Pan’s Whisper Page 2

  A huge window. Mum singing songs about people rushing along the footpath, her voice loud and bright. I giggle and nibble a hash brown. Morgan hunkers in the corner, cradling an orange juice.

  Nate balances the golf stick on the end of his finger and staggers across the fake grass. He trips on the edge of the putting green and lands next to the pharaoh on the Egypt hole. Ian, Rose and Livia laugh.

  With a grin, Nate bows. “Twelve seconds – my best yet. I’d have gone longer if the wind hadn’t picked up.”

  “Whose shot?” asks Livia, twirling her putter.

  “Pan’s turn,” says Nate. “Hey, Pan, try balancing the putter on your finger first.”

  I hunch further into my hoodie. “Nah. And it’s not my turn.”

  Ian looks at Rose, then me. “Pretty sure it is, Pan.”

  “Step up to the line, Pan,” says Rose. “Come on.”

  “I’m right.” My putter, which I’d rested against my hip, falls to the ground. When I move to pick it up, needles of pain shoot down my leg.

  Ian picks up the putter and hands it to me. “Come on. You’re getting better with every hole.” The gleam of chrome and the flat edge leer at me.

  “Don’t patronise me.” I knock the putter out of his hand and march through Africa, Australia and Japan to the front gate. At least I try to march; instead I limp and stumble.

  Without looking back, I hobble across the road to the park and don’t slow until I reach the bench by the lake. Sweat drips down my spine. Jagged shards of pain pulse from my thigh to my foot. I’m aware of people around me – walkers with dogs, kids with parents – but the combination of the memory and the pain blurs them into grey splodges.

  The memory isn’t pecking; now it’s beating against my brain like the wings of a massive bird of prey. I try to ignore it, stare hard at the grey shapes floating on the water until they take the form of ducks. The ducks coast back and forth in front of the island. When one, with a low hanging wing, swims too close to the others, there’s a burst of harsh quacks and a flurry of feathers. The black ducks turn on the intruder, snapping at its tail and, with water spraying in their wake, chase it to the bank.

  Satisfied, the black ducks glide back to the island. The lead duck flaps its wings and fills the air with arrogant quacks that punch a hole in my brain, allowing the last pieces of memory to leak through.

  Sun beats on my head. Sweat drips down my back.

  “It’s hot.”

  Morgan slips her hat onto my head.

  Mum argues with the guy in the booth about how old I am.

  Mum folds in on herself, sharp and prickly.

  The man and kids ahead of us are slow.

  Mum yells.

  The man yells back. A wall of angry words grows between them.

  Mum raises her putter. Sunlight reflects off the chrome and into my eyes.

  Morgan pushes me behind her.

  But I see Mum swing the putter.

  A thud. Screams.

  Blood on the man’s T-shirt and face.

  Morgan and I stand alone.

  I slump back, exhausted and confused, thoughts whirling around my head. Jigsaw pieces that won’t fit. The bench slats shift as someone sits beside me. I glance down – sandshoes, jeans, black socks. Ian.

  We sit there for a few minutes before he breaks the silence. “Those ducks near the island are natives.”

  “Black ducks. Morgan and I used to feed–” I clamp my lips together. I don’t want to talk about Morgan, not to him, not to anyone. I kick at a tuft of grass in front of the bench. “Who won minigolf?”

  “Rose. Shootout on the last hole between her and Nate.”

  “I hate minigolf.”

  “I gathered. Any reason?”

  “Do I have to have a reason?”

  “No, just making conversation.” He twists in his seat to face me. “So, Pan, how about you decide what we do next Sunday. I’d be happy to take you to see Morgan.”

  “No.”

  Ian sighs. “Pan …”

  I stand, ready to flee.

  Ian slaps his knees with both hands. “The others are at the cafe. My shout for a milkshake. Coming?”

  I’d have taken off if I’d known how to get home, or to their place from here. “I guess.”

  Six

  From the edge of the bed, I watch the fountain bubble outside the window. The tap at the door makes me jump.

  “Pan, may we come in?” Rose is in the room before she finishes asking. Livia stays in the doorway.

  I swivel to face them. “Okay.”

  Rose settles on the office chair. She places a paper bag on the desk and turns back to face me. “How are you feeling about school tomorrow?”

  “All right.”

  “It’s tough starting at a new school,” says Livia. Her voice is smooth.

  I look straight into her face. “Not really.”

  She folds her arms and raises her eyebrows at Rose, who nods.

  Livia sighs. “At school, you know, tomorrow. I’ll show you around. Introduce you to a few people if you like.”

  I shrug. “I can manage.”

  Livia shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’d like to do it.”

  Such sincerity. This time I pull a face. “Suit yourself.”

  Silence roars through the room. I listen for my own heartbeat.

  Rose’s voice makes me jump. “Livia, why don’t you set the table?” The moment she’s gone, Rose starts. “Pan, we need to talk about Morgan.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Well, I think there is. You need to–”

  My throat tightens. “Don’t tell me what I need.”

  Rose tucks her hair behind her ears and leans forwards, elbows on her knees. “Pan, your sister–”

  I shoot Rose my best savage look. “Don’t. Talk. About. Her.”

  “But the–”

  “I mean it.” My voice is loud and strained. Pain surges through my leg. I wince as I straighten it.

  “Do you need painkillers?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “About Morgan,” continues Rose without missing a beat. “Would you at least contact her?”

  “How exactly?” My lip curls. “My phone’s stuffed after … and I’m not emailing, not with the computer out there in the family room.”

  Rose hands me the paper bag she’d placed on the desk.

  I take a black pen with a white flower print and a flat, black box from the bag. Inside the box are sheets of paper and envelopes printed with flowers.

  “Writing paper,” says Rose.

  “What if I don’t want to write to her?”

  “Your choice, but I do think writing to Morgan will make a difference, you know, with the court order.”

  Yeah, like anything is going to change that judge’s mind. What did she say? Denial? Avoidance? I don’t remember or care. Still, Rose may have a point. Maybe letters would be proof that I wasn’t denying or avoiding anything. “How do I know you or Ian won’t read them?”

  Rose takes a folder of stamps from her pocket. “You can post the letters on the way to school. Let me know if you run out of paper and I’ll buy more.”

  “And you really think writing will impress that judge?”

  Rose pulls a face. “The magistrate? Can’t hurt. And she did say you–”

  “I know what she said,” I interrupt her. “I was there.”

  “So, it’s worth a try, Pan.” Rose stands and stretches. “Do you have everything you need for school tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Terrific. See you in the morning, bright and early.”

  “Great.” Once she leaves the room, I take Smocker from my backpack and reach inside his belly. I pull out the first thing I touch – a photo. Written across the back, in Morgan’s writing, is Morgan, 10, Panda, 4. South Beach.

  I don’t need to turn it over to see every detail of it.

  Morgan and I stand in front of a huge sandcastle, complete
with seaweed flags. Morgan has her arm around my shoulder. I’m smiling up at her.

  I shove the photo back inside Smocker and take out a sheet of writing paper.

  Morgan,

  Know where I am? Right in the heart of Legoland, living with plastics and going to a school filled with spastics. And do you know why?

  Because of you.

  Pan

  Morgan wove through the ant trails of kids to the prep room, and stood waiting back by the wall. She’d survived her first day at a new school. This school was older than Orange Grove Primary, but the after-school chaos was the same.

  Feet stomping on asphalt, squealing and yelling, and older kids pushing and shoving younger ones aside in the rush to freedom.

  Morgan watched the little kids pour out of the prep classroom, arms flapping like birds’ wings to keep their giant backpacks on their shoulders. One kid with freckles thrust out his stomach and hips to balance.

  Turtle Boy. Morgan giggled and adjusted her own backpack which bit into her shoulders. It was stuffed full of her new books, to be covered and named, and a pile of forms that needed filling in.

  “Books and notes your mother should have picked up and filled in this morning,” Morgan’s new teacher, the hawk-faced Mr McDonald, had said as he dumped them on her desk. The sound had echoed around the silent room.

  Kylie had promised she’d walk the girls to Lake Road Primary, but this morning the promise had been forgotten. While Kylie slept, Morgan woke Pan, made breakfast for them both and walked with her sister to the new school.

  Morgan spied a flash of pink. Pan’s windcheater stood out amongst the green school jumpers.

  Grim faced, Pan struggled through the door, wrestling with Morgan’s old backpack. Her pigtail had come loose. The elastic band now rested on the nape of her neck.

  “Hey, Panda,” called Morgan, waving.

  Pan lifted her head. She smiled when she saw Morgan and ran towards her, the stuff in her backpack thudding the rhythm of her feet. She wrapped her arms around Morgan’s hips.

  “How was your day?” asked Morgan.

  Pan let go. “Okay.”

  They walked out the gate towards the highway. Morgan was sure there’d be shorter ways to reach the new house, but this was the one she knew. “What do you mean okay? Wasn’t it good?”

  Pan shook her head.

  “Why, Panda?”

  “This kid said my bag was old and that I had the wrong jumper. And he wouldn’t let me use the glue.”

  The wobble in Pan’s voice tugged at Morgan. “Which kid?”

  Pan stopped to study the kids at the school pick-up point, where cars, like ravenous beasts, swallowed children whole.

  Grandy used to pick up Morgan after school, before he couldn’t leave Grandma alone.

  Kylie never had.

  “Him.”

  Morgan followed her sister’s pointed finger. “That one? The one with freckles?”

  Pan nodded and sniffed.

  Morgan glanced at Pan who was still frowning. “That’s Turtle Boy and he lives in Legoland.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Pan, looking up.

  Morgan pointed to the houses beyond the highway. “See those? The houses with square front yards, green hedges and brick letterboxes? See how they all look the same?”

  Pan craned her neck and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Just like Lego houses. That’s Legoland.”

  Pan giggled.

  “And the people who live there, Turtle Boy and Mr McDonald, they’re called plastics.”

  They crossed the road and the private school on the hill overlooking the housing estate came into view.

  “What about that?” asked Pan. “Is that part of Legoland?”

  “That’s a special place.” Morgan pulled her sister close as they walked. She needed to make her laugh. “It’s a school, but it’s only for plastics. Not for us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have to live in Legoland to be a plastic, remember?” A word that, for some reason, always made Pan laugh flashed into Morgan’s head. “It’s a school for plastics and when they go there, they’re called … spastics.”

  Pan’s huge laugh filled the air.

  Morgan smiled and took her sister’s hand.

  Seven

  Even though Rose has washed and ironed it, the cotton school shirt is stiff and cold against my skin. I wrestle my legs into the tights and fight the velcro catch on the kilt. I turn to the mirror and check my reflection, but only from the neck down. A shudder surges through me.

  The kilt hangs from my hips to just below my knees, too long to look deliberate, and too short to look cool. The pleats make me look even more block shaped.

  I turn my back on the mirror. The T-bar shoes Livia insisted Rose buy, because “everyone wore them”, the Cranbrooke College schoolbag and the hair ties Rose handed me this morning, sit on the unmade bed. All things that should be worn by someone new and fresh, not someone like me.

  If I have to go to this school, then I’ll go as me.

  I tie my plaited leather bracelet to my left wrist, and put on my imitation Doc Martens. Last of all I apply eyeliner and what is left of the mascara. My hair falls like a curtain over my temple and cheeks. This time when I check the mirror, a string of names slithers through my head. Ugly. Unloved. Alone.

  After shoving a few essentials – Morgan’s old iPod, my mascara and lip balm – into my tattered backpack, I suck in a deep breath and stroll down the hall to the kitchen.

  Livia, dressed in her uniform, hair tied in that sideways ponytail, texts at the table. “Hey, Rose, I have rehearsal tonight.”

  “Pick you up from school at five?” Rose tosses an apple to Nate, who has his back to me. “Make sure you eat that today, young man. Did you put your washing out?”

  Nate groans and turns for his room. He looks at what I’ve got on and grins. “Good luck with that.” He brushes past me and down the hall.

  “Your lunch is on the table, Pan,” says Rose, who also checks me out. Her mouth twitches.

  Livia puts her phone into her schoolbag’s front pocket. Her eyes narrow when she sees me. “You can’t go like–”

  Rose cuts her off. “Orange and apple okay, Pan? We’re out of bananas.”

  “Whatever.” I dump the wrap and fruit in my backpack. “Can you post this? Please.” I drop the letter to Morgan on the bench.

  Rose looks from the envelope to me. “Sure.”

  Ian walks into the kitchen, holding a basket of dirty washing. He stops and takes a breath. “Pan, the graffiti on that bag’s a bit rich for school, don’t you think?”

  “He’s right, Pan.” Livia’s face is filled with fake sincerity. “If Shipard sees that, he’ll slap you with a detention for sure. And as for Dutchy …”

  Her voice and her furrowed eyebrows make me bristle.

  “So, I’m guessing there’s a bus stop around here somewhere.”

  Ian clears his throat. “I’ll drive you for your first week.”

  “I’m not a prep.” I fold my arms. “Bus is fine.”

  Rose rests her elbows on the kitchen bench, hands clasped over my letter. “Swap that backpack for the new one and you can catch the bus with Livia.”

  “It’ll be fun,” adds Livia.

  Yeah right. But I can’t be bothered fighting. “Fine.” I spin around and clomp back to the room where I’d left the new backpack.

  Eight

  Livia walks beside me down the front path. “You can hang out with me and my friends, if you like.” Her voice is too loud and bright; I mean, I’m right beside her.

  “That’s okay.”

  The moment we pass the McMinn’s side fence, she glares at me. “Like hell you can.” She slips in her earplugs and picks up her pace.

  So that’s how it’s going to be. Suits me. I follow, taking in the morning sights of Arnica Drive, Legoland. Instead of snarling dogs straining at gates desperate to rip my throat out, or feral kids yelling at e
ach other, a poodle and its owner prance by, sweaty joggers lurch along and harried mothers pour kids into four-wheel drives.

  Livia stops at the corner and takes out her earbuds. She turns her back to the advertising poster on the bus shelter. The picture of a roaring tiger frames her head. Her eyes rest on my feet.

  “So what did you do to your leg?” Her voice is still smooth, but without the brightness.

  “Like Rose and Ian haven’t told you.”

  “All they told us was that you’ve had it tough.” Livia flicks her ponytail and smooths her fringe. “You do know I’m their success story. The reason they took you on.”

  Was she for real? “Good for you.”

  “So your leg?”

  “Shark bite.”

  Livia scoffs and turns her back on me. She stares up the busy road, as though I don’t exist. I walk around her to wait in the shelter.

  The bus groans to a halt. I climb aboard, and slink into the first empty seat. Livia charges past, slamming her bag into the armrest. Voices call out to her from the back of the bus. I rest my cheek against the cold window and stare at the watery sky.

  The bus pulls up at the Cranbrooke College gates. I’m last down the steps. I watch the river of students flow towards the main building. The place is bigger and busier than it was Friday. I turn to Livia who’s walking and laughing with her friends.

  “Livia?”

  She stops and glares, her left hip sticking out.

  “Where do I go?”

  She points to double glass doors. “Go in there and ask for Dutchy.” She jogs to catch up with her friends.

  “Dutchy?” I yell after her.

  She calls over her shoulder. “Mr Holland. Year coordinator. He’s … you’ll see.”

  In the office I wait on a stiff maroon sofa and listen while office staff gossip about something they’ve watched on breakfast television. One of them keeps glancing at me. I’m about to flip her the bird when a short guy in a suit with a black moustache introduces himself.

  Oscar Holland.

  Oscar was my first cat’s name.