Maddie in the Middle Read online

‘I am,’ I say.

  ‘I like Katy,’ he replies.

  ‘Who’s Katy?’ Dayna asks.

  ‘That nice big girl,’ Samara says.

  ‘The boss of the school?’

  I laugh. ‘Yes, that’s her.’ I wonder how Dayna might have met Katy.

  ‘Yes,’ Dayna nods. ‘She’s nice.’

  Tom and Dayna continue picking at the biscuits, and don’t say anything else. Samara sips at her cordial, her eyes flicking between Dayna and Tom, almost as if she is warning them to be quiet. I take a big gulp of my drink, and my eyes water as I swallow it. The silence feels awkward, so I search around for something I can ask.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘Is your dad at work?’

  Dayna’s eyes widen; Tom is reaching for another biscuit, but withdraws his hand quickly, as if he has been slapped. Only Samara’s expression doesn’t change.

  ‘No,’ she says smoothly. ‘He’s not.’

  I can see from their reaction that the topic of their dad is off limits.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘My mum lives in Port Hedland. I only see her in the holidays.’

  As soon as I say it, I cringe. Why did I say it was okay? I put up with Mum being so far away, but it isn’t really okay, not in my secret heart. And judging by the stony silence, whatever has happened to Samara’s dad obviously isn’t okay either. Samara will think I am completely clueless. Why would she want to be friends with someone who says the wrong thing all the time?

  Samara looks at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.

  ‘I didn’t mean to say all that,’ I say. ‘I just – put my foot in it. Sorry.’

  Samara gets up and walks to the keyboard. Even in her own house, she moves elegantly. She lifts the seat and selects a piece of sheet music, folding it out onto the music stand, over the top of the other music that is there. The piece Samara has chosen keeps falling forward.

  ‘Maddie?’ Samara says. ‘Could you come hold this?’

  I am relieved to have something to do.

  Bach, Allegro, I read.

  Samara’s hands hover over the keyboard for a moment, and I hear her take a deep breath before she begins to play. The keyboard doesn’t sound as good as the piano in the music room, but the piece is so lively and happy that it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe the neat way Samara’s fingers move across the keyboard, and how sure she is as she plays.

  ‘Again!’ calls Tom when Samara has finished.

  ‘All right!’ Samara says, and begins again.

  Dayna leaps up from the table and begins dancing. Tom pretend-dances with her, pulling faces and twisting his arms and legs this way and that.

  ‘Again!’ calls Dayna.

  ‘Once more!’ Samara says.

  I want to dance too, but I have to keep the music in place.

  ‘Again?’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ Tom and Dayna say, puffing.

  ‘This really is the last time,’ says Samara.

  She starts off normally, but then plays faster and faster, finishing with a quick chord repeated three times. Tom and Dayna collapse on the floor, puffing exaggeratedly.

  Samara looks up and smiles at me then. The smile only lasts for a second or two. But it is at that moment we become friends. I’m still not sure why Samara invited me in – politeness, or maybe to figure out what I was up to. But when Samara smiles, and I smile back, something changes. Now we are becoming friends, real friends, the way I’d hoped the first time I’d seen Samara at school.

  ‘You’re so good,’ I say.

  ‘You should hear my mum,’ Samara says. ‘I want to be half as good as she is one day.’

  I want to ask if they’d had a piano in their old house – it seems strange that you could learn to play so well on an old keyboard – but this time, I keep my question to myself. I am surprised that I don’t feel the vague jealousy I sometimes feel when Katy plays something really complicated on her flute. Samara is so much better than I could ever hope to be that all I feel is admiration. There is no point in feeling jealous of someone so far out of your league.

  When it is time to go home, I half walk, half skip. I grin at everyone I pass, wanting to wave at every car. The restless feeling I’ve had since I first met Samara is gone. I feel happy. I feel like I’ve done my best, am my best. That I am better than the person I’d been before I met Samara.

  That anything is possible, now we’re friends.

  I don’t tell Katy that I went to Samara’s. For one thing, it would show that I’d lied to Katy about going to the shop. Plus, I feel vaguely guilty, although I’m not really sure why. Katy has been so busy with all her after-school classes and her councillor meetings.

  I tell myself that my lie-by-omission is fine, because it is obvious Katy has met with Samara, Tom and Dayna, maybe after Tom was fighting with Zac. Even though it is probably secret councillor business, I wonder why Katy didn’t say anything. Once, we used to tell each other everything. Now, everything is different. So I don’t mind having a secret of my own.

  Also, there doesn’t seem any point in saying anything, because nothing really changes at school, which I’ll admit is a disappointment. Samara is still with Elsa, Jordi and Grace at break times, and I am still with Katy. Samara and I look at each other and nod, and that is all. Tom and a friend rush by Katy and me on their way to the oval one time, but he doesn’t stop, just waves and keeps running, his soccer ball under his arm. Katy thinks he is waving at her, so she waves back. And the only time I see Dayna is at assembly. It isn’t as if I was expecting to suddenly be Samara’s best friend or anything. But I’d hoped that something would be different. Better.

  The week after I went to Samara’s, we have an ensemble rehearsal.

  We meet in the music room at lunch time. Samara is already there when Katy and I arrive: Mrs C is listening to her play something on the piano. It is a sad and sweet piece, and we creep in quietly when we hear it, not wanting to interrupt. When she’s finished, Mrs C puts a hand up to her heart.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she says. ‘So very expressive. Have you contacted Mr Krysiof about lessons yet? I imagine your mother is busy.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Samara says. ‘I’ve given his number to my mum.’

  ‘I’ve started having some lessons with him,’ Katy says, looking at Samara. ‘My other teacher isn’t always … available.’

  ‘Good to hear, Katy. Now, girls,’ Mrs C turns to Katy and me.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Almost,’ says Katy, extracting her flute case from her bag.

  ‘Almost,’ I say, flipping open my clarinet case.

  This time, I know my part perfectly. I’ve been practising clarinet so much that Wolfie has started leaving my room the minute I swing the clarinet case onto my bed. He looks at me suspiciously afterward, checking if I still have the clarinet in my hand before he’ll rub himself against my shins.

  But the practice has paid off. It isn’t just that I play the piece right, and keep perfect time with Katy and Samara. My tone is smoother, and the notes run from one to the other, like honey.

  ‘Goodness,’ Mrs C says. ‘Girls, that was a vast improvement on last rehearsal.’

  Katy eyes me sideways, but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Well, just so that I can have the pleasure of hearing it again, from the top, please.’

  She counts us in, and the second time is even better.

  ‘We have several weeks before the first assembly you’ll be performing at, so would you like to start another piece? We could have one before the award announcements and one at the end, before the choir. What do you think?’

  ‘That would be great, Mrs C,’ I say.

  ‘I have a lot of announcements to make,’ Katy says. ‘I think one piece is enough.’

  This is unlike Katy, who normally volunteers for extra anything, no matter what it is.

  ‘Samara?’ Mrs C says.

  Samara is looking at Katy.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ Samara says.


  ‘Fine,’ Katy says. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mrs C says. ‘I’ll get you the music this week.’

  Normally, we chatter as we put our instruments away and walk back to class together. Today, we are quiet. Katy packs up her flute and swings open the door without waiting.

  ‘Hey,’ I call.

  ‘I have to see Mr T about councillor stuff before the siren goes,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘See you later,’ I say to Katy’s back. What is wrong with her?

  Feeling mildly stung by Katy’s rejection, I turn and say, ‘Samara. Want to walk back to class together?’

  Samara is still seated at the piano. Her fingers are playing something silently, without pressing down the keys. She turns and answers, ‘I need to practise a bit more.’

  My face turns hot. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe Samara and I aren’t friends at all. Maybe, after she’d had a chance to think about it, Samara thought I was a weirdo for following her to her place, for wanting to be friends. Maybe wanting to be friends with somebody new is a strange thing to want.

  My eyes burn as I walk back to class, alone. Everything feels wrong. Katy seems angry; Samara seems as mysterious as the day I’d first seen her. Clearly I am a person that nobody wants to be friends with.

  I slump at my desk in class and rub my eyes. I want to run somewhere, away, away from school, away from everybody.

  ‘Hey,’ Brooke says. ‘Are you okay?’

  Some people ask you questions in a way that makes you feel as if they want to take the answer you give and peer at it, looking for what’s wrong with it, the way people pick up fruit in the supermarket, looking for bruises. But Brooke asks in a way that is kind, like she really wants to know.

  Am I okay? Yesterday, when I was on top of my Do My Best program, I would have said yes, of course. Now, I don’t know. How can a person feel so differently from one day to the next? What is wrong with me?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  Brooke doesn’t push for anything else. She just nods, and starts drawing. She draws a picture of Katy and me: just our faces, side by side. It only takes her a few seconds, but there we are. Together. On a page, at least.

  When Katy comes into class, just before the bell, I glance over at her. I don’t smile, exactly, but I let my face soften, and raise one eyebrow. Katy hesitates, but then she nods at me. It isn’t the friendliest of nods, but it is a nod.

  I breathe out.

  I listen to what Mrs L is saying about the life cycle of water, letting the words make pictures in my mind. First, Mrs L is saying, clouds release rain in the mountains. Then the rain gathers, forms streams and rivers, flows out to the sea. Then the water in the sea evaporates, forms tiny droplets that drift up into clouds. The clouds get heavier and heavier with water, and the wind high up in the sky pushes the clouds back over the mountains, and then it rains again.

  As Mrs L is speaking, Brooke draws pictures in her notebook: clouds, mountains, rivers, the ocean.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say to Brooke, when the siren goes.

  Brooke nods, packs up her things, and says, ‘See you tomorrow, Maddie.’

  I wait for a moment, take a deep breath, then weave through the desks to where Katy is packing up her things, squeezing past the kids who are heading for the door.

  ‘I’ve got a music workshop to go to,’ Katy says.

  ‘I know you do,’ I say. I want to add ‘you always do’, but I know this will make things worse. ‘I wanted us to talk. You seem mad at me.’

  ‘I’m not mad,’ Katy says.

  ‘Then … something,’ I say.

  Katy frowns. ‘It’s just …’ She shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. To me,’ I say.

  Katy picks up her pile of books, her tablet, her pencil case with ‘Katy’ printed on its fabric.

  ‘Message me later,’ she says. ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  When it is clear Katy isn’t going to say anything else, I collect my things from my desk. My limbs are numb and tingly, as if they don’t belong to me. I go outside, wondering why everything seems so hard these days. With Katy. With everything. I hook my bag strap over one shoulder, and am about to walk off when I hear a voice say, ‘Maddie.’

  It is Samara.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  Samara doesn’t have her bag with her: she must have come straight from her class. Streams of kids are rushing past from the class next door, laughing, talking, yelling, on their way out of school. She takes a step closer to me to get out of their way.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you alone,’ she says. ‘I need to meet Tom and Dayna in a minute.’

  I shift my bag onto both shoulders. My clarinet is in there, but I’ll have to take it out: it is too awkward and heavy.

  ‘I needed to practise,’ she says. ‘Today.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say.

  ‘You were upset,’ she says.

  I am surprised that Samara had noticed.

  ‘I just –’ I shrug. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay now.’

  ‘It’s good to play on a piano again.’

  ‘You manage pretty well on the keyboard,’ I say. ‘But yeah, the piano sounds heaps better.’

  Samara doesn’t reply. She is still looking at me, but her eyes seem like they are, for a moment, seeing something else.

  I add, ‘If I could play like you, I’d want to play a proper piano too.’

  Samara blinks. Smiles.

  ‘Maddie,’ she says. ‘Will you do something for me? I wouldn’t ask but it’s very important.’

  I don’t know what I am about to agree to. But before Samara has even asked I say, ‘Yes, of course. What is it?’

  Samara pauses. ‘You know those muffins your father made?’

  ‘The best chocolate chip muffins in the world, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Those,’ Samara smiles.

  ‘They are great, aren’t they?’ I am relieved to be discussing something easy. Something I understand.

  ‘A lot of people would like them.’

  ‘They would.’

  ‘Could you ask your father to make some? To raise funds?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll say yes?’

  I consider this.

  ‘I think so,’ I say. ‘For a good cause.’

  Samara reaches forward and grabs my hand between her two. Her palms are warm. ‘Thanks Maddie,’ she says. ‘I knew I was right to ask you.’

  She drops my hand. ‘I better go get Tom and Dayna. They will be really pleased, too.’

  I watch her head down the corridor, her straight back, her elegant way of walking.

  Samara didn’t ask Elsa, Jordi or Grace to help her, I think. She didn’t ask Katy. She asked me.

  People change, I think to myself, wishing I could say it to Katy. People change, and sometimes the change is for the better.

  I head for home, swinging my steps as I go. It is only when I get there that I realise I’d forgotten to take my clarinet out of my bag.

  I hadn’t noticed its weight on my shoulders the whole way. Not one bit.

  Dad agrees to the muffin-making on the condition that I help him. I do this by setting out the muffin cases, mixing the ingredients into smooth gloop with the beater, and washing up afterward. To make the washing up easier, it is also necessary to make sure every last bit of muffin mixture is scraped from the bowl before it goes in the sink. When I was younger, I would do this by actually licking the big silver mixing bowl, which also meant that I ended up with mixture smeared over my face and glued in my hair. Now, I am much more civilised. Now, I only run my finger around the bowl until it collects a decent amount of batter, and then I cram the dripping, chocolatey mess into my mouth.

  Disgusting, but delicious.

  ‘Yum,’ I say. ‘I think the mixture is better than the actual muffins.’

  ‘Katy always thinks so too,’ Dad says.


  I shrug one shoulder.

  ‘Have you asked her to come over?’ He sounds casual, but I can tell that Dad is asking because he thinks it is important.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘She has councillor stuff and music classes.’

  Obviously I don’t mention last week, when Katy had wanted to come over, but I’d gone to Samara’s instead. I don’t mention this afternoon, and our tense interaction. I don’t mention that I was going to message Katy, but when I went to, I didn’t know what to say. A message bubble is still open on my tablet, but nothing is written in it.

  ‘Well, maybe you should ask her over for dinner sometime,’ Dad says.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  I look at the rest of the mixture in the bowl. I take it over to the sink and turn on the hot tap, even though there is still plenty I could have eaten. The sweet gluey mouthful I ate seems to be clogging my throat. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t budge.

  I wonder if Dad is right. Maybe I should go and message Katy now, ask her over. It wouldn’t be hard to do.

  But I don’t.

  After the muffins have cooled on the racks, I pack them carefully into two big plastic containers, ready for the next day. They will be moist and tasty. I haven’t asked Samara how we are going to sell them, or how much we will charge. But at least I know I’ll be seeing Samara tomorrow, and the thought of that settles the other, less comfortable feeling I’ve had since my interaction with Katy.

  I notice Wolfie, sitting at the edge of the kitchen, watching me seal the final container. Cats aren’t supposed to eat sweet things, but Wolfie loves it if I break off a piece of muffin and give it to him. He crouches down, chews on it delicately, and then sits there afterward, his eyes half closed, the cat version of a smile on his furry face.

  ‘Here, puss,’ I say, scraping a small piece that has stuck to the muffin tin. He approaches it, sniffs it, and then looks at me.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Wolfie keeps looking at me, his tail swishing to and fro across the floor with irritation.

  I pick up the muffin fragment and put it in the bin.

  ‘Fussy cat,’ I say.

  I look at the stacked plastic boxes. At least someone will be pleased.

  When I go to my room, I stare at the unwritten, unsent message. It shouldn’t be so hard, to message your best friend.