Girl Next Door (7 page)

All right, I'm ready. The most embarrassing thing ever – well, second only to the laundry thing. It's the reason why I don't exactly miss all those girls I went to school with at Finsbury, and why I wouldn't try to contact them even if there wasn't a lock on the phone. There was a party at Tanner Hamrick-Gough's house a while ago, when we were still normal, rich people living in a huge house full of stuff.

Tanner's sister's friends were at the party too, and a whole heap of Tanner's parents' friends, because they were back from Dubai. I'd never been to a party like that before, where all the adults and their kids socialised. There must have been a hundred people, maybe more. They'd hired a barman and a jazz band. I only knew a handful of girls, because I was pretty new to the school. Anyway, a group of the younger people went out into the pavilion to play spin the bottle.

Okay, in hindsight it's obvious that this was going to turn out badly, but I was trying to fit in, and several of the boys were pretty cute, so I agreed to play.

Jasmina was picked first. She went into the sauna with one of the boys for about a minute. Everyone outside was laughing and trying to listen to them, but the walls were really thick in there, because it's designed that way, and there was music playing. When they came out again the boy was blushing, but Jasmina seemed unruffled.

I was picked next. I went into the sauna with a boy. He wasn't one of the really cute ones. Anyway, nothing happened. We just sat there on the wooden bench. He asked me if I'd ever had a sauna. I shook my head, and then we went out again.

But when we got outside, they all grinned at us as though we had done something, and the boy gave a little thumbs-up to the other guys. I didn't say anything; I just smiled, because that was the game, right?

Soon enough the bottle came around to me again, this time with a different boy. So I went back into the sauna. The first boy must have encouraged this boy, because he didn't even wait until we sat down. He leaned forward and kissed me, but just a peck. Then he tried again and I said, 'Time's up!'

When I took my spin, the bottle pointed to one of the cute boys. We went into the sauna and sat down. He put his hand under my chin and kissed me. It was a really nice kiss, and so I let him kiss me more. He put his arm around my waist and drew me towards him so that our torsos were pressed together, and it was good, because that was the game, right?

And then the sauna door swung open and Tanner Hamrick-Gough's ancient parents were there. The first thing I noticed was that the lights were on and the music had stopped. I blinked in the brightness and I could see all the people standing around craning their necks to see what was happening.

Tanner said, 'Jenna-Belle has been kissing
all
the boys.'

Tanner's parents made me sit in the kitchen and wait for my dad to pick me up. There were about five other grown-ups frowning at me over their champagne saucers.

When Dad came they made out I was in the sauna all night and the boys came in one at a time to kiss me, and
who knows what else?
They told him that they'd never felt the need to supervise the young people so closely, because normally they played board games, swam in the pool, or sang songs on the karaoke machine.

Yeah, right, and they finished the night with a prayer meeting.

I can understand Tanner and the others trying to cover their butts with their parents, but for the next few weeks at school they carried on as though the night went the way their parents said, as though none of them had been involved. I know I did a lot of kissing, but technically I only kissed one boy, and it was only because the game had just started and other girls hadn't had a chance to have a turn yet. If they weren't there to kiss boys then why were they sitting in the circle?

But they all stuck to that story, even when they were by themselves, and it made me wonder if I remembered it wrong.

And how come nobody rang the boys' parents and made them go home? How come it's okay for the boys to kiss girls, but it's not okay for a girl to kiss boys?

Maybe I am a skank? Skanks probably don't know they're skanks unless someone tells them.

I've noticed that when I'm not with those girls from Finsbury I don't wonder whether I'm a skank in denial. It's kind of like that joke:

Doctor, doctor, it hurts when I go like this.
Well, don't go like that then.

So, by not hanging out with Tanner and Jasmina and their hangers-on I'm not going like that. Besides, after the whole 'vintage' call, it's clear they're not very sympathetic.

Usually when I'm worried that I'm going to think about it I stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and go 'lalalalala' until it goes away, but what reminded me of it this time is that when Dad came to pick me up from Tanner Hamrick-Gough's party he didn't really say anything. I was expecting a lecture, but instead we simply drove home in silence. He just seemed tired.

It makes me mad – madder – because I'd felt bad for him about that night. I'd felt guilty that he had to come and collect me and be humiliated in front of the other parents because his daughter was a skank.

I'd assumed that he was preoccupied with how badly the business was going and how he couldn't provide for his family, but now I wonder if he was already 'complicating' Heather on a regular basis and didn't really give a rat's about how many boys I was kissing, or how bad our financial situation was.

He was already planning his escape.

There's a moving van parked across our lawn. I'm happy, then angry, then scared, then happy again, and then I realise it's Annie's sofa bed being carried down the alleyway instead of ours and I'm angry again.

I head over to Declan's house so I can watch from his bedroom window and bitch about how Annie is abandoning us too.

Declan is reading the
Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report,
which he prints off the internet. I thought maybe having a chronic illness might make him back off a bit, but he seems more engrossed in death statistics than ever.

'She could have told me that she was moving,' I grumble.

'There were sixteen cases of the plague in the US last year.'

'She's running away.'

'Hansen's disease is on the rise. Hansen – H.' He flips through his medical encyclopedia. He finds the page, runs his finger down, and then his eyes widen. 'Leprosy! Hansen's disease is leprosy! Did you know there were one hundred and five cases of leprosy in the US in 2004?'

'In a population of three hundred million! The odds are pretty long, don't you think?' I sigh. 'I just think Annie could have said something.
We
might as well have leprosy the way people are falling over themselves to get away from us.'

Declan snaps his book shut. 'I didn't think you even liked her.'

I rest my chin on the heel of my hand and stare at the truck. The removalists are shutting the doors now. 'I don't! I don't care what Annie does. She's a bossy busybody. I just think it's polite to say something when you're leaving.'

'Jenna-Belle?' Declan interrupts.

'Stupid old biddy. I'm not going to miss her, so I don't even know why I'm cranky. I hope Mum watches
Single White Female
before she rents out the granny flat again.'

'Jenna-Belle!' Declan says again.

'What?' I say, turning around. Annie is standing in the doorway. She has my pinch pot in her hand. 'Oh. Hello,' I mumble.

Annie is kind enough to pretend she hasn't heard me. 'Your mother told me that I would need to look for a new place, and so I have,' she explains. Annie lays the pinch pot down on the doona cover. 'Do me a favour, will you? Don't ever sell this again. I've returned the finger painting to Willem.' She puts her hand on the top of my head. I can see she wants to say something else, but she doesn't. Instead she smiles at me, and then pads out the door in her leather sandals.

'Bye, Annie,' I say.

I see her cross the lawn and start her station wagon, which is stuffed with last-minute items and odd things that don't fit in boxes. I want to run after her and say sorry, because what I said just now wasn't fair. It's not Annie that I'm angry with.

But I don't run down there. I let her drive away.

I wonder how many times in your life you let people just leave without saying what you need to say, or what you should say.

The sheriff doesn't look like Clint Eastwood after all. He's grey-haired and wrinkly and wearing a uniform like a traffic cop. There is no posse . . . yet.

I see him knock on the front door from my bedroom window and so I run downstairs and out the back door. I run through Declan's kitchen, past his startled mother, and up to his room.

'C'mon. The sheriff is here,' I gasp. 'I'm going to the roof space. Building a fort.'

Then I run back home again and climb up into the ceiling. I thought Declan was behind me, but he's not. I wait for ages. I'm sure he's not going to turn up. I curse him for being a coward mofo, and then the cover slides back and two shopping bags emerge.

'Good thinking,' I whisper, digging through the bags as Declan clambers up. He's brought water, bags of pretzels and fruit.

'What's all this healthy stuff?'

'I have diabetes,' he protests.

'Yeah, but I don't.'

'You have a menstrual cycle, remember?'

I pop open a bag of pretzels.

'What are you doing? It's not a picnic, Jenna-Belle. We're supposed to be holding the fort, aren't we?'

I have one pretzel, then roll the top of the pack down and put it back in the shopping bag. We're not going to be very comfortable. I scoot over to the hole and stick my head out. I can see through the doorway and down the hall a little way.

'WILL!'

A few moments later Will stands in the doorway to the room below, frowning. 'I could hear you, but I couldn't find you. What are you doing? You should come down and see what's happening. There's . . .'

'Yeah, I know. Declan and I are building a fort,' I interrupt. My face is going red from being upside down. 'Can you bring us some pillows?'

Will disappears down the hall. He comes back with three pillows and his doona, which he stuffs up into the hole before him. Once he's in, Declan places his boogie board over the hole and sits on it. Will doesn't have a boogie board so he puts a pillow under his bum and balances across two beams.

It's very dark and it takes a minute or two for my eyes to adjust.

'What are all these beer bottles?' Will asks.

'They're an experiment in insulation. I saw it on Discovery Channel,' I lie.

Will eyes off Declan's hoard. 'Can I have some pretzels?'

'No!' Declan says, moving the bags out of reach. 'They're for later.'

'So what's happening downstairs?' I ask.

'The sheriff is there. He has paperwork. Mum's pretending that she doesn't know what he's talking about. It's pretty pathetic. There's a locksmith too, he's leaning on his car waiting. He'll change the locks as soon as they get us out.'

'No way!' Declan says.

We can hear thumping from downstairs.

'What's that?'

Will says. 'I think they're moving our furniture onto the lawn.'

'Can they do that?' I ask.

Will shrugs. 'I guess so. Can I have some pretzels now?'

Declan huffs. 'This isn't going to be a very long siege, is it?'

'We're going to have to pee eventually,' I say. 'It's a shame we can't see, because then we could sneak out to the loo when no one's around. There should be a window up here.'

Will unfolds the open bag of pretzels and we share them, listening to the bumping and thumping below.

Declan says, 'Did you know you're not supposed to menstruate as much as you do?'

'What?' Will and I say in unison.

'They've done studies on women in Africa who start childbearing at about the same time as they start menstruating, and they actually don't menstruate all that often – maybe once a year – because most of the time they're either pregnant or breastfeeding. They reckon the incidence of cervical and ovarian cancer is so high in Western women because they menstruate much more often than nature intended.'

'Really?' says Will, crunching on a pretzel.

I cross my arms. 'And what is the life expectancy of women in Africa?'

Declan shrugs. 'Dunno. Maybe forty.'

'And how many women die during childbirth?' I ask.

'I'd say one in sixteen.'

'How do you know all this stuff?' Will asks.

'He reads medical journals,' I say.

Declan clarifies. 'It was in
The New Yorker.'

'You do not read
The New Yorker!'
I scoff.

Declan blinks at me in the gloom. 'My dad has a subscription.'

'He does too,' Will says. 'I've been taking them out of their recycling. That's how I got my scholarship. I take them to class with me and my teachers think I'm an intellectual.'

Declan and I stare at him.

'What? I don't
read them.
Not all of them.'

I ignore Will. 'So basically my options are to have thirteen kids starting now, and then die, or I can get cervical or ovarian cancer and die?'

Declan shrugs again. 'Procreation, Jenna-Belle. It's the goal of every species on the planet. You're born, you procreate, you die. That is the meaning of life.'

'Obviously our dad hasn't heard of this philosophy,' I mumble.

'Actually,' says Declan, 'there's an argument that it's a biological urge making middle-aged men leave their menopausal wives to seek a younger, more fertile mate in order to spread their genetic material . . .'

'Okay, you can shut up now,' interrupts Will.

'It's just a theory,' says Declan.

'Mum is not menopausal,' I say. 'In fact, she is obviously still fertile.'

'Yes, but this is exactly my point. Your father has procreated as much as he's likely to with this mate and so now he's going to . . .'

'I said SHUT UP!' Will warns.

We eat pretzels.

After a long time I ask, 'How come you two never ended up being better friends?'

Will smirks. 'I always thought Declan was, like, a . . . you know.'

'A what?' I asked.

'Gay, or whatever. You know how gay guys always seem to have girl friends? It's like a rule that you have to be friends with the opposite of who you want to have sex with.'

'I'm not gay,' Declan says.

'Oh. Sorry, man,' Will mumbles. 'But, you have to admit that you seem gay. Like reading magazines about African women menstruating. That's pretty gay.'

Declan frowns. 'Wouldn't it be more gay not to be interested in menstruation? It's about vaginas.'

I put my hands over my ears. 'Don't say vagina.'

'It's gay to only be interested in it as a kind of, you know, functioning organ,' Will says.

'Don't say organ!' I say.

'No, that's cool,' Declan says to Will. 'You're not the first. Dad thinks I'm gay. Mum doesn't, though. She thinks I'm sleeping with Jenna-Belle.'

'She does not!' I say.

'That's why she walks past my room all the time when you're there – to make sure we're not doing it,' Declan adds.

'In your dreams!' I protest. It would explain why she hates me. She thinks I'm a skank too.

'What about the other day?' Declan grins. 'You know.' He holds his hands out and squeezes. 'Honk, honk!'

'I don't want to know!' Will says, covering his eyes.

My face reddens. 'Declan! You have such a big mouth. It was outside clothes so it doesn't count! And you tricked me into it anyway.'

There's another bumping sound, closer this time. Then we hear a thump directly beneath us, and muffled conversation.

'Are you kids in there?' says a voice.

We sit silently and stare at each other. I'm not really sure what we're supposed to be doing. 'I don't think we've thought this through,' I whisper. 'Are we hiding or are we sieging?'

'Hiding.' From Will.

'Sieging.' From Declan. 'Don't worry, I'm prepared for this.' He gestures for us to stay out of sight, then removes the cover and calls down through the hole. 'I'm diabetic, you ignoramus, and when I collapse Jenna-Belle is going to call
Today Tonight.
How's it going to look for you when I get dragged out of here on a gurney?'

Then there's some more barely audible talking disappearing down the hallway.

Declan is smiling, pleased with himself.

'Good thinking! That was ace,' says Will with admiration.

A few minutes later the voice is back.

'Declan, is it?' the voice asks. 'How are you going to ring
Today Tonight?'

'With my mobile phone,' Declan says, feeling his pockets.

'A blue Nokia with an Astroboy cover? I'm looking at it. Jenna-Belle and Willem, your mother is waiting for you outside. We've removed your furniture and David is changing the locks now. That's going to take an hour or so. You can stay up there as long as you like, but once you do come out the house will be locked, and if you attempt to enter again you will be charged with trespass. You don't want to put your mother through that, do you?'

Will frowns and I can see tears of frustration building in his eyes. He covers his face with his hands. Declan looks deflated and embarrassed. I just feel bone weary.

'I appreciate that this is a difficult day for you kids, but this isn't making it any easier for anyone. It's probably best just to come down, don't you think?'

As I climb down the ladder I'm wishing we had come up with a better plan. There would have been a way to make it work, but I was secretly hoping something would happen. I'm not used to having to do things for myself – not the big things anyway.

Outside, Declan's dad and Will move the heaviest furniture into Declan's garage. Mum still has the bag that I packed for her to take to the hospital. I put a change of clothes into a green shopping bag. At the last minute I also put in Dad's t-shirt, Albert Bear and my pinch pot.

Declan's mum and I stack washing baskets full of clothes in their garage. Bryce Cole's box has been plonked on the front lawn, next to the letterbox. The rolled-up sleeping bag pokes out of the top.

Declan and Willem walk in to the garage carrying parts of the dismantled cot. Declan's mother and Mum exchange a fleeting, horrified glance.

'Er, put it behind that other stuff, can you?' Declan's dad mumbles. He chucks an old blanket over it when he thinks our mums aren't looking.

'They can stay with us, can't they?' Declan says to his mum and dad.

Declan's mother grabs the chain around her neck. She's tugging on it. There's a franticness to it. She's going to break it, or hang herself. She's staring at her husband.

Declan's dad's throat is going a deep beetroot red.

'Where else are they going to go?' Declan asks.

'I'm sure we'll . . .' Mum trails off, because there is no way to finish that sentence. Manage? Does it look like we're managing? We're all sinking into this etiquette quicksand.

'You know, Sue, we could really use your fridge,' says Declan's mum. 'Could we buy it from you?'

'Don't be silly!' says Mum. 'You can use it as much as you like until we come and pick it up. It won't be long – maybe a few weeks.'

'How about we buy it now, and then when you come to collect it you can buy it back from us?' Declan's mum says.

Mum finally twigs that Declan's mum is trying to lend her cash without embarrassing us. 'That would be okay with me,' she whispers.

'It's such a nice fridge.' Declan's mum runs her hand down the handle. 'Do you think five hundred would be reasonable?'

Mum's lip trembles.

'Let's make it a thousand. It has such a lovely stainless steel finish. And there's not a mark on it!'

Mum's legs crumple and she crouches on Declan's driveway, sobbing.