1
A suitcase, my laptop computer and a backpack; this is what I bring with me. I’ve waited for this day for what seems like forever, counting down the hours, keeping my cool as much as I can. The house is a small bungalow no different from other redbrick houses in the suburb, a short walking distance to the railway station and the shops.
Marie briskly rings the front doorbell then steps back, surveying the uncut front lawn and tongue- clicking at the avalanche of garbage erupting from a split plastic bag on the porch.
‘Yep?’ The door is opened by a tall skinny girl with a face full of metal and a towel wrapped around her, her molasses-coloured hair stringy and damp from the shower.
‘I understand you were expecting us. The room for rent? I believe it’s all been arranged. Someone from the Department would have spoken to you.’ Marie pulls out a business card. Her manner, as usual, is prickly.
The girl rolls her eyes. ‘We knew you were coming. Didn’t think you’d want a frigging red carpet.’ My heart thumps with applause. Anyone who can tick Marie off as obviously as she’s ticked at the moment is an instant buddy.
Suddenly there’s a guy behind the girl. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And he’s cute, grinning with the whitest set of teeth you’d see on any TV commercial. ‘Come on in,’ he says.
His hand brushes against mine as he takes my bags. ‘Here, let me.’ Our eyes meet. His are green, flecked with little dots of translucent colours, gemstones of amber and opal. Very nice.
In the living room Marie’s disapproval is palpable as she stares openly and rudely around her, noting, I’m sure, the furniture covered in junk, the slight odour of cat poo, even the carpet fluff and wine stains.
Cute boy shoves a jumble of clothes onto the floor to clear a chair. Then he pushes aside magazines from the sofa. ‘Sorry about that.’ Again with the brilliant smile.
The girl has disappeared.
‘I’m Sophie,’ I say. ‘I love your place.’
‘Matt.’ He shakes my hand, looks directly into my eyes again. He’s so gorgeous! ‘I hope you like it here with Amy and me.’
Mrs Rules and Regulations takes over then. I’ve heard it all before and can’t wait for her to buzz off. Thank god she doesn’t stick around for long.
The moment she’s gone, Amy appears. ‘What a bitch! Is she your case worker?’
I nod, and suddenly it’s as though someone has pumped laughing gas into the room. The three of us crack up. Oh, I’m so happy! This is what I’ve wanted for so long; my first taste of Freedom.
Amy and Matt don’t waste any time in making me feel at home. With Marie gone, they take me on a house inspection. Like the living room, the rest of the place is messy, but it’s a nice sort of messy, not filthy, just lived-in. Amy’s proud of the backyard which is mostly overgrown but she’s been digging out a section in the sun for a herb and veggie garden. ‘I haven’t been living here long.’ She gazes around her. ‘It’ll take a while. Maybe you’d like to help?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
‘We’re going to make dinner for you,’ Matt says when I’ve checked out everything. He grins and I try hard not to drool. ‘Take your time and come out when you’re ready.’
They leave me alone while I unpack my stuff. Mine is the smallest of the three bedrooms, but I don’t mind. Not only is it my own, but it even has a latch inside the door which means I won’t have anyone barging in whenever they feel like it as I’ve had in the past with foster parents and their kids. This is where I’ve wanted to be ever since I can remember, away from the watchful eye of strangers: my own space. I’ll still be under Marie’s care and with two flatmates, but at least they are close to my age and both seem really cool.
Someone knocks on my door. It’s Matt, waiting for me to open it, not assuming it’s okay to come in without my say so. I’m impressed.
‘Dinner!’ he announces.
I’ve had better meals than their chickpea curry and rocket salad, but this is the first time in ages that I’ve shared food with company I like.
‘I prefer a thick, bloody steak,’ Matt says, ‘but Amy’s a vegetarian and . . .’
‘. . . what Amy says goes,’ butts in Amy. She looks so determined and bossy that Matt and I laugh.
‘In your dreams,’ Matt tells her.
After the meal we settle down in the living room, Matt with a beer, me with a red wine opened specially for the occasion, and Amy sucking on a joint. She offers both of us a puff, but we decline. I tried smoking marijuana once but it made me feel lightheaded then sleepy.
‘So, tell us about yourself,’ Amy says without preamble.
I tell as much as I want, how I was raised by an aunt and uncle until I was about eleven and then they broke up, and how I was fostered for the first time.
I find out that Amy and Matt have both had dealings with the Department. Amy’s been through the foster system, same as me, but Matt isn’t willing to go into his story. ‘It’s complicated,’ is all he’ll say.
‘I was twelve when I was first fostered,’ Amy says. ‘It was really hard getting used to living with another family. And then there was another family. And another.’
We nod at one another. Been there, done that.
‘I’ve lost count of how many foster carers I’ve had,’ I tell them. ‘About six weeks ago my last fostering broke down. The Department put me in a youth refuge but I spat the dummy. It was such a dump. Told Marie I was seventeen, that I’d leave school and get a job and there was nothing she or the Department could do about it. But it didn’t work out. I stuffed up . . .’
Amy, her cat Persia on her lap, pauses from smoking. Matt puts down his beer.
Oh no, I’ve said too much. Opened my big mouth. Regular habit.
‘Don’t stop there,’ says Amy.
‘What did you do?’ Matt asks.
I am definitely not going to tell them details about the overdose. None of their business. Instead, I lie.
‘Nothing major. Boring stuff. But you know how the Department is – they overreacted. I had to go to a case management conference . . .’
‘Hate them,’ Amy interjects. ‘If you sneeze they want it in triplicate.’
‘. . . and it was suggested that if I behaved myself and stayed on at school, they might find a new place for me to live while I finished my last year. A good place, for once.’
Amy nods. ‘Right. So then I get a phone call from this guy I know at the Department who thinks it would be a good idea if . . .’
‘You moved in with us,’ Matt concludes.
‘Yeah, and I grabbed it with both hands.’ I smile. ‘This is a whole new beginning for me. New place to live. And I start at my new school tomorrow.’
Amy sighs heavily.
‘Sometimes I wish I was still at school.’ She sits on the carpet, her back against a chair. ‘I hated it when I was there but maybe I should have tried a bit harder. Still, I guess you don’t need an education to be a tattoo artist.’
‘Is that what you do?’ I say.
‘Hope to. One day. It’s hard to find someone who’ll give me a start.’
‘You’ll get there.’ I squeeze her shoulder. ‘Don’t give up.’
‘You at school, Matt?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah. TAFE. Part-time. Still have a couple of years to go.’
There’s a short pause. I feel that I’ve said enough about my life. For now. Time to change the subject. ‘So, how does this place run?’
Amy takes the lead. ‘We buy our own groceries and share the rent, electricity and phone bills.’
‘Well, in theory we share the phone bills,’ Matt adds.
‘You on about the phone again?’ Amy counters.
‘Who, me? Just because you still owe the kitty ten bucks?’
‘Hey, I paid that. Then I took it out again to pay myself for cleaning the toilet because you didn’t do it.’
‘I missed one time!’
‘Okay, but then I fined you for leaving the seat up.’
‘I’ll leave the seat up whenever I like.’
‘Time out, you guys!’ I interject, but the argument continues.
‘Not in my house, you won’t!’
‘But this isn’t your house!’
I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle as hard as I can.
It stops them cold. They both stare at me.
‘I can fix this,’ I say. ‘Let’s take a vote. All those in favour of the toilet seat being left up, raise your hand.’
Matt’s hand is the only one to go up.
‘Those against . . .’
‘Ha-ha,’ smirks Amy as she and I raise our hands.
‘Sorry, Matt,’ I say. ‘You lose. Bad luck.’
‘I demand a re-count,’ he says. But he’s grinning.
Amy smiles at me. ‘I reckon you’ll fit in just fine here, Sophie. Two girls against one loser guy: now he hasn’t got a chance.’
That night. Sleeping. I am sketching in my dreams a scene of my childhood. Perspective doesn’t matter; everything is distorted and oblique as it is when you’re very young. My Aunt Arlene and Uncle Dutch’s faces loom large and clearly defined. Next, they are diminished and pale, like ghosts wafting in and out of sight. Sometimes they float close by and reach out and touch me. I am tucked between crisp white sheets that smell faintly of lavender, and Arlene is leaning over me, her ginger-ale hair lapping against my cheek, her face a mask, eyes hooded, skin mottled in shadow. She whispers to me in her sing-song voice, a children’s rhyme from the Netherlands. Dutch is beside her, huge and gentle like the Big Friendly Giant in that wonderful book he used to read to me before bedtime. And then, just as suddenly as they came to me, they are gone, and I’m alone, stretching out my hand and crying, begging them to come back, to take me with them.