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FIFTY
My world collapsed three days after the flowers died. I got a commendation in English and Joey Peterson said he liked my trainers. It should have been a good day.
My mother was waiting for me outside the gates after netball practice. My cheeks rosy from running around the court, spidery tendrils escaping from my ponytail.
I was coming out of school with a bunch of other girls, all of us high on adrenaline and endorphins, making up silly nicknames for each other.
‘Lisa Jackson, you can be P.Y.T’– after the Michael Jackson single, ‘Pretty Young Thing’ that had just hit the charts.
‘And Rach can be Crackers.’
‘Crackers?’
‘Rachel Jacobs. Jacob’s Crackers, duh.’
‘I don’t—’
‘The cheese biscuits? Keep up, Soph!’
‘Like you were doing on the court back there?’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘I reckon you’re going to be picked for the team, Sophie,’ Lisa interjected. ‘You were on fire today.’
I flushed with pleasure.
‘You think?’
‘Yes, I think. You’ve really got your groove back.’
I tried to look nonchalant, turned away so she wouldn’t see me smile.
She was right about getting my groove back though. A weight had shifted inside me. Ever since that stupid sketch came out, I’d felt there was cement in my chest. I missed easy goals, dropped balls. Today I’d scored twice, dropped nothing.
It had been three days since we’d run into Mrs Matzo Ball Soup. No one had come knocking on our door or phoned asking questions. Even my mother seemed more at ease. The police had checked Matty out. Clearly there was nothing to worry about. Ireland, the witness accounts, the café even– it meant zilch.
‘What was I thinking?’ my mother said. ‘I feel so stupid.’
‘I did try telling you.’
‘Can you honestly say you didn’t wonder, even a bit?’
‘Nope,’ I lied.
My friends and I burst out the school doors.
‘Isn’t that your mum, Sophie? Over by the gates.’
She saw me, gave a little wave. A dayglo orange waterproof over her work clothes.
‘See you guys,’ I mumbled, hands stuffed deep in my pockets as I walked over to join her, face burning.
The others sauntered off; arms linked, heads bobbing together so you couldn’t see where one girl’s hair ended and another’s started.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked my mother, hissing the words.
‘I was just passing, thought you might like a ride.’
