Maddie in the Middle Page 7

  ‘They’re all right,’ Samara says to me as the siren goes and the others head in the direction of their classrooms. ‘Jordi and that group.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say.

  ‘They don’t really care about anything, but they’re nice enough,’ Samara says.

  I wonder if Samara noticed how out of place I felt. Before I can say anything else, Samara disappears to her classroom, and, with a sigh of relief that recess is over, I go into mine.

  After school, I am standing near the undercover area, waiting for Samara, Tom and Dayna to bring me the containers. There are only a few kids left, wandering toward the school gates with their friends: the school becomes so quiet I can hear the birds chattering in the eucalypts, the afternoon breeze rustling leaves. It is strange how something so familiar, the asphalt and the classrooms and the smell of apple cores and shoes, can turn strange so suddenly.

  ‘Hi.’

  I am startled out of my thoughts by Samara handing back the containers. The minute she gives them to me, Dayna grabs Samara’s hand. She looks even unhappier than she did this morning.

  ‘Everyone loves them,’ Tom says, kicking his soccer ball from foot to foot as he speaks. ‘They want more.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Maybe after the holidays, I can make more.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot about school holidays,’ Samara says. ‘When do they start?’

  ‘End of next week,’ I say.

  Samara and Tom look at each other.

  ‘Can I show you something?’ Samara says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘What?’

  ‘You can come over, now?’ Samara says. ‘You don’t need to go home?’

  ‘No, Samara,’ Tom says. ‘I don’t want her coming over.’

  ‘Tom,’ Samara says in a warning voice.

  ‘I’ll come over,’ I say, looking from Samara to Tom to Dayna, who is twisting her hands around Samara’s, tugging at her. ‘Only if it’s okay.’

  ‘Samara,’ Tom says.

  ‘We can trust her,’ Samara says. She nods at me. ‘Can’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ sighs Tom.

  On the walk to Samara’s house, I try to guess what Samara is going to show me. I can tell by the way they are acting that it isn’t anything exciting, like a new puppy. I try to imagine why I would need to be taken to Samara’s, but my imagination fails me. Tom tries to keep up his normal enthusiastic chatter about soccer and some game that was big with the year four boys, but as we approach Samara’s street, even Tom quietens, and Samara and Dayna seem to walk slower.

  When Samara opens the door, a stale smell wafts out, like towels left in the wash basket for too long. I wrinkle my nose, and Dayna looks at me, frowning. I try to make my expression neutral, but Dayna buries her head against Samara.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Samara says. ‘Come on, you’re a big girl, it’s okay.’

  Inside, all is silent. I look around. The flat appears just as cluttered as it had last time, except some of the boxes against the walls have been moved and opened, as if someone has been looking for something. There are curls of packing tape here and there, the lids of the boxes folded back.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you want some water?’ Samara says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I perch at the table. Spread over its surface are packets of two-minute noodles, tins of baked beans, a big tub of peanut butter, and giant boxes of generic cereal. I hear Samara washing glasses in the kitchen. When she emerges with some water, the outside of the glass is still a little wet. The water tastes metallic.

  ‘I’m sorry the water is warm, our fridge isn’t working,’ Samara says, sitting at the table next to me. Dayna stays close to Samara, moving her chair as close as she can.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Tom says, ‘I do!’

  In a warning voice, Samara replies, ‘Tom.’

  Tom goes over to the television. He picks up the remote control for the games console, presses his thumbs on its buttons, then throws it down.

  ‘I’m bored!’ he says. ‘I want my games!’

  ‘Stop it,’ Samara says.

  ‘Yeah, stop it,’ Dayna says.

  ‘Shut up, Dayna.’

  ‘Shut up, Tom.’

  ‘Both of you shut up,’ Samara says.

  Tom glares at Dayna. Dayna pokes her tongue back. But neither of them say another word. Tom sits on the end of the couch, kicking his feet against the floor.

  ‘Is your TV broken too?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay,’ Samara says, looking straight into my eyes. ‘So I need to explain something.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  ‘We don’t have any electricity,’ Samara says.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Why not?’

  I hear a door open, and Samara’s mother walks out of a room, dazed. She is dressed in a baggy housecoat, and her long hair is hanging in knotty strands. Her face looks waxy, her eyes wide with fear, like a person with a fever. She sees me, and shakes her head at Samara, waving her hands.

  ‘It’s just Maddie, Mum,’ Samara says, rushing over to her. ‘She’s okay.’

  Samara puts her arm around her mother and talks to her in a low voice. She ushers her back into her room, and disappears inside.

  I stand frozen, not knowing what to do.

  ‘She’s been like this for a while,’ Tom says. ‘It’s my face.’

  ‘It’s not your face,’ Dayna says. ‘Samara said to stop saying that.’

  ‘It is,’ Tom mutters.

  ‘Did you … did you have an accident?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t born this way, was I?’ Tom snaps.

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ Dayna says.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ Tom says.

  To ease my awkwardness, I get up and put my glass in the kitchen. I almost slip over in a puddle of water that is leaking from the fridge. That is where the stale smell is coming from. I look around for something to mop up the water.

  ‘Maddie?’ I hear Samara call.

  ‘I’m here,’ I say, returning to the table.

  ‘Oh good,’ Samara says. ‘I thought you might have gone home.’

  I sit back down. Samara sits next to me and looks earnestly into my eyes.

  ‘Maddie, you understand what’s going on, right?’ she says.

  ‘You haven’t got electricity,’ I say. ‘Your mum is … sick?’

  Samara nods. ‘When she works, it’s okay. But for a while now –’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She hasn’t been this bad before.’

  ‘Why don’t I ask my dad?’ I say. ‘He’ll be able to help.’

  ‘No!’

  I am startled: calm Samara almost yelled. For a moment, I see the fear in her eyes.

  ‘No,’ Samara repeats. ‘We can’t tell anyone. Except for you.’

  ‘Can’t you get some money from the government?’ I say.

  Samara shakes her head. ‘My dad, he …’

  ‘Don’t tell her,’ Tom says.

  ‘She won’t say anything,’ Samara says. ‘Will you?’

  ‘I promise,’ I answer. ‘I can keep a secret.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I cross my heart. ‘I’m sure.’

  Samara looks at Tom. Tom shrugs.

  ‘At the beginning of last year,’ Samara says, ‘Mum and Dad had a fight.’

  ‘Is that why he’s not here?’

  ‘They used to fight, sometimes,’ Samara says. ‘It wasn’t anything worse than normal.’

  I nod, to encourage Samara to keep talking. Samara isn’t normally a talkative person. With Jordi, Elsa and Grace, she is usually the calm one, smiling and adding the odd comment, but she seems comfortable with quietness. I have a flush of pride, that Samara trusts me enough to talk in this way.

  ‘But this time, they had a big argument just before Tom had to go and play soccer,’ Samara says. ‘When Dad and Tom left in the car, they roared away. I remember Mum
watching after them. Like she had a bad feeling.’

  Tom puts his hands over his face. He makes a low noise.

  ‘Tom doesn’t remember what happened next.’ Samara lowers her voice. ‘But … well, Dad was driving, fast. Too fast. He tried to take a bend, but he lost control.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘They had a crash,’ Dayna says. ‘Dad and Tom did.’

  Tom bursts out, ‘You don’t have to tell her all this! Why are you telling her?’

  ‘I have to explain,’ Samara says.

  Tom gets up and stomps to his room. He swings the door around as if he is going to slam it, but at the end slows it down so it closes with a shush.

  ‘Tom was in hospital for a long time,’ Samara says. ‘He almost lost his eye. Then he got infections. He was really sick.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I think of how when you have a cut, it scabs over, and then underneath the scab, the skin is pink and shiny. I think how deep the cuts on Tom’s face must have been, to make the scars that are there.

  ‘Dad was fine,’ Samara says. ‘But he sat by Tom and kept saying, “It should have been me.”. And at one point Mum got really angry, and said, “Yes, it should have.” And then Dad took off.’

  ‘Took off where?’

  Samara shrugs. ‘We don’t know, exactly. For a while he was texting, then – then he just stopped.’

  ‘Is he … is he alive, do you think?’

  ‘He kept using the money him and Mum had, even after he stopped answering his phone,’ she says. ‘He spent it bit by bit until there was none left. So yeah, he’s alive.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say.

  Samara looks at her hands around her glass of water. She hasn’t taken a sip.

  ‘We moved here because Tom was being teased at his old school, and everyone knew what Dad had done,’ she says. ‘If Mum can teach we’re all right.’

  ‘But now she can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Now we need to help,’ Samara says. ‘Until she is better again.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘So what do you need me to do?’

  Samara leans forward and squeezes my hand.

  ‘We need to get changed,’ Samara says, ‘and then I’ll show you.’

  Samara changes out of her uniform, and lends me some of her clothes, a loose-fitting blouse and the kind of pants I’d been wanting for ages. The blouse smells lemony, and when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise myself. I look sophisticated, older. A bit like Samara.

  ‘You stay here with Dayna,’ Samara says to Tom, who has emerged from his room, still looking sulky.

  ‘Can’t we go to the oval?’ he says. ‘I want to practise.’

  Samara just looks at him, and he lowers his head. ‘Okay, okay.’

  I pick up my bag from near the door but Samara says, ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Outside, the sun has disappeared behind a cloud, and a cool breeze wafts over us.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask as we walk.

  ‘To the shopping centre,’ Samara says.

  ‘But it’s over there.’ I point in the direction of the school.

  ‘Not that one, of course,’ Samara says.

  I don’t know why she says ‘of course’. As we walk, I try to think of things to say. I really want to know more about Samara’s dad, and Tom’s accident, and where they’d lived before, but I can see how difficult it has been for Samara to tell me as much as she has, so I don’t ask. I think about bringing up Katy, or the piece we are doing for music, or the fact that school holidays are in a couple of weeks and I am probably going to have to go to Port Hedland. But each thought, as I say it to myself, sounds silly, after what Samara has told me. So we walk in silence. I comfort myself by thinking that Samara is normally happy enough without having to talk. That hopefully she doesn’t feel that I am boring.

  In the shopping centre, Samara seems to glide down the shiny floors leading to the supermarket.

  ‘What are you getting?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re just looking,’ Samara says.

  ‘I should have brought my purse,’ I say. ‘I could have got you something proper to eat.’

  Samara turns and gazes evenly into my eyes.

  ‘Just watch,’ Samara says.

  We wander up the aisles. I am feeling hungrier and hungrier, as we wander through the middle of the supermarket, shelf after shelf of chocolates, nuts, chips.

  ‘Dayna likes these,’ Samara says, picking up a small packet of salty nuts.

  ‘I could have bought some for her,’ I say. ‘Can we go back and get my bag?’

  I think of the packets of two-minute noodles, the tins of baked beans, the jar of peanut butter, the cereal. I don’t know how you would cook two-minute noodles without a kettle, and even though I like baked beans and cereal fine, it isn’t something you’d want to eat for dinner every night.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Samara says. ‘So, Maddie, if you had the choice of whatever you wanted here, what would it be?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘This – that – that – and that.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Samara smiles.

  ‘My dad says I’d get sick of them if I ate them all the time,’ I say. ‘I disagree.’

  We wander up and down a little more, picking up things that catch our eye, putting them back again.

  ‘All right,’ says Samara. ‘Let’s go.’

  We leave the shop through the checkout. Samara nods to the girl who is looking bored, waiting for someone to put items on the black conveyor belt.

  When we exit the shopping centre, we turn a different way to go back to Samara’s.

  ‘I really feel hungry now,’ I say. ‘All those yummy things.’ Then I realise what I am saying, and who I am saying it to. ‘Samara, I’m sorry.’

  Samara doesn’t reply, but I am sure she produces a small smile. At a park, tucked in between a row of houses, we stop. There are no children playing on the swings, so we sit on them. I really want to start swinging back and forth, the way I would have if I’d been on my own, or with Katy, but Samara seems too dignified to do such a childish thing.

  To my astonishment, Samara passes me four packets of nutencrusted chocolates. The same ones she had been looking at in the supermarket.

  ‘What?’ I say. I stare at the packets now in my hands. I wonder how Samara had managed to pay for them without me noticing. And then I realise. Samara hadn’t paid for them at all.

  ‘Samara,’ I say. ‘That’s – that’s stealing.’

  Samara looks earnestly at me.

  ‘Maddie,’ she says. ‘You understand that I don’t want to do it. Stealing is bad, I know it, and you know it. But you’ve seen our house. We have to eat. We have to try and get money together for the electricity. We won’t do it forever. Once Mum is better again, we’ll stop.’

  ‘What if you get caught?’ I say.

  ‘This is why Tom can’t be involved,’ Samara says. ‘People notice him too much. But he can sell the things we get, with that boy Zac.’

  ‘You’re going to sell these?’

  ‘Not only these.’ And Samara produces from her sleeves and pockets an array of chocolates and toffees, the things we had been examining. I blink.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I didn’t see a thing.’

  Samara smiles. ‘No. You didn’t.’ Then she leans toward me. ‘So will you help us, Maddie? I want you to, but I totally understand if you say no. We’ll still be friends. But I could really use your help.’

  I look into Samara’s unblinking eyes. I see her earnest, worried expression. I think of the stale smell in Samara’s apartment, her mother bent over with sadness, her brother’s scarred face. I think of how I want to be the best I can be. I think that this is something I can do. I haven’t been able to be the kind of friend Katy wants. But I can be Samara’s friend. Samara hasn’t asked anyone else to help her. She’s asked me.

  Do my best, help the rest, I say to myself. If I do this, I’ll be helping. Won’t I?

&n
bsp; I take a deep breath. ‘Of course I’ll help you. But there’s one problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Samara asks.

  ‘I’ve never stolen anything. I don’t know how to do it. How do you know I won’t get caught?’

  I have a brief flash of the look Dad would give me, if I was ever caught doing something so terrible. The image is so real that my breath catches.

  I try to rid myself of his imagined expression, focusing instead on Samara, who has stood up and is in front of me, facing me. Taking my hand to bring me to my feet.

  ‘Let me show you,’ she says.

  Samara explains the secrets of stealing. And, more importantly, of not being noticed while you steal.

  I learn about slipping items into my sleeves, under my waistband, in my pockets if there are no other options. I learn that you never put anything in your bag, or take anything too big, or too crinkly, or too heavy. I learn that two girls shopping is okay, but that it is better to be alone.

  I learn about the secret shoppers who watch you, the cameras and where they are angled, how staff are notified over the speakers if they suspect someone is shoplifting.

  I learn that it is better to buy some small thing, to show your bag. And most importantly, to walk away if there is the slightest possibility that someone has noticed you.

  What Samara doesn’t explain is how she is going to make money out of what we steal. She just says Zac and Tom will do it, and it is better that I don’t know.

  I listen to everything intently. I have to be able to do this right, if I am going to help Samara. But still I worry. I am crossing over a line – a line between being a regular girl and becoming a shoplifter. A line between someone who has nothing to hide, and someone who forever has to keep a terrible secret. And a line which shows what kind of friend I am. If I am someone who will truly help a friend, or if I am someone who will let her fear stop her.