boyd!’ screams Tracey.

‘Come on, Matt!’ I squeal. It really is exciting. Much more so than I expected.

Matt rights himself, and then goes for it. The ball pings off his boot and thumps into the back of the net. We all explode with an almighty, ‘Yeah!’ Hugs and backslaps all around.

‘Our boys are the best,’ Tracey roars above the din.

‘Go the Eagles!’ someone shouts close by.

I just have to reply to that. ‘Go the Rebels!’

At half-time Matt’s beaming face is spattered with muck. ‘That goal was for you!’ He gives me a high five and a smile that I know I’ll keep.

Before long the second half is on. It’s kind of exciting except I have a distinct feeling of deja vu. Pass, kick, head butt, jump and scream. Yes, that seems familiar. Finally, the full-time whistle is blown without another goal being scored. Why did they bother?

‘What did you think?’ asks Matt when he comes off the field.

‘It was brilliant,’ I lie.

Everyone gathers in the clubhouse for lunch and drinks. I don’t see much of Matt – he and his team are huddled together doing the boy-talk thing. Eventually he comes over with Boyd, who turns out to be his best buddy. Tracey’s there, too.

Boyd does the talking. ‘Short notice I know, Sophie, but how’d you like to come to a barbecue at our place this arvo? With Matt, of course. He’s already invited.’

‘It’s our little girl Charlotte’s first birthday,’ Tracey adds.

‘Sure, I’d love to.’ I turn to Matt. ‘If it’s okay with you. I don’t want to butt in or anything.’

‘Hey.’ Matt grips my shoulder. ‘Of course it’s okay with me. It was my idea to ask you.’

‘Okay.’ Somehow I manage to say it casually. That’s really hard to do when I’m floating.

At Tracey’s place Matt deserts me. The minute we walk through the front door, he’s away with the guys like I don’t exist. Typical male. They head straight to the backyard and start milling around the barbecue, drinking beer and carrying on like burning a few snags is some major life achievement. He’s officially demoted from the pedestal I’d put him on. I’m alone and feeling awkward, wishing I was someplace else.

‘Did he go off and leave you, Sophie?’ It’s Tracey, an apron wrapped around her waist. ‘Come into the kitchen, I need a hand.’ She guides me through the living room which is filled with people of all ages, most of them older – twenties and thirties, lounging around gossiping. Toddlers are climbing over their legs and a bunch of kids run around, chasing one another and squealing. Someone’s strung up balloons and a
Happy Birthday
sign.

‘Know how to make a garden salad?’ Tracey shoves a lettuce and tomatoes at me. ‘This is my mum,’ she adds. ‘Hesba, meet Sophie.’

Hesba’s up to her elbows in potato salad. She’s about the same age as Arlene but bottle-blonde with dark roots. She smiles at me. ‘Hello, love, welcome to our crazy household.’

Near the sink, there’s a chubby little girl in a high chair, her hands gooey-full of cake. She’s got bright green eyes, masses of golden curls and the sweetest face which is smeared all over with half-eaten muck.

‘This is Charlotte.’ Tracey swipes a washer over the baby’s face. ‘Little greedy-guts, aren’t you, my precious bubby?’

‘She’s lovely,’ I tell her. And she is.

‘You got any brothers or sisters, love?’ Hesba dodges past me to get to the fridge.

‘No, but I really love little kids.’ Then, remembering some of my fosters’ kids, I add, ‘Well, most of the time I love them.’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’ She points at Tracey. ‘Ratbag of a baby, this one.’

‘Mum!’

‘You were. Painting on the walls, throwing tantrums.’

‘Okay, okay. But that was then. I’m really good now, aren’t I?’

‘No. You’re exactly the same.’

‘Mum! I am not!’

It’s all good-natured banter. Just a mum and daughter having fun. I feel relaxed and comfortable around them. The feeling continues later, when I run the introduction gauntlet.

‘This is Sophie,’ Tracey says. ‘Matt’s new flatmate.’

Great. No pressure. There are a few winks and nudges from some old codger who thinks he’s funny, when he’s really only pathetic.

‘Every family’s got one,’ Hesba says when Uncle Herbie toddles off. ‘Don’t mind him.’

I hope he gets run over by a passing rhino.

Out in the backyard we arrange the salads and other savouries on a long trestle table, while Boyd and Matt fork sausages and steaks onto a stream of plates. I’ve attended lots of parties like this where I’ve not known anyone except my fosters, but today seems different. Even though I’m here for the first time, it’s sort of like I belong. Tracey’s been a big part of that.

Working with her back in the kitchen, brewing coffee and dunking teabags, she tells me a little about Matt. I’m interested in all of it, but one part in particular, jolts me.

‘His parents and older sister, Jenny, were killed in a car accident.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘Yeah. He took it hard. Went off the rails a bit. You know, mixed in with a bad crowd, used to get into fights – he had a temper back then – oh my, did he ever.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Yes, but anyway, that’s all in the past. He sorted himself out and now he’s a great guy. Just like part of our family. He’s even Charlotte’s godfather.’

I glance at Matt through the window. He’s probably reliving every minute of the big game with his mates. He looks up and sees me, waves and smiles. I wish he was in here with me, but I don’t mind so much now. I want him to be happy.

‘And now that you’re part of his life,’ Tracey adds, ‘you’re welcome here any time, Sophie.’

There really aren’t words for how that makes me feel. I thank her with a smile, and hope she knows how much I mean it.

On the drive home, Matt quietly says, ‘They liked you.’

I’m not sure how to respond.

‘The way you were with little Charlotte, it was great to see.’

I rub at a stain the baby’s left on my top. Chocolate ice-cream. ‘I’m used to looking after kids. They’re easy. I want to have at least four of my own.’

Matt grins. ‘Only four? There’s eleven in a soccer team.’

‘Really? Well, sorry, pal, but I don’t like soccer quite that much.’

We both laugh. It’s good, it’s all so good. But then suddenly the conversation dries up. Silence builds and builds until I have to say something – anything.