Page 33 of Malaise
ELEVEN
Carver: How did it go?
I stare downat the message and snarl. Fuck him and his ideal world of forgiveness.
Me: Shit.
The temperature more than halved as soon as the sun went down. Moths flap lazily around the single park light a few metres from the rotunda, providing me some light entertainment. I left the house intent on not returning, but the longer I sit here, the more I realise how ridiculously naïve I’d been about it all.
I haven’t got a jersey, a blanket, any food left after I’ve eaten the sole apple in my backpack, and I’ve only got twelve dollars left in my account until payday on Friday. I’m screwed. No way I’m touching my hard-earned savings just because my parents want to play hardball. I didn’t scrimp to stash away every free cent for this. It’s my ticket out of here—my only way out.
Carver: You still at home?
I let go of a disgruntled sigh and hover my thumb left and right over the screen while I decide if I should let him know where I am or not. I’m still pissed that he had the audacity to get up me about my behaviour and side with Mum and Dad, but he’s also warmth and food, and possibly somewhere to crash until this all blows over.
Yep—I’ve convinced myself that if I stay away until the funeral, Mum and Dad will change their tune once they realise how empty the house is without either child in it.
You’re drunk or delusional—maybe both.
Me: No. I’m at Cedar Park having a celebratory tipple.
The reply is immediate—not even enough time to bring the bottle to my lips again.
Carver: Fucks sake. Be there in 5.
Me: Nup. Stay away.
God only knows why I wrote that, considering I’ve just decided he’s my ticket to lodgings away from home. Spite? The need to still argue this anger out of my system? I add a quick follow-up before he can reply.
Me: It’s cold. I’ll come to you.
If I make it that far before I pass out. I glance over at the first empty vodka bottle laid on its side, and promptly down half of the second bottle in my hand. My stomach roils with unforgiving acid as though to prove the point. No food, and a liquid that never freezes, equals trouble.
The hydrangea bushes over the rotunda wall receive a free shower as I evict the contents of my stomach. Fuck, I feel terrible. And yet, it’s what I want: something to focus on other than the swirling cesspit of shit my life is right now.
My phone skitters across the rotunda floor as a new message comes in. I snatch it up with my left hand, feebly holding on to the wall with my right for dear life, and squint at the shouty caps.
Dad: Come home or the week’s notice is revoked.
Well hello to you too.
Me: Fuck off.
I chuckle to myself, proud as punch with my middle finger to the world, and promptly find a little left in the tank to add to the hydrangeas. Stitching uniforms isn’t such a bad prospect when you’re currently a homeless teen vomiting into public gardens. I make a mental note to apply for a full-time job at the factory after I find a shower and some clean clothes. Fuck going home—if I can even call it that still. No siree. Doing fine on my own, thank you.
I lose my balance and tumble halfway down the steps.
Yep. Definitely handling this adulting thing.
My phone sings at me from its safe spot back up on the rotunda. I crawl the short distance to it, not so trusting of my legs anymore, and slap my hand around until I locate it.
Carver: I’m on my way.
Shit. Carver. Doesn’t the guy know how to follow instructions? I tap my thumb in heavy, misplaced strikes on the screen and send a reply. He responds with two question marks, and I scroll up after a few attempts to see what I sent. My face is pressed against the floor of the rotunda to stop my head wobbling, and I have one eye shut in order to semi-focus on the letters.
Me: I dne nfs hlpp.
Hmm—not your finest work there, Meg. A single tap on the tin roof is followed by two more in close succession. By the time I’ve managed to coordinate my legs enough to drag the limp fuckers into the rotunda properly, the rain pours down in an unrelenting heavy summer storm.