She pulled up the website for the adult education center.“Certificate IV in Adult Tertiary Preparation.” According to Google, tertiary meant third. That answered no questions. She read the smaller text below. It was a year twelve alternative, and ran for a year out of the Brisbane campus. There was an option to do the course online.“Gain access to university or other tertiary education institutions.”On the right side of the page four price options ranged from $0 to $5,000.
Interesting. As far as she could tell, the material was only reading, writing, and math. She could do this. It would give her more opportunities. It would give her the choice to go to uni someday. Most high-paid jobs on the Tablelands required a professional diploma, certificate or degree.
She didn’t seriously want to do manual labor for the rest of her life, did she? Surely that wasn’t sustainable long-term?
She drew a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, let out the air with a fart sound.
The car park at the public boat launch on the east side of Lake Tinaroo was full. Winter was tourist season. Number plates from Queensland and the Northern Territory. Ronnie parked on the grass. The door of the truck thudded shut behind her. She lowered dark sunnies over her eyes. A sign at the end of the public dock said “Tablelands: Shire of Diversity.”
Nev stood behind the sign, throwing brown bricks into the lake. One landed with a splash and floated away.
“That’s gonna upset some people, babe,” Ronnie said.
Nev snorted. “Feeding the barra.” Barramundi. “Can’t eat dogs, can I?”
“No,” Ronnie agreed, peering into the half-empty esky of rotten lamb from the defrosted chest freezer. “Need a hand?”
“I got it.”
Ronnie watched her friend toss another slimy brown block into the lake. “If you could have any job, what would it be?
Nev hesitated, squinted against the sun. “I don’t know. This one isn’t too bad.” She looked down. “How about you?”
“Women’s pro soccer coach.”
“You need a master’s degree.”
“I don’t want to travel for work.”
“That eliminates pro sports, Dain’y.”
“I like working for you.”
“But I made that job for you,” Nev said.
“That’s why.”
“What part of working here do you like?”
“The people,” Ronnie admitted.
“If we were all dead, hypothetically, how would you make your living?”
Ronnie was silent for a while, then smiled. “I’d flip real estate.”
Nev tossed a towel at her.
31
FOOTY
The third Monday night in June, Ronnie’s therapist—black cardigan, cheeseburger and rituals lady from Kuala Lumpur—thought Ronnie had anxiety about the upcoming custody hearing and told her to join a mum’s group. “You need to talk with women who have had similar experiences. Reg and Nev are not mums,” the therapist had said, as if that should be obvious but wasn’t.
“They kind of are,” Ronnie said.
She was too busy. She had sent in the application for the TAFE online school program that started at the end of September.
On the drive back to Lionheart she stopped at a doctor’s office to pee in a clear plastic cup. She watched a bored-looking phlebotomist draw a vial of blood from the inside of her elbow, label it, then set it aside to send to the state for the drug screening a judge had ordered.
