Pan’s Whisper Page 8

  “You did not save me.”

  “Yeah, ‘cos you were handling that so well.”

  “I was actually,” I say through gritted teeth. “Stay out of my face, Hunter.”

  I march to the bus stop. As the 494 bus to Arnica Drive pulls away, I glance out the window. Hunter is staring up at me, a confused expression on his face.

  Twenty-One

  I stomp through the house to my room, toss my schoolbag on the bed and pace.

  Save me? Who does he think he is? I don’t need saving, and if I did, I’d save myself. He thinks I’m some sort of pathetic girl who needs a prince to gallop to her rescue. Well, I’ll show him!

  In the kitchen I grab a pile of cookbooks from the shelf and dump them on the bench.

  Nate runs in, all arms and legs and toothy grin. “Hey, Pan, Jeremiah did the funniest thing in PE today.”

  “I don’t care, Nate.” I flick through the first recipe book. Soup – boring. Burrito – messy. Lasagne – awful cold. I slam the book shut and open the next one.

  “What’s wrong, Pan?”

  I glare at him. “Nothing.” More flicking. I drum my fingers on the wooden benchtop.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Something to make for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Chicken wraps are good.”

  I slap my palm on a stir-fry recipe. “Look, Nate, I’m busy. Go annoy someone else.”

  He pulls a face and leaves.

  Something flutters to my left. Rose is standing at the end of the bench waving a white hankie.

  I glare at her. “That’s not funny.”

  She tucks the hankie up her sleeve. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I toss another book on the discard pile.

  “Clearly.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Bad day, okay?” When I look up at her, the anger rushes out of me. “Someone has decided it’s their personal duty to ‘save me’. I don’t need saving. And if I did, I wouldn’t want him saving me.”

  “And you’re taking this out on the recipe books because?”

  “What? Oh.” I slump forwards onto the bench. “I have to take lunch to school tomorrow. For three of us.”

  “Fried rice? Easy to make and okay cold.” Rose walks around to stand beside me. “What about that?” She points at the Moroccan lamb, roast vegies and couscous recipe.

  “Would that be okay cold?”

  “Sure,” says Rose. “But make a double batch so we can have it for dinner too.”

  I shrug. “Can I make biscuits? I used to make these Smartie biscuits with Mor …”

  Rose pats my hand. “Make a list and I’ll take you to the supermarket.”

  Twenty-Two

  Drama, my last class before lunch, drags. Instead of prac, it’s a theory lesson. Toni raves on and on about theatre terms and stage positions. She draws diagrams on the whiteboard and labels them. Any other day, it’d be interesting, but today I’m too worried about the food in my locker to care.

  The moment the bell goes, I’m out of there. With the cooler bag slung over my shoulder, I head to the performing arts centre. Ari is already in the room off the auditorium.

  He smiles when I rush through the door. “Pan, you made it here in record time.” He nods at the cooler bag. “Lunch?”

  “Yeah – nothing flash.” Last night Ian, Nate and Rose said I was a fantastic cook. Even Livia nodded. Now I want Ari to like it too. And Hunter. I unpack the Moroccan lamb and couscous, salad servers, plastic plates and forks, laying them on the table by the wall.

  “That looks delicious,” says Ari. “Smells even better.”

  Ari’s praise feels good. I serve him, stare at the door for a moment, then serve myself. “I forgot to bring a drink.”

  “Lucky I grabbed one.” Ari goes out the door and comes back with lemon mineral water and three glasses. “What do you reckon is keeping Hunter?”

  “Me probably,” I mutter. “I kind of lost it at him yesterday.”

  “Ah,” says Ari.

  We talk about a reality TV show about hospitals we both watched last night.

  “How much would that broken ankle have hurt?” says Ari.

  “Must have killed.” I glance at the door for the fiftieth time and hate myself for it.

  “By the way, I found something you’re good at.”

  “Stuffing up?”

  Ari frowns. “No, Pan. Cooking. That was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Hunter missed out.”

  I push the lid back onto the salad. “What are we working on today?”

  “We need to paint the fire escape backdrop.”

  Ari grabs a Smartie biscuit and talks about his vision: alley, brick walls, windows, black fire-escape. I make interested noises as I shove stuff back into the cooler bag and add Hunter to my list of stuff-ups.

  Hello Morgan,

  Get this. All these memories keep popping into my head. Not whole memories, just pieces, flashes. Cool stuff we did together – fun stuff. Do you remember the Smartie cookies we used to make? And remember that time we ate them in the park? I can remember snuggling up with you. Was there a sleeping-bag? And Smocker? Definitely Smocker. We must have stayed the night. I wish I could remember. I guess it was so long ago, when we were in Bendigo. Maybe it was when we moved to that small town for a while..

  We did such cool stuff together back then.

  Pan

  Panda sat cross-legged in front of the oven. “Look at them, Morgs. They’re puffing up.”

  Morgan looked up from her homework spread across the kitchen table. “They’re supposed to, idiot, they’re biscuits. Did you set the timer?”

  Pan turned and pulled a face. “Yeah – I’m not stupid.”

  Car tyres crunched on gravel. “Mum’s home,” said Pan. She ran to the window overlooking the driveway and main road. This time Kylie had rented a place on the edge of town. For the peace, she’d said. Only there wasn’t much of that. “Oh no. She’s brought people with her, again.”

  “Drinks too?” asked Morgan.

  “Yeah. One guy has a box balanced on his shoulder. The others are carrying shopping bags.”

  “Bet there’s no proper food in them,” said Morgan, teeth clenched. Kylie had left a couple of hours ago to buy fruit, vegetables and fresh bread. But by the sounds of things, she’d spent the money on other stuff. As usual. Morgan scooped up her books. “Is that freak with the beard here?”

  “Yeah, he has the carton,” said Pan. “He’s gross. He looks at me funny.”

  Last time he’d turned up at the stone cottage, he’d stood so close to her, Morgan could feel the hairs on his arms against her skin. Later, he groped her bum. She shuddered at the memory of it and took her school books to her room. When she returned, Kylie and her friends were piling into the kitchen, dumping shopping bags, cartons and bottles on the table.

  “There’s plenty of room in the fridge,” said Kylie, moving the milk and the margarine. “And glasses are over there.” She pointed at the wall of cupboards behind her.

  “Smells good,” said Bearded Freak, looking at Morgan. “You the cook?”

  Morgan folded her arms. “Me and Panda made them.” And no way are you having any, she thought. She wanted, needed, all of these people away from Pan. “Hey, Kylie, will I put on a CD in the lounge?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Kylie with a sigh. “You’ll put on some computer-generated crap.” She grabbed a bottle from the table and some glasses and left the kitchen. The others followed.

  Bearded Freak was last to leave. He paused in front of Pan and winked.

  “Right,” said Morgan. “Panda, grab your sleeping-bag and whatever else you need for a camp out.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Pan.

  “You heard. We’re not staying here. Grab your stuff.”

  “But Morgs, the biscuits.”

  “By the time you have your stuff, they’ll be ready.” Morgan was on her way to
her room. She emptied her school backpack onto the bed and stuffed in a torch, her wallet and sleeping-bag. She met Pan in the hall.

  “I can’t do this.” Pan scrunched up her face at the sleeping-bag hanging out of its bag.

  “It’ll do,” said Morgan.

  The timer buzzed in the kitchen. She and Pan lifted the steaming biscuits off the tray and dropped them into an empty ice-cream container.

  Pan popped a broken piece into her mouth and fanned her open mouth.

  “What did you expect?” Morgan shook her head. “Grab some other food. For dinner.”

  While Pan grabbed two packets of noodles and the few slices of bread left in the pantry, Morgan peeked into a shopping bag on the table. She took a packet of chips and a bottle of soft drink. She stopped, tipped out the contents of the bag, and took the bag as well.

  The last thing the girls did was fill their water bottles before jogging down the gum tree lined drive.

  “Where are we going?” asked Pan.

  “The park with the lake. You know, near the hospital.”

  “Okay.”

  On the main road Morgan glanced at her sister, struggling with her bulging backpack and sleeping-bag. “Panda, what’s in your backpack?”

  Pan shrugged. “Important stuff.”

  Morgan realised what Panda had packed – the same thing she took to school every day, just in case Kylie chucked everything out again. Smocker.

  Twenty-Three

  This afternoon as I walk to the school bus stop, I pay absolute attention to where I’m going.

  “Panna. Wait up,” calls Hunter.

  Stuff him. I keep walking. I can hear his footsteps. There’s a tug on my backpack. “Pan? Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Oh look, it’s my saviour. My prince. My hero.” I pour drama and sarcasm into each word. I expect him to be angry or hurt, but instead he smiles.

  “Actually, I’m kind of hoping you’ll be my knight in shining armour – like Joan of Arc, only without the burned at the stake bit.”

  “And save you from whatever pathetic explanation you’ve cooked up for missing lunch?”

  Hunter’s shoulders sag. “Bloody Grint made me stay in to work on those stupid Romeo and Juliet questions. Why do we have to pull everything apart? Why can’t we just read something and enjoy it for what it is?” He kicks at a clump of grass. “Ari told me lunch was amazing. Don’t s’pose you have any of those Smartie biscuits left?”

  “Maybe.” I pull a face. “Why do you need me to save you?”

  “Grint says I have to finish Act II questions tonight. Or else, mister!”

  “Well, it is due tomorrow.”

  “I know, but, the thing is I’ve been learning these hard as music pieces and …”

  “You haven’t started.”

  “Yeah. No. I have, today at lunchtime with Grint circling like a wolf.” Hunter pulls a pleading face. “Could, you know, help me out. I mean, you like it and everything.”

  Why can’t I stay mad at him? “I s’pose I could come around for an hour or so.” I don’t tell him I finished last week because I don’t have a life. And because we studied Romeo and Juliet last semester at my old school.

  Hunter grins. “Joan of Arc, I knew it.”

  “Not yet. I have to go phone Rose and check it’s okay.” I look over my shoulder to the school building. “Do you reckon they’ll let me use the office phone?”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Serious?” Hunter laughs. “You have to be the only person in the world without a phone.”

  My face burns. “I have one – well I used to have one, but it’s …” Broken? Smashed? Ruined? “Not working.”

  Hunter hands me his. “Use mine.”

  I’m surprised at how happy Rose is for me to hang out with a guy she doesn’t know. Guess she’s just glad to have me out of the house for a while. “Rose says it’s fine.” I hand Hunter’s phone back. “I just have to call her when we’re done.”

  Hunter glances at me. “Okay to walk? It’s not far.”

  “Sure.”

  We walk down the main road, along side streets and cut through parks. There’s no way I could find my way back to the McMinn’s or even school without him. We talk about TV – Skins to be specific – and school, well, teachers and other people to avoid. I’m surprised at how easy it is to talk to Hunter.

  Legoland has faded into streets lined with native trees and houses hidden by shrubs and hedges. “It’s practically bush around here,” I say.

  “Not bad is it? Our place backs onto a massive nature reserve. I pretend we live in the bush, and if I try hard enough, I can make out the traffic noise is bees. Hey, this is home,” says Hunter, turning into a drive dwarfed by gum trees.

  The house isn’t anything like I imagined. It’s an old weatherboard with wooden window frames and a concrete front porch. The lawn is neat, but covered in gum tree debris – bark, twigs and leaves. The shrubs and roses in the garden sprawl into each other. The cement drive is cracked and stained. A faded sign hangs on the double closed gates. “Beware of the Dog”.

  “What sort of dog do you have?”

  Hunter looks confused. “What? Oh that?” He points to the sign. “Dad’s way of scaring off burglars.”

  Seems I had the border collie thing wrong too. Beyond the large backyard, birds call and dart amongst the tree branches. “Got a cat?”

  Hunter shakes his head. “Mum bred Burmese when I was a kid.”

  “Doesn’t any more?”

  “Became too much for her.”

  “Wildlife is probably happy about that.”

  Hunter pulls a leather thong and key out from under his shirt and unlocks the back door. “Dump your stuff on the table. Want something to eat? A drink?”

  “Drink, thanks.” I look around the large, tidy kitchen while Hunter is busy. A pot plant droops by a radio. The noticeboard above the phone is covered with business cards and photos. By the look of them, they’re old photos. The kid posing next to a lopsided snowman has to be Hunter. They both have the same self-assured stance. A woman with sparkling eyes and a big smile stands on the other side of the snowman. She’s beaming at Hunter.

  The same kid, this time older, blows a party whistle into woman’s face. At least I think it’s the same woman. Her hair is thinner and cropped and her eyes are sunken. Half-hidden by that picture is an appointment card for Professor Jeffrey Rosenfeld, Neurosurgeon, whatever that is. The appointment is for two years ago. Beneath that is a greeting card printed with stars and “Believe” in a flowing font. One corner is creased.

  Hunter hands me a juice. “We were at Mount Hotham.”

  It takes me a moment to figure out he’s talking about the snowman photo. “And the party?”

  “New Year. A while ago. Mum and Dad had this big bash out the back. So, any Smartie cookies left?”

  “Sure.”

  We sit at the kitchen table. Hunter sets up his books while I take mine from my bag and place the container of biscuits between us.

  “Romeo and Juliet,” I take out the sheet of questions. “Where do you want to start?”

  Hunter’s “are you serious” expression makes me laugh.

  “So, question one.” Even though I’d pretty much finished these questions, I still take notes. Hunter’s ideas make me look at characters differently, especially Mecrutio. As soon as I get back to the McMinn’s tonight, I’m changing a few of my answers.

  While Hunter writes, I watch him. I try not to, but I can’t help it. There’s something about the way he hunches over the table, his hair falling across his brow.

  When he catches me, I stutter that I was staring at the trees in the backyard behind him. “It’s beautiful out there.”

  Hunter looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s okay.” He turns back and taps his pen on the page in front of him. “Do you reckon Tybalt meant to kill Mecrutio?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. People do all kinds o
f things they don’t mean to and other times they know exactly what they are doing. I–” With a jolt I realise I’m about to spill my guts about Kira and Mason back at Deakin Bay. Stuff I haven’t even told Morgan.

  “Yeah?” asks Hunter, watching and waiting for me to continue.

  I shake my head and frown. “Know what, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.”

  “Fair enough.” He goes back to writing.

  A chill races down my arms. He might be easy to be with, but he makes me relax too much.

  I jump when the backdoor slams. An older version of Hunter takes off his coat in the doorway and places it and his keys on the bench. I glance at my watch – five-thirty – we’ve been working for over an hour. It feels like minutes.

  “Hey, Dad,” says Hunter. “This is Pan.”

  “Hello, Mr Alessio.”

  “Call me Joe, Pan.” He shakes my hand, which is awkward. “First time in weeks I’ve come home to the house not being shook to pieces by Hunter’s piano.”

  “English assignment due tomorrow,” says Hunter, tapping his pen on his work.

  “Ah.” Joe pulls off his tie.

  I already know why Hunter has been playing the piano heaps – the school musical – but I still ask. “Why all the practice?”

  “Pan, surely he’s bored you stupid with stories about West Side Story. How he has to be better than last year’s band leader, Johnny Crowley, and how Jackson Hyland is always late to band practice.” Joe moves his hand like a puppet as he impersonates Hunter talking.

  “Shut up, Dad,” says Hunter.

  “Are you in the production, Pan?” asks Joe.

  “Me? No way.”

  “She’s helping Ari paint the backdrops though.”

  “Colouring in Ari’s artwork you mean, Hunter.” I glance at my watch again. “I should ring Rose to come pick me up.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you home,” says Joe.

  I’m not used to adults acting like this. “No, honestly, it’s okay.”

  “I insist, Pan. I’m going out to grab dinner, so I’ll drop you on the way.”

  “Not waiting for Hunter’s mum to come home first?” I know straightaway I’ve said the wrong thing. Joe sucks his bottom lip. Hunter stares at his page, face white. He does a long jerky sigh, the type you do when you’re drowning in sorrow.