‘What?’ I ask.
‘It’s French,’ she answers. ‘But you wouldn’t know that. It’s what you say to someone going on holidays.’
‘Umm … but I’m not going on holidays, Taylor,’ I tell her.
‘Well, you look like you are going on holidays. For like, a year. You’ve got enough stuff.’
I look around me. I do have a lot of stuff. That’s another thing about week-about. Sure, you have two houses, two bedrooms, two beds, two novelty night lights, etc. but a lot of things you only have one of and you have to take those many ‘one-of’ things from house to house. My school bag is stuffed full with all the ‘one-of’ things: my reader; my pencil case with my eraser collection and special Sharpies of every colour; and my Sailor Moon alarm clock, which is my favourite way to wake up because it plays the theme music from Sailor Moon and then says, ‘Good Morning! Good Morning!’ over and over in a robotic but bright and happy voice. (Although Mum doesn’t agree so I keep it under my pillow where it ticks into my dreams like a heartbeat.)
I have a bag for clothes containing another pair of shoes so I’m not in runners all week, my netball uniform and my rain parka because it’s autumn and you never know what the weather will be like, which is why I also have my gumboots in there. And in the third bag is the stripy blanket that Nan made for me when I was a baby and Pung, my teddy bear. I look down at my bag and hope Pung’s ear isn’t sticking out because if Taylor Dellabella sees I have him then everyone in the whole school will know I still have a teddy bear at almost 11 years old and that will be social death for me. And now I have my extra-special library book, The Golden Astrolabe, which I must not lose or I will be sent to our evil principal, The Enforcer. I had to shove it into the bag with Pung because it didn’t fit in my school bag. I hope Taylor doesn’t see it. She was the first person in the school to read it and she loves to remind you of that by accidentally-on-purpose slipping spoilers.
Oh, and I have my guitar. It is in a special guitar case with a pocket and in the pocket is my capo and guitar tuner and the guitar strap Mum made for me, which is rhinestone bedazzled to say HATTIE in a glittery, sparkly, starry way. Hmm. Looking around me, I can’t help but worry that I’ve forgotten something. I shuffle in front of the teddy bear bag so Taylor can’t see it.
‘Where’s your mum, Hattie?’ Taylor asks. ‘Hasn’t she turned up? She’s probably forgotten you. Do you want me to get a teacher?’
I’m not sure if Taylor is being nice or not. Sometimes it seems like she’s being nice and then things come out a bit differently than I expect.
The Enforcer. I sense her before I see her. It’s the cold chill that surrounds her like perfume.
‘Oh look! There’s Ms Anthrope. I’ll go and get her for you,’ Taylor says like she is doing me the biggest favour anyone has ever done for anyone in the history of the whole world since life began with a single cell microbe in a puddle. She waltzes away in The Enforcer’s direction – well, when I say waltz, I don’t mean in the one-two-three-one-two-three ballroom dancing way. I just mean she seems to not have a care in the world and her ponytail sways as she bounces. I see her waving at The Enforcer and dragging her mum, Tara, with her.
Taylor’s mum has a superpower. She is always in her active wear but never looks sweaty. When I exercise, I go really red in the face. Not normal pink-cheeks red in the face. I mean bright red. In the whole face. Not just the cheeks. Every last millimetre of my face. My forehead. Nose. Chin. Ears. Everything. When I play netball, Taylor calls me the tomato can. And beetroot face. And cherry cheeks. And watermelon head. Sometimes red dot special.
I see Tara talking to The Enforcer and looking back at me. I’m super careful not to even have the slightest risk of locking eyes with The Enforcer. Instead I look at her crazy wild frizzy hair and her cheekbones that poke out like two knife blades because she is so thin. Her pale skin is almost see-through (or if I was going to use another of last week’s vocabulary words I could say transparent) and you can make out each bone in her body. She never smiles and seems to have an aura of evil around her just like all the best worst baddies and villains. Just like Queen Beryl in Sailor Moon. I can feel her eyeballs boring into me.
The Enforcer starts to glide towards me. I swear her legs don’t move. My mouth is now so dry it’s as if my tongue is made of Velcro. My heart is racing. Then my arms start to tingle. Maybe I will faint. I do the only thing I can think of that might help: the superman pose. I lie down on the floor on my stomach and lift my head and my legs and shoot my arms out in front of me and focus on stretching.
I can feel The Enforcer getting closer and then … from the floor I see a pair of silver platform shoes and when I look up, Mum is there! She hasn’t changed her hair colour after all. It’s faded pink and in pigtails. Mum looks a bit pale, but she smells of sandalwood and paint and she is just my mum and of course I would always know her. She crouches down next to me.
‘Whatya doing, Hattie?’ she asks.
‘Superman pose. Peggy taught me.’ I tell her.
‘Right,’ she says, and then Mum gets on the floor and tries it.
‘It’s a body break. Helps break the anxiety circuit,’ I explain.
‘Yeah … it’s fun,’ she says, lying on the floor and looking at me. ‘But let’s get up now, hey.’ Mum takes my hand and drags me up. ‘Are you okay, Hattie?’
The Enforcer skims past us and out the door.
‘I am now.’ I turn my frown upside down and I flash my best smile at Mum. I never realise how much I’ve missed her until I see her. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t recognise you!’ I say.
Mum laughs. ‘Don’t worry, Hattie. I’ll always recognise you!’
We load up all our bags and walk out of the hall. Mum pretends the bags are all really heavy and does a funny walk. ‘My sisters always said I would end up a bag lady,’ she laughs.
I don’t really get the joke, but I love seeing my Mum laugh. Especially after what has happened. She still cries a lot, so I do my best not to upset her. Unlike Ivy.
We walk out to the tram stop and I see the signpost has been covered in rainbow crochet. ‘Look, Mum! The Brunswick Bomber strikes again!’
‘Who?’
‘The Brunswick Bomber! Haven’t you seen all the bike racks outside the library? They’re covered in crochet too! It was in the paper. It’s called yarn bombing – which is why they say there is a secret Brunswick Bomber. Dad thinks it’s really cool.’
‘Does he just? Hmm. I think it looks a bit messy.’
I know Mum doesn’t really think this, but I also know she will never agree with Dad. If he says something is black, then she says it’s white and then the arguing starts again. Thinking about Mum and Dad arguing gives me a headache. I grab the tram stop pole, haul myself up and turn upside down. I love flexing my muscles. The yarn is good to grip. All the blood rushes to my head and my hair hangs down loose and I feel much better. Through my brown curls I can see the busy street with beeping cars and streams of people and then up to the sky through the tram wires and electricity wires, which I imagine walking along like it’s a tightrope. The street smells of icing sugar and almonds from the Lebanese bakeries and I think I hear my tummy rumbling … but it’s just the rumbling of the tram, coming to a stop.