Sunny Side Up Part 5

It was easy not to think about Claud's weirdness when I was at Dad's, but on the way back to Mum's on Sunday night everything came flooding back. I guess because it was Mum's place that was the scene of the crime, not to mention that I'd finally met Granny Carmelene, who had taken my mind off everything that I was used to, and off Claud in particular. I remembered Granny's portraits and how they made me feel as if I had done something wrong. And then I remembered that I had done something wrong and hoped like h.e.l.l that Mum wouldn't be able to tell that I'd broken my promise. It turned out that she wasn't in a state to notice anything much, because when I got home she was busy fussing about with Carl a.s.sembling Lyall and Saskia's bunk beds in the front room. It was at that moment that home at Mum's stopped feeling like home anymore. It suddenly became just a house with a collection of rooms to put people in.

Willow raced down the hallway, making the rug all skew-whiff. 'Down Willow,' I said, trying to contain her excitement. She sat up tall in front of me. 'You're a good girl,' I said gently pulling her ears. 'Did you miss me? Did you, girl? I missed you too, 'cos you're a good good girl, yes you are, yes you are, yes you are.' Willow smiled.

'Hi, darling,' said Mum, poking her head out of the front room. 'Come and see.'

All of Mum's work things had been s.h.i.+fted out and Carl was stretching a fitted sheet onto the top bunk.

'Hey!' he said. 'What do you think of the room? Will they like it?'

'Unlikely,' I replied, before I had time to think.

'Sunny!' Mum frowned. 'You could try being a little more positive. Look, the wardrobe fitted in after all, and Carl's even got the internet working up here, so Lyall and Saskia can have their own computer set up.'

'Brilliant.' I said sarcastically. 'Should I put in the order for takeaway?'

'Well . . . Carl's actually cooked one of his lovely risottos. He made fresh stock and everything.'

Obviously Carl didn't know about Sunday nights. Sunday nights mean Thai home delivery from the nice man Des, who used to breed greyhounds. Willow looks forward to it all week because Des whispers secrets in her ear. Once he even came in and stayed for dinner. And Sunday nights are about Mum and me and the Sunday movie, and painting our toenails on the couch, and having big chats a like the one I really wanted to have with her about school going back tomorrow; and how Claud had lied to me; and about what I could possibly do to make Claud normal again. Sunday nights are not about Carl or about Mum acting all girlie over homemade risotto. Even though Carl is half-Italian and probably makes a really good one.

After dinner I logged onto MSN. I really hoped Claud was online so I could let her know she was busted about pretending to go shopping, and maybe even tell her about Granny Carmelene, but, for the first time ever, Claud wasn't there.

When I got to school the next morning there was a crowd of kids around the notice board in the quadrangle jostling to see what cla.s.s they were in for the year. Cecily Pritchard was crying because she wasn't in a cla.s.s with Ruby Cantwell. Ruby Cantwell was standing next to Theodore Costa, who is slightly autistic and obsessed with Doctor Who. Theodore bit Ruby on the arm when he discovered he wasn't in a cla.s.s with his best friend, Jet Cooper. I'd been hoping all holidays that I'd end up in the same cla.s.s as Claud, but my heart sank when I actually saw our names on the same cla.s.s list. Then I felt it sink some more when I saw Buster Conroy's name on the list, too. There it was, written up in black and white.

We'd got Mr Pratt as our cla.s.s teacher. He had a comb-over hairstyle to try to disguise his bald patch. I knew Buster was already in cla.s.s due to the smell of Lynx hanging about, even out by the lockers. Claud was there too, and had saved a seat for me down the back by the window. Buster was in the same row but on a table over by the door, sitting by himself with a sneery face, ignoring everyone, as usual. Mr Pratt had only just handed out our Year Six hoodies when he gave us homework. Can you believe it? We hadn't even been there five minutes. It was fun sort of homework though. We had to design a house, and it didn't have to be done until after Easter.

I was uneasy sitting next to Claud, even though she was chatting away about all the things we'd usually chat about. It made my throat ache just to be near her, especially because she was saying things in an extra loud voice just so that Buster would look over at us. Then she would smile at him, and quickly turn away. Weird!

At lunchtime the basketball kids all ran to the court and started a game, just like usual, but this year we were king of the kids and could boss the Year Fives around. I could see Buster lurking near the drink taps, probably hoping someone would ask if he wanted to play. Claud kept checking him out, like she was sneaking a look at herself in a shop window, but pretended to ignore him at the same time. Ruby Cantwell tried for a three pointer but completely missed the hoop. The ball flew out of court towards Buster, who kicked it like a soccer ball as far as he possibly could in the opposite direction. Then he stormed off, nearly knocking over a Year Three kid who happened to be in his way. I raced after the ball, which I found wedged between two recycling bins near the fence. I dribbled it back to the court to find Claud had gone. So I went, too, to Seat 44K.

The hostess pa.s.sed me a tray of little square containers covered in foil. I curled back the foil on one to find the four mini-eclairs that I didn't get to eat at Granny Carmelene's. I ate them straightaway, before the takeaway Thai noodles I discovered in the second silver-foiled container. The hostess offered me risotto and I said No thanks so she brought me some Coco Pops instead, with milk which was right at the perfect temperature.

Then another pa.s.senger sat down next to me in seat 44J. It was Claud and she was normal, like she was before she went to Queensland and discovered she liked bogans, and before she developed a fake laugh to make boys in general (and Buster in particular) notice her. It was Claud a the bestest friend a girl could have, not the type who would run off without even telling you where she was going. Better still, if she did get the urge to run, she would ask if I wanted to come too. She was the type of Claud who didn't like the smell of Lynx, and who would never make secret plans or lie a not to me anyway, because I was her best friend and lying is just not what best friends do. If there was a secret plan, it would definitely include me.

I said to Claud, 'Why did you say you were at Smiggle with your Mum when you were actually playing basketball with Buster? Why didn't you want to play basketball with me?'

And Claud said, 'Oh Sunny, you've got it all wrong. Let me explain, I was-'

I felt a sudden hot pain as the basketball thudded into the side of my head.

'Sorry Sunny!' said Ruby, with her hand over her mouth. 'I thought you were going to catch it.'

We had double maths all afternoon. Mrs Ha.s.slebrack told me off three times for daydreaming.

'Sunny Hathaway, whatever it is that's buzzing around in your head surely isn't maths, now is it?'

'Sorry, Mrs Ha.s.slebrack,' I said. I was trying to figure out what to say to Claud about her lying to me and turning weird in general. I was also thinking about my secret meeting with Granny Carmelene, and how if Claud has been normal I could have at least told one person. But every time I thought I'd worked out the perfect thing to say I found myself being whisked back to seat 44K and thinking about things like Weiss Bars and noticing how whenever I thought of Granny Carmelene I felt warm.

After school Claud followed me down to the Tennyson Street shops. I was tired of worrying about what to say to her, I just wanted a Weiss Bar. I had decided I definitely wasn't going to tell her about Granny Carmelene. Since she was keeping some sort of a secret from me, it was only right that I pay her back. That's just how it goes with swapping secrets.

I remembered the visualisation techniques that Auntie Guff had taught me and imagined as hard as I could that it was a regular old after-school day and that Claud was her pre-weird, pre-bogan-loving self. But when Claud and I were down near the church, who should we see? Buster. And what was he doing? Wait for it . . . He was down at the back of the churchyard with a bucket of hot chips, feeding them one by one to a dog through a crack in the fence and saying all this stuff to the dog in a voice I'd never heard Buster use before; you know, like a nice voice, kind of how I talk to Willow.

'Quick, hide,' said Claud, pulling my sleeve. We pressed ourselves up against the red-brick wall of the church so that Buster couldn't see us behind the corner. We could hear him, though. He was having a fine old chat to that dog, telling it that he'd be back tomorrow and he hoped the dog liked tomato sauce on its chips and that next time he promised to bring it a steamed dimsim because apparently they're made out of cats, and that he'd do his best to get him a bone because Uncle Quinny was going to be making a roast and even though cooked bones aren't meant to be good for dogs, Buster thought it would be better than nothing and that he'd even try and bring him some creme caramel, because Uncle Quinny knows a really good recipe where you just add milk to the stuff from the packet. That's when Claud laughed, and not in a fake way either, her real laugh, like she did before she went weird. (Obviously my visualisation in seat 44K worked.) And I couldn't help laughing, too, which was when Buster heard us. Before we knew it he was standing right in front of us looking really embarra.s.sed and really angry. I turned and made a run for it but felt a thud on my back (second thud for the day). Buster had thrown the rest of his chip bucket at me and then shot over the road towards the laundromat. He was in such a hurry that he didn't notice he'd dropped a piece of paper from his back pocket.

Claud picked it up, and I huddled in close to see. It was a map of the streets in our neighbourhood with dog names marked all over it. (In really good handwriting, too, which I didn't know Buster could do. Not to mention the colouring in!) The heading said Dogs Need Treats and Buster had made a colour-coded key explaining what sort of dogs they were, as well as a list of all their favourite treats. There were twenty-seven dogs in total, including a schnauzer named Oscar, who lived down by the ca.n.a.l; two fox terriers called Maxi and Jazz; a French bulldog called Crumpet, who liked spearmint leaves; a beagle called Bruno, who liked twiggy sticks; and a bitzer called Kevin, who liked chicken nuggets from the take-away in Ormond Road. I was glad to see Willow wasn't on the list because we try to keep her away from junk food as much as possible.

'Cuuuute!' said Claud, and I had to agree it was, if you could get your head around it coming from Buster that is.

As we were on our way back from the milk bar, Buster lurched out at us from the laundromat.

'Oi,' he said. 'I've got one thing to say to you two.'

'Don't worry,' said Claud holding out his dog map. 'We won't tell anyone about your mutty little secret.'

Buster grabbed the map and shoved it back in his pocket.

'It's not that, it's about Friday night at Quinny's.'

'I told you,' said Claud giggling, 'I'm pretty sure we didn't spit in your Hawaiian.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'Listen. Firstly, you don't tell anyone what I'm about to say. Secondly, you do and I'll kill ya. Thirdly, you didn't see nothing going on at our flat. If anyone asks, like the police or anything, you didn't see nothing. Get it? Especially that guy with the beanie, you especially didn't see him.'

'You mean the guy with the beanie and the Puma bag,' I said.

'This is the deal, right? You b.l.o.o.d.y didn't see that guy. You didn't see him at our flat, you didn't see him in the lift and you didn't see him leaving our building. Okay? There was no guy in no beanie.'

'And with a Puma bag,' I said pulling up my socks.

'There was no guy in no beanie, with no Puma bag, at our flat. Got it? Now, beat it, I gotta pick up the was.h.i.+ng.'

'See you tomorrow, Buster,' said Claud over her shoulder in a singsong voice. I think I may have even seen her wink at him, but I couldn't be sure.

'Yeah, later, Claud,' Buster said with his chest all puffed out.

That night it was just Mum and I at home because, even though Carl and his kids had moved some of their things in, the blending wasn't official until Wednesday. It was most likely going to be our last chance for one-on-one conversation before the house was totally invaded by a step-father and precooked siblings.

Mum and I had one of our big chats. The type of chat that leaves you in a ponder afterwards and makes you carve out your own opinions. I told her about Friday night at the Conroy's and about how Buster had threatened us.

'What if the police call, and ask if I saw that man with the beanie. I'd have to lie, and I don't even know why.'

'Look, Sunny, I don't know what's going on over there, but don't worry about Buster. The fact is, if you are asked anything by the police, you'll just have to tell them exactly what you saw, the beanie man included,' said Mum.

'Really? I could still tell the truth about everything else and just leave out the bit about the guy in the beanie. That's not technically lying.'

'It is actually,' said Mum. 'Truth is truth. It's an absolute, not a set of parts. Omitting part of the truth means you're automatically lying a you're manipulating the facts to suit yourself. An edited version is no longer the absolute truth, do you see?'

'Sort of, but I still reckon lying is saying something that isn't true, not choosing not to say something that is true.'

'Put it this way, if you don't give a thorough account about everything you did see, technically you wouldn't have told a lie, but you'd be living a lie, and living a lie is lying.'

'What if the consequences of telling the truth are that your life gets all messed up by Buster Conroy?'

'You can't worry about the what ifs. Buster's probably just full of hot air anyway. The fact is, if you're asked to make a statement about what you witnessed you just have to do it, then you can deal with the consequences with a clear conscience.'

'Yeah right, Mum, like the consequence of needing facial surgery?'

'Sunny, now you're being hysterical. Living an honest life doesn't always mean living a comfortable life but it means living with integrity and honour. Telling the truth shows you have the courage to look life in the eye. Only a coward needs to lie, Sunny. Now that's not you, is it?'

'What's for dinner? I'm starving.'

'Chicken gumbo,' said Mum.

All that thinking about lying, and all that chicken gumbo, made me want to lie down. Willow had snuck onto the bottom bunk in my room and was hoping I wouldn't notice if she leapt off when she heard me coming down the hall. She was standing in the middle of my bedroom looking like someone who'd been caught shoplifting. The giveaway, though, apart from the pathetic I didn't expression on her face, was the flattenedout warm patch she left on the doona, right up near the pillow. But I couldn't be cross with her. She's just too cute. Besides, you should only get cross at dogs if you actually catch them in the act, which is not so easy to do with Willow, I can tell you. She's a very crafty hound.

I climbed up to the top bunk to think. The thing is, if what Mum said was true it meant I was lying about seeing Granny Carmelene in secret. Or I was living a lie, at least, which amounts to the same thing. But it's not as if anyone asked me about it. I mean, if Mum had come out and asked, Did you visit your grandmother when I told you not to?, I wouldn't have had a problem telling her, even though I knew she'd go feral. But she didn't ask me, so it was totally unfair that it meant I was a cowardly person living a lie. Why should Mum have cared anyway, given she spent most of her time pretending Granny Carmelene didn't even exist? She didn't even seem sad about it.

If you ask me, I think Mum just pretends not to care. If she didn't have emotional issues, she wouldn't have wound up addicted to smoking. Anyway, she could talk! How about the lie she was living: she was a chainsmoking naturopath!

And what about when Granny Carmelene gets really old and dies? Mum might suddenly realise she really does love her after all, and get all overwhelmed with guilt and emotion, and end up in one of those lonely wintry cemetery scenes where she's down on her knees begging forgiveness from a tombstone. It happens all the time you know. I saw it once on tellie.

Carl, Lyall, Saskia and Boris officially invaded on Wednesday, right after school.

Mum and Carl wanted to have a modern blended family dinner to celebrate our new togetherness. I asked if we could make bombe alaska for dessert, because so far I'd only ever seen pictures of it in Larousse Gastronomique (which is a cookbook that's so fat it should really think about going on a diet), but as usual Mum said it was too complicated and that it would be better to do it in the school holidays, which, of course, had just finished. Let's face it, it's never school holidays when I get the urge for bombe alaska.

Boris was locked in the front room as part of his settling-in process. He is a pure black cat. They're meant to bring bad luck if you happen to see one crossing your path, but in Boris's case I think the bad luck had boomeranged. For a cat like Boris, who looked a lot like a rabbit, winding up sharing his life with a greyhound wasn't exactly fortunate. He was definitely lined up to become a dog's breakfast. Willow had taken up a fulltime position outside Lyall and Saskia's room with her snout squeezed under the door, making loud snorting sounds and shaking all over.

We were all out in the shed kitchen waiting for Carl to come home. Mum was making a Vietnamese salad to go with barbequed fish. I was cutting potatoes into wedges and thinking about Willow and Boris, and bombe alaska, and about how my head was awfully itchy.

'They'll be fine,' Mum said, peeling carrots. 'They'll get used to one another. It happens all the time with dogs and cats.'

'Can I help peel?' asked Saskia.

'I want to help, too,' said Lyall, who probably didn't really want to help at all, but didn't want to miss out on something Saskia got to do, even if it was as dull as peeling carrots. That's what siblings do, you know. It's a constant compet.i.tion.

'Lyall-luh! I asked first, and anyway there's only one peeler!' roared Saskia.

'That's unfair-ruh. You always get to peel-luh.'

'Well, jeez, Lyall-luh, find your own job-buh.'

'Mum,' I said scratching my head, 'I think I might have lice.'

'Eeew, like, gross,' said Lyall.

'No it's not. It's not my fault. The whole school's got them, Lyall. There's an epidemic.'

'Not at our school,' said Saskia.

And I said, 'What? Catholics don't get lice?'

And Mum said, 'Now come on, you lot.' (Can you believe I get referred to now as you lot? I used to have my own name.) 'Can you check, Mum?' I said leaning my head towards her. 'Please?'

'Sunny, it's not really the right time, darling. Can't it wait until after dinner? Lyall, how about lighting the barbeque. Do you think you can do that?'

'I want to light the barbeque!' said Saskia, throwing down the peeler and racing Lyall outside.

'On second thoughts, you guys, maybe wait 'till your dad gets home!' Mum shouted after them.

'Mum, I can't bear it! I need you to run through my hair with the lice comb. I can feel them multiplying!'

'Sunny, for G.o.d's sake! It's not all about you right now, okay? I said I'd do it after dinner!'

'Fine!' I said, tossing the potato wedges into a baking tray. 'Be like that then!' And I went inside and played 'Greensleeves' as loud as I could on the piano, until Carl came home and asked me to stop because I was creating noise pollution.

After dinner, Carl suggested we have a meeting, so that we could all communicate about issues, like doing the dishes and getting pocket money. Carl spoke first. He started off with light globes and how we need to change over to the sort that use less energy and produce less carbon dioxide, and how we should fight climate change by becoming a carbon-neutral household, and how we should think about ways to contribute to the community a like Claud's family does when they do foster care. Then he got onto the kitchen roster and showed us how he'd re-ordered the utensil drawer.

Mum and Carl divided the kitchen jobs into three sections: clearing the table, sc.r.a.ping plates and composting; was.h.i.+ng and drying dishes (including putting away); and wiping down the benches and the stove. It was starting to feel like boot camp. Back in the good old days (last week) there were just a couple of plates the odd pot and a few pieces of cutlery to wash.

Next we talked about the issue of fruit juice guzzling. Mum and Carl announced that we were each to be given a two-litre bottle of juice per week, which we were to mark with our names and keep in the fridge. A permanent marker would be attached to the fridge on a piece of string. Once your bottle of juice was gone, no more would be issued until the next supermarket shop, which was to take place every Monday.

Mum gave me the eyebrow when I b.u.t.ted in with, 'Jeez, Carl, what's next? Six a.m. jogs? A whiteboard with coloured pens?'

Lyall and Saskia both giggled, but Carl was all straight-faced and said, 'Actually, Sunny, thank you, that's not such a bad idea.'

We talked about the issue of bedtime, the issue of computer usage, the issue of wet towels not drying in a heap on the floor, and the issue of appropriate bathroom usage. We talked about laundry days, television usage, pet integration, dog walking, spare keys, homework, school lunches and pocket money deductions if ch.o.r.es weren't done properly. I felt a bit worried for Mum a if that was the stuff she and Carl spent all their time talking about, they couldn't have much else going on. Maybe they needed a hobby? Bingo might be good.

'Well then,' said Carl. 'Any questions?'

'Have you got a strategy for lice epidemics, Carl?' I said.

Mum gave me the double eyebrow.

That got me thinking about the Transylvanian Compatibility Booth, and how Mum and Carl could sure use one. The Theys invented the Compatibility Booth for affairs of the heart. Everyone should have one. It's sort of like how satellite navigation devices in posh cars tell you you're going in the wrong direction. The Transylvanian Compatibility Booth ensures you're dealing with the sort of love affair that will actually last and not the sort that looks all fine and dandy at the start, but ends up like sour cream, 'cos you're with the wrong person and have wasted a whole heap of time getting married and divorced and having kids who have to grow up in two houses. If Mum and Dad had bothered to step inside a Transylvanian Compatibility Booth they would have set off the siren of absolute incompatibility, for sure. They would have had nothing at all lighting up in the Soul Mates panel and everything lighting up in the Seriously Consider Breaking Up section, as well as one very bright flas.h.i.+ng b.u.t.ton saying Do Not Marry, No Matter What. But then again, if Mum and Dad had used the compatibility booth I wouldn't be here at all, so maybe sc.r.a.p that whole idea. Maybe I'm just a little bit old fas.h.i.+oned.

When Mum tucked me into bed that night (after removing fifteen lice and buckets of nits from my hair), I asked her whether she thought Carl might possibly be a control freak. But she said he just liked to be organised, and that we'd live more harmoniously with his wellthought-out systems in place. I thought about Granny Carmelene and her peaceful world, which didn't resemble a boot camp at all. I could even imagine myself living there if I was forced to run away.

At least my bedroom was the same as it ever was, even if it did smell of lice shampoo.

''Night, Sunny,' said Mum, kissing my forehead. 'Everything's all right, you know, we're just going through a big transition. We'll all be really happy. You'll see.'

'Even Willow?'

'Of course, even Willow and Boris. You'll see.'

'Promise you won't smoke any more then, if you're so happy.'

'Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you. I'm off the waiting list for hypnosis. I've got an appointment!'

'Finally! 'Night Mum,' I said, giving her a hug and knowing that she'd be sneaking straight out to cram in some more cigarettes before the hypnosis removed the urge to smoke from her hard drive. If she did quit, though, I could think about resigning from Children Living With Hypocritical Parents Who Smoke, which, I must admit, was a bit of a shame 'cos I'd secretly been looking forward to hosting a demonstration.