Zenna Dare Page 3

  Now I have to go and find out what it is. I’m always like this — can be scared witless but I have to find out. If there was a snake lying beside the last clue to a puzzle, I reckon I’d go for it. I crawl in through the hole. Dribbles of stone and rock run down the wall. I stop but no one comes. No creaks from the floorboards in Steffi and Dad’s room above. When I’m through the hole I stand upright, and shine the torch around some more. The air is musty; sure hope I don’t get sick like those people who first opened that ancient tomb in the pyramids. At least this air is only 150 years old. It all seems fairly clear in here except for the Shadow. I creep over, slowly. Don’t want to upset any little animals that call this home. I hear one tiny scuttle and a swish but that’s all and I start breathing more easily. The Shadow isn’t moving; it’s just some inanimate object. Covered with a blanket the same colour as the wall. That might be why Dad never noticed it. I drag off the blanket, paper thin, and then I see the box. It’s so eerie in the torch light it makes me take a deep breath. This is no ordinary box. I run my hand over the top, the roof; it’s a house. There’s even a door, and windows. Something round on the side. It looks about half a metre wide. I glance back at the hole. Will I get it through? I suddenly know I have to; I can’t leave this box here.

  I try lifting it but it’s so heavy. Made from solid old wood, like the old pine Steffi makes things out of. She would love it; she’s always sniffing in antique shops, finding things she can do up. The lounge is

  testimony to her dedication to furniture restoration. The coffee table she even made from old floor boards. I try half-dragging, half-lifting. The dust is floating up from the floor — little puffs of it — it’s a hundred and fifty years thick. I know I’ll sneeze soon and a sneeze will not be a good idea rising up from the bowels of the house into Steffi and Dad’s room. Finally I use the blanket. It’s a dust trap too, but I manage to get it under the box by lifting one corner at a time, and gently drag the blanket across the floor. The stone isn’t too even and the box keeps catching. I hear a rip, like old autumn leaves that snap in your hand. I just hope the box makes it to the opening in one piece.

  It does. Then I half-stumble through and drag the blanket behind me. That only works until the top of the box hits the stone above the opening, with a pile of crumbly stone dribbling onto the floor. I have a go at scraping away some more of the stone to make the hole bigger before I can part-lift and part-drag the box through. I’m trying to do all this quietly, hoping Dad won’t notice the hole’s not quite the same.

  It’s the middle of the night before I get the box safely into my room. It’s been dusted and I decide to put it in my secret cupboard behind the bookcase — the only secret place left that no one knows about. Before I do, I have a good look at it in the light of the lamp. It’s a house for sure, like an old-fashioned doll’s house. Set on a wall with a gabled roof and a waterwheel on the side. The wheel does a half-turn before it catches on something. Little windows are set into the wood. The door moves slightly but it won’t open. I sit for what seems like hours, letting the magic of it seep into me. My finger moves slowly round each feature; it’s beautifully crafted. Who would make something so lovely then hide it in a secret underground room? The roof doesn’t lift off, like I thought it might, and I don’t want to force it. I wonder if it’s sacrilege to open it at all. Finally, I slip into my bed.

  It’s Monday morning. The Monday morning. When I will find out how wrong Dad’s been. The school’s moved on a bit since the nineteen-seventies, I bet. I still haven’t told Steffi and Dad about the box. I’ll have to sooner or later, I guess, especially since I haven’t worked out how to open it yet. Dad will try and he might wreck it with that ‘I can do anything’ male thing he gets at times. Besides, it’s still too precious and mysterious. I need to savour that a little longer.

  I’ve seen the school from the road and once, a few months ago, I even came for an interview. But nothing’s prepared me for seeing it close-up on a Monday morning. With kids everywhere. All in blue. That’s another thing. Cedar Rise school had such a great uniform — like none at all. Now I have nowhere to go. I know nothing, except the office. At least I know where that is: across this stretch of lawn with pepper trees loudly whispering like water withdrawing on a very shelly beach. Piles of kids are standing or sitting around, catching up, smiling, happy — belonging, whether they like it or not. This is the pits; even the scared little first years will be better off than me. They’ll at least have their friends from primary school with them.

  I make my way up these marble steps inlaid with old Victorian tiles, trying to look like I’ve done this every single day for the last four years. Look interested in the tiles, Jenefer, maroon and green diamonds. This isn’t like a school at all but a huge old house; donated by a cattle king, Dad said.

  ‘Jenefer.’ A few heads turn, mine included. Someone else named Jenefer? Uh-oh. Just as I feared: who alone in Kapunda knows my name? The Waving Guy. I take a few deep breaths as he walks over. This has got to be better than not knowing anyone at all, except they’ll all think I only like guys. It’s the girls you have to make it with to have a decent life at school. I can hear a wind and it has nothing to do with the pepper trees. Some older girls lean together. I don’t know the protocol here. Do I go to class with him? Or ask the way? Or just accept his kindness, which, by the look on his face, is what I’m going to get.

  ‘Wanna know where to go?’

  ‘I don’t know which class I’m in. I was heading for the office.’ If he realises this is the first time I’ve spoken to him, he doesn’t let on.

  ‘Year 12?’ I nod.

  ‘Three home groups. But we all meet in the Year 12 room first. C’mon.’ For one panic-stricken moment I thought he was going to pick up my bag. In my last school if a guy carried your bag it only meant one thing. And I don’t even know him.

  ‘Um, I still don’t know your name.’

  He throws me this side look, pauses; guess he remembers it’s not his fault I don’t know his name. I feel my face go hot as I think he’s not going to answer, but then he looks back to the front and keeps walking. ‘It’s Caleb.’

  ‘You’re in Year 12 too?’ Dumb, Jenefer. Of course I know he’s in Year 12.

  And he grins back at me as I catch up. ‘Year 13 actually. They suggested I do Year 12 over two years — three subjects each year.’ He says ‘suggested’ like he was forced into it. I can imagine the sessions that teachers call career-counselling.

  ‘I’m thinking of doing that too.’ I have a hazy recollection of bikes tied up as we walk round the old mansion. Pale stone and the old iron lacework that Dad raves on about, painted the tuscany colour he likes. Lots of kids in this part too; guys in grey trousers or shorts are kicking a footy around.

  ‘Really? It suits me, I guess. This way I can work part-time.’

  ‘The camel farm?’ I ask, half-trying to show I’m not as snobby as I acted last week and half-wondering what sort of guy likes camels. I’ve never even seen one close up. And I thought horses were hicksville.

  ‘Yeah.’ But he doesn’t elaborate. ‘What subjects you doing?’

  ‘English, History, IT —’

  ‘They your favourites?’

  I nod. I don’t mention I wanted to do classics.

  ‘I left my favourites till this year,’ he carries on. I don’t say anything. ‘To keep me comin’ back.’ He’s grinning again and I ask the obvious. ‘So what are they?’ Looking at him I can’t tell — not IT, I bet.

  ‘Art, Ag Science, PE.’

  This floors me. Art? I look up at him; I can’t imagine that at all. Ag Science and camels, yes; he looks wild enough to jump on one, his hair just that bit too long and unruly for a private city school. Suddenly I can imagine it flying in the wind as he gallops away somewhere into the sand dunes. I stop myself in time. Gallops? Is that what camels do?

  ‘Did you take English last year?’
I’m actually feeling disappointed he won’t be in any of my classes. For a little while I thought I had a blow-up lifebuoy in a choppy bay. Now it has a puncture and it’s going down fast.

  ‘Nope. Why learn the language of the conquerors, eh?’ He’s chuckling, but there’s an undercurrent to it I can’t define. So he is Aboriginal, or Indigenous as we keep getting told. With that smile and skin — though it’s hard to tell with some people. His skin is even lighter than Rasheed’s in my class last year.

  ‘Besides —’ Caleb says, ‘they should teach First Australian languages.’

  I’m not sure about all this; it’s the way he says ‘First Australian’. There’s no sting — at least I don’t feel one directed at me — but why did he mention it? I’ve never had an Indigenous friend. Sokha was one of my best friends at Cedar Rise — Khmer, from Cambodia — and I miss her, especially right now. I knew Rasheed well, even went to his house, under the guise of being his sister’s friend. Totally platonic, but he said his parents wouldn’t understand platonic. Ate shish kebabs and hot naan from the oven. But so many of the kids at my last school never knew anything about Indigenous people. Except for the homeless ones in Victoria Square. Sokha, Amy and I would get off the bus to go to the market and walk the long way round in case any of the Indigenous people there touched us for money. It was a horrible feeling, wanting to help but not knowing if giving money would. Maybe they wouldn’t have asked anyway; it was just our fear. Fear of the unknown.

  Conquerors, he said. I’ve never thought about it like that before. The British just settled a country, didn’t they? They didn’t swoop over in ships after years of planning like Alexander the Great, mowing down everybody in their path, leaving their green eyes and fair skin behind, did they? Then I look at Caleb again. His eyes aren’t as dark as they might have been. This could get complicated. Languages, he said.

  ‘So you know one? A First Australian language?’

  He’s serious now. ‘Only a bit. It’s mostly lost.’ And suddenly we’re there in this transportable room. I see the lounge chairs, a wide grey dividing screen. Guys are slapping Caleb on the back. ‘Caleb, you black piker, you came back after all. Tim lost his bet.’ Caleb’s grinning. All the guy stuff’s making me uncomfortable; it’s just normal camaraderie, I guess, but I’m not used to it.

  ‘This is Jenefer. They’ve just moved into the old manse.’ That makes me gasp; how does he know where I live? But before I can ask, a girl moves over. With relief I recognise her — one of the girls walking past the duck pond on Saturday. Maybe she did notice me sitting there.

  ‘Hi, I’m Erin,’ and she guides me to the other end of the room, behind the screen. It’s set up as a class and I wonder how teachers survive the noise level if kids have frees in the lounge part.

  ‘Jenefer,’ I answer, still not sure what else to say. Then she smiles. ‘You looked like you needed rescuing. Caleb can be a bit full-on.’

  ‘He was kind,’ is all I can come up with. He doesn’t seem as weird as I thought during the week.

  ‘Yes, well,’ and her eyebrows rise, as if he’s not her type. She seems nice enough though, and she takes English.

  ‘I wanted to do Classics.’ I hope I don’t look as teary as I feel.

  She sighs in sympathy. ‘So did I. But it’s History here. Classics isn’t offered this year. Not enough lines in the timetable.’

  ‘Can’t we do it anyway?’ I’m starting to get desperate. This wouldn’t have happened in the city. I’ve never even thought before how timetables and subjects got sorted out. They were always just there, so many, ready for the choosing.

  ‘Don’t worry. We have more subjects offered here than any other country school.’ And I’m supposed to feel consoled? Just wait until I tell Dad how he’s ruined my education.

  The day isn’t too bad, I guess; Erin sticks with me at lunch and the girls do seem nicer than I’d thought. One called Ashleigh comes from a farm, but they’ve only been in the district a few years, Erin says, as though the other girl can’t help it. Why should she tell me that when I’ve been here less than two weeks? Another girl called Alicia lives ‘on the land’ too, but I don’t get to talk to her. Yet another, Lauren, tells me all about netball and how the way to get to know people in Kapunda is to play it. Tough luck — I don’t play, but I don’t say so. I find myself wanting them to like me, yet I can’t tell if they do. There’s a polite wall around most of them that I can see even Ashleigh hasn’t scaled; they smile but it’s like they’re ready with the artillery if I should say anything against the area. As if I’d be that stupid. But it’s hard thinking of things to say that I imagine won’t offend, and my head’s like Neptune’s whirlpool by home time when Caleb turns up in the Year 12 lounge again. His sneakers look like he’s been watering the garden.

  ‘I’ll walk down the street with you, if you want.’ He says it lightly so I can take it or leave it and this is my cue to say I don’t need him to walk back with me; that I know where to go, but I don’t. There’s something about him I like; can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like finding out what it is. Besides, no one’s warned me off him. Erin wasn’t all that encouraging, but wouldn’t she have said if he was sus? We would have at Cedar Rise, if a new girl was being annoyed by the class drop-kick. Though for all I know this is the country girl’s idea of revenge: let the city girl find out the hard way what’s acceptable and what isn’t.

  On the way I decide to ask Caleb about his art. This is the best way I can think of to get to know him, if I can.

  ‘Mum’s an artist. She taught me all she knows about colour, the land, how it’s important.’ He turns to me then. ‘She’s from the Stolen Generation.’

  It’s a piece of information that I realise he doesn’t have to part with and thankfully I know what he’s talking about. I’d read The Burnt Stick when I was a kid. Got told all that stuff at school about Sorry Day. But I still don’t know what is a suitable comment. Should I say, Really? Like how interesting, or should I sound horror-struck and say how terrible it was for the Brits to do what they did. But I’m a Brit, aren’t I? Australian, yet Dad’s people came over on a boat at some stage. I should ask Dad. Caleb seems to know so much about who he is, and I have no idea. I just hang in the air of time on a cobweb that could break so easily.

  ‘Was your father an artist too?’

  Caleb hesitates slightly. ‘Nah, he was a farmer, but he didn’t understand about the land, Mum said. He wasn’t a Nunga.’ Then he looks at me. ‘Same as you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He’s not looking at me now; it’s like he’s talking about the price of oranges and lemons. ‘You’re a Goonya.’

  I’ve never thought about it. Some instinct tells me not to say that aloud and I’m glad. He adds, ‘Did you meet Alicia Tilbrook today?’

  The tossing, blonde-haired vision that was Alicia in History class comes to mind, and I nod slightly. You couldn’t say I met her exactly. ‘You take Alicia. She doesn’t know she’s an immigrant Australian. Lives on a thousand acres but wouldn’t understand she walks on someone’s spirit home.’

  ‘What does she think she is?’ I ask, nervous. It’s a bit too close to the bone. All of a sudden, I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Wonder if he guesses. Why is he telling me? Is all this just for my benefit or to test me out?

  ‘She’s just never thought about it. She knows she’s normal, and everyone else is a shade different in comparison. Like I’m a Nunga.’

  What do I say? I look up at him. You couldn’t call him black, really; his skin’s like an Italian’s who’s been on the beach all summer.

  He spreads his hands, explaining. ‘It’s what I am. It’s cool.’

  Mentally, I gulp. How long before he catches on I’m no different to Alicia Tilbrook?

  ‘But you, Jenefer.’ He stops then, and we’re standing on the footpath; a lone car goes past, and all I can do is
stare at him, wait for his next word. ‘You’re different.’ Different from what? Alicia? And why is he saying it anyway? He can’t possibly know.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Now I’m sure he’s stringing me along. It might be his way of finding out what I think about him; his way to pick up the new chick in town. Guess he’d have to have some sort of strategy since Alicia must think he’s a try-hard. Why else would he pick on her? And once a girl like that doesn’t like a guy, how can anyone else?

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘How?’ I’m not letting him get away with this one.

  We start walking again. ‘Last week? When you wouldn’t talk to me?’

  I’m sure my face is flushing. ‘So?’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t ’cos I was a Nunga. You had a different look in your face. It was just because I was a guy and you were annoyed about something, I reckon. I could handle that.’

  I grin. ‘Actually, it was the waving.’

  ‘What?’ He stops to stare at me.

  ‘In Adelaide nice guys don’t wave at girls they don’t know … as far as I know,’ I suddenly add, in the face of his unexpected embarrassment.

  ‘And nor do nice girls return the favour, right? Hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ We’re both laughing now, walking, and this is when I say it.

  ‘Would you like to come home for a while? There’s something I want to show you.’

  I can’t pinpoint the moment when I knew I wanted to share the box with Caleb; maybe it was all he said that gave me this feeling that the preciousness of it will be safe with him.