A Little Spark, page 4
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘Just saw you, so I thought I should say hi.’ He gestured over to a table in the corner. A woman sat there. She smiled when Dad pointed and then returned to her menu. I was thrilled. A woman! Dad on a date! I mean, he’d told me he went on them, but to be honest I’d found it hard to believe. I was desperate to go over and tell her that Dad was one of the world’s best people and she should grab him, keep him, and not let him go. On reflection, I decided that would be scary and probably cause her to rush out and hail the nearest taxi, so I didn’t. She looked nice, if you can judge a person from twenty metres away in half a second with a single glance. Which you can’t. Obviously. Though I did.
‘Hello, Mike,’ said Mum. She smiled but I saw her glance over to the table as well. We’d both be checking out the mystery woman for the remainder of our meal. ‘Good to see you.’
I got up and gave Dad a hug. A fragment of noodle transferred itself to his shirt, so I brushed it off. Then I hugged him again, but that was just a ruse so I could whisper in his ear. ‘She’s hot.’ When I pulled away, he was blushing.
‘Better get back,’ said Dad. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
After a couple of minutes, Mum sent them a bottle of wine just to show she was totally over Dad having a date, that she was cool with it, that generosity-of-spirit was her compound middle name. They both raised glasses to us when the waiter poured it for them and we mimed the same back.
Mum was the personification of grace. It didn’t extend to her eyes, though. I can tell these things. So we continued the conversation, both pretending not to check out the couple in the corner at every available opportunity.
‘So how long would Sam be going for, Mum?’ I asked.
‘It’s not a question of Sam going,’ Mum replied. ‘As in, me staying here and him taking off. If I don’t go, then he won’t. Simple as that.’
I thought this over. On one level it was sweet. They were a proper couple, tied to each other. On another level it was disturbing. When we’re bound to people it can be life-changing. It can mean the difference between shopping at Harrod’s or the Vic Market. Strolling around the Tower of London or the Eureka Skydeck. And I knew I was bound up in this as well. Mum just hadn’t played all her cards yet. It occurred to me that I might as well force them onto the table.
‘If I don’t go, what then, Mum?’ I said. ‘You won’t go, so Sam won’t go?’
The idea sounded terrible. Forever I would be the one who had ruined Sam’s chances of making something of himself. I would have destroyed not just his career but possibly my mother’s chance at happiness. How did I suddenly get such power? I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you here and go off to the other side of the world, could I, Cate?’
‘You could,’ I pointed out. ‘I could live with Dad.’
‘And what kind of mother would that make me?’ Mum put down her chopsticks and rubbed at her brow, took a sip from her water glass. I thought that was a strange reply. What kind of mother would it make her? What about my feelings? Was it really important what judgements others might make about her parenting skills? Suddenly I wanted to go home. But this conversation was why we were toying with Chinese food in the first place. I felt I was making a mess of both. I couldn’t grip the chicken or the words. They both lay scattered and messy around me. I tried to find some order.
‘I would have to leave Dad,’ I said. I tried to keep my voice quiet and reasonable. ‘You didn’t answer my question. How long would we all be going for?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a permanent job, so …’ She spread her arms.
‘So possibly, probably, forever,’ I said.
‘Your dad could visit. We could send you back for holidays.’
‘What kind of a father would that make him?’ I said. Mum flushed, but I couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment. ‘I have friends here,’ I added.
‘You’d make new friends.’
‘I like my school.’
‘You’d like another school.’ Mum pushed her plate away. ‘Cate, you’re thirteen years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. You will almost certainly live in many different countries, meet more people than you can begin to imagine, make wonderful friends that right now you know nothing about. The love of your life might be there, waiting for you in London.’
I thought about a boy with a velvet voice. The love of your life could be anywhere. London. Louisiana. Lebanon. Of course, she was right. Moving to England would be a breathtaking experience. It would throw my life upside down, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe lives need to be thrown upside down from time to time. Maybe that’s how we know we’re alive.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But if my life was going to be thrown upside down, I needed to be the one to do it. Me. Not Mum, not Dad. Certainly not Sam and probably not Elise.
‘I’ll think about it, Mum,’ I said.
She reached over and took my hand.
‘That’s all I ask,’ she said.
‘How long have I got?’
Mum frowned. ‘The offer is on the table and apparently the company want him so badly they are prepared to wait some time for an answer. It’s not a vacancy as such. It’s more like he’s being headhunted. But I guess even then there’s a limit. So, I don’t know. A month? Maybe two.’
I nodded.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Elise. ‘I thought I was the drama llama and here you are trying to beat me. It’s pathetic. You need to grow up, CC.’
We sat in a corner of the library where students rarely go and where librarians turn a blind eye to kids chatting, provided the decibel level is incredibly low.
‘Tell me about your drama,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of thinking about mine.’
‘Mum’s gone to a solicitor.’
‘Uh oh.’
‘They argue every night now.’ Elise toyed with a lock of her hair. ‘They wait till I’m in bed. It’s almost funny. Again. They want me to piss off so they can stick knives into each other. And I’m going to bed earlier and earlier just to avoid the freaking … atmosphere. And when I’m up there I can still hear them, even though they’re trying to be quiet.’
‘What do you hear when you sneak out of your room and sit on the stairs?’
Elise gave me another of her looks. The how do you know so much, smart-arse? look.
‘Money mostly,’ she said. ‘Mum wants to buy Dad out of the house. Dad wants to buy Mum out. They can’t even agree what it’s worth. Mum says if she buggered off she couldn’t buy anywhere, once you take out all their debts. Dad says the same.’
‘Is anyone using you as a weapon yet?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yeah. Mum says I’m staying with her, so she should keep the house to give me “continuity”.’ Elise made the quote marks in the air. ‘Dad says that’s so old fashioned and I should stay with him.’
‘No one’s asked you, though.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Course not. I just sit on the stairs while they talk about me. I’m a piece on the board and they keep moving me round. Is there a board game called Divorce? Should be.’
We sat for a while, mulling over our separate thoughts.
‘I’m sick of being a freaking token in a game,’ said Elise. ‘But what can I do?’
I thought of all the responses I could give. Play them. If this is a game, then you have moves as well. One parent against another. Feign deep depression, so they stop arguing and focus on you. Throw things around. Fight at school. Get suspended. Steal a car. Cut yourself. But these weren’t helpful. I shook my head. Token in a game? That pretty much summed up the pair of us.
‘I don’t know, El,’ I said. ‘All of this will pass. In the meantime, just look after yourself and call me whenever you want. Day or night. Literally any time. Call me.’
‘What? Like at three in the morning?’
‘Piss off! Are you crazy?’ I put my arm around her shoulder. ‘Any time. You know that.’
We stayed that way for a couple of minutes and then Elise shuddered.
‘Someone walk over your grave?’ I asked.
‘No. Don’t know. Maybe. I just wondered what’d happen to me if you piss off to England,’ said Elise. ‘Can I tell you the truth, CC?’
‘That depends on the truth,’ I replied.
‘I don’t think I can get through this without you.’
I felt like crying, but instead I hugged her harder.
‘What part of “depends” didn’t you understand?’ I asked.
My class had to do oral presentations. I gave mine on the Fermi paradox – the question of why, if aliens are all over the universe, haven’t they showed up yet, other than to do stupid stunts in flying saucers in remote areas where a couple of bozos are gonna be amazed (thanks, Dad!).
I followed Elise, who gave her talk on the Beethoven film series. I know the Beethoven series because we watch some or all of them every time I sleep over at her place. And there are eight of the damn things. The first couple feature a Saint Bernard dog – the kind made famous by lurching through snow drifts in the mountains of Europe with a barrel of brandy around their necks, looking for people dying of hypothermia in the wilds. Or alcoholics who’ve got lost. Anyway, El loves those two movies, which is puzzling because El has a sensitive bullshit detector and the movies are kind of woeful. The dog, I have to admit, is so cute it’s painful, but the stories are so corny it’s even more painful. I’ve told her this on many occasions. You wouldn’t understand, CC, she replies. It’s called having good taste.
To be fair, it’s not so much the movies she loves. It’s the dog. She wants a Saint Bernard, but her parents laughed hysterically when she asked. So Elise is planning on leaving home when she’s sixteen and getting an apartment and the dog. I worry about her grip on reality sometimes.
Anyway, it seems her enthusiasm for the subject wasn’t shared by the rest of the class. There was silence when she finished.
I don’t know how many of my fellow students enjoyed my presentation, but judging by the applause when I finished, at least some of them did.
I didn’t mention the UAPs Dad and I had witnessed. Like I’ve said before: what happens on the visitation weekend stays on the visitation weekend. Though I make an exception for El, obviously.
I went back to Elise’s place after school, partly because I wanted to stickybeak her domestic situation and partly to avoid mine.
I stared at the computer screen in her bedroom and tried to stop the contents of my stomach from making a dramatic appearance. Elise has a nice cream shag pile carpet in her bedroom and I didn’t think projectile vomiting would improve its appearance. And why was I on the verge of throwing up? I read the opening paragraph on the screen again: We understand how difficult it can be for new writers to have their voices heard by publishers, especially in the competitive world of writing for young adults and children. That is why we have our Book Pitch Program (BPP). It’s very simple. Fill out the form below and then send us the first chapter of your book with a short synopsis (no more than 300 words) as separate Word documents. We guarantee that your writing will be read and if we are interested in helping you with publishing then we will be in contact within three weeks of you submitting your work.
Elise nudged my arm. ‘Go on then, ya bozo,’ she said. ‘Fill out the form.’
‘I’m scared,’ I said.
‘Of a form?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re weird.’
‘And what’s your point?’
‘Fill out the freaking form.’
The first field was straightforward enough. Title of work. I typed in Unicorn Girl. (I even put it in italics, to show how professional I could be. Was that professional? Would someone take one look at my title in italics and then immediately dump the whole lot in the recycle bin? I sighed.) Next field. Author. That was easy, though again I felt like throwing up. How could I put myself down as an author? An author is someone with a book in a shop or a library, not a thirteen-year-old with a Word file. I typed in Caitlyn Carson, then deleted it and typed in Cate Carson, then deleted it and typed in CC Carson, then deleted it. The blinking cursor seemed like a rebuke.
‘Remembering your name’s tricky, yeah,’ said Elise. ‘I can see why you’re struggling.’
‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘Which is better, El? Full name or Cate Carson or CC Carson? The last one sounds cool and authorish at least.’
‘The last one’s a lie. The last C in CC stands for Carson. What’s the word when someone says the same thing twice?’
‘Tautology.’
‘That’s it. How about C Tautology Carson? That is authorish.’
‘Shut up, El.’
I typed in Caitlyn Carson again, moved to the next field. Target audience age group. I thought about it. Birth to death and maybe beyond, I wanted to write, but put down ten to fourteen years of age instead. Next. Please provide a brief bio (a couple of lines about where you live and what you do). I was pleased with the brief bit. When you’re thirteen it’s difficult to get beyond a couple of lines. I put down: I live just outside Melbourne, Victoria (in case of the geographically challenged), and I have a passionate interest in education, especially English Literature. I am currently working full-time in a school. I skimmed the rest of the form. Nowhere did it ask for your age, which was a blessing (thirteen? – straight into the recycle bin) and I was working full-time in a school. Next. What genre is your work? Despite the title, I wrote, this is realistic fiction. Next. Please summarise your story in one sentence (e.g. a love story involving young people from very different ethnic backgrounds/a fantasy about a girl with a magic power she doesn’t understand/a story about someone travelling around Australia with his or her parents). This was tricky. One sentence? Hmmm.
‘How would you answer this, El?’ I asked.
Elise slapped herself on the forehead. ‘Hello, CC? I haven’t read the freaking thing. I don’t know what your novel is about because you won’t let me read it. I’m allowed to read your short story, it seems, but not your book. If there’s logic there, I can’t find it.’
‘Okay. A valid point,’ I conceded. I chewed at my bottom lip for a minute or so, but that didn’t help. Finally I wrote: When a young girl sees a unicorn in a forest, she doesn’t believe her eyes, yet that first experience of the miraculous sets her on a path to understanding that some things are just too wonderful not to be true. I chewed my lip again as Elise read it over my shoulder.
‘I’m trying for the mysterious,’ I said.
‘You’ve nailed the confused,’ she said. ‘What does that even mean?’
‘You’d have to read the book.’
‘You won’t let me. Hello, CC?’
‘A valid point.’
I read it over again. Maybe Elise was right, but I couldn’t think of anything better. There was a box you could tick if you had any previous publishing history. I left it blank. I couldn’t imagine listing my primary school magazine would have publishers scrambling to sign me up. Then it was simply a question of uploading the first chapter and the synopsis and pressing SEND. I think the first chapter had promise and I’d spent a lot of time over the synopsis. Both had been formatted properly and I’d rewritten that first chapter at least five times. I thought it was the best I could make it. One of the things I’d read in my research was that most first-time writers just send off the first draft and hope for the best. I wanted to polish mine so that a weary publishing eye might catch a glint of talent.
I read the disclaimer above the SEND button one more time: You will receive an automatic email acknowledging receipt. If we are interested we will email you within three weeks. If you do not hear from us assume that we are not interested. No other communication will be entered into.
‘Here goes,’ I said to Elise. ‘Press send and throw my baby into the black hole of the publishing world.’
‘You didn’t put my email address down, did you?’
‘No, my school email.’ There was no way to distinguish, by the email address at least, a staff member from a student, so I thought that was safe. ‘Not that it will matter, anyway, El. A no-reply is a no-reply whatever email you’re using.’
‘Wow,’ said El. ‘Miss glass-not-even-half-empty. Miss there’s-nothing-in-the-freaking-glass-to-start-with.’
I pressed SEND.
‘Your baby?’ said Elise. ‘You’re such a mess, CC.’
Elise’s parents were overjoyed to see me and positively thrilled to know that I was staying for dinner. They set to with a passion, smiling at each other over the kitchen central island and chopping, dicing and slicing with admirable cooperation. They hated each other, but for an untrained eye it was difficult to tell. It was also slightly unnerving, since they were both using sharp knives. I retreated to the front room where Elise was watching a quiz show on TV.
‘Let’s watch Beethoven after dinner,’ said Elise.
‘I would sooner have my front teeth extracted with red hot pliers,’ I replied.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘Thought you would.’
‘Checked your school email yet?’ said Elise, not looking up from the screen.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I only sent it off twenty minutes ago.’ I plopped myself down on the couch next to her. ‘Well, once,’ I added. ‘Got the acknowledgment email.’
‘What did it say?’
I ignored her.
The quiz show had entered the specialist round, where contestants answer questions on subjects of their choosing. One man was tackling questions on Victorian fungi. How do they find the people to set these types of questions? Judging by his answers there was only one person in Australia who knew everything about Victorian fungi and that was him. Did he set his own questions? I was going to ask Elise, but she already thinks I’m weird.
‘If I go to London …’ I said.
‘You aren’t.’
