Living With Leanne (2 page)

The major problem is that Mum’s short and chunky and I haven’t finished growing yet. The average height of the Newmonias is about six feet in their socks. Plus the air is so thick with smoke that you can hardly see a thing except a mass of moving shapes swaying to the thump of the music. Mum grabs this girl with a shaved head.

‘Is Leanne Studley in here?’

‘Who?’

What cave did she crawl out of? Everyone knows Leanne. Well, anyone who’s anyone in this hole of a city. Mum asks another dozen funsters.

‘Yeah,’ says this dude with “Psycho” shaved into his head,’ she’s ‘ere somewhere, man.’

Mum frowns and looks at me through the gloom.

‘Why does everyone call me “M’am”?’

This isn’t the time to set her straight. Her eyes are darting all over the place. I get into the beat. It’s kind of hypnotic.

‘Up there,’ she says, pointing.

I can just about see the deejay in a separate booth built out over the crowd, with the upstairs section thick with dancing bodies.

‘Wow, that booth wasn’t …’

Whoops. Big mistake. But she doesn’t hear me, she’s too keen on getting up the stairs. Mum steamrollers her way against the down-coming tide and I follow in her wake. We reach the top level and Mum heads straight for the deejay’s booth. This is serious. I’m going to die of embarrassment in front of a million people any minute.

‘Mum! You can’t …’

But she’s in there, leaning in close to the deejay. His mouth’s hanging open as Mum flaps her gums in his ear-hole. Next thing the music’s cut and he makes an announcement.

‘Could Leanne Studley please report to the front desk immediately? There’s an emergency situation …’

‘And I’m the emergency, Leanne,’ bellows Mum, grabbing the microphone, ‘so move it!
Now
.’

A buzz. Heads turning. Eyes looking. I’m burning up with embarrassment, wishing the top storey would fold up
round me like a magic carpet and whip me back home to the safety on my nice, warm bed.

We push and shove our way back down the stairs to the front desk and wait. I’m trying not to notice the curious stares, the nudges, the giggles. Mum’s still in her bingo gear, a lavender and pink parachute suit that makes her look like a lump of fairy floss. Definitely not disco material.

Maybe Leanne’s escaped through a back door. Maybe she beat us to the front door. Maybe …

‘I’ll just bet that little germ’s done a bunk,’ says Mum. ‘I know that child! I know how her mind works. I’ll bet she’s climbed out the toilet window or …’

‘So?’ says Leanne, sauntering up with several guys in tow. ‘What’s the problem?’

I’ve got to admire her super cool.

‘Out,’ says Mum, pointing.

Leanne shrugs and struts ahead like a proud peacock with Mum and me trailing behind. There’s a lot of lousy things about Leanne but you’ve got to hand it to her for guts. I’d be cacking my jocks if it was me. But Leanne’s long legs saunter along with her handbag banging against her thighs. Mum catches up and grabs her arm, steering her to the car which is still double-parked. The queuers give catcalls, cheers and jeers and Leanne turns and bows. The queue has actually grown since we arrived, right down
to the Target store and round the corner. In fact it’s growing longer.

‘Place is just starting to jump,’ remarks Leanne as Mum opens the passenger door and levers her into the front seat. I crawl into the back.

‘You’ll be jumping, my girl when I’ve finished with you. You’re grounded for the rest of your life!’

Leanne shrugs and studies her nails. ‘So what’s new?’

Mum’s so boiling mad I think she’s going to run into a telephone pole but she contains herself and just plants her foot to release her anger. We’re doing about a hundred-k down a sixty-k street.

‘You were breaking the law, Leanne,’ says Mum.

‘Yeah? What d’ya think ya doin’ now, Mum?’

Mum glances at the speedo, gasps and goes for the anchors. We do this screaming skid stop and leave enough rubber on the road to make a complete new set of Dunlops.

‘Good one,’ says Leanne with heavy sarcasm. ‘Can you at least try to get me home in one piece?’

Don’t know why, because Mum’s going to shred her when we get there anyway.

Mum drives slowly back to our place.

We all troll into the courtroom alias the kitchen and Mum puts on the kettle. She always makes herself a cuppa in a crisis. Leanne sits at the kitchen table looking bored
and I lurk in the background. If I make a wrong move I’ll get turfed out, and I want to see the action. This has to be the worst thing Leanne has done for at least three weeks.

The inquisition begins. Mum sits down nursing her mug of strong, black tea.

‘Why?’

Leanne shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

‘You have the brains of a baked bean, Leanne. You’re a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. The major function of your life is to get out of bed each morning, bright and breezy, and go to your Year 9 class, having had eight hours of nice, soothing sleep. You are not supposed to be out partying in a nightclub illegally, behind my back. Why did you feel the need to do this?’

‘Please,’ goes Leanne with fake weariness, ‘just hit me.’

‘I’m not going to hit you, though maybe that’s what I should’ve done years ago. Hitting doesn’t do anyone any good, Leanne. We have to discuss this rationally.’

‘I hate rationality.’

‘I know that. You’re about as rational as a bungee jumper with frayed elastic.’

‘I hate this psycho trip.’

‘You do? Well, that’s too bad. What would you do if you were me, Leanne?’

‘I’d cut me some slack and leave me alone!’

‘I don’t think so. If you were a good mother, like I’m trying hard to be, you’d be asking why your daughter is dressed like a tart in a skirt hitched up to her navel and her face plastered with make-up that’s been put on with a trowel, and why she has sneaked out behind her mother’s back to go to some dubious nightclub in the middle of the night.’

Wow. Go, Mum! Her vocab’s really improved since she’s started part-time work in Belinda’s parents’ hot bread shop. And so’s her confidence.

‘I hate this,’ shouts Leanne.

‘Tough. You can wipe that sulky look off your face and listen to me, my girl.’

Mum’s calm, but Leanne’s starting to lose it.

‘Leave me alone,’ she screams, jumping up. ‘Why do you have to nag me all the time? And how could you embarrass me like that, coming into Newies and hauling me out in front of everyone?’

‘Ah,’ says Mum, eyes gleaming with the light of battle. ‘Did I drag you out? Pardon me, I thought you walked out of your own free will.’

‘You made me feel lower than a worm, a real fool.’

‘Good. Because that’s how you were behaving.’

Leanne bangs her fists on the table. She’s boiling mad.

‘That’s it,’ she hisses, ‘I’m clearing out, going to King’s Cross.’

She lunges past and pinches me savagely on the arm.

‘And you. Dobber.’

She practically spits in my face, wheels round, and storms off down the passage. Her bedroom door slams. Mum looks at me and grins as I rub my arm.

‘King’s Cross, Mum! This’s seriously grim stuff.’

‘Rubbish,’ says Mum. ‘She’s got lots of spirit, a bit too much; but I don’t want to break it. Her neck, yes! But not her spirit. She reminds me of myself as a young girl. Except that I was never so rebellious and hard to handle.’

I gape at Mum: double chins, straggly greying hair, bust, waist and hips all the same large size, stubby eyelashes, wrinkles galore. She’s dreaming off in her head.

Like Leanne? No way.

‘Don’t tell Leanne, but I did a similar thing when I was seventeen. Nicked off to the church dance during Lent and my father came right into the dance hall and dragged me out.’

She’s lost the plot. A church dance at seventeen is a bit different from fifteen and Rockin’ Newmonia.

‘Mum. She’s going to bail, I tell you. King’s Cross!’

‘Nah. People who threaten to leave home never do. It’s the ones who look contented that …’

She stops, looking sad. I know she’s thinking about Dad. He seemed happy until one night he didn’t come home
because he’d cleared out with the Lollipop Lady from Holy Family of Anticipation Primary School. Apparently he’d run into her when his brakes failed and he skidded through the crossing and knocked her over. Except Leanne says that Warren Weasleham saw it all and said Dad didn’t even nudge her: she just tripped over her own feet and the only damage was that she laddered her tights. But Dad must’ve felt guilty and gone round to see her a few times.

Well, maybe a lot of times. But anyway he eventually packed his stuff into Miss Lollipop’s car and left. (That’s what Mum calls her, Miss Lollipop. And a few other names that are unprintable.)

We never hear from him, not even a crummy Christmas card. Other mothers take their husbands to the cleaners for maintenance, but not Mum, even though she managed to track him to Noosa in Queensland through her bingo club networks. She said it gave her satisfaction knowing where he was except she’d feel better off if he … then didn’t finish the sentence.

‘If he’s too much of a low-down rat to face his responsibilities and fork out for you kids, that’s on his conscience, not mine,’ she always says, which is why Leanne and I don’t get much pocket money, because money’s tight.

‘Well, that’s it for tonight, folks,’ says Mum, getting up and going over to the sink, ‘Another chapter in the rearing
of Leanne. And I said I’d ground her for life. What a dumb thing to say in the heat of the moment. Why did I say that? The only way I can ground that girl is to chain her to the wall. Time for bed, Sam-boy. Sleep tight.’

Sleep tight? In the same house as Leanne? She’s got to be joking!

I’m in my room and I’m so mad at Mum I could scream. She thinks she’s so smart.

Well, I don’t. One thing I don’t want to end up, and that’s like Mum. Couldn’t even manage to hold on to Dad. And when he took off did she try to get him back? Talk about dumb. If that’d been me I’d have gone straight up to Noosa, smashed that stupid Lollipop Lady of his in the eye, grabbed Dad by the collar and hauled him back home. So because of her being a wuss my dad lives in another state and because of her attitude he won’t even contact us. I know he’d do heaps more if Mum would talk to him, but she refuses. She won’t let us talk to him or write, either.

King’s Cross is where all the cool jobs are supposed to
be for teenagers. Or if you haven’t got a job the other kids look after you and share their stuff. I’m not going to get into sex for money or drugs or any of that; it wrecks you. And when I’ve got some major cash, not like that crummy bit I get at the hot bread shop on Saturdays, I’ll hit Noosa and look up my dad. I still can’t believe that I had the hot bread shop job and Mum went down to check it out and grabbed a heap of part-time for herself. What sort of mother would do that to her kid? Any wonder I want to escape and live my own life. Grounded for life? What a joke. She can’t even ground me for the weekend.

So the next day I’m at the bus stop, going to school like a good little girl. School sucks. Total waste of time if you ask me. Oh, no. Here comes Spamhead.

‘Hi, Leanne.’

‘Get lost, jerk.’

‘Leanne, I didn’t dob. Mum saw the queue and she guessed …’

I grab the front of his jumper. ‘Listen, loser. You were supposed to cover, remember? Mum wasn’t even set to get into my bedroom if you’d done your job properly.’

‘Not my fault that she got suss.’

He always says that, “Not my fault.” Who else’s fault is it, then? I’m about to push him through the bus-shelter wall
I’m so mad, but then the bus rolls round the corner and I decide to forget it. I get in and walk up the back.

‘So? Did ya get into Newies?’

Fernita’s a friend of mine. Great name. Better than Leanne. When I hit King’s Cross I’ll change to something sexy, like Claudine or Babette or Elle.

‘Yeah. It was a snap.’

‘Did they check your ID?’

‘Didn’t even ask for it. Too many people in the queue, plus I was with Dirk and Todd.’

Her eyes glow.

‘What was it like?’

‘Cool. Only a deejay, the one from Wolf FM, not a cover band or anything, but it was great. Packed. This guy was just about to buy me a Multiple Orgasm when Mum showed.’

‘What?’

‘Shh, not so loud, will ya? I don’t want the whole busload to know, do I?’

‘So what happened then?’

‘Nothin’. Grounded as usual, what else?’

‘Worth it, but.’

Fernita looks peed off. She’d wanted to come, too, but she wasn’t game. Her stepfather’d take his belt to her, she reckoned, specially if he’d been drinking. That’s one thing
I wouldn’t swap: Fernita’s family for mine. Her mother’s a bimbo for staying married to that slob. Fern’s going to come to King’s Cross with me when I decide to go. And the way things are now it’ll be soon.

We roll into school and it’s science, first up. A double period. Boring. Fern and I grab our books and slow-walk over to room 3. Surprise, surprise. Mr Felan’s off on sick leave.

‘Stress,’ says Mr Bone the vice-principal, glaring at us. I suppose I’ll get the blame for that, too. Mr Felan (Feelin’ Felan) is an outsize dweeb, so his stress leave’s no loss to us. We’ve got a substitute teacher, Miss Rosewall, and she doesn’t look like a science teacher to me. She’s wearing a beige Country Road blouse (just like the one in
Pretty Woman
) under a tweed jacket, a straight black skirt, black tights and ankle-length boots. She’s got blonde hair in a topknot and really long ‘Bronze Gleam’ fingernails.

‘I hope Miss Rosewall has your full attention, 9J,’ says Mr Bone, glaring at us over the top of his tortoise-shell glasses.

Translated that means “I hope you don’t give Miss Rosewall major stress.”

‘Right on, Mr B,’ says Cheetah up the back. Mr Bone rolls his eyes and leaves. Miss Rosewall stares at us and we stare back.

‘Science,’ she says, ‘can be an extremely boring subject.’

I blink. Someone in the middle row yawns loudly.

‘Exactly. It can be the biggest yawn since flannelette pyjamas’, she says, ‘so we are going to make sure it isn’t a giant-sized yawn, right?’

The class sighs in agreement and appreciation. This teacher sounds cool. She is. What she wants us to do is prove that plants like music.

‘You mean like Mozart and stuff?’ I say.

‘Not necessarily. I want each of you to choose the music you like best. We will plant six lupin seeds each and you will take care of them at home for the next four weeks. The ones we plant at school will have no music. These will be the control group. Yours will have ten minutes per day, of the music of your choice. Each day you will measure and record any growth.’

Fern puts up her hand.

‘Yes?’

‘I read somewhere that Prince Charles sings to his plants.’

‘Der, Fern.’ Wozza sits next to Cheetah. ‘If ya think I’m gonna sing to a bunch of lupins …’

‘Sing lullabies to them, play heavy metal, bongo drums, anything,’ says Miss Rosewall, ‘as long as it’s consistent. Ten minutes. The same music daily. Let’s get started on planting the seeds.’

She’s got a stack of margarine containers, lupin seeds and potting mix.

‘How will we know if some people,’ not mentioning Cheetah’s name in particular, ‘are cheating by giving their plants fertilisers?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Or putting them up in their ceiling under infrared lights with their wacky backy,’ says Wozza.

‘Just music. Nothing else except sunlight and water, okay? There’s a friend of mine at the CSIRO who’s interested in this idea and will replicate the experiment under the strictest conditions, so if you cheat and have the tallest lupins you’ll get found out. And you wouldn’t like to end up looking stupid, would you?’

She’s not only smart-looking but smart-brained as well. I’m impressed.

In the interests of science we draw up a class list of rules. We have to do a diagram of where the lupins’ll be living in each household.

‘Against a window with a northerly aspect,’ says Miss Rosewall, ‘and exactly half a cup of water per day.’

It’s exact and scientific. Before we know it the double period’s over and it’s the best science lesson I’ve had since Year 7 when Wozza set Carmel O’Brien’s hair on fire with his Bunsen burner.

Recess and it’s full speed to the canteen. Fern’s got the
hots for Cameron Lyon and I like Drenton Faberge. They’re both Year 12.

‘Get nearer,’ I hiss as we spot them over by the door. We ease up gently. Year 12 boys are like horses, easily frightened if you jump at them. Plus they’ve got every girl in school after them from Year 7 up, so you’ve got to act kind of interested but uninterested at the same time. I’m glad I’ve got my new double-lash mascara on as we move in closer. These are good specimens. Collector’s items.

‘Whoops.’

Fern trips and falls against Cameron. Good move, I wish I’d thought of it.

‘Are you all right?’

He steadies her with his arm.

‘Sorry. I just felt a bit dizzy.’

She’s brilliant, even looks pale. How does she do that? I close in, the Concerned Best Friend, as she leans against Cameron. Drenton helps his mate lead her to an empty seat. I hang around, looking worried.

‘Are you all right, Fern?’

She blinks.

‘Oh, Leanne, I came over all faint. I feel so … silly.’

She’s good, even remembered to get in my name. I smile winningly at Drenton and flutter my eyelashes. He looks dazed which is how guys usually look when I give them
the treatment. Well, if this amounts to something I’ll put King’s Cross on hold. I can’t go just yet anyway, because of the lupins. I reckon ten minutes of the Gunners at a thousand decibels every day ought to make them shoot through the roof. By the time the bell goes we’ve got dates tonight. Movies.

‘Meet you inside,’ says Cameron.

That’s an old scam.

‘Nah, in the foyer,’ I go quickly.

That means they’ve got to pay for us. We don’t come cheap, even if they are Year 12.

‘I reckon it’s my lucky day,’ I say as we cruise to English.

‘Me too. What do you think about Cam and Dren-baby?’

‘They’ll be psychological rubble when we’ve finished with them.’

I dream through English and Maths then it’s lunchtime. We don’t hang around the canteen because we’ve decided to nick downtown and check out the new gear in Modern Miss. It’s a fifteen-minute hike at a fast walk. Fern’s never short of money. Her ex-father pays up and so does her step. Of course you don’t need to be Einstein to figure out they’re competing.

‘Think I’ll buy that long skirt with the slit,’ says Fern, ‘but should I get the black or the navy?’

‘Both?’

She’s got two crumpled fifty dollar notes probably one from each father. She buys the two and I hate her. Unfortunately they won’t fit me because I’m tall with long legs and she’s short and chunky. All Fern’s stuff falls off me, even her tops, although I can wear her windcheaters.

‘Shout you a burger?’

She’s got spare money so we go to Burger City and order doubles with salad.

‘We’d better hurry,’ I go. ‘It’s Art next and Swanson always checks the roll. We don’t need a detention to spoil a top day.’

And because we’re running late we catch a bus to school. As we get in we nearly fall over Miss Rosewall sitting up the front. Bummer, I thought all teachers could afford cars?

‘Hi, Miss Rosewall,’ I mumble, covering my mouth with my hankie. ‘Major dental work.’

She looks pointedly at Fern’s Modern Miss bag then grins.

‘Okay, girls. But I prefer not to have seen you, right?’

We rush for the back.

‘She’s kinda flaky,’ says Fern.

‘But nice.’

‘Yeah. Wonder if she’s got a boyfriend?’

‘Has Rambo got muscles?’

‘It’s our stop. Wait till she gets off.’

But we don’t have to worry; Miss Rosewall gets off without looking back once and strides off in the direction of the front entrance while we duck behind some parked cars and slink round the back behind the prefabs. Once you’re on school property the Education Police can’t spring you for being outside the grounds. Well, they’ve got to prove it, don’t they?

Art’s boring. Followed by Japanese. Equally boring unless I was about to fly out to Tokyo next week, which I’m not. Mr Ashiwoto says I’ve got a very good ear for languages: it’s not cool to be good at anything round here. Maybe growing lupins to music is okay, but that’s about all.

‘What’re you gonna wear tonight, Leanne?’ says Fern when we’re finally at the lockers and another yawn-filled week’s finished at last. Friday night. The movies.

‘Dunno. The mini, I guess. White top. I’m actually thinking of washing out this colour and putting in ‘Red Flamboyant’. What ya reckon?’

‘I like it black myself.’

We rave on as we get the bus home. I won’t have time to change the colour by tonight, that’s for sure. Anyway Dren-baby mightn’t recognise me with red hair.

My stop.

‘See ya tonight on the seven o’clock bus?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where are you going on the seven o’clock bus, Leanne?’

It’s Germ Face in the flesh.

‘Rack off. D’ya have to
haunt
me?’

Sam doesn’t take the hint. That kid’s got mud for brains. He clomps along next to me looking like a total reject as usual, shirt-tail hanging out, holes the size of footballs in his jumper, hair all over the place. Gross.

‘Mum says you’re grounded.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

We get to the gate. Our place looks like the city dump.

The flowers have dropped dead and no one’s pulled them out. There’s mega weeds, grass that’s supposed to be a neatly-mowed lawn about half a metre high.

‘Why don’t you cut the lawns instead of buggin’ me?’ I go.

‘Lawnmower’s busted.’

The paint’s peeling off the house like giant dandruff flakes. No wonder I don’t invite guys home unless I can con them to pick me up in their wheels outside in the pitch dark. Okay, so Mum tries. The inside’s neat and tidy. But doesn’t she realise that the outside counts more?

I go into the kitchen and drag the margarine container out of my bag.

‘What’s that?’

‘Take-away Mexican, what do ya think?’

I go into my bedroom and put the container right up next to the ghetto blaster. I drop in Guns N’ Roses and turn up the volume.

‘Leanne!’

It’s Mum, back from the hot bread shop. She stands in my bedroom doorway bellowing. Can’t hear her.

‘Turn that off.
Now
.’

‘Can’t’, I yell. ‘It’s an experiment for science.’

I wave my copy of 9J Class Science Experiment Rules under her nose as I get into the beat.

‘Turn it down.’

‘Can’t. I’m proving it’s got to be loud rock or it won’t work, as loud as the volume’ll go. L.O.U.D.’

Mum marches across and turns the volume to L.O.W.

‘Look, Mum, this experiment won’t work unless the Gunners are full bore.’

‘Who says?’

‘I say. It’s
my
experiment, not yours. These lupin seeds are getting reared to loud rock and you better believe it. You’re always on about how I’m not interested in my homework. Well now I am and what are
you
doing? Mucking up my experiment.’

I glare at her and turn up the volume.

Mum leans over and plugs in the headphones.

‘Read my lips,’ she says. ‘These lupins can enjoy loud rock as much as they like. But I don’t have to put up with it!’

And she puts the headphones over the margarine container and storms off.

Betcha Madam Curie and the chick who invented Myxo for rabbits didn’t have to put up with a geek of a mother. I hope these lupin seeds can hear the music. I bend down and it’s bellowing out so I guess they can.

‘Leanne!’

Now what? Is she trying to drive me crazy?

‘We’re going shopping. You coming?’