The Children Of The Mist (2 page)

She pushed the change room door open and looked in. It smelled of sweat and cheap perfume. Gross. Still, it had the advantage of being empty. Her footsteps echoed off the dirty cream walls as she made her way to the benches. As she passed the long, highly-polished metal mirror she paused. One hand subdued the front of her shirt and, after a guilty look around, she scrutinised her chest. Was it her imagination or had the fried eggs graduated to poached eggs? She sighed, crashed onto the seat and hauled an Aero out of her bag. Probably wishful thinking. Her mum said it was normal not to have your period at nearly sixteen. Personally, she was not convinced.

Even the bubbles of minty freshness failed to revive her spirits. As she sucked the melted remains from her fingers she had to dismally acknowledge that she really was a freak – a fact she preferred to keep to herself.

Morven's mood lifted once she arrived on the sports oval. It was a fine summer day. The emerald green oval contrasted prettily with its newly-painted white lines. Morven stretched and twisted with her classmates, making a show of keen preparation while tamping down her impatience at the pointless exercise. They'd walked half a kilometre to the field, you'd think that would be enough. Her focus faltered at the sound of the boys yelling and jeering as they raced past, just as she bent over to touch her toes. Perfect timing.

Finally she headed off to the sandpit. Long jump. She loved long jump. But she hated standing, twiddling her thumbs, waiting for a turn. She broke into a sprint, her fingers twisting a band into her long hair as she went. With her effortless lope she passed the others and had a free run to the pit. Accelerating down the track her mind cleared and she let her body take over. Wind rushed over her face and caught her ponytail so that it streamed out like a black banner behind her. In her mind's eye she visualised her body flying across the pit. As she left the earth it was almost as if she could walk on air itself. And then her feet skidded into the damp sand. In one fluid movement she bounced up to inspect the damage. Not bad. But not her best.

A quick glance up the field told her she had time for one more jump before the rabble arrived. Fully focused now, she paused at the start of the track, took a deep breath and pushed off with her left leg. This time it was not for fun. As she flew down the path she visualised a castle with a moat. A wide moat full of crocodiles. Fierce determination fuelled her furnace and she let out a grunt of air as she lifted off, legs and arms still pumping. On landing she struggled for balance, but tipped forward without fouling. Still kneeling, she looked at her progress. Good. In fact, probably a PB.

‘Shit, that was some jump, Morven!'

Morven stood up slowly, her heart beating like jungle drums. ‘Thanks,' she said, horribly aware of the tide of red blood surging up her neck and face. Peter Goldman, however, was a picture of cool in his white shorts and singlet. With consummate effort she managed to stop her eyes wandering past his waist line, consoling herself with the swell of his chest and his muscular, tanned shoulders.

‘
Hiii
, Pete.'

Almost relieved by the interruption, Morven turned. The rabble had arrived, led by Missy Fisher who smiled at Pete, all blue-eyed innocence like Miss American Pie. Yuk. Unfortunately, Peter Goldman did not seem to share Morven's sentiments.

‘Hi, Missy,' he said, flashing his even, white teeth with rock-star confidence.

Soon he was lost among a bevy of giggling geese. Morven reckoned she'd been summarily dismissed and headed back to the sandpit to take her place in the line-up. Bored, she began to count how many steps each girl took before she jumped. It seemed a bad omen that all but one took uneven steps. Two totalled 13. Not good. It didn't help when Missy returned to remind Morven what a real girl should look like: toasted skin the colour of honey, a very creditable C-cup, and eyes of picture-postcard blue. Morven tried to boost her confidence with the knowledge that she had better legs and, while she had a complexion to rival Rowena Ravenclaw's long-lamented dead daughter, she did not have spots. Still, she could not suppress the conviction that Missy Fisher had probably had her periods since she was eight, and would not be fazed by a blemish on her forehead.

Fed up with herself, she tried to focus on the Friday-afternoon factor. The prospect of two whole days of uninterrupted skating with Zest pulled her out of the doldrums. Another good jump gave her a gee-up. As she made her way to the track for sprinting she also remembered her new shirt. Khaki green with a black wolf running out of it. Awesome. Drew attention away from her boobless state. She'd wear it with her army camouflage pants and her communist cap. Too hot for a hoodie. Maybe she could beg some cash from her mum for some new Connie's; her present pair was cactus.

Too late, she realised she'd missed the dash for prime position on the starting line. Unperturbed she jogged to the outside lane. She did not bother to check out the competition. It was not that she was up herself, it was just that there wasn't any. The gun went off and she was away. Four hundred metres. Not her favourite, but okay. By the time they turned into the last straight she was up front. She hit the finish line several metres ahead of the rest. She was barely out of breath. It seemed there were some benefits to having a figure like a flamingo. Still, she wished there was a bit more competition; it would be nice to have to push a bit. That's what she loved about skating. Always something new to try, or a bit harder, a bit faster. It made her feel alive.

In the distance the bell rang frantically and Morven hurried back to get changed. She skipped a shower. It could wait till she got home. Besides, she hadn't really worked up a sweat. With her mind already focused on the weekend ahead, she managed a few half-hearted goodbyes before rushing out the door. As she joined the herd stampeding to the front gate she was glad she lived locally. No dithering around waiting for a bus. Home called. She was starving. As she pounded the pavement, heat shimmered in mirages above the hot bitumen. With her mind contemplating the forthcoming evening's activities, she barely noticed the fifteen-minute walk through the pleasant leafy suburb. It was a good place to be: an hour from the beach and an hour on the train to Brisbane. Morven liked it well enough.

Her home was a block of modern units on the river. Four stories of concrete and glass. As she ducked into the lift and swiped her card, she hoped someone was home. Possible on a Friday afternoon. Sometimes her dad, a lecturer at the uni, would beat her home, armed with a cheesecake or something else yummy. It was something of a ritual, the pair of them out on the balcony washing down the good stuff with Coke. It was possible her mum, who was a diplomat (whatever that was), might be there, but it was less likely due to her commute from the city. Sometimes she worked long hours. As Morven stepped out of the lift her spirits lifted. The sliding glass doors onto the small balcony were open and her dad was already perched on his favourite seat, an ancient squatter's chair that her mum reckoned had woodworm.

At the sound of her footsteps on the tiled floors, he put down his book, lifted his glasses off his bony, prominent nose and smiled. ‘Hi.' With his long, limber frame and thick head of black hair people often commented on how alike they looked. It was a secret source of amusement to the whole family.

Morven waved and dumped her bag on the floor.

He pointed somewhere behind her. ‘Cake's in the fridge.'

Not needing a second invitation, Morven cruised into the trendy chrome and black kitchen and popped open the fridge. Not cheesecake, better still, a humungous black cherry gateau, oozing with cream and cholesterol. In the words of a famous Weasley, ‘Bloody brilliant.' With a small sigh of ecstasy, Morven cut what could only be described as a mammoth slab of cake and grabbed a can of Coke frosted with icy condensation.

The great thing about Dad, Morven reflected between large mouthfuls of drink and cake, was that you didn't have to say anything. There was just this unspoken agreement that Friday afternoon cake was a kind of pinnacle of happiness. Of course, there was an element of guilt. Her mum loved cake but as she often said, she was built for comfort, not speed, the opposite of her husband and only child. So Morven and her dad made sure they got in a serious top-up of carbs in private, to spare Mum the agony of missing out, or worse, joining in.

After a second slice, which, if anything, tasted better than the first, Morven released a burp that triggered the weekly burping contest. While she prided herself on quality, her dad still had the edge on quantity. Still, Morven felt that the contests were getting closer. Maybe it was because her boobs were getting bigger. Awesome.

It was a lovely afternoon. Down below, the river meandered lazily by, its dark surface glinting in the harsh rays of the sun. Ducks took off in a whirr of wings as two small kayaks skimmed across the surface. Morven could hear the kayaker's voices but the meaning was lost in the distance. A breeze ruffled the heads of the gum trees, whispering secrets softly.

Finally full, Morven cleared up and put the dirties in the dishwasher. Her stomach groaned and grumbled, and she felt a small twinge of gut ache. Serve her right for being a pig. A noise caught her attention. She smiled and yelled to her dad, ‘Mum's home!'

Her father looked around expectantly. But the lift was closed. Morven frowned, feeling a bit silly. She must be suffering from auditory hallucinations. She caught her father's eye and shrugged. ‘My mistake,' she said.

As she popped the little white pellets into the dishwasher the lift doors swished open and her mum stepped out. Morven rushed over to give her petite parent a hug, and she had a strange, slightly spooky feeling, something like déjà vu. But not quite the same. She released her mum and smiled down at her. ‘I'm magic. I knew you were home before the lift arrived.'

Her mum smiled. ‘That's handy. It will save me having to tell you that you need to tidy your room before you head out.'

Morven groaned. Housework was even worse than schoolwork. So boring. Still, while her mother was small in stature she was big on ‘everyone pulling their weight.' Morven went to her room and looked around. It was a tad untidy. She got through it by counting the items she put away. Ten pairs of clean socks, six pairs of dirty, two hairbrushes, and (unfortunately) one empty pizza box. She paused and stared at Wolverine, airbrushed larger than life over one white wall. His expression was definitely sympathetic. She would have laid down her life that the probability of Wolverine ever having to tidy his room was about three million to one. When she was a super hero, she would pay someone to tidy up.

After she finished her room, she changed. ‘What do you think?' But Wolverine, the stubborn man, refused to answer. Morven checked herself out in the mirror. The T-shirt looked good. She turned sideways on and perused her chest. Maybe it was the shirt, but she still reckoned her boobs were bigger. About bloody time. She pulled on her khaki cap and tugged it down to her eyes. Exactly the right look — street but not scruff. She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. Its chrome arms told her it was time to go.

Her mum was perched beside her dad on her little cane chair, a glass of red wine in one hand. Her unofficial declaration that work was out and the weekend was in.

‘Mum, Dad, I'm off then.'

‘Have a good one,' said dad.

Morven knew exactly what her mum was going to say. She said the same thing every time. As predictable as a school bell.

‘Phone us if you miss the last train.'

Morven grinned. She never missed the last train. On the way to the lift she grabbed her skate from the cupboard. With a last goodbye she stepped into the lift and was off. Back on the street, she hopped on the board and skimmed down the level road. She could hear the train on the tracks, approaching the station. She'd better hurry; she whipped down Peach Street, nipped through the park and over the wall into Station Street. After a burst of abuse from a slow old lady in a Volvo, Morven slid effortlessly to a stop at the station entry. She could hear the train really clearly now. Scared she was going to miss it, she raced out onto the platform. But the train wasn't there. It didn't arrive for another three minutes.

As the train finally slid into the station and ground to a halt, Morven hopped onto the first carriage. That way she was sure to find Zest. The train was about one third full, people scattered throughout. Halfway down the length of the train, Morven spotted him. His spiky, red hair was as good as a beacon. He was sitting with his back to her but must have been on the lookout as he turned and smiled.

Morven smiled back. It was impossible not to. With his wide-set, green eyes and his dimples, Zest looked like a choir boy on vacation from the Vatican…not that she would have shared that observation. Zest honestly thought he was pretty tough. She didn't have the heart to tell him.

She flopped into the yellow and green chair opposite. ‘Hi,' she said.

‘Great shirt.'

She was really pleased. Not just that he noticed but because she valued Zest's opinion. If Zest said it was great, then it really was great. She checked him out. He wore jeans and a black singlet that showed off his broad chest and the wolf head tattoo on his left shoulder. Zest loved wolves too.

Zest picked up his iPod. ‘Listen to this.'

Morven took one of the earplugs and Zest took the other. Immediately she recognised the new track by Coolio,
Gangsta's Paradise
. It was good. All about how death is just a heartbeat away. Cool.

Zest danced in his seat and mouthed the words. But then, he was never still. He had more energy than a shooting star. Besides, it was that kind of music and it was Friday. The world flashed by, leafy suburbia giving way to the industrial fringes of the city. Morven grinned as they slowed at a station and admired the huge orange wolf's head sprayed on the grey wall of a factory. She pointed. ‘Very nice.'