Her dad used to be a biker, and still wanders around looking like he’s in a gang – black leather jacket, old band shirt and a bandana covering his long straight and slightly greying hair that is always secured into a pony tail by a rubber band – not the hair ties, those thick rubber ones that they wrap your newspaper in.
He fascinates me when I watch him talk as he constantly has a cigarette hanging from his lips that bounces around as he speaks in his gravelly voice. Somehow, it never falls, and never seems to burn out.
Her mum looks like a hippy. She always wears long flowing dresses with no shoes. She has long dark, dead straight hair and speaks very softly, like she is always in a state of bliss. She probably is, because hidden in their laundry is a row of well-tended cannabis plants.
No one seems to notice that I’m staying in the garage, or else they don’t really care. Tahlia left school in year ten, and hasn’t decided what she wants to do with her life yet. I don’t have a school to go to, so I tag along with her wherever she goes.
Most of the time we spend our days, laying about in her house passing a bong between us as we watch lame daytime TV, and help her parents bag up the pot for those who visit with the intent to purchase. It seems to be a very lucrative business, as they have every mod con that you can imagine. No one wants for anything here.
Every night is like a party at Tahlia’s house. Consistently, there are at least ten people sitting around, eating some sort of stew or BBQ that her mother has cooked, and always, we’re passing a joint or the bong between us all.
I’ve learnt a great many ways to make a bong while I’ve stayed with Tahlia – from using an old water bottle and a piece of hose, to the more elaborate teddy bear honey bottle. Smoking weed has become a very normal thing to me now, and I can’t imagine getting through my day without it. It relaxes me and helps me forget about what’s missing in my life.
“I was thinking Paige,” Tahlia says to me one day while we’re doing our usual thing, laying around the house. Today we’re in her bedroom, flicking through fashion magazines and styling our hair to match the models. “You’re almost sixteen. I should take you to get your learner’s permit.”
“Why? Who’s going to teach me to drive?”
“Me. I can drive.”
“Yes, but you’re still on your provisional license. You can’t teach me until you’re on a full license.”
“So?” she laughs, focusing on her image in the mirror as she twists up her hair and pulls at strands around her face. “We’ll drive somewhere quiet.”
I end up agreeing, because it’s hard to argue with Tahlia’s logic. She has an answer for everything.
Without much else to do, we head into the city to the building that houses the office for Births, Deaths and Marriages.
As with every government office, the line is huge, and we wait for nearly an hour. When I get to the front of the line, I hand over my form, and empty out all the cards I have with my name and old address on them to prove who I am.
“Don’t you have a copy of your parent’s ID? It’s a lot easier with that,” the lady behind the counter says to me as I offer her the entire contents of my wallet.
“I don’t have any parents to ask,” I tell her flatly. Her expression softens immediately, and she apologises to me like I just told her they were dead, and I'm an orphan.
Thinking over what I said, I guess it kind of sounded that way. I don’t bother correcting her. I actually prefer her thinking that.
She goes through all of my cards and counts up the point value of each one. I need a hundred points of ID to obtain my birth certificate, and I’m lucky that I have just enough. God only knows how I’d get my birth certificate without it.
Tahlia pays for the printout, and I’m handed my birth certificate, folded up in an envelope.
Tahlia takes it out of my hands and looks over it.
“Let’s find out about Paige Larsen,” she says as she reads over the document. “Why does your dad have a different surname to your mum?”
“What are you talking about? They’re both Larsen.”