Little Bird (13 page)

Sometimes, alone in my room, when I'd been dreaming about Spence, I'd pictured a scene like this. I'd cry and he would sweep me into his arms. Why is it that in movies crying always seems beautiful? In reality, crying is wet and snotty and ugly. I knew from experience that I didn't look mysterious or exotic when I cried. My chin looked long and weirdly angular, my face blotchy, my eyes puffy and piggish. I pushed blindly past the desks and chairs, and out into the crowded hallway. Spence didn't try to stop me. He certainly didn't sweep me into his arms.

I glimpsed Ed's red hair. Don't let him see me like this too, I prayed. But it was too late.

‘Ruby-lee!' he called.

I turned and fled up a flight of stairs, ran into the female toilets and huddled in a stall, where I let myself cry and cry. Now on top of everything else I'd made a complete fool of myself in front of Ed, and he probably thought . . . he probably thought I was crying because I was in love with Spence or something.

And was I? Was I in love with Spence? He didn't care about Maisy, or me. He only cared about himself. But I couldn't seem to help the way I felt about Spence, no matter what he did, or didn't do. Because deep down, I was sure he
did
care about Maisy. That if he only spent more time with her he would come to see how precious she was. He'd realise that being loved by Maisy was more important than being a famous musician.

I was still crying when the door to the girls' toilets squeaked open. ‘Ruby-lee?' I recognised Beck's voice. I lifted my feet up, hiding. ‘She's not in there,' I heard her say. ‘Let's go.'

‘Ruby-lee?' This time it was Ed.

‘Ed!' Beck squawked. ‘You can't go in there!'

He knocked on the toilet cubicle door. ‘Ruby-lee is that you?'

I held my breath.

‘Ed, you psychopath. It could be anyone. And if it is her she obviously doesn't want to be found. Let's go.'

I waited until I was sure they were gone. Then, using the single-ply institutional toilet paper, I wiped my tears and blew my nose. I ventured out of the stall to the sinks. In the mirror I saw myself, shining chin and drippy nose, stringy hair, swollen eyes.

‘I hate you,' I spat. ‘You're ugly and stupid. Why would you ever think he would love
you
?'

Just then two girls, blonde-haired and super-skinny clones, stepped into the bathroom. I wasn't sure if they'd heard me. I turned on the tap and washed my hands. They glanced at me and each went into a stall.

Before I left, I pulled out Tegan's note, scrumpled it up and thew it in the bin. As I walked out one of the girls exploded into laughter.

‘Ssh,' said the other one. ‘Don't. She'll hear you. It's, like, really sad.'

I didn't know which was worse, pity or laughter. I decided it didn't matter. I was determined to go back to being invisible. I went to English. I didn't let myself look at Tegan and Blake. I concentrated on disappearing into the furniture, and it must have worked because for once Ms Betts didn't say a word to me for the whole lesson, even though my written piece on love was three weeks overdue.

I managed to get through the rest of the week avoiding everyone. I slunk around the school like a nervous cat, leaning into the walls, and running away or ducking into empty rooms whenever I saw Tegan, Spence or Ed. On Tuesday I sat in a toilet cubicle for the whole of lunch and read
Romeo and Juliet
. On Wednesday the toilets smelt so awful I gagged and had to swallow hard to keep my tuna sandwich down, so I made myself go to the library to research my cultural context essay for Indonesian. On Thursday, I happened upon a free lunchtime seminar in the room above the cafeteria. A woman called Wendy from the Tirraleah Childcare Centre was talking about career opportunities that involved working with children.

At the end there were free sandwiches and cakes from the cafeteria. ‘I haven't seen you here before,' a girl said to me as we both fossicked for our favourite sandwiches. She was vaguely familiar with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Do you want to work with kids?'

‘Uh, yeah. I do.' I hadn't really thought about it before. I mean, not beyond hanging out with Maisy on Sunday afternoons. But listening to Wendy had made me excited about the future. It was the first time I'd ever heard of a job that I actually thought I'd be any good at. Wendy had said that many centres employed students straight out of Year 12. She told us about traineeships where we could study and work at the same time. I liked the idea of being able to earn money straight after Year 12, and maybe move into the city, like Colette. I'd still be getting a qualification, which would please my mother. And I knew I had a knack for it, not just with Maisy, but with William too.

‘Is that why you're here, 'cause you want to work with kids?' I asked the girl.

‘Nah, I'm more of a dog person. This is my regular haunt.'

‘Oh. They have lunchtime sessions often?'

‘Sometimes, but I meant the SRC.' At my blank face she said, ‘The Student Resource Centre.' I looked around the room at the posters about universities and careers and safe sex and drink-driving. There were tables to sit at, a few computers, some beanbags. ‘It's a good place to hang out at lunchtime. You can read or study or use the computers and no one bugs you. And they have these talks sometimes, and then afterwards there are free sandwiches and hedgehog. You can make yourself a Milo or tea whenever you want. In the summer there was lemon cordial. And they give out free condoms.' She shoved another sandwich in her mouth then said, cheeks bulging, ‘I'm Imogen, by the way.'

‘I'm Ruby-lee.' I was trying to look nonchalant about the condoms, as if I used them all the time.

‘I know. You're in my English class.'

‘Oh.' I blushed. ‘Sorry.' Like I said, she was vaguely familiar, but I didn't remember her from English, not even after she said it. It occurred to me, briefly, that maybe I wasn't as invisible as I thought I was. Maybe I was just unobservant. I nibbled thoughtfully at a slice of hedgehog.

‘That's cool. You used to sit with that girl. Now you always sit by yourself. You can sit with me if you want.'

‘Thanks.'

I came away from the seminar with a bunch of pamphlets about TAFE courses, the germinating seed of a plan for the future, and, just maybe, a new friend.

14

On Sunday, when Mum began her weekly nag about Colette taking advantage of me, I said, ‘Heaps of people do volunteer work. Besides, this will look good on my application form.'

‘What form?'

‘When I apply for a traineeship,' I said smoothly. I told her about the childcare courses, about how I could get a job straight out of Year 12, and even move out if I wanted to. She and Stefan could have the house to themselves, for the first time since they got married.

‘Oh, Rubes,' Mum sighed. ‘I'm glad you like babysitting so much, but are you sure you want to make a career out of it?'

‘It's not just babysitting!' I said. ‘In just a few years, after I've qualified, I could be the supervisor of my own childcare room, I could have a team of people working for me! I could even travel if I wanted. There are lots of jobs for qualified nannies overseas, and I have that money from Dad, so that'd pay for my airfare.'

‘Sounds like you've got it all worked out,' she said.

‘Yeah. I do.'

Mum sighed. ‘Well, you don't have to decide right now, anyway.'

I couldn't win! Last week she'd been nagging me about the future, and now she was telling me I didn't have to worry about it. What did she want from me? I slammed the car door when I got out. Mum didn't even seem to notice. She watched me walk across the road. And then she drove off, looking disappointed, as if I'd just told her I was planning on being a junkie when I grew up.

I could hear Maisy crying from the bottom of the stairs. As I got closer to Colette's door the sound got louder and louder.

Colette was sitting on the steps outside her closed front door, smoking a cigarette. She looked like crap. She was wearing faded trackies and a shapeless white long-sleeved T-shirt and no bra, looking like she'd just crawled out of bed. She stared straight ahead, as if she couldn't even hear Maisy crying.

‘Is Maisy all right?' I asked.

‘She's fine,' Colette said. ‘She's in the cot.'

‘What's going on?'

‘We're not having a very good day is what's going on.' Colette drew in another lungful of smoke.

‘I'll go and get her, shall I?' I asked.

‘Knock yourself out,' said Colette. She didn't budge.

I went inside. Maisy's howls filled the flat. She was standing in the cot holding onto the bars, howling. When she saw me her cries grew louder. Her face was red with rage.

‘Maisy, come on sweetie, come here. Come to Ruby-lee.' I kept talking to her as I picked her up. She arched her back, screaming, and grabbed a fistful of my hair as I tried to cuddle her.

‘Come on sweetie.' I made a shushing sound.

Maisy pricked up her ears, and her crying subsided. I turned and saw Colette standing in the doorway watching us. ‘Colette, are you okay?'

‘I'm fine. I'm getting changed.'

Seeing Colette set Maisy off again, and then she wailed even louder when Colette disappeared into her bedroom.

I took Maisy out into the lounge room, joggling her up and down as I walked, and she calmed again, but as soon as I put her on the floor she belted up the hallway on all fours towards Colette. Man, that kid could move. She pulled herself up to standing at Colette's bedroom door, and I realised she'd been
standing
in the cot when I arrived.

I followed her along the hallway and scooped her up. ‘You clever thing. Can you stand now?' She shrieked as I carried her into the lounge room, lunging back towards Colette's room. ‘Do you want a biscuit? I brought some yummy snacks with me.'

I'd come prepared this week, with a packet of milk arrowroots, some jars of baby food and a couple of bananas. I sat on the couch to open the biscuits and Maisy crawled up.

‘You want one, huh?'

Colette looked at the biscuits when she came back into the lounge room, but she didn't say anything.
You're welcome
, I thought.

‘What time will you be home?' I asked.

Colette shrugged. ‘I don't know. We might run late again today.'

‘Maisy's a bit upset,' I ventured.

‘Yeah, well, maybe if she
slept
more than three hours at a time she might stop being such a drama queen,' Colette snapped. She closed her eyes. ‘Sorry,' she said abruptly. ‘It's just when she doesn't sleep, I don't sleep.'

‘We'll be just fine, won't we, Maisy?' Maisy had pulled herself upright and was standing next to me, her little hand clutching my leg to steady herself. ‘I can't believe she's standing!' I said to Colette. ‘She looks so much older. Like she's not really a baby anymore.'

‘Mmm,' Colette said. I felt annoyed by her lack of interest. ‘Well, bye Maisy.'

Maisy looked up. As Colette opened the front door, Maisy's bottom lip wobbled. She sat down, bump, on her bottom. Her whole face melted into despair and she began to cry again. It was the first time she'd reacted like this to Colette's departure; usually she barely noticed Colette leaving. I offered her a biscuit. She pushed it away angrily, turning her back to me. I couldn't help but take it personally – I felt rejected.

‘Maisy, I'll be back later, okay,' Colette said impatiently.

Maisy shot across the room and clung to Colette's leg.

‘I'm already late. I don't have time for this.' She picked Maisy up, gave her a perfunctory hug. ‘Believe it or not, Maisy, Mummy's got a life.' She passed her over to me. ‘I'll go quickly,' Colette said, apparently immune to Maisy's desperate wailing. ‘It'll be easier that way.'

Easier for who? Colette left and Maisy continued to wail. I carried her to the couch, chatting in a bright tone. I tried again to distract her with a biscuit. I shook a little felt ball with a bell in the middle. She pushed the biscuit away, and wrenched the ball out of my hand and hurled it. She wriggled out of my arms, slithering to the floor. She crawled to the front door and pounded on it, looking back pleadingly, her face bright red and slick with snot and tears. It was as if she thought Colette going away was some kind of terrible magic trick I'd performed and I had the power to bring her back. I had gone from being a trusted friend to being a stranger, or worse, an enemy. It was all I could do not to start blubbering myself.
And besides
, said a tiny voice in my head,
why would she want Colette back so badly anyway? The way Colette is acting lately, Maisy is better off with me.

‘Come on, Maisy. Please stop crying.' I picked her up and sang to her, but she arched her back and screamed, refusing to relax into my arms. For the first time since I'd met Maisy, I felt utterly hopeless, incompetent. I put her down. I knew I was being weak and indecisive, but I didn't know what else to do. Where had little baby Maisy gone? Suddenly she was something else, something powerful and angry and destructive. I was a little frightened of her.

She cried for ages. I tried everything I could think of: nudey time, television, music, milk, water, several different snacks, all of which she refused. Even when I ran the bath and popped her in, she struggled in protest. Once in the water she kept screaming, her whole body purple with fury. So I lifted her out, dried her aggressively with the towel, fought her into her clothes and let her loose in the lounge again. The room was littered with the debris of my attempts to calm her – a banana skin and a bowl of browning, soupy mashed bananas, biscuits, spilled water cups, toys everywhere, the television playing a constant loop of Loony Tunes cartoons. And still she wailed.