Michelle Burton
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We cross the courtyard to the school hall. Maybe Mum will talk to me now, while we’re having a slice of chocolate cake. Mum looks forward to it at every school function: Old Mrs Blackburn’s oil sponge with melted icing. But she ignores the cake.
Mrs Pickard walks up with a mouth full of egg sandwich and a piece of lettuce stuck between her teeth. “When’s the big day, Jean?”
“May.” Mum pulls me close.
“Congratulations. And, are we all delighted?” She looks down at me and back at Mum, twice.
She’s talking about me, and I’m not delighted. I don’t want to think about the wedding.
Mum shakes her head quickly.
I pretend not to notice and twist the ring on Mum’s finger round in circles. I’m really mad. Mrs Pickard is nosey. Mum didn’t like my story, and this is the worst Open Day ever.
“Mum, what does ‘fuck’ mean?” I ask.
I know what it means.
I think I do.
Especially when Mum gulps and blinks and pinches me on the soft skin at the back of my arm. It stings like a wasp. Her mouth opens, but she can’t speak. Mrs Pickard’s mouth opens too and she coughs up her sandwich and has to catch it in her handkerchief.
*
In the car, Mum smacks me and asks where I heard such a word. Her fingers leave a mark on my arm. It’s not that sore, but I want to cry, and now I can. Fat sobs catch in my throat and run down my nose and drip onto my shirt all the way down Jameson Avenue and past the Jacaranda trees on Fourth Street. They’re crying too, purple flowers instead of tears that rain into little round carpets on the tarmac.
“Go to your room,” Mum says when we get to our flat, “and don’t come out until you can speak with a civil tongue in your head.”
*
I curl up into the corner of my bed and feel the cool plaster of the wall through my shirt. I’m not going to eat any dinner. Ever again. I’m going to stay here until Dad comes and takes me away. Then Mum will be sorry. She won’t have me any more.
I’ll take Jem with me too, so she’ll only have Barry.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do.
I stare at the wall and watch it grow darker. Falcon shadows move slowly across it and disappear into the bookshelf. They’re flying home for dinner. Worms and ants. Mum’s making chicken. The smell comes under the door and teases my nose. If I say sorry, I can go out. I am sorry. But Mum should say sorry to me.
For taking me away from Dad.