The Red Cardigan (3 page)

‘We saw him for a second,' Poppy says. ‘Alex told him we were friends of yours.'

‘Oh my god,' Evie groans. ‘What did he say?'

‘Nothing. He just smiled.'

Through the chaos inside, Evie feels a smile try to lift the edges of her heart. My silver boy, she thinks. If only things could be that simple.

The three girls link arms and walk towards the road. Evie looks back at the Moreton Bay fig and envies its silence.

 

They cruise around the city for a while, Alex and Poppy doing most of the talking. Occasionally Evie says something but only to hide the fact that she feels completely distracted, not to mention freaked out. She isn't really aware what they're talking about. It's just background noise. Evie's trapped in her head, caught up in the confusion of what happened at the markets. Wasn't it simply an innocent game of dress ups? A bit of silliness? Is there anything she's able to do without being reminded of – it?

‘What do you want to see?' says Alex.

Evie finds herself standing outside a cinema. She has no
idea that's where they were going. She has merely put one foot in front of the other.

‘Are you sure you're okay to see a movie? You've been a bit, you know, quiet.'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' lies Evie.

‘How about
Miss American Pie
. It's on in fifteen minutes,' Poppy says, lighting a ciggie.

‘What time is it?' Alex asks, taking Poppy's wrist. ‘Nearly three.'

God, thinks Evie, where have I been for the last two hours?

‘I'm starving,' she says, fanning the smoke out of her face. It's making her empty tummy feel sicker.

‘I reckon we've got time to bolt down to Maccas,' says Alex.

‘Okay,' they agree.

As long as Evie doesn't have to make any decisions, she'll be all right. At least Alex and Poppy will think she is.

Evie stares at the screen. She will not be caught out. When she hears laughter, she laughs; music, she taps her foot. She mobilises every brain cell in order to follow the plot and by the end of the movie she has a headache. But she is the first to say, ‘That was great.'

She digests the looks of her friends.

‘You reckon?' says Alex. ‘I thought it was pathetic.'

‘It was a bit stupid,' agrees Poppy.

‘Well, I liked it,' Evie insists.

 

Evie goes to Alex's for a sleepover. They eat takeaway Vietnamese with Alex's mum. The brats are staying at
their father's place, so it's not the nut house it usually is. Evie loves this place, all the more for the brat brothers and their shouting, the wrestling and thumping, the banging on doors and swearing and farting, skateboarding down stairs and bike racing through the hall, not to mention the endless burping competitions. Here Evie can escape. Here she isn't the only child, the carefully watched precious possession. Living here, she could just disappear.

With her mouth full Alex raves on about the brilliance of her new camera, then falls off the chair in a frenzy over the idea of schoolies week at the end of next year. Her mum, always working on the improvement of her daughter's appearance, launches into one of her speeches listing the reasons why Alex shouldn't have her hair cut and should have her eyebrows tidied.

‘Bushy is in, Mum,' Alex keeps saying. ‘Bushy's in.'

Evie knows this scene so well. She sits back listening to them, the lump in her throat dissolving.

‘Shall we start?' Alex says, shoving the takeaway containers into the bin.

‘Hey, aren't they recyclable?' Evie says.

‘Probably.'

‘You know they are. Don't just shove them in the bin.'

‘Sowwy,' laughs Alex. ‘I forget what a sensitive greenie you are.'

‘They don't call me Evie Suzuki for nothing.'

‘Well, I was the one to try on the fur coat.'

‘I used to have a fur coat,' Alex's mum says. ‘It was made of kangaroo.'

‘Mum, you should have seen the stuff at the markets. Evie took us to the best second-hand –'

Evie interrupts ‘I'm going to sharpen my pencils.'

She shuts the door to Alex's room. Posters of tanned, good-looking boys smirk at her. Evie tries to ignore them as she opens her art folder. Her hands shake when she sharpens the pencils. She puts them down and takes three deep breaths. Maybe she's not that relaxed, maybe the remnants of paranoia still lurk. She's not sure she can get through this but as the doorhandle turns, she fixes a smile on her face.

‘Say cheese.'

Evie blinks as the flash goes off.

‘You didn't say cheese.'

‘You didn't tell me you were going to take my picture.'

‘Where do you want me, darlink?' Alex drapes herself over the bed, rolls of flesh bulging over her hipsters.

‘On the chair, thanks, darlink.'

‘Say cheese.' Alex takes another photograph.

‘What's your major work? Photographing unsuspecting victims?'

‘This is an awesome camera and you're a good subject, girlfriend,' Alex informs her. ‘I'm sure you could be a model, if you wanted to.'

‘Exactly, if I wanted to. Now sit down and be quiet, muse.'

Alex sits on the chair. Evie tips her chin up and turns her face right then left.

‘Don't move,' she says, walking back to her seat. She starts to sketch. The angle of Alex's face is perfectly positioned in this light.

‘You're just like the text book says.'

‘How?'

‘Shh,' Evie says. ‘Don't move.'

Alex sighs.

‘I said don't move.'

‘I didn't.'

‘Your chest moved.'

‘Pardon moi.'

‘Shh.'

Evie likes the shape appearing on the paper. She needs this outline to work on.

‘Can I move yet?' Alex whines.

‘Two secs, I'm nearly finished.'

‘What? The whole thing?'

‘No, just the shape of your head.'

‘Is that all? What about the rest of me?'

‘I'll work on your features later.'

‘I thought that's what you were doing in class yesterday?'

‘I know, but my left eye kept watering and going fuzzy.'

‘Oh?'

‘It was annoying.'

‘What was wrong with it?'

‘I don't know. I probably had something in it.'

‘Like an eyeball?'

‘Funny.'

‘Imagine if you have to get glasses.'

‘That'd be okay.'

‘You'd probably wear those funny old granny ones.'

‘Shut up.'

‘My dad had a friend with a glass eye. He used to wear a cat's eye.'

Evie shivers. ‘That gives me the creeps. Let's change the subject.'

 

The rest of the weekend is uneventful, and on Monday morning Evie runs down the stairs two at a time. Second period is art and she's keen to show Powell the work she's done. To be honest, she'd like to shove the drawing up his arse, but she knows under the circumstances it would be unwise.

‘Morning, Dad.' Evie kisses him as she does up the buttons of her cardigan. ‘Hi, Mum.'

Robin doesn't look up from the toaster. Perhaps her parents have had another fight.

In Evie's world the walls are thin. Two nights ago she heard her mother hiss, ‘Do I have to watch her every move?'

‘She can't help it, Robin.'

‘That's what you always say, Nick. You indulging her every second doesn't help either.'

The bedroom door opened. Footsteps down the stairs. The doona on the couch in the morning.

 

‘Wow,' says Nick. ‘I just had a flashback.'

Evie's mother groans as she butters the toast. ‘What, Dad?'

‘Do you remember when you were a little girl you used to have an imaginary friend?'

‘Kind of.'

‘You must have been about three or four. I know we were living in the old Annandale flat.'

Evie pours herself a cup of tea.

‘What was my friend called?'

‘Thena.'

‘Thena?' Evie laughs. ‘Did I have a lisp?'

‘We used to hear you prattling on to her. Remember that, Rob?'

Evie's mother grunts.

‘Anyway, you used to tell us she wore a red cardigan. That's what reminded me,' he says pointing to his daughter in her red cardigan. ‘Except your friend's cardigan–'

‘Thena, you mean,' corrects Evie.

‘Yes, Thena. Pardon me,' he laughs. ‘Anyway, you used to tell us that the buttons on Thena's cardigan were little blue teddies.'

‘How tragic. I must have been desperate for a red cardigan with blue teddy buttons. God, Dad, don't tell Alex. She's the fashion faux pas queen, not me.'

‘Your grandmother's friend knitted you one,' Robin says, joining them at the table. ‘But then your father's mother loved to indulge your little fantasies.'

Evie watches her mother's stare sour her dad's reminiscence.

‘Robin?' he mutters.

‘What, Nick?' she replies, her eyes still fixed on his.

‘See you later,' Evie says, taking her mug to the sink.

Evie needs no reminding that her mother hated her father's
mother. And these days Evie wonders is it for the same reason she can't accept her own daughter?

 

When Evie opens the door to the art room, she feels its innocence and happiness like red and yellow laser beams bouncing off the walls. That energy, full of optimism and hope, is what helped her return to school. She knows no one else sees it so she'll never tell anyone, not even Alex.

Alex is chatting to Antonia Cipri. Antonia is the new girl from the beginning of the year. She always sits at the front of the art room, except if Evie sits there. Evie and Antonia have hardly spoken and yet they already know too much about each other. Evie understands it's better to avoid her. It's like an unwritten law of social etiquette. Antonia blatantly avoids Evie and Evie still feels the shame.

‘Hi, Evie,' Alex says, blushing.

‘Hi.'

‘Antonia was just telling me the video store's closing down.'

‘Really?'

‘You're not pissed off because I –'

‘Of course not,' Evie says. ‘It's a free world, Alex.'

‘Sure?'

‘Hey, remind me to give you the blue cardi. Taylor's party is this weekend, isn't it?'

‘Have you changed your mind?'

‘No way. I'm doing something with my dad.'

Evie prefers not to lie but sometimes it's a self-preservation policy.

Powell raves on about the Renaissance period, as if it were something he was personally responsible for. His voice grows louder with each new slide, and at one point his arms wave around so much he disconnects the remote control from the projector.

Evie stares at the slides, thinking how the women look a bit like Antonia. Thick hair, pale skin, big boobs, a large bum and super rosy cheeks. Evie tries not to think about that day. How the colour drained from Antonia's cheeks and the way she screamed and cried. It still makes Evie want to throw up.

She wraps her cardigan tightly around her chest and the slides begin to blur. Her left eye waters. She rubs it, making it worse, and for a second can't see out of it at all. She blinks hard and gradually the slides fall back into focus.

A practical session follows art theory. Evie lays out her work on the desk. She smooths down the edges of the paper, careful not to smudge the lines, and waits for Powell as he does his rounds. He always starts at one desk, working around the room in the same order. Evie wonders why he never varies this routine. He's the sort of teacher that loves to catch you out. Evie smiles at his missed opportunities. She will watch him every class, just in case. She will not be caught out. Not again.

Powell studies Evie's drawing. He walks behind her desk, moves to the left and then to the right. He even takes an upside-down view. Evie holds her breath.

‘Not bad, considering.' And he moves to the next student.

She stares at the funny-looking clay figures belonging to the Year 7s. They are lined up, lopsided and quiet, waiting their turn to be fired and glazed. Evie knows she has to become like them: patient.

 

All week, Evie works hard on her drawings. The first completed portrait is due in two weeks. But drawing Alex's eyes is tricky. No matter what changes she makes, Evie cannot capture Alex's true expression. She knows handing it in even a day late will bring unwanted attention and she's determined to show everyone that she can pick up a pencil or piece of charcoal and draw again. No worries, no fears. If she can act like nothing happened maybe others can, too.

‘You're working hard on your portraits,' Nick says one night, as they stack the dishwasher.

‘Evie, don't scrape the plates like that.'

‘Sorry, Mum.'

‘Yes,' adds Robin. ‘You have been spending a hell of a lot of time in your room.'

Evie doesn't reply. Instead she thinks about the clay figures.

‘I'd like to see your portraits, too.'

‘They're not quite finished, Mum.'

‘Well, I can wait,' she replies. ‘I'm good at that.'

Evie absorbs those words, knowing her mother still waits. Waits for her daughter to be different. Different, meaning the same. The same as everyone else's daughters.

‘I'm just pleased you're drawing again, darling,' Nick says. ‘I'd love to be able to draw. You're lucky – you inherited your mother's talent as well as her good looks.'

Robin clears her throat. Evie excuses herself and goes up to her room.

She isn't sure if she actually hears her mother say ‘that's all she inherited from me', or whether she intercepts her mother's thought. She's become so accomplished at blocking thoughts that there are still times she finds it hard to differentiate a thought from real speech. The lessons have been hard and Evie knows it's better to keep quiet.