Nona and Me (3 page)

Three Yolŋu ladies get on the bus. The driver looks around. There's no-one else waiting. No-one except me and I'm on the wrong side of the road and I can't move. The door closes and the bus pulls out from the curb. I watch it drive away.

“Maybe you should call her,” says Anya.

I can't think of a good excuse not to, so I dial Mum, hoping she won't answer. She does. I try to sound casual, off-hand.

“Mum, hi. I'm outside the pool. Where are you?”

I am grateful Selena and Anya can't hear what Mum says on the other end.

“What are you talking about? I'm screenprinting. You know that.”

“Are you still picking me up?”

“We agreed you'd catch the bus.”

My friends are watching. I grasp for words that fit my lie. “You said you'd be here at four.”

“I did not. Rosie, have you got amnesia? I said catch the bus.”

“Yeah, I think it's four now. I just saw the bus drive away. That comes at four, doesn't it?”

“You missed it?!”

I check to see if either of them heard Mum's screech. They didn't. I proceed calmly. “It's fine. If you come now you'll be here in twenty minutes.”

“I'm busy! I thought I made that clear to you. I can't just drop everything to come and pick you up.”

“I'll just wait here.”

“Rosie!”

“See you soon. Thanks, Mum.”

I hang up, knowing she'll come. That was the last bus: there's no other way to get home except pay fifty bucks to one of the Iraqi cab drivers or hitch.

I shrug at the girls. “She got caught up at work. She'll be here in twenty.”

“Want to get something to eat?”

“Sure.”

We cross the road and walk down the concrete path, through the town green, towards Woolworths. We debate whether to buy something from the supermarket or get greasy chips from the takeaway shop. The greasy chips win.

A few Yolŋu ladies are sitting nearby on the benches beneath the palm trees. Yolŋu often hang around here. I heard Mrs Reid say once they wait to humbug family for food or money when they come out of the supermarket.

I'm trying not to look at them when I hear a deep raspy voice. “Mätjala.”

The name hits me deep in my stomach. My Yolŋu name. I haven't heard it in so long. But I keep walking.

“Rosie.”

Guḻwirri is beside me now. I can't ignore her. Her eyes slide off mine, down to the ground. They are slightly bloodshot and her breath smells sour, like off grapes. She touches my arm. “You got a few dollars?”

“I don't have any on me. Sorry.”

I keep walking, leaving Guḻwirri behind me. Selena's eyes are round. “Who was that?”

I shrug.

“She knew your name.” Selena gives Anya a look as if to say,
What's the big secret?

Anya says, “Isn't that …?”

I don't want to give her the satisfaction of saying it so I beat her to it. “It's Nona's mum.”

Selena nods, mentally storing the information away for later. My gut is churning.

2.

1995

We are curled up by the campfire. Nona and me.
I am almost asleep in my mother's arms. The smell of smoke and cooked fish lingers. Soft melodies wash through me, as my Dad and Bolu, Nona's dad, strum softly on their guitars.

My mum moves to stand. She gently eases my small body onto the mat, and lays my head on Guḻwirri's lap, right beside Nona. I feel the tickle of her hair in my face and open my eyes. She is sleeping, hugged against her mum's legs.

I let my gaze wander. The embers glow dull orange, like crocodile eyes in the dark. Mum adds wood to the fire, stoking it until it transforms into a bright yellow frenzy. Dad looks up at her as he plays, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the neck of his guitar. Their eyes meet and he smiles. It is a look of pure love.

I feel Guḻwirri bend down towards me. She murmurs in my ear, “Sleep,
Waku
.” Sleep, my child. I nestle into her and she strokes my hair, soft and rhythmic. She starts to hum. Her voice weaves in with the guitar. I close my eyes again.

3.

2007

Nona hasn't been at school for a week. But she's
here today. She slides in the door as our Science teacher, Ms Bamkin, is setting up for the lesson. “Okay, class, today I thought we'd start with an experiment.”

Whispered “yeses” around the room.

“We're going to cook an egg in ethanol. Ethanol is basically what?”

John Lane grins. “Piss.”

“And its more socially acceptable name?”

“Alcohol.”

“Thank you, Anya.”

Charlie Mack mimes drinking from a bottle.
Glug, glug, glug.

Ms Bamkin uses his joke to make a point. “Yes, I thought we'd do this one just in case any of you are thinking about drinking.”

I freeze. Look down at my blank page. Does she know about Selena's plan to fridge? Is she talking to me?

“Of course, given that you're all fifteen or sixteen, it would be illegal, but on top of that it's not good for you. Your brains are still growing.”

Charlie grins. “Well, some of ours are.”

“Speak for yourself, Mack.”

Everyone is laughing. Ms Bamkin tries to keep a straight face. “If you even think about drinking, remember this experiment – if alcohol can cook an egg, imagine what it does to your insides.”

Selena nudges me, in mock seriousness. “Don't worry. We're superhuman.”

I can't help but smile. She grins back, as Ms Bamkin continues. “Okay, everyone get a beaker out then come and get an egg. You'll also need to measure yourself 100ml of ethanol. It's up the front here.”

Selena, Anya and I are lab partners. Anya is super-smart, not that you'd know it from the way she's been acting lately. She says she wants to be a doctor like her dad. I think I want to be an artist. Selena is typically dismissive of the whole what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-leave-school question. She jokes that she's going to be one of those B-list celebrities who get invited to all the parties but don't actually have to do anything.

I get the egg and Anya pulls a beaker from the cupboard. Selena goes to measure the ethanol at Ms Bamkin's desk. There are only two bottles so people have to wait their turn. I see Nona hanging back as Selena dodges her way to the front.

John Lane fills his beaker and hands Selena the bottle. He winks. “Careful with that. It's pretty potent.”

He's got a crush on Selena. He doesn't stand a chance. She lets him hope, though, and smiles back as she wafts the invisible fumes towards her nose. She inhales deeply, then raises her voice. “Maybe we should steal some and sell it to the drunks outside Woolworths. Make a fortune.”

John looks uncomfortable but forces a laugh. It is Selena, after all. She pours a measure of ethanol then looks up, past John and the other students, to Nona.

Calmly, deliberately, she says, “What do you think, Nona? Reckon they'd buy it?”

Nona shrinks into herself, as if trying to disappear. I look around to see who else has heard. John catches my eye, in an uneasy plea for help. Behind him, Ali looks confused. Anya appears to be absorbed in her textbook. Ms Bamkin is busy helping Charlie; she hasn't heard.

Selena carries her ethanol back to our desk and sits on the lab stool beside me. I can't meet her eye. She nudges me. “What?”

I keep my gaze straight ahead. I crack the egg into the beaker.

“It was just a joke, Rosie. Geez, lighten up.”

Most days I let her comments pass. I tell myself she isn't hurting anyone. But today is different. I can feel Nona's ache from across the room.

A few seconds later, Nona walks out. No one stops her.

*

Selena nudges me at lunchtime. “What's with you? You've been quiet all morning.”

I look away. She persists. “You're not still mad about the ethanol thing, are you?”

My silence provides the answer.

Selena is disbelieving. “Why are you taking this so seriously?”

Anya says, “Because it's Nona, of course.”

I'm quick to reply. “That's not it.”

Selena says, “I don't get it. How could you guys possibly have been friends?”

“Not just friends. Besties,” says Anya.

Selena's immaculate eyebrows arc up. “Besties?”

I shift. “I wouldn't put it exactly like that.”

“Well, then – how would you put it?”

Her eyes are on me. I squirm. “You're changing the subject. What you said in Science was racist.”

“How is it racist? There
are
drunks outside Woolworths. I didn't say they were any particular colour.”

“You directed it at Nona.”

“So this
is
about Nona.”

“You say stuff like that all the time. It's always ‘us' and ‘them'.”

“You've never said anything about it before.”

Anya leans in. “Because it wasn't about Nona before.”

I snap at her. “Can you shut up about Nona?”

Selena folds her arms across her chest. “I'm not racist.”

Her voice is harder now. I start to waver. “You are some times.”

“I'm friends with Jennifer and Lotu.”

“You call Jennifer ‘The Asian'.”

“She calls herself that too!”

I try to downscale the accusation. “Anti-Yolŋu, then.”

“I liked Wilson.”

Wilson was in our class in Year 8. He got sent to boarding school in Darwin in Year 9.

“That doesn't count. He came every day, and he spoke perfect English.”

“So Aborigines can't do that? Now who's being racist?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Give me another example, then.”

“What about when Luke walks out of class? You always make comments.”

“The double standard pisses me off. How come he's allowed to walk out and we're not? It's nothing to do with him being Aboriginal.”

“Yolŋu.”

“Whatever. I'm not racist.”

“Okay. Can we drop the subject now?”

“Not until you take it back. I'm not racist.”

Her face suddenly warps into a suppressed smile, like she's thought of something funny. “You want me to prove it? I like black guys.”

I look at her sceptically.

She's grinning now. “I do! I would totally sleep with Snoop Dogg or Jay-Z.”

She's winding me up and Anya snorts with laughter.

Selena is on a roll. “I'd be their white ho handbag any day. Just get them out here. Jay-Z in Nhulunbuy – can you imagine?”

I'm trying hard not to laugh, but she catches sight of the hint of a smile surfacing on my lips. “I saw that. You were laughing.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“You were!”

I shake my head. “You're an idiot, Selena.”

She slings an arm around my shoulder and hugs me to her, grinning. “Lucky you love me.”

*

Nona isn't in Maths. Or History.

As we're walking to English, I tell the girls I'm going to the loo. As a gesture of peace, Selena offers to come with me. I tell her not to worry about it. We're fine.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really.”

I detour past the cultural centre and peer through one of the windows. There's a big Bob Marley poster on the wall, surrounded by photos of Yolŋu kids from our school. Mrs Reid is at her desk, marking papers or something. In the middle of the room, there's an island of desks surrounded by chairs. Luke is sitting there, with a few younger Yolŋu kids. He's playing the
yiḏaki
. That's what they call the didgeridoo up here. The sound comes out strong and full. Short bursts then sustained rhythms. The music takes me on a journey. He's good. Very good. But I'm not here for Luke. I scan the room.

And then I see her. She's standing by herself in the kitchen area, eating a piece of toast. Her face looks blank, withdrawn. Guilt overwhelms me. I step away from the window and look out at the playground. A single blue-winged kookaburra swoops across the cloudless sky and perches in the mango tree near the Science labs.

My mobile beeps in my pocket. I pull it out. It's a message from Selena.

You fallen in? ;-)

I am almost relieved as I turn and head back to my friends.

*

I sketch the outline carefully in pencil, then mix the perfect shade of blue-grey for the wings. The brush glides across my paper, leaving a wash of colour. Paint bleeds and blurs, dark in places, light in others. The world narrows to what's in front of me. My kookaburra takes shape. My breath slows. Up and down. Around. It follows the rhythm of the paintbrush in my hand. I dab at the palette. I'm running out of black paint. I look up. The spell is broken.

Next to me, Anya and Selena are mucking around. Art is my favourite subject, but they only chose it because they thought it'd be a bludge.

Selena pretends to slip and dabs paint on Anya's page. “Oops. Sorry.”

“You ruined my artwork!”

“You call that art?”

“Shut up.”

“What's it meant to be anyway?”

“A crocodile. Can't you tell?”

“I thought it was a giant green poo.”

Giggles and shoves. Our Art teacher glares, and is about to reprimand them when there's a knock at the door. It's Mrs Reid. She leans into the room. “Ms Naylor, could I borrow Selena for a moment?”

“Sure.”

Selena puts down her paintbrush and follows Mrs Reid out.

I frown over at Anya; what could that be about? She shrugs, but looks concerned.

I turn back to my kookaburra and try to lose myself in painting again. I fail.

*

Selena is waiting at my locker after school. Her face is blotchy red. Her eyes harden when she sees me coming. She gets straight to the point. “Was it you?”

“What?”

“Did you tell them?”

“What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“Apparently someone in our Science class felt ‘uncomfortable' about my ‘racist comment'.” Her fingers insert angry quotation marks in the air.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Then who was it?”

“How would I know? What happened with Mrs Reid?”

“She took me to Mrs Seville's office.”

My stomach sinks at the thought of the principal being involved.

“What did she say?”

“She's calling my parents. Big deal. Like they're going to care.”

I know she's not just saying this to appear cool. When we studied Yolŋu Matha, the local Indigenous language, for a term in Year 8, Selena's dad, Mr Bell, sent a note in asking why we couldn't learn a “useful language”. He's not going to care about some slur about alcohol.

I try to calm her down. “Then it doesn't matter, right? It's not like you're going to be in trouble.”

“Was it you?”

“Selena, I wouldn't –”

“Not even for your bestie? Your so-called
sister
?”

She sees the surprise in my face. “Anya told me the full story. We were just waiting for you to 'fess up.”

“There's nothing to confess to –”

“Then why didn't you tell me about it?”

“There was nothing to tell –”

“The whole thing's ridiculous anyway. How can you be sisters? She's black and you're white.”

I avoid the question. “I didn't dob you in today.”

Her eyes search out mine. “How do I know you're not lying?”

“I wouldn't.”

“You lied about Nona –”

“I didn't lie. I omitted.”

“I thought I could trust you.” Her voice wavers.

“You can.”

A bead of perspiration drips down my temple. I need her to believe me. I don't want to lose her. I can't lose her. “You're my best friend, Selena.”

“Am I?”

She fiddles with her skirt, staring out at the sky. She looks vulnerable. I've only seen her like this once before. It was in Year 8, not long after she arrived. She'd sat with a group of girls who call themselves the Elites. After two weeks their leader, Stephanie, voted her out. Selena claimed it was because she was threatened, scared of the competition, and maybe she was right. Selena was pretty and confident, with all the imported cool of Sydney. Whatever the reason, Anya and I were secretly glad. Selena came and sat with us. We became a real group. We became someones.

Selena's eyes are teary. “What about Nona?”

I hurry to reassure her. “Yolŋu families adopt people. That's just what they do. The whole sister thing, it doesn't mean anything. We were kids. I don't even know her anymore.”

I see Selena's shoulders relax slightly. “That's what I figured. Anya was just saying …”

“Forget Anya.”

I realise I've been holding my breath. I breathe out. “Are we okay?”

“Yeah.”

She pulls me into a hug. I hold her tight. She holds me tighter.

As we turn to go, I see Nona waiting on a chair outside Mrs Reid's office. She couldn't be more than three metres away. She stands, avoiding my gaze, and walks off in the opposite direction. My heart sinks. I can tell she's heard it all.