Living With Leanne (3 page)

‘Get real. I’ve got to babysit me lupins.’

‘Leanne.’

‘
What
!’

‘You are not to leave this house. You’re grounded, not for life, but for this entire weekend. Do you hear me?’

‘Yeah? Well, it may as well be life, then,’ I hiss at her back. Just as well we’re seeing the early show; she won’t get home from late-night shopping till ten. I wait till I hear the car back down the drive, take the headphones off the lupins and let them have the full-on treatment as I peel off my school gear. Now I’ve got exactly one hour to get ready.

I pull on the wardrobe door. Funny. Must be jammed. I give it a real yank. Nothing happens. Then I wake up. She’s
locked my wardrobe. All my clothes are inside. Wait. Not
all
. The ironing basket. I rush out to the laundry. I don’t need Kryptonite eyeballs to see that it’s empty. Right. It’s war.

I go into her room. More locked wardrobes. I go to Sam’s, look in his wardrobe and nearly puke. It stinks. Sweaty t-shirts, rotten sneakers. Forget it. I slam his door shut and head for the phone. And she’s locked it, too. It’s got a chain and padlock on it so I can’t lift the receiver.
Good one
! I can’t even phone my friends and get them to bring over any gear. What else has she done? I look round. Everything else seems to be okay. Well, I’m not beaten yet. There’s got to be something round here I can wear apart from my poxy school uniform.

Three quarters of an hour and I’m ready, showered, hair done, make-up on, lupins Gunnered, and a brand-new outfit. Pity about no shoes: I’ve had to spray my slippers with white paint. The dress is a bit over the top but what else can you do with a heavy Spanish lace tablecloth? So suffer, Mum, I’m going out raging. I’ve got exactly enough money for the bus.

Slamming the door I slope down the street to the bus stop.

‘Whoa. Where’s ya pumpkin?’ says this guy cruising by on a mountain bike.

‘Take a hike.’

Who needs smart comments? I slither up the steps when the bus pulls up and walk towards the back.

‘Wow, Leanne. White lace. Unreal gear.’ Fern’s stoked. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d bought a new dress.’

It makes the new navy skirt look like schoolgirl stuff.

‘Yeah, well …’

I can’t keep it to myself: I’ve got to tell her. We both crack up laughing.

‘Your Mum’s tablecloth? I don’t believe it.’

‘Just as well we’re only going to the movies. It’s held up with safety pins!’

‘Hope Drenton Faberge keeps his hands to himself.’

‘I don’t.’

We giggle, get off the bus and cruise down the main drag.

We check out the foyer of the Village Twin and can’t see the guys so we stroll some more.

‘Not past K-Mart,’ I say, pulling at Fern’s arm. ‘It’ll be just my luck to run into Mum.’

‘Yeah. She might want you to set the table!’

I punch her on the arm and giggle.

‘Yeah.’

We turn and go back to the movies.

‘They’d better show soon, it’s starting in five minutes.’

We stand in the foyer and wait. And wait.

‘Know something?’ says Fern. ‘I think we’ve been stood up.’

‘Everything all right, girls?’ says this sleaze-bucket with tight jeans and greasy long hair.

‘Was till you showed, Greaseball,’ I go.

‘Thought you might like to see the movie.’

‘Yeah? Well, you thought wrong. Shove off.’

He goes. I look at Fern.

‘Now what?’

She droops.

‘Dunno. I was looking forward to … well, Cameron’s kinda cute.’

‘We don’t need Year 12 dorks.’

I can’t stand being stood up.

‘Come on. We’re going to the Golden Cue.’

‘But …’

‘You wanna date or not?’

‘Leanne, there’s tough stuff on there. Bad news. Let’s just go have a Coke or somethin, right?’

‘What are ya?’

I’m so boiling mad I don’t care. I storm out of the Village Twin foyer with Fern struggling to keep up in her tight skirt.

‘This is the end,’ I rage.

We sweep down the street.

‘Locked out of my wardrobe, stood up. Who needs it? And as for Mum … I wish she’d take a slow boat to Mongolia.’

‘What she needs is a man in her life,’ puffs Fern. ‘That’d keep her off your case, you know.’

‘Yeah. But who wants an overweight slug with greying hair, double chins and a mean personality?’

‘Leanne!’

My blood turns to water.

It’s the overweight slug with the greying hair, double chins and mean personality. In the flesh!

I’ve never seen Mum so mad. I think she’s going to explode all over the footpath. We’re standing there, our arms full of grocery bags, facing Leanne who looks like Madonna on a bad day in this weird white lacy dress.

‘Well, hi,’ drawls Leanne, ‘thought I’d come and help you with the shopping.’

She makes a grab for one of the bags. Mum pulls back. Leanne tugs. Next thing the bag’s split and there’s smashed eggs, a busted packet of flour, a jar of honey in a million pieces, a split packet of tea, brussels sprouts and new potatoes, a bottle of brandy (cooking purposes only) and two packs of tampons with new silken sheaths in a jumble all
over the footpath. Fernita yelps as egg yolk splashes all over her skirt.

‘Hey. Leanne. Sorry we’re late,’ says this hunk looming up behind Mum, ‘but now we’ve found you chicks, let’s roll. Change of plans. Thought a trip down the coast, a few beers, game of pool, then see how the rest of the evening pans out, okay?’

Leanne gives this strangled groan, flings her arms out and wails at the moon. The lacy dress gives this sigh and collapses round her ankles into the mess of foodstuffs and she’s standing there in her bra and knickers right in the main street.

I’m leaning against a shop window with my eyes popping out. And Mum?

She starts to laugh. She’s clutching the last bag of groceries like it’s a baby, doubled over cacking away fit to bust.

‘Er,’ the other guy nudges the first. ‘Some other time, eh.’

They take off up the street. Fern takes off in the opposite direction. Leanne gathers our best lace tablecloth up over herself and glares at Mum.

‘Once me lupins grow I’m leavin,’ she says. ‘That’s it!’

Mum stops laughing and straightens her shoulders. She looks tired.

‘Let’s go, Leanne.’

I quickly kick all the mess into the gutter and walk ten paces behind them. I don’t want anyone to know we’re related. Everyone’s staring at the tablecloth, part of which is dragging on the ground. Leanne looks like some escaped psycho.

We’ve got to walk right through the Bay City Plaza with all these people gawking and sniggering. Some know Leanne and say ‘Hi’ but she doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead. Mum’s promised me a bag of Cookie Man biscuits and a box of assorted donuts (out on special) but this doesn’t seem the time to remind her. We sail past the Tattslotto booth and I don’t know whether to tell Mum that she hasn’t bought her Quick Pick No Super Sixty Six for Saturday night, but somehow I don’t feel this is a particularly lucky moment. They get on the down escalator and I leap on at a safe distance behind them. The car’s in the underground car park, free for the first two hours and Mum’s going to be spewing because we’re five minutes over the limit. Thanks to Leanne. We reach the Falcon and Mum chucks her bag of groceries in the boot.

‘Hurry up, Sam.’

I dump in my two bags and there’s a mad scramble for the back seat. Leanne doesn’t want the front for a change and neither do I. It’s the suicide seat and with the mood Mum’s in I’m thinking back rear, safety first. Mum roars
up to the barrier and starts arguing with the check-out chick that she’s only five minutes over so why should she have to pay five bucks for the whole hour. Leanne and I cringe. I think Mum’s really flipped into insanity mode and even Leanne looks scared.

She drives down the highway like a maniac flat out (or that’s how it feels) and it’s a real relief when a siren sounds, there’s this blue flashing light and the cops pull us over. One gets out and strolls over. He asks to see Mum’s licence which luckily she has because half the time she forgets to put it in her purse.

‘Have you had any alcohol to drink today, madam?’ he asks, sniffing. Leanne’s tablecloth has dragged in the cooking brandy and the whole car reeks.

‘No,’ says Mum.

So he breath tests her. At first she doesn’t make it, runs out of wind. The second time she cracks the green light and she’s zero. The cop sniffs again and looks at Leanne and me in the back seat. Leanne gives him a wink. Bad move.

‘You were doing 103 in a 100-k zone,’ he says, but he’s only guessing because he hasn’t zapped her with the speed camera or radar.

Sometimes Leanne’s so thick. She gives him the old eye-lash flutter and another wink.

‘Your registration plate’s almost illegible,’ he says, ‘and that’s against the law.’

He’s determined to bust us for something.

Mum looks apologetic.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It needs a good wash. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.’

Leanne crosses her legs and lets her tablecloth gape open.

‘Right,’ says the cop, showing off for Leanne’s benefit. ‘I want to check your brakes. Take your front wheel off.’

Mum looks helpless. I know for a fact we haven’t got the wheel brace and stuff in the Falcon because Mum lent them to her friend Virginia. She might have a zero reading but the young cop wants a hero reading … in Leanne’s eyes. But then the real hero arrives in the form of the other cop. He’s older. He’s not straight out of police school and he doesn’t think he can walk on water and drive at 200 ks. Phew.

‘What’s going on?’ he says. He looks human.

Leanne pulls her tablecloth up to her neck and crosses her legs at the ankles.

‘Unroadworthy,’ says the young cop.

He thinks he’s so good!

The older cop susses out the situation. He checks in the back, sees Leanne and looks at Mum.

‘Yours?’

He jerks his head in the direction of Leanne.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ says Mum.

He nods.

‘I had one at home just like it.’

Leanne bristles but he’s looking at our old Falcon.

‘Built to go,’ he says. ‘How many on the clock?’

‘Two hundred,’ I say as Mum peers at the dashboard trying to find the kilometre counter.

‘Yeah. Solid vehicle. Does your husband do the maintenance?’

All she had to do was say ‘no’ but Mum looks him straight in the eye and gives a weary smile.

‘No husband.’

‘Ah.’

He asks for her licence and studies it briefly. Leanne nudges me as he gives it back.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Ms Studley. Safe driving.’

He waves her on. Mum floods the engine and I’m praying I won’t have to climb out and dong the terminals because that’ll earn us a big fat yellow canary for sure, but miracle of miracles the engine kicks in and we’re off.

‘Way to go,’ crows Leanne. ‘He was trying to crack onto you, Mum.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

But Mum pats her hair as we stop at a red light and starts to hum a little tune under her breath.

‘Betcha he’s married with ten kids,’ says Leanne. ‘Betcha his wife’s real skinny and he’s got the hots for a chunkier chick with love handles like yours, Mum.’

Mum stops humming.

I punch Leanne really hard. She can be so mean sometimes.

‘Get real. He came to the rescue when he saw the young cop giving Mum a hard time,’ I go. ‘There are
some
nice cops in the world, you know. I thought he was cool. And I think he liked you, Mum. Don’t take any notice of Leanne. She’s just crappy because she got sprung in the main street in her knickers and bra.’

That shuts Leanne up. She doesn’t say another word all the way home. I’ve never been so glad to see our driveway in my life. We unload the groceries and Mum puts the kettle on. Then she goes to Leanne’s bedroom and unlocks the wardrobe.

‘Put some clothes on, Leanne.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a little kid,’ she says.

‘Well, you get treated the way you act. You and I need to have a talk, young lady.’

Leanne comes into the kitchen wearing her old tracksuit top and pants. I settle in for an interesting session.

‘Go to your room, please, Sam. Or watch TV. Leanne and I need to have some private time.’

‘But …’

‘Go!’

I go. I can hear the rise and fall of their voices over
LA Law
It’s not fair. I get tangled in Leanne’s schemes then don’t get to hear the replay. After a while I figure they’ve got everything sorted out so I cruise in to get a Coke. Leanne’s at the kitchen sink dunking the tablecloth up and down in sudsy water and Mum’s ironing on the table.

‘Mum, did you remember that I need a ride to Torquay tomorrow? Mike wants me at Strapper.’

I’ve got this unreal part-time job sanding surfboards, every Saturday, and sometimes after school in the busy season.

‘Sure,’ says Mum calmly.

Leanne squeezes the suds out and turns on the taps. Then she wrings the tablecloth out carefully and carts it off into the laundry. She looks so
sweet
as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

What does Mum do to tame Leanne? Fire a tranquilliser dart into her butt? Hypnotise her? Bribe her?

‘How did you sort out Leanne?’ I go.

‘Sam, it’s really none of your business.’

‘But if I don’t know this stuff how will I bring up my own kids?’

‘When you’re about to become a father I’ll tell you,’ says Mum.

Which means I’ll never get to know because I’m not fathering kids, ever. Not into this crummy world.

Everything rolls along nicely for about two weeks. Rumours are flying round the school that Leanne Studley was prancing about naked in the main street, and she’s on drugs, that she was appearing for a TV promo (betcha she spread that one herself), and that Cameron Lyon and Drenton Faberge are gay and going together (betcha she spread that one, too).

I go to Strapper both Saturdays and Leanne goes to the hot bread shop both Saturdays. On Sundays Fern comes round and they shut themselves in Leanne’s bedroom. I try listening against the wall with a glass but all I can hear is a low murmur of voices and a few giggles. It’s almost like
Beverley Hills 90210
without the money! At nights she curls up watching TV, doing her homework and playing the Gunners to her lupins. The lupins are thriving and so far hers have grown the most, which is totally amazing. Although the lupin deadline isn’t up yet some dude from the CSIRO has motored into their class and he’s so staggered by Leanne’s success that he’s setting up a test of his
own at the laboratory, headphones and all. She’s a changed human being. She’s even got an A for an English essay and a B+ for Maths.

‘I always knew you were highly intelligent,’ says Mum proudly.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Leanne, yawning.

I watch what Mum’s feeding her. Maybe she’s putting crushed-up tranquillisers in her food. But I can’t find any evidence.

The only time Mum gets agitated is when she comes home from work to find the sink full of blood and she thinks Leanne’s cracked under the pressure of being good and slashed her wrists.

‘Leanne. Leanne. What have you done?’ she cries, dashing down the passage past my room where I’m doing my homework. ‘Sam! Call an ambulance!’

Excitement at last. I drop my pen and race out.

‘Handle,’ says Leanne, standing in her doorway with a towel wrapped round her head. ‘It’s only “Red Flamboyant”!’

Mum grabs the towel off Leanne’s head. Her hair looks like it’s had a bottle of tomato sauce poured over it. I’m talking
red
.

Mum
sees
red.

‘We had a deal,’ she snaps, ‘and you’ve broken it.’

‘What? By dyeing my hair?’

‘The deal was no bizarre clothes, weird make-up, boyfriends or bad behaviour.’

‘So? Ya want me to have mousey brown hair and steel-rimmed glasses and live in a convent?’

‘That’s it. No Bali.’

‘Bali?’ I squeak.

‘The deal was if Leanne could get good grades and behave like a normal fifteen year old, I’d take you both for a week to Bali in August.’

‘Bali?’

I’m stunned.

‘Thought we were poor,’ I go.

‘I was going to use my hot bread money.’

Bali. The surfing capital of the world. Kuta Beach.
Yes
. My dream come true. The last time I surfed at Jan Juc the surf was icy cold, straight from the south pole, and I got a major ice-cream headache. And now we’re not going to Bali because of some dumb red hair dye? This is crazy.

‘Mum,’ I say desperately, ‘Leanne can dye her hair back to brown. It’s no big deal.’

‘No way,’ says Leanne.

Mum and I both glare at her. She glares back.

‘Bali isn’t worth this bad trip,’ she snarls and slams the bedroom door shut.

‘Mum …’

‘Quiet, Sam. I don’t need you bleating in my ear.’

Just then the phone goes. Mum thumps off to answer it while I reel against the wall, devastated. Bali. So close. I was practically hitting the surf. And now all wrecked because of my dumb sister. I can’t give up. I knock softly on Leanne’s door. I can hear the faint pound of the Gunners coaxing the lupins to even greater heights.

‘Leanne!’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘But, Leanne. Kuta Beach!’

‘Go suck ya socks.’

Mum. I’ll work on Mum. I go into the kitchen, climb up on the stool and rat round in the cupboard till I find her precious supply of Earl Grey tea. I boil the kettle. I can hear her voice, sort of soft and mushy, wafting down the passage. Who’s she talking to?

‘All right, you win, Steve,’ she says.

Steve?
Who
is Steve?

The water boils and I heat the teapot first. I get some cheese and slice it, grab some carrots and celery and cut them into neat strips. I make the tea, two scoops. I open some water biscuits and as an afterthought, snatch a tub of Mexican dip out of the fridge just as she walks into the kitchen.

‘Here’s a little snack for you, Mum.’

She looks surprised then pleased.

‘Ah. You’re a good kid, Sam.’

Kid
! Doesn’t she know she’s talking to the future surf king of Kuta Beach?

I sit at the opposite end of the table watching her as she sips her tea and munches on a carrot stick.

‘About Bali,’ I go.

But she’s not listening. She’s got this weird look on her face.

‘Mum!’

She looks at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time.

‘I’ve got a date, Sam.’

A date? My mother? What is this? Mothers don’t date!

‘He’s been asking me for two weeks to go out with him and I’ve kept saying “no”,’ says Mum, ‘But when Leanne upset me so much and he phoned again I thought what the hell–so I’m going out to dinner.’