Chapter 9
Today, instead of asking me lots of questions, Lyyssa has given me a notebook. ‘You might want to use it to write down your feelings. You know, like a journal or diary.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the notebook. It’s spiral-bound with two hundred pages. I like it, even though I know it’s another one of Lyyssa’s techniques to get me to tell her things. I’m glad she gave me a regular notebook, instead of some twee little pink book with ‘My Secret Diary’ written on the front in fancy letters, and held shut by some tiny metal lock that anyone could break. Karen was looking at one like that at the two-dollar shop in Westgardens Metro like she wanted to buy it, but Bindi and Cinnamon made fun of her so she put it back. For once, I had to agree with Bindi and Cinnamon. I hate cutesy, phony things like that. They’re embarrassing.
‘You’ll need a pen, too,’ Lyyssa says, opening the supply cupboard and giving me a choice of four new pens. There’s a black fine point, a black roller ball, a blue ballpoint stick pen, and a blue gel ink pen with a rubber grip. I pick the one with the rubber grip.
Lyyssa says I can stay and talk if I like, or we can skip today’s session if I prefer.
‘I don’t really have anything to talk about. Is it okay if we skip the session?’
Lyyssa seems a little disappointed, but she says that’s fine and lets me go. I take the notebook back to my room and sit on my bed for a few minutes, admiring the crisp, unspoiled white pages. I know I don’t have to worry about hiding it. Lyyssa may be a stickybeak, but she’s also a fanatic about ‘respecting boundaries’. Just the same, I decide I’ll keep it underneath my mattress.
There’s a space on the front of the notebook to write your name. But since Len Russell isn’t my real name, I don’t bother.
I think about what I want to write in the notebook. Something has been floating in the back of my mind all day, bothering me, distracting me. I try to put my finger on what it is. I sit quietly for a few minutes, and then I remember. It was something I was thinking about last night before I fell asleep. I pick up my pen and start writing.
It’s Saturday. A girlfriend of Daddy’s is here, not one I’ve seen before. Now that she’s curled her hair and put on all her makeup she doesn’t have anything to do, so she’s sitting in a lounge chair looking bored. I’m playing Milk Jug with our dog Reggie. Milk Jug is his favourite game. You take an empty plastic milk jug by the handle and Reggie jumps up and sinks his teeth into it. Then you play tug-o-war, trying to pull the jug toward you as Reggie pretend-growls and pulls in the opposite direction. Reggie could pull you off your feet if he really wanted to, but he’s smart enough to know that doing that would ruin the game.
‘Aren’t you afraid to let her play with a pit bull?’
I don’t know why she’s so concerned about me playing with the dog. She didn’t care when I burned my hand on the kettle earlier.
‘Reggie’s a staffie cross, not a pit bull.’ Daddy’s watching the cricket on TV and doesn’t bother looking at the lady when he talks to her. He talks to the lady like he talks to all of them, like she’s kind of stupid and not really worth talking to.
‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll bite her?’
‘He’s a sook,’ Daddy says, and turns up the sound.
‘Don’t you think you should get him de-sexed?’ The lady raises her voice to be heard over the TV.
Daddy hits the mute button, sets his feet on the floor and looks directly at the lady. If she doesn’t shut up after Daddy does this, then she really is stupid. ‘A dog like that has two purposes in life: to fight, and to root. You take both those things away, he’ll go crazy.’
Then Daddy turns the sound back on and puts his feet back up on the coffee table.
Once I’ve finished writing, I read what I’ve written. Then I close the notebook and put it under my mattress.