Miss Understood (17 page)

‘Should we check if Miss Huntley wants a lift?’ I suggested, and Mum said that we should. I went over to her house and knocked, but she wasn’t there. Or at least, she wasn’t answering her front door.

Me and Mum got a chance to chat just a little bit while we were driving to the shops, and in between Richie throwing things at the back of my head. Not that Mum seemed all that keen to talk.

‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ I asked her. ‘Is he sick? He never sleeps in for this long.’

‘Um . . .’ she said. ‘I guess he mustn’t have slept very well last night.’

‘So is he okay?’

‘Yes, he’s fine, Lizzie. Don’t worry about it. Stop it, Richie!’

‘But I am worried about it,’ I said, because I was.

‘It’s nothing to be concerned about,’ she said as we pulled up out the front of the shop. ‘Have a good day. Call when you’ve finished and someone will come and pick you up.’

‘You, or Dad?’

‘Someone,’ she said.

*

If I was going to be honest about it, I might have to admit that I stole the cutlery set. And I would totally admit it except for one thing: everything at the Helping Hand store was donated to help people in need. Everything! Miss Huntley had been very clear about that – she even said it again when I arrived at the shop and saw that she was already there. She was laying out sheets of tissue paper, and when I asked her why, she said, ‘Just because everything in the shop is donated doesn’t mean that we should treat it like it’s junk. I always wrap fragile things such as plates very carefully, because even though the customer knows that their money is going to help people in need, they still want to feel like they’re not wasting their money.’

As far as I could tell, the man living next door was almost definitely ‘in need’. And this way made a lot more sense to me than someone paying four dollars for a cutlery set, just so that four dollars could get put in with a whole lot of other money so that someone else could go down to a supermarket and buy a brand new cutlery set for twenty dollars. This way the person in need was being helped, and it was better for everyone. Well, except for the people who own the supermarket, I suppose, but I don’t know any of those people.

So that’s why I didn’t think it was stealing. If I was taking something for myself it definitely would be stealing, just as it would be stealing if I went into the supermarket and snuck out with a brand new cutlery set and gave it to the man, who was definitely in need, since he’d told me a couple of nights before that he needed to fix his knife. And now he wouldn’t have to.

(Oh, remember how I didn’t know what kind of knife he meant? Well, after listing all the different kinds of knives in my head, I’d decided that I couldn’t really get a stranger a pocket knife or a butcher’s knife or a hunting knife, especially if there was still the
tiniest
chance that they were a pirate or someone who’d escaped from jail, so I figured I’d just get a bread-and-butter knife. Which came in a set of six, with forks and spoons.)

Even though I didn’t really think it was stealing, the way I took that cutlery set did feel a bit sneaky. The thing is, I didn’t want to get caught taking something from the Helping Hand shop and be accused of robbing them, because to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure that anyone else would see things my way. That was why I waited until Miss Huntley was serving someone at the counter (it turned out she’d gone in early to open the store) before I went out the back and slipped the cutlery set into my bag.

I told myself again that it wasn’t stealing, that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But if that was true, how come my heart was going twenty million miles an hour?

Mum picked me up at lunchtime. ‘Is Dad still in bed?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, he is.’

‘Is he sick?’

Mum nodded. ‘He’s a little unwell, I think. Just needed a down-day.’

‘I hope he’s better soon.’

‘Yes, me too.’

A
s soon as I got home I went straight to my room, closed the door, sat on the edge of my bed and took out the cutlery set I’d taken. It was just a cheap picnic set, and it was definitely not worth getting locked up for.

There was no time to waste, I decided, so I put the knives and forks and spoons back into my bag and headed next door. Then, after making sure that I was completely alone in the house (I had to wait for a really annoying family to herd up all their kids and leave, which took ages), I took out the cutlery set and slid it under the bed in the back bedroom before scurrying home, my heart going like crazy all over again.

Sometimes it helps to talk to someone when you feel all mixed up inside. That was why I called Jenni. She’d make me feel better.

But it turned out that Jenni couldn’t talk. She tried for a bit, but I could tell that she wasn’t really paying attention to what I was saying, and then I heard a familiar voice in the background. I couldn’t quite make out what that familiar voice was saying, but I still recognised the tone.

‘Is that Amanda Jenkins?’ I asked.

‘Who?’ said Jenni.

‘The person I can hear. Is it Amanda Jenkins? Is she there?’

‘A bit.’

‘What do you mean, “a bit”? That doesn’t make any sense,’ I said, because it really didn’t.

‘Yeah, it is Amanda,’ Jenni admitted. ‘Do you want to talk to her?’

‘Not really,’ I said.

But then, before I could say anything else, Amanda was on the other end. ‘Hey, babe!’ she said in this really sweet, sticky kind of voice. ‘How are you? Oh my
gosh
, it’s been such a long
time
!’

‘Yeah, it has,’ I said. ‘Um . . . can you put Jenni back on?’

‘Sure, babe!’

I heard a bit of a rustle and crackle through the phone, then I heard Jenni laughing, and finally she was back on the phone.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘So, why did you ring me?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

There was a long pause then, before Jenni finally went, ‘Yeah, later, babe.’

And she hung up before me.

But this time I didn’t cry.

Around about half past four, Dad went out. I hadn’t seen him all day, but then he came downstairs wearing his good jeans and nice shoes and leather jacket. He didn’t look all that sick, to be honest.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked him.

‘I’ve got to review this Hainan chicken rice place.’

‘Oh,’ Mum sighed. ‘Oh, I haven’t had Hainan chicken rice since we were last in Singapore. Marty, make sure you order more than you need, so you can bring me some in a doggie bag.’

‘Done,’ he said. ‘And I wish I didn’t have to do it tonight, but they close on Sundays and Mondays, and I have to get this one in by Tuesday.’

‘I could babysit,’ I offered. ‘Then you could both go.’

‘It’s fine, Lizzie,’ Mum said. ‘A doggie bag will be fine.’

‘Are you feeing better?’ I asked Dad.

He looked a bit confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve been in bed all day,’ I replied. ‘Mum said you were sick.’

‘That’s true. I wasn’t feeling quite myself.’

‘But you’re okay now?’

‘I’m okay now.’

I didn’t really mind that Dad was going out because later on, while Mum was giving Richie a bath, I was able to slip next door again. (Believe me, it’s so much easier to slip in and out of the house without being noticed if there’s only one parent trying to notice stuff like that.)

It was getting dark, and the crack of light was around the window again, but the second I tapped on the glass with my fingernail, the light disappeared. Then there was no response for ages, and I wasn’t quite sure what I should do, but finally I heard the window slide open a bit. Even though I expected it, it still made me jump, and my heart started doing the racing thing again.

‘Who is it?’ the man asked.

‘It’s me.’

‘That doesn’t help.’

‘
Me
, from the other night. Did you find the things I got you?’

‘What things?’

‘I left them under the bed.’

‘Hang on,’ he said. I saw a kind of dim light come on inside the room, and then it disappeared, and a couple of seconds later the man was back at the window.

‘A set of knives and forks? Did you put those in here?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And there’s spoons, too.’

‘Um . . . why?’

‘Because you said you needed them.’

‘When did I say that?’

‘The other night. You told me you needed a knife, but I thought since I could get the others as well ...’

He didn’t say anything for a bit. ‘Why would you think I needed a knife?’

‘You told me! You said that your knife was broken and that you needed to fix it, but you didn’t know how. Actually, I think what you said was “I need to get my knife fixed”.’

He didn’t say anything for a while, until I started to wonder if he was even still there. But then I heard a funny, wheezy kind of sound, and I realised that he was laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘My
life
!’ he said. ‘I told you I needed to get my
life
fixed.’

‘Oh . . .’ I said. ‘Oh, your
life
!’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It must matter,’ I said. ‘I mean, you told me that it needed to be fixed.’

‘Well, yes, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s my fault that it’s the way it is, and it’s my job to sort it out.’

‘Are you sick?’

‘No, I’m fine. Well, I’m not sick, anyway. Look, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about –’

‘How are you going to fix your life?’ I asked.

‘I told you, that’s not really any of your –’

‘The thing is, maybe I can help. Or my parents. Even though they live –
we
live – a long way from here,’ I added.

‘No!’ he said. ‘No parents.’

‘Are you even meant to be staying in that house?’

‘Look, it’d be great if you could just . . . Thanks for the knives and forks.’

‘And spoons,’ I added, because it seemed that he’d forgotten the spoons again.

‘And spoons. But really, you shouldn’t spend any more money on me.’

‘Oh, I didn’t,’ I said, because I really hadn’t. ‘They gave them to me, sort of.’

‘Who gave them to you?’

‘The people at the Helping Hands store,’ I said.

His voice changed then, and sounded more serious, really suddenly. ‘I hope you didn’t tell them who they were for. Seriously, no one can know I’m here.’

‘Of course I didn’t tell them!’ I said. Then I laughed, as if this was the silliest thing he could have possibly said. ‘No, you’re my secret.’

‘Is that right?
Your
secret? Well, I think we should keep it that way for now. I just need somewhere to live at the moment, and if they find out I’m here they’ll throw me out.’

‘Who? The HomeFest people?’

‘Yes, exactly. So don’t feel like you need to bring me any more . . . things. In fact, please don’t. Just stay away.’

‘What?’ I said. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

‘Stay away from me. Go on, get lost. And don’t tell anyone about me.’

And he slid the window shut.

H
ave you ever done something for someone because you thought it was the right thing to do, and then they didn’t even appreciate it? You know that feeling? Well, that’s how I felt. I’d almost-but-not-really stolen something and then I’d given that thing to the man in the house, and it turned out that not only did he not need the thing I got him, he even seemed kind of cross that I’d bothered. That was why I was crying a bit when I went up to my room.

Then, because I didn’t want to do anything except curl up and go to sleep and not think about things any more, I got into bed without even brushing my teeth.

Mum saw that I’d gone to bed early, and she came to my bedroom door to check on me. I thought about telling her that I had a headache, but in the end I just said that I felt like I needed an early night, because I did.

But I couldn’t sleep. My chest was so tight, like someone had put belts around me and tightened them and tightened them and tightened them until I couldn’t even breathe properly. And I kept crying, too, and after a while I’d forget why I was crying, and I’d start to calm down, but then I’d think about Jenni or Dad or the man next door, and I’d start all over again.

I was still awake and chest-tight and crying when Dad came home. Mum must have told him that I’d gone to bed early, because he opened my door really quietly.

‘Betty?’ he whispered.

I didn’t want him to know that I was awake, because then he’d talk to me and discover that I’d been crying, because I reckon it’s impossible to talk after you’ve been crying without people being able to hear that in your voice. But then, even though I didn’t really know why, I gave a sniff. Just a little one.

‘Betty? What’s going on?’ Dad asked, and he came in and sat on the edge of my bed, and stroked my arm, because he knows that I like that. ‘Are you sad?’

I nodded. (Sniff.)

‘Tell me what’s happened. Is it a boy?’ Then he whispered, ‘Do you want me to hurt him? Because I will.’

‘What? No! No, it’s nothing,’ I said. (Sniff-sniff.)

‘It can’t be nothing. Something’s made you cry.’

‘Sometimes people cry about nothing,’ I said.

‘Not really.’

‘Why not?
You
do.’ Then, because I hadn’t meant to say that out loud to my dad, I felt stupid, and wanted to stuff the words back into my mouth and down my throat and back to wherever it is that words come from.

But you can’t do that. You can’t stuff words back down, and in the dim light, Dad’s face looked like I’d just slapped him right across it.

‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked me.

‘Nothing, Dad. And nothing’s wrong. I’m just feeling a bit sad, that’s all.’

‘About the school thing?’ he suggested.

It wasn’t really about school at all, but I didn’t want to say that. But I’m not a liar either, so I said, ‘I do miss school, you know.’ Which wasn’t a lie at all.

That was when Dad squeezed my arm and said, ‘Well, we’re trying to do something about that, aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Because we were.