Читать книгу Cassandra Behind Closed Doors - Linda Sorpreso - Страница 8

I

put my hands over my eyes and groaned at the sunlight shining through the blinds. It couldn’t be morning already. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. All I could recall was thinking about Brayden and Vinnie, and then waking up to the rays of light beaming into my face. I also heard the sound of laughter. Loud and very annoying.

“Bitch,” I muttered, rolling onto my stomach.

“What did you say?” Abby asked.

“You heard me.”

“No, actually I didn’t.”

“I said ‘bitch’. You had to wake me up didn’t you? You couldn’t let me sleep awhile longer?”

“Longer? Do you know what time it is?”

“No, and I don’t care either!”

“You should! It is eleven o’clock! It’s about time you woke up or else you’d sleep all day,” Abby said as she opened the closet.

“I wish I could, so then I wouldn’t have to deal with you.”

“Stop being such a mole! You needed to get off your lazy arse eventually,” she said, shutting the cupboard door with a loud thud.

“I’ll get up when I’m good and ready thank you.”

“Come on Cassie, we’re busy and we need your help.”

“Well, I’m busy too if you hadn’t noticed. I was asleep and it’s not my fault you guys have so much to do, it wasn’t my idea to have Christmas dinner here tonight.”

“Get up!”

Glaring at her, I picked up my pillow, fluffed it a couple of times and then buried my head underneath.

She laughed. “That’s fine, if you want to be that way.”

I didn’t say anything. Hopefully that would give her the hint and she would piss off.

It did. I heard the door creak open, listened as her footsteps stomped through and felt the anger increase when I overheard her telling Mum our conversation.

“Close the door!” I yelled. Silence greeted me as well as the aroma of Mum’s bolognese sauce, which floated through the door. My stomach rumbled, smelling the fried onions and mince.

“Stupid scrag,” I muttered, tossing the pillow aside, getting out of bed. I hated being woken up. Everybody knew that, including my sister. Abby must think she was so bloody clever, expecting I would just give in. Well, she assumed wrong. Two could play this game. I walked to the door, slamming it as hard as I could.

“Fifteen all,” I muttered, crawling under the covers. That should teach her to mind her own business when it came to my sleeping patterns. I squirmed and wriggled, trying to get comfortable. Once I did, my tummy grumbled again.

I groaned, aiming to ignore it. There was no way I would let my hunger lose this battle to Abby’s bitchiness. I closed my eyes, trying to fall back asleep.

Ten minutes later, I was still in bed, wide awake and fuming. The damage was already done and I couldn’t get back to sleep no matter how hard I tried. Defeated, I got up and walked to the kitchen.

Abby was sweeping the floor while Mum was standing at the sink, compressing coffee beans in the small grinder. She unplugged the cord from the wall, took off the plastic lid, turned the grinder upside down and tapped the ground coffee into a brown storage container.

I used to love grinding the coffee. It sort of became an addiction. Whenever I heard Mum getting the grinder out of the pantry, I would race into the kitchen, push the chair against the sink, sit on my knees because I couldn’t reach and was mesmerized by the blade as it diced up beans into small particles. I loved the buzzing sound the machine made as soon as you flicked on the switch and though I had grown out of my fascination with it, I still loved opening the lid off the tub and releasing its fresh, enticing aroma. Despite its tempting smell, I couldn’t drink espresso; it was too strong and bitter for me and with sugar, it only enhanced the sour taste. I could only have it served cold, smeared on top of ice cream.

“Morning Mum,” I said, scrunching her face in both hands, planting a kiss on the side of face. She squirmed out of my grasp. “Lasciami in pace, eh?

“No! Why should I leave you alone?” I asked, laughing. She hated it when I kissed her like that; so I did it on purpose. I loved seeing her angry, she looked so cute.

She chose to ignore me and grabbed the aluminium cafettiera from the cupboard below, unscrewed the top off, filling the bottom with water up to the rim. Then she placed a couple of spoonfuls of coffee into it and fastened both pieces together, putting it on the stove.

“Good to see you aren’t still grumpy,” Abby said.

I just stared at her. I opened my mouth and then closed it quickly. After what she did to me, I wasn’t in the mood for her and truthfully I couldn’t be bothered fighting with her, especially on Christmas Day. I turned my back on Abby, walking outside.

“Cilla,” I called out.

Dad turned around. He was sitting on our wooden table, smoking a cigarette and watering the garden. He was wearing navy blue shorts and a white singlet. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing at him. He hadn’t brushed his hair yet and it was almost as high as the smoke surrounding him.

“Morning,” I said.

He raised his head, grunting something that I believed was supposed to be a “hello” but sounded more like “humph!” He seemed troubled just by saying the word and really, it wasn’t that hard. All you had to do was open your mouth and the phrase immediately rolled off your tongue without really much effort but with my father, it was his daily ritual to mumble instead of greeting like normal people. It used to worry me but now I wondered why I even bothered. It was probably easier to communicate with animals than with him. Although I did read somewhere that scientists have said chimps were smarter than most humans and there in front of me was living proof.

He took a long drag of his cigarette and breathed out, the smoke exhaling from his nose. I had always wondered how he did that. My aunties and uncles were also smokers but I had never seen smoke coming out of Zia Sarina’s or Zia Manuela’s nostrils. Maybe it was just a guy thing, like burping, farting and scratching one’s private areas in public.

“The cucumbers are almost ripe,” he said, his eyes gleam-ing. “I’ll pick them out of the garden for you as soon as they are ready.”

“Thanks,” I said. Dad was very proud of his garden. He had probably shown more love and tenderness towards his fruit and vegetables than his own daughters. He spent hours with it, planting, pruning, watering and checking to see if they had matured and trust me, he needed to. It was a mini fruit and veggie shop. Everywhere I turned, there was a patch somewhere, growing tomatoes, beans, eggplant, lettuce, zucchini, capsicum, basil, oregano, cucumbers and of course, the lemon and fig trees. Dad recently planted an apricot tree, right in the middle of where my netball ring hung. I was so pissed off, I told him to dig it up or else I would ‘accidentally’ break his precious branches. He removed it after he saw me casually hanging around the tree with my ball.

“Have you seen Cilla?” I asked.

“Cilla?”

“Yeah you know my cat,” I said. I tried very hard not to be sarcastic with people, especially with my family, but sometimes people could be so dumb!

“Ancora Cassandra,” he said, shaking his head.

I just walked away. I wasn’t in the mood for one of his lectures either. Besides, I was too worried about Cilla. I found it odd I hadn’t seen her yet. She always came to me the instant she heard my voice. Most of the time she was in the garage or somewhere around the house, sleeping, but sometimes she went over to Maria’s house next door. I walked towards the fence and climbed onto the wood, peering over once I had reached the second step.

“Cilla?” I called out. I couldn’t see her but was busted by Maria in the process. She was taking the clothes off the line, clipping the brightly coloured pegs on her apron. I waved, moving quickly back down and headed into the garage, hoping to find Cilla in there, though it wouldn’t be easy searching for her in that mess.

Our driveway was really long and curvy. We could fit three cars parked on it and still have another two on either side of our lawn, which allowed our garage to be free and kept as storage. However, it was more like a garbage dump, without the disgusting smell but definitely piled high with junk. My parents never threw anything out. In there we had two tables used for whenever we had guests, Dad’s barrels for his homemade wine, a sewing machine, another fridge, a couple of suitcases, a battery charger and other equipment for the car, rusted tools and a second tool kit that we bought Dad for his birthday, a chipped dinner set that had never been used in recent history, dry herbs hanging from the ceiling and an old antique, burgundy record player that was left for us in Dad’s mum’s will. My sisters and I had a huge fight with Mum and Dad over it. It may have been an antique; however, it was hideous and didn’t even work. They wanted it in the lounge room, while we thought it belonged in the tip. In the end, we compro-mised and put it in the garage.

Then we had the collection of recycled beer bottles arranged on one of the tables, kept for the next batch of homemade sauce, even though we didn’t make it from scratch anymore. Thank God. My parents kept them for Zia Sarina and Zia Manuela while we stopped about two years ago after my parents realised they couldn’t be bothered cooking it and was probably cheaper buying the sauce from the store. Not to mention, we avoided killing ourselves from making it. The process took the entire day. It began by washing ten boxes of tomatoes, cutting the rotten bits off, squeezing all the gunk out, placing them in the machine and grinding them. Meanwhile, you had to get the bottles ready, filling each one with a twig of basil and a couple of drops of oil, then you poured the liquid in and put a new crown on. After that, you discovered you still had two litres of sauce left and no bottles, so you had to go to the liquor shop, buy more beer, watch in amazement as your father skulled them all down, claiming it was a sin to waste, wash them, tip the rest of the sauce in and then put the bottles, one by one, carefully into a big barrel that was filled with water, wait for it to boil, which usually took a couple of hours and tried not to die from suffoca-tion as the stench swarmed the whole backyard and crept into the house. Well, Italian families may frown at us for buying Leggo’s pasta sauce; but we didn’t care. I thought they were crazy to keep with that tradition. Life was too short to spend an entire day with your elbows covered by the grime of a tomato.

And when I read Looking for Alibrandi, I was so annoyed with Melina Marchetta. I wanted to write my life story someday and had always wanted to include this little Italian tradition. I thought if I included it in my novel, everyone would think it would be a replica of that book and I didn’t want it to be labelled as the try-hard Looking for Cassandra. I would want my book to be original and unique but just because it was an Italian-based family with Nonnas and rules, it might be compared to it. However, mine would be entirely different. First, Josephine was illegitimate and her father wanted nothing to do with her, whereas with me I had the opposite. I was born with parents who were married and I wished my father had nothing to do with me.

I lifted the garage door up, stepping inside. “Cilla?” I called. I paused, waiting to hear any movement. She wasn’t even wearing a bell on her collar. I put one on once, and then took it off within five minutes. It annoyed me more than frightened the birds. How I wished she had one now.

There was nothing. Panic filled me. I paced back and forth, calling her name. Dad just sat there, looking at me with a tiny smirk on his face.

“Cilla!” I yelled again.

I heard a faint pitter-patter across the concrete. I turned around, seeing her tiny black and white figure strolling towards me. She stopped suddenly, her body tensed, her tail swaying from left to right. Her eyes were glued in the one direction. She was looking ahead at Dad. He moved slightly, reaching for his stubby of VB. Cilla ran as fast as she could, towards the front yard, hiding underneath Dad’s cream Falcon. I followed her, crouching to the ground, beckoning her forward. She stared at me, her eyes wide with fear.

“It’s okay, he’s not doing anything. He’s in the back,” I said as I stroked her gently under her chin. She came out slowly. I grabbed one of her front paws and dragged her to me. I sat down on the ground, crossed my legs, putting Cilla in my lap.

“Merry Christmas, Cilla,” I said. I checked to see if Dad was watching me. He wasn’t, so I quickly kissed her head. Dad had caught me kissing Cilla once and told me off, saying it was disgusting. We had a big argument that night, resulting in a bruise on my head and me in tears. Now I made sure that whenever I kissed her, he wasn’t around. I didn’t understand what his problem was. Cats were the cleanest pets in the world. They groomed themselves and besides Mum and I tried to wash Cilla frequently.

Cilla finally relaxed, purring contently. Cilla and Dad’s relationship was similar to the one he and I shared. Cilla hated Dad because he was so rough with her. It wasn’t his fault. It was in his nature. He didn’t realise his own strength and he hurt her whenever he patted her. Well that is what Mum told me when he picked on me. Once Cilla bit him and he smacked her on the mouth. Since then, she avoided him. It was funny, considering Dad gave her to me for my birthday three years ago. My sisters teased me constantly, saying I brainwashed Cilla into hating him and I didn’t agree or disagree. The thing was, I didn’t hate Dad but I didn’t exactly like him either. I felt he was always picking on me. If it wasn’t about school or housework, it was always something. I just wanted him to treat me better and for his bitterness to disappear. He had always wanted a son but got stuck with four daughters instead.

I considered myself lucky though. I may not have the perfect relationship with my father but I had a fantastic one with my mum. I would never ever love anyone the way I loved her. She was my mother, father and best friend all rolled into one. She was the only person I could really confide in and she would never judge me, no matter the situation. I knew she would always be there for me, would do anything for me, just as I would for her.

I believed the way my parents treated me was a reflection on their own upbringing. Mum and Dad both had hard lives, yet they were raised with different values and lifestyles. My grandparents on both sides were strict; however, Mum’s parents showed her more love and affection, whereas Dad’s weren’t big on kisses and communication. They taught him to hide his true feelings with rules and regulations and Dad carried his knowledge over to me.

Sometimes, I felt sorry for him. Dad was a hard worker, though things constantly went wrong for him. The major-ity of it was his fault, however part of his bad luck was caused by the acts of others. When Dad was eighteen, he had a terrible motorcycle accident. A car smacked right into him and he fell off his bike, breaking his leg. Though he was fortunate it didn’t end his life, he couldn’t work due to his injury, relying on his parents for support. Then he met my mum, got married and fell into an assortment of jobs just to support his family. I didn’t know if Dad had any dreams to be someone but after the collision, he never fully recovered and still to this day, he walked with a slight limp.

I didn’t entirely believe money brought happiness but I was told that things were different before I was born. Dad had been different. He owned a café in Carlton and though he had always been strict, he stressed less and spent more time with my mum and sisters, taking them out or buying them whatever they wanted. Though Dad had a problem with gambling, my parents rarely worried about money.

The café was doing extremely well until the police started hassling him over a new crowd and because Dad wanted to protect his family, he sold the café, losing more than half of what it was actually worth. After that, our misfortune began and who knew how our lives would have turned out if the cops had minded their own business.

My parents were now both pensioners and though they both had jobs, they could only earn a certain amount before Social Security deducted them; therefore, we hardly had any spare cash lying around. Mum worked part-time as a machinist and Dad was a fisherman. He worked most days unless it was bad weather, then he stayed home. Those were the days I stayed away; it was when we fought the most. Most of the time, he came home tired, wet, smelling like fish and grumpy from the amount of pain he was in, due to his leg injury. Although I understood how difficult his job was, I didn’t appreciate him hitting me, kicking me or calling me into the kitchen while I was busy studying in my bedroom, just to get him a beer when he was already there. I wasn’t his slave nor was I his opponent in a boxing ring, I was his daughter and I only wished he would see me as one.

My stomach rumbled again. I woke Cilla up, nudging her nose with the tip of my finger. “Come on Cilla, wake up. It’s time for me to go inside.”

My family thought I was nuts when I spoke to Cilla. “She doesn’t understand you,” was a sentence I had heard over a million times. Well, I believed she did. I didn’t believe animals were stupid or incapable of communicating with their owners and I had this bizarre talent of being able to meow and sound exactly like a cat. When Cilla first arrived, she was afraid and hid behind our couch, refusing to eat or come near us. I shredded some salami and knelt beside her, meowing. When Cilla heard it, she came running to me and began eating from my hand. After that, we became inseparable. She knew how much I loved her and she loved me, though my sisters said her affection was only stemmed from hunger. That wasn’t true. When Mum fed her, Cilla still came to me, rubbed against my leg or jumped into my lap. My sisters were just jealous of our bond.

Cilla yawned and stretched, digging her claws into my trackies. I cried out in pain. Each dig felt like someone poking me with a needle.

“Naughty girl!” I muttered, pushing her gently off my lap. She looked at me with her bright yellow eyes. She tried to reclaim her spot but I stopped her and stood up.

“I’m sorry Cilla, Mama has to go,” I patted her head softly and went inside the house.

I walked past Mum who was at the bench, putting lasagna sheets into a large dish and opened the pantry, grabbing out the toaster. I squeezed across Abby who was at the sink, drying dishes and plugged the appliance into the power point, dropping two slices of bread into the slots.

“Would you move?” Abby asked. “You’re in my way.”

It was lucky I didn’t have the toaster in my hands anymore or else I would have slammed it on her head. I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

“Why couldn’t you wait until I was finished?” she asked.

“Because some idiot woke me up and it turns out I’m hungry now!”

“Cassie?” Mum interrupted, picking up a couple of empty boxes of lasagna sheets. “Can you please put this in the rubbisha?”

“Maaaa,” I wailed as she gave me the packets and I threw them in the bin. “How many times do I have to tell you not to use that word? Either say it in English or Italian.”

“What’s the difference? You know what I mean,” she said.

“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be like Cynthia when she went to Italy, ask where the rubbisha was and be snickered at because it is not even a word. You want me to learn Italian but how can I when I don’t even know what proper Italian is!”

Though there were hundreds of dialects in the Italian language, my family made up their own. “Rubbish”, in Italian was really la spazzatura but because my sisters, cousins and I had heard the grownups use rubbisha, we naturally assumed it was the translation. We figured out much later, that they used English words and added an ‘a’ on the end. It was difficult enough to understand them when they spoke half-English and half-Italian or because of their accent, I thought sandwich was pronounced ‘sangwich’ until the age of four but when they developed their own words, it was a nightmare. Rubbisha and fridga, the accurate word being il frigorifero were some of the terms we picked up that were incorrect but who knew what else they adapted in their version and now I refused to be laughed out of Italy.

“You’re worried about that? I’m more concerned with thirty people fitting in this house tonight,” Mum said.

“It’s not going to be that bad Mum,” Abby began. “We’re putting the two tables into the lounge room, so we’ll have plenty of space.”

“I wish we had a bigger house,” Mum replied.

“Well I don’t,” I said as I headed over to the fridge, grabbing the butter and jam. “The best thing about our house is the fact that I don’t have to walk far into every section. One minute I’m in my room and the next I’m in the kitchen. Besides with a bigger house, it would take longer to clean.”

“True, but I want a larger kitchen,” Mum said.

Mum always complained about the size of the kitchen but I thought it was just right. Sometimes it was a little crowded with five hungry people trying to find something to eat, but most of the time, it was okay. I thought our house was cosy. Mum made it seem like we lived in a closet but we didn’t. It was a spacious three-bedroom home with a medium-sized lounge room. Mum even had a small ensuite in her bedroom with a shower and sink but never used it. The dining area and kitchen were smaller than most, but who needed a big house anyway? We had all the necessities: a toilet, bathroom, laundry and most important, a roof over our heads. It was all that really mattered anyway.

The toast popped up and I took out the slices, spreading butter on them. Then I smeared a small circle of straw-berry jam in the centre. My family thought I was weird for doing that, but I was strange with food in general. I liked jam but on toast, not a lot of it; however, I loved jam donuts, the more jam the better. I loved pumpkin but hated pumpkin soup; I hated peas, couldn’t have them by themselves or mixed with egg or carrots, however I didn’t mind eating them in cannelloni or arancini, and I couldn’t stand the sight, smell or taste of fish, yet I loved fish fingers. Only the ‘no name’ brand though because it didn’t taste like fish. I admit I was a freak, but I either felt sick or broke out in hives when I ate those certain foods.

“Well, I think our house is perfect. If I had to add something, it would be another toilet. It is annoying when you’re busting and have to wait in a queue and I would prefer to have my own room,” I said, looking at Abby.

“Shut up, you should feel privileged to share a room with me.”

“Privileged my arse. If I had my own room maybe I wouldn’t be bugged all the time,” I said, taking a bite of the toast. Then I put my hands on my hips and raised my nose in the air. “Cassie, clean the room, Cassie wake up. Cassie, get your stuff off my side. Cassie!” I said, impersonating her.

“Shut up,” she said, flicking the tea towel at me, laughing. “I don’t do that. Actually, speaking of rooms, why don’t you go clean ours?”

“I was planning to after I finished eating. Is that okay with you?” I replied.

‘No! It should have been done weeks ago!’

‘Sorry, I’ve been busy!’

She rolled her eyes at me, which only frustrated me even more. It was the same story around the Romanelli household. Being the youngest member of the family meant my opinions and dreams weren’t important. I respected their thoughts and I wished they would do the same with me or hear what I had to say first, before cutting me off and putting me down. I didn’t know everything and I didn’t claim to, but I considered my point of view to be just as important as theirs.

The bathroom door opened and Carla strolled into the kitchen, wearing a red, silky dressing gown with Japanese embroidery. The gown was a gift from Lorissa and Phillip. Abby received the same present too, except hers was in yellow. I had sulked for days because I didn’t get one.

“Hey Mum, did you wash my jeans?”

“Did you put them in the laundry?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? There’s nothing in there,” Mum said.

I finished eating my toast, put the empty plate in the sink and went into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. It really was a mess. I couldn’t be bothered cleaning it but I knew I had to before World War III broke out between Abby and I.

I decided to start with my clothes. Half of them were lying on the carpet and the other half were thrown on top of Abby’s desk. I picked up my black skirt from the ground and hung it in the wardrobe.

The door opened. “Hey Brat, did you take my jeans?” Carla asked.

I shook my head. “Why would I?”

“I’m just asking. I can’t find them anywhere.”

“Like I would borrow your jeans! I wouldn’t be able to fit one of my legs in them,” I said.

“Okay, okay. Sorry for even asking,” she said, closing the door.

She should be sorry, what a stupid question. Carla was a size six while I was a size twelve but with Carla, if anything happened or went missing, she automatically blamed me, which usually brought on an argument between us.

I tried not to fight with Carla, however I was a Scorpio, she was a Leo and it was a well-known fact these two signs fought constantly. When we did, it hurt — emotionally and physically. Carla was shorter than me but she had the same temper as a bulldog. One minute she was okay, and the next, she snapped and attacked. When I was younger, she used to grab me by the arm, pin me down on the ground, her weight on top of mine and slap me across the face. They weren’t hard slaps however but one after the other until I apologised or Mum noticed and pried her off me. Now that I was older and taller she didn’t do it anymore, though the memories hadn’t disappeared and the anger hadn’t faded away yet.

Carla was dating Peter Burello and they had been together for about three years. He was bearable — barely. I used to like him until he read my diary five months ago. I was furious with him. He invaded my privacy and I would never forgive him. Plus, he knew how upset I was with him, yet he continued to bring the subject up and tease me about it. If only he could read my diary now. Currently it was filled with obscenities about him.

I was the closest to Abby; we were only four years apart and although we got on each other’s nerves, she was one of the few people I trusted completely and was always there for me. From a young age, I had always admired her. Abby was a beautiful person, inside and out. She complained about her weight and looks, but to me, she was perfect — funny, gorgeous and smart. Except for one thing — she smoked and I was against it for many reasons. Maybe it was the smell, the fact that I developed asthma because my dad had smoked in front of me from an early age or most of all, it killed people. When I discovered Abby smoked, I didn’t speak to her for three days because I was so angry and disappointed in her. I never thought she would do that and I couldn’t believe she would risk her life for a couple of drags. If Dad found out, he would kill her. Her boyfriend Jim hated it too and we both wished she would give up the nasty habit.

There wasn’t much I could say about Lorissa, my oldest sister. She had married Phillip Cuiscio a week before my sixth birthday, and over the past seven years, they had been living on and off in Los Angeles, California. They only came back permanently to Australia seven months ago. Honestly, I didn’t know her as well as I would like to. We did have quite a bit in common though. We both loved to read, listen to seventies music and she introduced me to I Love Lucy. She had many of the episodes on tape and we could both sit there for hours, watching them. We had never had an argument, never really had a chance to, except this one time when she called me a slut and I burst into tears, running into my room. I was only seven-years-old and didn’t even know what the word meant. All I knew was that it sounded terrible. Abby told me later that it meant a dirty woman who had sex with many men and I definitely wasn’t one of those. At that age, I didn’t know much about sex, only from what I watched on TV and movies. A man and a woman on top of each other, kissing and just rubbing their hands over their bodies, then sometimes the lady became fat and ten minutes later out popped a baby. Of course I had never kissed a boy, let alone been on top of one.

Lorissa was the artist in our family. Her work was fantastic, her drawings so lifelike, it captured the essence of each piece. It could be a puppy or a woman picking flowers with her young daughter. I saw every strand of hair, felt the happiness or love and I could actually imagine myself being in the picture. When I was younger, Lorissa made dolls for me out of paper. She made me an entire family, including a little baby with all different types of outfits. I loved them, played with them almost every day, until the dryer in our laundry caught on fire. The laundry was my playroom and all my toys and paper dolls were stored in a wooden box. Unfortunately, that night, because I was too lazy to put them back in the container, all my dolls were left scattered on the floor and were ruined. They had either burnt to a crisp or were destroyed by the ash. I had saved most of my Barbies but the paper dolls couldn’t be repaired. Lorissa had never really done anything with her paintings since she married so young and over the years, focussed more on Phillip’s career than her own but hopefully one day she will.

I was four when Phillip first started seeing Lorissa and he was the only person that spoke to me like an adult. He was patient, understanding and encouraged me, instead of putting me down. He made me feel important and I loved him for being the father I never had.

My nephew Adam was one of the most important people in my life. He would be one in January and I was surprised by the love I had for him. When Lorissa told us she was pregnant, I was so excited. I made a little red teddy bear for him and couldn’t wait to be an aunt.

Adam was precious to us all and was spoiled rotten. Though there was a reason behind this. Lorissa had the disease toxae-mia during her pregnancy. Her doctor prescribed her plenty of bed rest, a pillow for her swollen feet and less stress for her high blood pressure. She also had to cut out salt in her diet. She couldn’t eat anything, all food was tasteless to her and she even had to make her own bread. She was so depressed, her body craving for foods she couldn’t eat and she would cry at every meal-time. Though she knew she had to do it for the sake of her life and Adam’s, it was very difficult for her and for us too. It was heart wrenching to see her like that but she remained strong and had a healthy baby boy.

Adam was born in America, which was the reason why Mum, Carla, Abby and I went there last year for five months. It had to be the best experience of my life, though kind of depressing. I missed Cilla, my friends, and my family, even Dad, who couldn’t come with us.

I groaned. Clothes down and another billion things to do. I just couldn’t understand how Abby kept her side of the room always neat. I tried so hard but everything ended up being out of place. Besides, it wasn’t my fault I didn’t have enough space to fit everything I owned. While Abby only had a couple of items on her bedside table — a white clock radio and a heart-shaped jewellery box, I didn’t have sufficient room to put all my stuff on mine. I had a pink lamp without the shade, a small glass unicorn statue, a Mickey mouse money box, a Mickey Mouse figurine, a hand crafted Bugs Bunny statue that David had painted for me, a blue porcelain Siamese cat statue with their heads joined together and my gold-plated eight-by-ten inched frame storing two photos of my beloved boys — Adam and Mark-Paul Gosselaar.

Mark-Paul was the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with…he just didn’t know it yet. Mark-Paul starred as Zack Morris in my favourite TV show, Saved By The Bell. Sometimes it was a little far-fetched. No one at my school would ever scam the principal like Zack had done numerous times. However, it was a step away from real life and it was more believable than other programs because they were real kids playing their real ages and not a bunch of thirty-year-olds with receding hairlines, playing teenagers. The added bonus was Mark-Paul and since the first episode aired in Australia two years ago, I had fallen for his gorgeous blonde locks, was mesmerised by his beautiful hazel eyes, had had a million fantasies of his soft lips kissing mine and spent hours drooling over him.

My sisters thought I was an idiot for loving Mark-Paul because I didn’t really know the ‘real’ him. Well, I felt like I knew him from what I had read in the hundreds of articles I had collected. I knew his birthday was on March 1, he hated being called ‘Mark’, he preferred being called his full name, he had two older sisters and one older brother, loved football and he liked girls who were honest, attractive and liked to have fun. Two out of three wasn’t that bad. I might not be attractive but I was too honest at times and he could teach me how to have fun.

I looked up at my clock and realised how late it had become. I hadn’t even had lunch. I made myself a salami sandwich and sat in the lounge room, flicking through the channels while I ate. As soon as I finished eating, I returned to my room and finished cleaning up. The room was spotless. Well, not entirely true, I became restless towards the end and hid my posters underneath the bed. I hoped Abby wouldn’t notice. It was almost five o’clock and the family would arrive shortly. I quickly had a shower, dressing in a pair of black pants and a pale green jumper.

The door swung open.

“Cassie, are you ready?” Mum asked. She had changed into a black skirt and blue short-sleeved top. Two clips held her short brown hair back. She looked beautiful, always did, although I wished she would grow her hair longer. When she was in her teens, she had the most beautiful hair — long and straight. Mum had this photograph of her and Zia Sarina before they came to Australia and Zia was a bridesmaid for someone’s wedding. The photographer took the photo of Mum and Zia standing in front of a long mirror, on a slight angle, with their backs facing the camera but their front view was captured in the mirror. Mum was seventeen, Zia was fifteen and they both had their hair styled in beehives, and Mum wore a very short dress that barely covered her bottom. They both looked so beautiful though and it was my favourite photo of them both. Ever since I saw that photo, I had been trying to get Mum to grow her hair to that length again, but it seemed to me that every time we had a trim, she would cut hers shorter. I blamed my grandfather for Mum’s hairstyle and her misfortune in life.

Mum was seventeen when Nonno decided they would have a better life in Australia. She was in her first year of university, studying to become a primary school teacher. Mum wanted to stay in Italy with her grandparents but Nonno wouldn’t allow it and forced her to come to Australia. Besides school, Mum had fallen in love with a police officer and didn’t want to leave him or her career. When she came here, she wanted to continue her education but was told that the education system was different in Australia and she would have to start school here in Grade One. Mum refused to redo all the schooling again and found a job as a machinist in some factory. She had to cut her hair short, bowled around her head like a man’s haircut; because she was afraid her hair would get caught in the machine. Then she met my dad and married him. The rest was history and she was stuck in a bad marriage and no career. However, she was misinformed. She was later told that she could have continued her schooling and even become an Italian teacher.

“What are you staring at? Is something wrong with my hair?” Mum asked, looking into the mirror to check if anything was out of place.

“Nothing, you just look beautiful. I wish I looked like you,” I said. Not that I looked like my dad either. For awhile, I was convinced I was adopted but then I found a photograph of Lorissa when she was my age and I looked like her, so I knew they were my real parents. Part of me wished Dad wasn’t my real father. It would have explained why he hated me so much.

“Thank you. You look beautiful too,” she said.

I snorted. “Yeah right, maybe I’ll be beautiful in my next life!”She shook her head. “You’re beautiful now. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I just have to put on my earrings and don’t you ever knock?” I asked, a little annoyed. “What if I was naked?”

“I’m sorry; I’ll try and be more careful next time. I still see you as a baby, always wanting to be in my arms. If I put you down, you’d cry.”

I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll always be your baby, Mum. Even though, I may be too big for you to hold me in your arms, nothing has changed with me always wanting to be beside you. Remember when you die, I die!”

The first time I had experienced death was when my Nonno Giuseppe died five years ago. I loved my grandfather but I wasn’t particularly close to him. Unfortunately he had suffered a severe stroke when I was young that paralysed him on the right side of his body and affected his speech. I just wished I’d had a chance to know him, the way my family did, especially since Dad’s father had died years before I was born and I lost the chance of ever having a grandfather.

I went to the cemetery once with Mum and Zia Sarina. I was looking at Nonno’s photo on his tombstone and instead of seeing his face, I saw my mum’s. I ran to Zia’s car, hysterical. Mum came after me and I begged her to never die. She gave me a long sermon on how I would have to go on with my life when she passed, however I ignored her and declared I would die with her. First, she said ‘yes’, then she realised her mistake and quickly said ‘no’. I hadn’t been to the cemetery since that day and I didn’t plan too any time soon. I couldn’t. The reality check was too real and way too scary.

“Be quiet. I don’t like you speaking that way.”

“Whatever Ma, it’s a little late to back out of our pact now.” There was no way I was going to continue on this earth and carry on without her. To me, she was my life.

“There is no way that’s going to happen Angelina.”

Laughing, I gave her a final squeeze and then sat on my bed, putting on my gold-hooped earrings that Nonna bought me when she went overseas. I was a bit hesitant in putting them on. They weren’t that big but they still made me look like a gypsy.

“Yeah, well if you keep calling me ‘Angelina’, then I will let you die on your own,” I said.

Angelina was her nickname for me since I was a kid and I loathed it. I asked her why she called me that and she didn’t even know the reason herself. Personally, I thought she said it on purpose just to piss me off. She knew how much I hated it and despite how many times I told her to stop, she wouldn’t do it.

“Good, that’s what I want to hear. I better go and check the food before it burns.”

As I was putting on my sneakers, I heard a knock at the back door. It squeaked open. “Permesso. ” It was Phillip.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to Phillip and Lorissa walking into the lounge room.

“Merry Christmas Bella,” Phillip replied, giving me a quick hug. Another one of my nicknames, even if Phillip was the only one who called me that. This one I liked though, although I knew I wasn’t beautiful.

I turned towards Adam, who was in Carla’s arms being smothered by kisses. He looked so adorable in his denim overalls and red T-shirt.

“Hello Adam, give Zia a kiss,” I said. He stared at me, contemplating whether to kiss me. After a moment or two, he gave me a quick peck on the lips. I wiped my mouth. I loved receiving kisses from him, even though they were so sloppy.

“Can I hold him Carla?” I asked.

“No, I just got him.”

“Please. I’ll give him straight back to you.”

Carla looked at Adam, and then at me. She looked at Adam again. She shook her head.

“Come on Carla,” I said.

“Okay!” She handed Adam over to me reluctantly. I sat on the couch, sitting him on my lap, facing him towards me. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to hold Adam as much as I would like to. He was like pass the parcel; I only had a minute with him before he was placed with someone else. The first time I held him, he didn’t feel real to me. He felt like one of those dolls that would laugh or cry whenever you pushed in their stomach. That day, I was just staring at him in amazement, drinking in everything about him. His fingers that were a quarter the size of my own, his chest that was rising up and down in rhythm with his breath and his eyelids that were covering his eyes as he slept in my arms. Then I had to give him back to Lorissa, because he had done a ‘number two’ in his pants and I couldn’t stand the smell any longer.

That was only about four months ago at Phillip’s brother’s house on the day they returned from the States. I wasn’t allowed to hold him when he was born. Lorissa was paranoid with him, which was understandable because he was her first. I was a little upset at the time because I couldn’t wait to hold him, yet I was glad in a way. He was so tiny, so delicate and I was afraid I would drop him or squeeze him too hard. I had terrible visions of not tilting his head enough or too much and then seeing his neck snap, his head dropping onto the floor like a bowling ball and rolling away. Then I could see Michelle Pfeiffer and the other members from the movie Grease II, kneel-ing on their knees on the side of the lane, chanting ten, nine, eight, seven…all the way to one until Adam’s head knocked down the pins and everyone started dancing and singing Let’s Score Tonight! Maybe I was just being as paranoid as Lorissa but at that moment, I realised I had watched too many horror movies and that I should really stop watching Grease II for a while. Now that Adam was older and bigger, my fears had eased and I felt more comfortable with him.

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,” I began singing softly, rocking him gently back and forth. Adam started laughing, his brown eyes wide with delight.

“So, how was the rest of last night?” Lorissa asked, sitting down besides Carla. Lorissa and Phillip had come to Zia Sarina’s last night but because Adam had fallen asleep and it was too noisy, they had left around ten.

“It was good. We didn’t get home until two o’clock,” Carla replied.

The music had stopped and my time was up. Phillip suggested we opened the presents because he wanted to videotape Adam before everyone arrived. I gave Adam back to Lorissa and sat back down on the single sofa. Mum came into the room and placed herself on the arm of my chair. Dad stood in the archway while Carla and Abby sorted through the presents.

“Is the video camera ready Phillip?” Lorissa asked as she sat down on the carpet with Adam.

“Yes, I’m already filming.”

I inched my way closer to Mum. I hated being in front of a camera. I was embarrassed and terrified of seeing myself on TV. I’d read somewhere that the camera added an extra five pounds and I was afraid when people saw my fat captured on film, they would make a comment. A couple of years ago, I performed in several plays. Back then, I had hopes of becoming an actress one day. Yet dreams have a way of crashing down in the worst possible ways. In one of my school productions, I didn’t realise they were filming until the last moment and I just froze and looked like a fool in front of everyone. Luckily, it was the last scene or else I would have ruined the entire play. Unfortunately, years later, my fear hadn’t faded and even though I still loved to act, I decided to stick to writing.

“Mum, Dad, do you want to go first?” Carla asked, picking up their parcel.

“Okay,” Mum said as she grabbed the gift and handed it to Adam. Lorissa helped Adam unwrap the present. It was a couple of tops and a Thomas the Tank Engine train. Adam immediately grabbed the train and started to roll it along the carpet.

“Choo choo,” he said. We all laughed. He was too young to understand the meaning of Christmas and gifts but he understood Thomas and trains.

“Thanks Mum and Dad,” Lorissa said. Carla and Abby were next. They had surrounded him with piles of gifts. It looked like they had bought out the entire toy store. Adam’s eyes gleamed as he discovered the toy trucks, boats, Lego, clothes and trains of course.

“Thank you guys, you bought too much,” Phillip said.

I was next and I felt uneasy. I tried to ignore Phillip and his camera but it was hard. I kept staring at it from the corner of my eye as I got up and picked up Adam’s gift. I pulled at the collar of my top. I felt as if I was suffocating, being swallowed whole by the lens. I also felt cheap. My gift wasn’t anything special. I had bought Adam a Thomas the Tank Engine frame for ten dollars and a small toy car that I found at Spoils for two dollars. I couldn’t afford much. I had to rely on Mum who gave me five dollars a week if she had it and I also received payments from Social Security twice a year because I was a student and under sixteen. Even though I didn’t have a job, I felt guilty I couldn’t spoil him like they did.

I gave Adam his gift and quickly sat down again, with my head down low. Lorissa opened the present. “Oh, look at this Adam, isn’t it nice?” she said. “Thanks Cassie.”

“That’s okay,” I said. I really hoped they liked it. I went to Dandenong Plaza last week with Mum and as we walked past the store Fab Frames, I spotted the frame through the window. I immediately thought of Adam and was so excited; I bought it on the spot.

Lorissa handed me the parcel she had bought for me. I felt the gift. It felt hard all over. Most probably books, well I hoped they were. I quickly opened it and discovered they were, though my excitement quickly washed away and turned into sadness. They were Goosebump books and I didn’t read them. I was hoping they were more R.L. Stine novels to add to my collection. Right author but just the wrong type. I had read a couple of the Goosebumps paperbacks and found them to be babyish.

“Do you like them Cassie?” Lorissa asked. “Are those the ones you read?”

“Yeah they are,” I lied, faking a smile as I tried to hide my disappointment. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She did try after all and it wasn’t the books that made me sad, it was the realisation that the twelve-year gap between us really affected our relationship. She really didn’t know me and I didn’t know her.

I put the books on my bed and returned into the lounge room. My sisters were preparing the tables. I grabbed the knives and forks from the kitchen and began placing them on each napkin. I could barely concentrate for the delicious odours of food. It was nearly six-thirty and I was starving.

It had always surprised me to hear what my Aussie friends ate for Christmas dinner: roast, mashed potatoes and gravy. As usual, Mum had prepared a feast and there would be plenty of leftovers to last us for a week. She had cooked lasagne, ravioli in bolognese sauce, parmigiana, turkey, cutlets, a couple of chickens and the antipasto — a plate filled with salami, mortadella, ham, six types of cheeses, olives, stuffed artichokes and whatever else Mum could add. Then there was the contorno, meaning the side dishes like the three varieties of potatoes: roasted, boiled with oregano and mashed, fried rice, salads, peas with carrots, roasted vegetables, etcetera. The list of food went on and then afterwards, there was the assortment of fruits, nuts and cakes. That was the wog mentality — spending the whole day in the kitchen cooking and then the entire night cleaning up because they didn’t use plastic cutlery. I didn’t think the reason behind their way of thinking was trying to outdo one another or showing off. Mum usually said it was better to have more food than not enough, and I suppose I could understand her reasoning. Could you imagine an Italian family not having enough food to eat? They would probably freak out and eat one another.

Italians were stereotyped as short, hairy, gold chains around their neck, their favourite movie had to be The Godfather and they had either a slice of pizza or chunk of bread in their hands. Oh and their diet included pasta every single day, either for lunch or dinner and perhaps even both.

It was true — I only had one good shave from a dispos-able razor, maybe had an obsession with bread but I had never had pasta every single day — possibly three times in a week but never seven. Nor did I have pizza frequently and I had never even seen The Godfather movies. Though I used to watch this Italian TV show called Octopus on SBS with Mum and Dad every week, which was about the Mafia and I think I cried for about an hour when one of the characters was murdered.

I remember being teased as a young child for having Nutella or smelly mortadella and salami in my sandwiches while the others had Vegemite. I tried having Vegemite once, just to fit in and I almost gagged as soon as I opened the jar. Now that was what you could call lethal, not a slice of smoked pork.

I admit, Italians did have a love for food, but more than half of the world hadn’t really tried our best recipes. People hadn’t tried my Zia Manuela’s cannelloni, Zia Sarina’s curry or cotolette s, my mum’s bolognese sauce and supaglessi or my Nonna’s arancini. Arancini was the best food ever invented. Rice, combined with minced meat and peas, shaped into little balls, filled with mozzarella, lathered in the whites of an egg, then covered in breadcrumbs and fried in oil. It was heavenly, though a bitch to make. It took ages to cook because of our large family and one ball for each person wasn’t enough. Ten sounded just about right. I had always wanted my family to open up their own Italian restaurant, just to show what we really ate.

I stepped into the kitchen and walked over to Mum who was taking the turkey out of the oven.

“Mum, do you want to call Zia Sarina and see if they’ve left? I’m hungry!” I said.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” she said, as she took the turkey out of the oven and began slicing it into thin slices. I pinched a piece from the tray.

“Cassandra!” Mum said.

“What?” I asked, swallowing the delicious meat. “Don’t tell me that the juices will dry up if I have one?”

“Don’t be smart,” Mum warned.

I laughed. When Mum, Nonna and Dad were frying food in oil, particularly arancini, my sisters and I would start eating ones already cooked and they would scream at us every time. They had this crazy idea that if you ate the product while the rest were still frying, the oil would dry up. It made no sense and if the oil did thin, they would make a big deal out of it. They called us back into the kitchen, showed us the pan and yelled, “You see!” I wasn’t a chef or anything but, you would think the oil would have dried out because the hot plates were too hot, not because of some silly superstition.

My parents and Nonna went overboard with these myths. I didn’t believe if your right palm itched, it meant you were going to receive money but if it was left, you gave money, however if it was your ear, someone was speaking badly about you. The legend about the walking under a ladder was just ridiculous and really just common sense. You wouldn’t walk underneath a ladder because it was dangerous — it could fall on you, not because it was a portal to the spiritual world and allowed the spirits out to roam the earth. I didn’t think when you sneezed your soul escaped your body, nor the myth about doing things in threes, like making a bed or setting the table because the youngest one dies. I had never seen on the news or read an article of a young person dying because three people set the table. Though I have to admit, I used this one to my advantage. I got out of making the bed hundreds of times. My mum and sister didn’t want to be responsible for my death.

I believed in some superstitions, I knocked on wood with the rest of them to keep something bad I just said from coming true. I believed if you broke a mirror, it caused seven year’s bad luck, malocchio or if a black cat crossed your path, something bad would happen. Only because I had seen it first-hand. We went to an Italian dinner dance once and the café had closed, so I went with Zia Sarina, Abby and Tessa to grab some KFC. As we drove to the restaurant, a black cat ran across the road and when Zia Sarina opened the door to KFC, she fell on the ground, scraping her leg really badly. If it had been Abby, then I would have thought nothing of it, because she was one of the clumsiest people I had ever met — tripping over nothing or dropping things but with Zia Sarina, it could have just been an accident, however I think not. It was too much of a coincidence.

“My nose is itchy,” I said, scratching the spot.

“You know what that means don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “It means I’m about to be hit and who’s going to hit me? You? Just for taking one slice of turkey?”

“Maybe.”

“Sorry…actually I’m not, besides the turkey is for me anyway.”

“No, it’s for everyone.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed another piece. I knew Mum bought it especially for me. The first time I had tasted turkey was in America for Thanksgiving and I couldn’t eat chicken after that. I preferred turkey, it tasted better. Mum didn’t like to cook it often because it took so long to prepare; however, she knew how much I loved it and promised to make it for every Christmas.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining. The Bendigo people might not like turkey,” I said.

I always referred to them as the ‘Bendigo people’. There were ten of them in their family and it was much easier calling them that, than to go through all of their names individually. Zio Cristo was my Nonno’s brother and he lived in Bendigo with his wife Pippa and their three adult children: Maria Angela, Connie and Rocco.

I had only known them for about five years. Before that I hadn’t actually met them or even heard their names mentioned because of a big rift between our families and it was mended the day Nonno died. I didn’t know the entire story but apparently, Zia Pippa was upset with my parents because Lorissa didn’t choose Connie to be a bridesmaid. They didn’t come to the wedding and my parents hadn’t spoken to them since. I think the only reason my parents forgave them was because they were in mourning; otherwise, they would still be fighting. Truthfully, I didn’t give it much thought. Maria Angela was married to Diego and they had three kids: Sav, Robert and Laura. I was just excited to learn I had three new cousins and had somebody different to play with. I also liked the fact that they owned a Pizza Shop and a café in Bendigo and whenever we went up there we got free food.

There was a tap on the window. They were finally here. I opened the door and greeted Zia Sarina, Zio Nico, my cousins and the Bendigo people. I stood with my back against the door, trying to avoid the hands from smack-ing me in the face as they moved uncontrollably in every direction. Last night, I was poked in the eye and couldn’t see out of it for ten minutes. I also had a huge scratch on my right arm and I really wanted to prevent the same scene, the same pain.

I swear Italians could have a whole conversation using hand signals, without even opening their mouths. It was a language of its own, each emotion shown in different ways and it was amazing how one gesture or one glance could say a lot more than a billion words. Holding out your hand in front of you, rocking it back and forth with a shrug implied ‘half-and-half’. Whereas a head nodded back once with your chin up, accompanied by a small shrug and the one word, ‘buh’ indicated ‘I don’t know’ and you knew to start running when you saw someone shake their head and start biting their hand. That meant you were going to get the shit beaten out of you and I had seen that signal more than a couple of times in this lifetime.

“Stand back with your hands up in the air where I can see them,” I said to Tessa as she moved towards me.

“What about the legs? I can kick too!” she said.

“Ha, ha, you’re funny,” I said as we walked into the kitchen. “I just don’t want a patch on my eye for the rest of my life when someone thrusts an eyeball out.”

Nonna and the Amato family arrived ten minutes later.

“About time you decided to show up. I’m hungry,” I said, as they walked through the back door.

“Nice to meet you ‘hungry’ ,” my Zio said, holding out his hand. “I’m Vittorio.”

I did a fake laugh, cutting the chuckle within a few seconds, and then scowled at him. I had heard that joke too many times. The first time was funny, the hundredth time, he managed to get a smile out of me but now after the millionth time, it was more of a glare. Zio Vittorio was the joker in the family. He was amusing but sometimes, like right now, you just stared at him and wondered what he was on about. However, most of the time I wished my dad was like him. He was always joking around with Sophie and David. My dad did kid around with us, but it was usually done at the wrong time and ended in tears.

“Oh shut up Vittorio,” Zia Manuela said, laughing.

“Thanks Zia, you took the words right out of my mouth. How are you doing bitch?” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

“I’m great, paccia!”

“I’m not crazy!”I laughed. I had a different relationship with Zia Manuela than I did with Zia Sarina. I loved them both the same, but with Zia Manuela, she was only thirty-two-years-old and we had always been able to banter back and forth and knew the other wouldn’t get offended. With Zia Sarina, I wouldn’t dare call her a bitch; it just didn’t feel right. The best thing about them both was I could talk to them about my problems and I knew they would always listen and help me in any way they could.

Zia Manuela pushed Zio Vittorio into the lounge room and sat down. I loved their relationship; it was a page out of a romance novel. You could see how much they loved each other, just in the way they looked at one another. It was something I wanted for myself one day; however not with David or Tony, that would be gross. Zia Manuela and Zio Vittorio were first cousins. I know it sounded disgusting but it really wasn’t. They didn’t grow up together. When Nonno and his family immigrated to Australia, Zio Vittorio was thirteen-years-old and Zia Manuela was a toddler. Then thirteen years later, Zio Vittorio travelled to Italy with my grandparents and met Zia Manuela. It was love at first sight and though their parents objected with the union, their love overcame every obstacle and within a month they were married.

I always teased Sophie and David, saying their parents were the reason they were retarded but they knew I was only kidding. If Zia and Zio hadn’t wed, then I wouldn’t have them as my cousins and I couldn’t imagine my life without any of them. I adored David. He was nine-years-old and because his only companions were three girls, he was sweet, sensitive and caring. He was also the biggest cry-baby.

Whenever Tess, Sophie and I upset him, not intentionally, we knew he was about to cry. He would scrunch up his face first, try holding in his sobs but then he would let it rip, with tears falling and vocally. He could scream and cry just like a girl and it took ages to calm him down.

We all gathered around the dinner table and began to eat, trying to fit in as much as possible. An hour later, we were all full and went our separate ways; the oldies inside the kitchen, the adults in the lounge room while us ‘kids’ retreated outside. David, Laura and Robert found a tennis ball and were playing two-square while Tessa, Sophie, Sav and I went into the front yard.

“What are you guys doing?” Sav asked as Tessa, Sophie and I stepped onto a hose stump and climbed onto my brick wall.

“We’re sitting on the wall,” I said, stating the obvious.

“I can see that. Why?”

I didn’t know how to explain it. When I had my cousins or friends over, we usually went straight onto it. We lived on the main road, a service lane separating us and the wall faced the traffic. I suppose it was a source of entertain-ment. We would just sit there, talk about things, or wave at people, waiting for their responses. Some people waved, others just laughed and a few rude people stuck their finger up at us. Though for me, it was my time to reflect on my feelings. I went up there quite a bit to be alone and I would just sit there for hours, staring at everyone, imagining their life. Imagining who they were or where they were going. I loved my wall — it was a window to the real world, to see how other people lived.

“I don’t know Sav,” I replied, sitting down. “To pass the time I guess.”

“Why? Are we that boring?”

“Yes, you are. Now shut up!” I said, half-seriously. I liked Sav, but sometimes, he annoyed me. When my grandfather died, Sav and I kind of went out with each other. It was really nothing. It was only for a day, which I wouldn’t really classify as boyfriend and girlfriend. It was really the first time I had ever received attention from a guy and being young, I said ‘yes’ to him. I felt rather stupid about it now, even though he was my fourth cousin and they said it didn’t matter. I still felt awkward and I hadn’t told anyone or intended to. Tessa and Sophie knew about it, only because they were there with me.

He sat beside me on the wall and I nearly groaned aloud. His thigh was grazing mine. He ran his fingers in my hair, sending shivers down my back.

I slapped his hand away. “Sav, what are you doing?”

“Nothing!”

“That’s nothing? Stop it! I hate people playing with my hair!”

Especially him. Unfortunately, since our break up, he kept harassing me and every time I saw him, he asked me out. He made me feel uncomfortable. He always hugged me for too long and last night, I caught him smelling my hair. He always tried to kiss me on the lips and although I moved my head away just in time, his lips were still too close for comfort. The last time I was in Bendigo, he put his hand on my breast and even though I didn’t say anything to him because I was in shock, he must have known how uneasy I felt.

Obviously not. On the night Vinnie and I got together, he hugged and flirted with me in front of everyone. I tried to stay away from him but he followed me around, making his feelings for me obvious. Even Brayden mentioned something, which pissed me off majorly. I had told Sav numerous times I wasn’t interested in him. However the declarations of affection wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t understand him though, I was with another guy right in front of his face and he still wouldn’t leave me alone.

I quickly moved nearer to Tessa and watched the cars speed by. The lights changed to red and as the cars slowed down, I noticed a couple arguing in a green Holden. The windows were opened and all you could hear was the man screaming at her. He had one hand on the steering wheel and one hand raised towards her.

I shivered, turning away and faced Tessa. It was too close to home and I couldn’t watch what was about to happen. Just watching them reminded me of my parents fighting.

“Oh my God. What a bastard! He just smacked her across the face!” Sophie shrieked.

“Sophie!” I scolded. “Lower your damn voice! He’ll hit us next!”

“Sorry! He didn’t hear me anyway. The lights changed and he sped off!”

“Still, just be careful. When things like that happen, it is better if we just keep our mouths shut!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it that loud.”

“Hey Sophie, did you get your uniform yet?” Tessa asked.

I couldn’t keep the grin from creeping onto my face. It was so obvious Tessa wanted to change the subject. Sophie and I wouldn’t stop unless we were diverted.

“Yeah, I got it last week. I can’t believe I’m starting high school next year!”

“I know and I’m in Year Eight,” I said. “How do you feel? Excited? Nervous?” I asked.

“A little bit of both, but at least I ’v e got some friends from primary school coming to Newton.”

“You’re lucky,” I began. “When I started Year Seven, I just arrived from the States and it was three weeks into the term. Everyone was already in their groups and I was afraid I wouldn’t make any friends.”

“Yeah, but you found friends straight away, didn’t you?”

“Yes, thanks to Tess, she helped me.”

“I remember that,” Tessa said. “You were so shy, I had to drag you into the locker bay and introduce you to Sharon.”

“Well, I was nervous. It was a new experience for me and because I was late, it was hard. In the first week, everyone just kept staring at me as if I was some freak. It was definitely easier being in primary school, especially when you had your own cousin in the same class!”

The good old days, when Tessa and I were put in the same composite grade. I remembered when we first found out. It was the last day of school, we were heading back to my place, reading our reports cards. I was telling her I had Ms. Hunny next year, and then she read hers and shrieked out, “I’ve got her too!” We just hugged each other, so excited. After the excitement dwindled down, the fears starting creeping into my head. Knowing that in primary school, fights were very common over the most childish things — one day you were friends with this person, and the next you befriended someone else. I was afraid I would lose her. I was scared we would fight all the time and stop being friends but it didn’t happen. In fact, it only strength-ened our friendship even more. It turned out to be the best year for the both of us. We formed a tight group with four other girls, and because we were together, we had enough courage to do things in public we would otherwise never do — sing, create dances and perform in plays.

“Remember when Damien slipped on the table?”

We both laughed. “How can I forget? We were all teasing him for a week!”

“What happened?” Sophie asked. “How did he fall?”

“We had asked Damien and Joshua to be our male background dancers, dancing on the school tables. Anyway, we were in the middle of rehearsing to Humpin’ Around, when we suddenly heard a huge thud on the carpet, over the music mind you, that’s how loud it was. We turned around and saw Damien lying on the ground.”

“Did he hurt himself?” Sophie asked.

“No, thank God. His head just missed the table though,” Tessa replied. “It was so funny. We all couldn’t stop laughing and had to stop practicing! What about when we thought the world was going to end?”

“What happened?” Sav asked.

I laughed again. “We were so scared. We had heard the rumours and thought we were going to die at three o’clock. We were sitting at opposite ends from one another, and we kept staring at our watches, just waiting, then at three o’clock, we looked at one another, mouthed ‘goodbye’ and waited. Nothing happened and we were so relieved.”

“I can’t believe our mothers still sent us to school that day!” Tessa said.

“I know, you would think that they would want us with them, instead they carted us off to school as if nothing was happening!”

“I know,” Tessa said.

“Really Soph, high school is a challenge at first but once you get used to it, it’s more boring than primary…”

“Ow!” Sophie yelled. Tears began to fall from her eyes.

“Sophie, what’s wrong?” I asked her as she hopped down to the ground.

She ignored me and started running towards the backyard, screaming for her mum.

I looked at Tessa. “Did I say something?”

“No,” she said.

“Jesus, she doesn’t have to overreact like that, high school’s not that bad,” I said as we jumped off the wall and ran after her. She was with her mum, who was looking at her right hand.

“What happened Sophie?” I asked.

“I got stung by a bee,” she said, in between sobs.

“Ouch,” I said. I had been stung by a bee before, so I understood the pain she was in. I was outside practising my shooting for netball when out of nowhere a bee stung me right underneath my chin. I was so frightened. First by the sudden attack and because I had just recently watched the movie My Girl and was taken back to the scene when Macaulay Culkin’s character died from an allergic reaction to bee stings. I was so afraid I was going to die too but after fifteen minutes, I was up and playing again.

“Cassie, can you please go get a knife and some ice?” Zia Manuela asked me.

I ran inside, grabbing the items and gave them to Zia.

“Sophie, stop shaking,” Zia said as she tried to scrape the stinger from Sophie’s opened palm. After a few minutes and a couple of threats made by Zia, the stinger was out and thrown away.

“Put the ice on it and keep it there until the swelling goes down,” Zia said and went inside the house.

“I hate bees,” Sophie mumbled as she held the ice against the lump and sat on the seat. “I hope they all die.”

“Well, the one that stung you will die in a couple of hours,” I said, sitting next to her.

“Really? Good, he deserves it.”

“Totally agree. They say bees are only guarding their nest or attack in defence, but I didn’t hurt the bee that stung me and I’m sure you didn’t do anything either,” I said.

“How do you know so much about bees?” Tessa asked.

“The encyclopaedia. After one stung me, I wanted to kill them all. Then I realised my own revenge was knowing they die a nice slow death.”

“Well it’s good to know they don’t get away with it,” Sophie said. “Hey, did Vinnie call you today?”

“Nope, he’s probably busy with his family,” I said. “I should call him but I feel kind of awkward calling up.”

“Why?” Tessa questioned.

“Are you serious? After what happened last week with his mum, I don’t think so. What if she answers the phone?” I asked. Vinnie’s mum was scary. I saw her three nights ago when I was at Tessa’s and I thought I was doing the polite thing by kissing her hello. I regretted it instantly when she looked at me like I was a freak. I was uncomfortable with her now and a little irritated. Why wouldn’t I kiss her? It wasn’t that unusual. I didn’t kiss her because she was my boyfriend’s mother; I kissed her because it was a sign of respect, something my parents taught me to do. Now, I just wanted to avoid her, even on the phone.

“So, don’t tell her it’s you. Just say another person’s name,” Tessa said.

“Maybe…or you or Sophie can call him.”

“I’ll do it,” Sophie said. She wasn’t embarrassed about doing anything, which was a really good trait. Sometimes I wished I had the same confidence she did.

“Sophie can do it. She would recognise my voice and I wouldn’t hear the end of it. She’d think I was after Vinnie and probably ring everyone she knew; telling them her son finally got the girl of his dreams. No offence,” Tessa said.

“None taken,” I replied. Fortunately when you dated someone you had known for ages, you already knew about their past girlfriends and old crushes. That’s why I was surprised when Vinnie asked me out because I knew of his fixation with Tess. We all knew each other’s history, which was a good and bad thing. Vinnie knew about my infatu-ation with his older brother Johnny and how I gave him a plastic ring that I had bought from a toy machine. Then I heard that he trampled the ring underneath his sneaker and threw it into the bin. Back then, I was very upset, but now it had to be the most humiliating experience of my life. I was very young and stupid as well and those two reasons slightly eased the embarrassment. Whenever someone brought it up I still went bright red and it was an incident I’d rather forget.

“Vinnie’s mum really loves you, doesn’t she Tessa?” I asked.

“Yes, she’s been trying to set me up with Vinnie for as long as I can remember.”

“How am I ever supposed to fit in your shoes?” I said, joking around.

“Shut up! I just hope she never finds out about Johnny or she’ll be trying to get us back together!”

“Are you going to give him another chance?” I asked. They were the third couple who got together on the night of Tony’s birthday, though Tessa broke up with him a couple of days later because their families have been friends for almost a decade and she felt uncomfortable. Yesterday, Brayden brought over a tape Johnny had made for her and it had On Bended Knee by Boys II Men recorded on it. Brayden and I pissed ourselves laughing and teased Tessa practically the entire night, humming the tune and then Brayden got down on one knee, pretending to be Johnny. That was before we played Spin-the-bottle. Afterwards, we barely spoke, let alone joked around with each other. I felt sorry for Johnny though. He seemed to really care about Tess and the tape proved it, but it was her choice. I couldn’t believe he made a tape though. At least when I gave him the ring, I had only been eight-years-old, he was fifteen!

“ No, it’s definitely over. I shouldn’t have said ‘yes’ in the first place.”

“I understand. It’s the way I feel about Vinnie now.”

“Do you still like him?”

“I do but not as much as I like Brayden. I know you think I should forget him but I can’t, especially after what happened last night.”

Last week, when I told Tessa I still liked Brayden, she made it pretty clear I should forget about her cousin. I didn’t know why she was so against it but we almost had a huge fight over it. I didn’t want to feel as if I couldn’t talk to her about this. I needed her and I told her everything — I always had.

“Well, it’s not like you can do anything about it now. You can’t hurt Lizzie.”

“Yeah, I know and I won’t,” I snapped. I stared into the distance, trying to calm down. The three of us were silent now and I didn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t want to have a fight; but I couldn’t help but feel frustrated. I felt like screaming out ‘What about me?’ I was feeling like shit and no one was giving me any sympathy. It was all about Lizzie. I knew I couldn’t hurt her. I didn’t want to, that was my biggest problem, and Tessa made it seem as if I intentionally set out to like my best friend’s boyfriend but I hadn’t. If I had, I would do everything possible to break them up. I wasn’t like that and besides, I liked him first and she knew that. I just wished she would be a little supportive. I was feeling bad enough already; I didn’t need the extra grief.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Sophie suggested, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “It’s getting a little cold.”

“Okay. What do you want to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we could play cards or something?”

she said.

“All right, I’ll meet you in my room. I’ll just go and get the others,” I said, heading towards the front.

I called the others and they followed me inside my room. Sophie decided to stay over the night so we could call Vinnie in the morning. I didn’t want to call; even though I knew I had to. I needed to talk to him, to see if I still liked him. I wasn’t being fair to him and I knew that. Yet I couldn’t shake off the feelings for Brayden. The bad thing was I didn’t want to.