Reg studied her during a commercial break.Can you really?his eyes seemed to ask.
“I don’t need a degree for my career.”
“Is it a career?” Reg asked.
She gave him a look.
“Fine,” he said. “Do your thing, if it pays the mortgage. Are you going to Brisbane to try out for the Lions? That’s coming up soon.”
She had been thinking about it. Tickets were more expensive the longer she waited. If she was going, she should have bought them by now. She was doing that thing she did where she made a decision by not making a decision—a bad habit that she needed to break.
“No,” she said. “I’m too busy, my game’s off, and everything I need is here.”
Reg nodded. “That makes sense.”
“There is something you could help me with.” Figuring out how to build a barn. She had already milled enough lumber. “Who do we know who can organize a barn-raising party?”
She returned to her new campsite down on the far side of Lazy Creek to the welcome sight of a Lumholtz tree kangaroo curled up in a furry ball in a high fork in a blackbean tree, long tail dangling, and an email from TAFE.
She brushed her teeth, then curled up in her sleeping bag to read it. The director of the program tersely informed her that she was failing all of her classes and advised her to come in for a meeting.
She skimmed an email from her English instructor explaining what a five-paragraph essay was. The small words on the screen blurred together. Maybe she needed glasses. She hoped not. They wanted her to rewrite her personal essay comparing and contrasting her childhood to the childhoods of the Aboriginal Australian man and the Asian immigrant family in the readings. “The strongest part of your essay was the sentence about collecting cans and trading them for candy bars, but your essay was only ninety-six words, when the assignment was four hundred.”
The Marie Kondo book Blaise had given her was still in her truck.If it doesn’t bring you joy, get rid of it.She Marie Kondo’ed the emails from the school, then logged into the website and Marie Kondo’ed the course.
It felt like the right thing to do.
Life was too short to beat a round peg into a square hole. She was ready to focus on things she was good at, to lean into things that made her feel like a badass. Work that made her sing.
43
BAND PRACTICE
Ronnie almost stepped on a Hercules moth under the porch light at Stone House. Another one clung to a window. They were light brown, approximately twelve centimeters across the wings, hairy, with long, feathery antennae.
She shut Nev’s front door behind herself, toed off her Blundstones and hung her leather hat on a brass hook. Nev hunched towards the music stand, pencil tucked behind one ear.
“The ceremony’s outdoors on grass?” Gunni asked.
Nev nodded. “They won’t be sprinting, either.”
Inside Stone House was cool. Peggy Collins’ wedding was the day after tomorrow.
Nev had set up three music stands in the family room instead of the usual two.
Gunni kissed Ronnie hello on the mouth, but Nev only hugged her. That was new. Ronnie didn’t like it. They sat down. Ronnie unpacked her guitar.
Gunni held his bass between his legs. Nev held her guitar, though she was not playing on this song. They had given the guitar part to Ronnie, who was also on backup vocals.
“The guests want it drawn out so they can take photos,” Nev said. “We’ll keep it light and airy.” She played the chorusthrough once on the guitar, then began to sing the chorus and play the fiddle. Ronnie attempted to copy the guitar strumming Nev had done.
She stopped when Nev and Gunni stopped. “That was good,” Nev said. “A little faster with the guitar.” They began again, Nev singing the verse alone in a Scottish accent, Ronnie and Gunni accompanying on guitar and bass.
Nev stopped again. “It’s not a dirge. Keep up.”
A minute later Nev stopped to drink water. “That time you were ahead.” Nev lifted something off the piano, set a metronome on the floor, opened it and turned it on. It clicked away, setting a steady pace.
“Are you serious?” Ronnie asked, offended.
