Gillian gives me a look – pointed, and way too wise. I find myself staring at her face, caught between baby softness and the sharp edges of looming adultness; it’s weirdly, overpoweringly nostalgic. It’s becoming almost impossible to recognise the little person who used to cry over Frozen, the kid who stuck to my side like a barnacle, spellbound by my dinosaur books and vintage Horrible Histories that never seemed to freak her out, even when I re-enacted the gross bits with props. I’ve always thought I’m a pretty awesome big brother. But I suppose I have to concede that maybe I’m a shitty influence when it comes to school stuff.
I flop onto my back. To be honest, my positive outlook has taken a bit of a battering lately. A shift at the magic shop and Camilla’s gig on Saturday helped keep me out of the house, but as a life strategy, avoidance is becoming a bit tricky to sustain. I spent most of the weekend dodging my dad and evading Damien Pagono, who refuses to tell me where he got my number and persists in texting me rude memes. I have, however, managed to avoid all my homework, apart from my History reading and essay, cos every time I look at the other stuff my brain melts into a puddle of disinterested goo.
I tug the blankets over my face again. But then the alarm on one of the few functioning clocks behind my head dings, and I’m reminded that it’s Monday. My stomach does an insane bounce that propels me reflexively upwards. I roll out of bed and land in a pile on my rug, Gillian and a tangle of blankets cascading on top of me.
‘Ugh, Gilly, I gotta get up. And you gotta fix your hair before Mum sees you. I really don’t want to deal with her brain exploding all over the walls this morning.’
Gillian peeps over the top of my doona. ‘So you’ll talk to her?’ She untangles herself and pulls me up. ‘Joshua. Come on, man! I promise I will give you a week – no, one whole month of not making fun of your hair. I’ll do flash cards for those chapters in your Bio textbook that I know you haven’t looked at yet. I’ll let you test out as many card tricks as you want on me, and I won’t even threaten to smother you in your sleep. Pleeease. Mum’ll listen to you. Mum always listens to you,’ she says matter-of-factly.
I run my hands through the tragedy that is my hair. I’ve worn it long enough to hide behind since I was ten, but since it’s reached a length where my sister could manhandle it into a Marie Antoinette bouffant last time we watched the History Channel, I should probably sort it out. Right this instant, though, the only thing I can think about is a shower, and school, and a certain dark-eyed person who has, mindbogglingly, not run a mile from my inane babbling. I’ve caught her a couple of times looking askance at me from a distance – confused, sure, and maybe a bit ambivalent. But as crazy as it is, she actually seems willing to meander down our weird conversational rabbit holes. And then my wandering mind puts shower and Sophia in the same sentence, and my face explodes in a fresco of heat.
I shove Gillian out of my room. ‘Okay, fine, I will stick my head on the chopping block for you, baby sister, but can I deal with it later?’
Gillian turns in my doorway and gives me a smile edged with shyness. ‘Thanks, Josh. I know I sound all High School Musical or whatever …’ She shrugs. ‘Not that I care. But, you know, it’s nice being around people who don’t think I’m a giant freak.’
I pause. Gillian scuffs her feet on the floorboards, and for a fleeting moment my sister – formidable, fiery, with the recently developed ability to transform our unflappable mum into a frazzled rage-monster – looks vulnerable, and miles younger than her age.
I reach through my doorway and pull her back, trapping her in a bear hug. Gilly, worryingly, hugs me back, not even attempting to squirm away. I find myself frowning into her crunchy hair. ‘Gillian Anna Bailey, you are a smart, interesting, awesome freak, stuck in a prison of blandness and mediocrity. If you’re surrounded by people who can’t see you, well, then they don’t deserve your awesomeness.’
‘Yeah, whatevs. Thanks, Josh,’ she mumbles. Then she shakes herself out of her slushy mood and pulls away, evil grin back in place. ‘So you reckon Mum’ll have a stroke if I tell her Emma’s boyfriend just dropped out of uni? He’s got a neck tattoo. Mum does like to say we’re not classist.’
‘Weigh up your priorities, baby sister,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I know getting Mum riled is your reason for existing these days, but want some advice? Choose where you direct your energy. If you want something badly enough, it’s worth letting all the other stuff go.’
I don’t think too hard about the uncomfortable jolt I feel as the words tumble out. I don’t think it’s bad advice. Focusing on a singular goal is fine. I manoeuvre Gilly down the corridor, then focus all my energy into not falling over the cat as I haul arse to get sorted for school.
First period kicks off with Mr Grayson tripping into my Maths classroom, looking every bit like an enemy of the revolution being led to the guillotine. He’s obviously been drafted into the cover roster, and pretty unwillingly, judging by the depressed pong that wafts in his wake. He tries to call the class to attention, and immediately drops his coffee all over the stack of practice exams. Everyone pisses themselves laughing. I sink deeper into my seat. I feel a bit sorry for Mr Grayson, with his Eeyore eyes, and his novelty mug that looks homemade. (Slogan? Some people choose to be happy. I chose to be a Biology teacher. I mean, dude, really?)
Needless to say, this morning’s gonna be a write-off. I crack open my new Robin Hobb novel, ignoring the rattle of furniture as the class rearranges itself. Tucked behind my desk at the back of the room, no-one’s gonna pay me any attention.
My eyes shimmy to my Maths folder, which holds my half-finished homework. The conversation with my sister is still fresh – at least, I reckon that’s the reason for the uncomfortableness in my chest that feels a whole lot like guilt.
I shove the folder into my satchel, and then I shove the satchel under my desk. I bury my head in City of Dragons again, half of my brain tumbling over this new coin-and-fishbowl trick I’m trying to hone. But I can’t shake the uneasiness that’s been haunting me for ages, like a shadowy creature from a H. P. Lovecraft story, dampening even the brilliance of a bonus double free.
See, despite my sister’s pronouncements to the contrary, I am actually not a total dumbarse. When crap hits the fan, I can usually pull the finger out long enough to keep me afloat. I actually have, like, an infinite amount of energy for the things I love – stick me in a History class, or in front of a Penn and Teller special, or give me a stack of books about Arthurian Britain, and I’m all eyes and ears. I dunno. I’ve just never found the mental endurance to focus on stuff that doesn’t automatically hold my attention. If I thought about it – at this particular juncture – it might be cause for alarm. Cos sticking the History Channel, card tricks, a ceiling-high shelf of fantasy tomes, hanging with my sister, and a fascination with the inner workings of old clocks into a vocational blender is – strangely enough – yet to spit out a workable career option.
I kick my legs up onto my desk. Best not to think about it.