Inbetween Days by Vikki Wakefield Page B

Trudy’s purse to make up the difference, then put it back because it would mean I owned everything in my room except that dollar. Every one of my actions had an equal and opposite effect; everything I did threw out the balance. I was sure there was some kind of theory that rationalised my thinking, but I hadn’t stuck around in school long enough to find out. It scared me that I was starting to believe I might have to stand completely still—with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears—and let the universe go on without me in order not to screw things up. Still, I didn’t feel crazy, just desperate for my feet to find the bottom.
    The bed ended up back where it started.
    ‘Are you done making that godawful racket?’ Trudy whined. She was lying on the couch reading a magazine, slapping one sandal against the heel of her foot. She looked like she was still wearing yesterday’s make-up.
    ‘Did you get the phone reconnected?’ I asked.
    She hesitated for a beat. ‘Nope.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. Didn’t.’
    ‘So, what did you do with the money I gave you for the phone bill?’
    Trudy waved her free hand. ‘You know, food. Cleaning products.’
    ‘ Cleaning products?’
    ‘Incidentals.’
    ‘The fuck , Gertrude.’
    ‘We needed bleach and mouthwash because, incidentally, you have a dirty mouth. Jacklin .’
    I picked up the wall-phone receiver. ‘Hello? Hello? Is that you, life? We must have a bad connection. Are you there?’ I held it out to Trudy. ‘There’s nobody there. Here, you try. No?’ I pressed it back to my ear. ‘Sorry, I’d love to be with you, life. I hope you’ll still be there, life, when this phone is reconnected. Hello?’ I sighed and replaced the receiver. ‘She hung up.’
    ‘Who did?’
    ‘My life !’ I yelled. I made a noise like a strangled parrot and flounced off to my bedroom. After a few minutes of pacing, I strolled back out, calmer, ready for round two.
    ‘We need to talk, Jam Stain ,’ I said.
    ‘Ready when you are, Maximus Tittimus ,’ Trudy answered. She folded her magazine and tucked it down the side of the couch.
    ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘Ma.’
    ‘How does she know?’
    ‘Apparently they called her that in high school, too.’
    So now my nickname was borrowed. Second-hand. When I’d first noticed boys staring at my boobs, I’d believed: one part of me is beautiful . It was enough for me back then. I folded my arms over my chest.
    ‘When did you talk to Ma?’
    ‘We didn’t talk. We shouted.’
    ‘I asked you when.’
    ‘I don’t know…two, three days ago. Why do you care?’
    ‘I don’t. I just didn’t think you two were speaking.’
    ‘Sometimes she calls into the pub to ask me about you,’ Trudy said flatly. ‘And, more often than not, she takes the opportunity to remind me that I screwed up my own life and that there’s a special place in hell for me if I drag you down to my level.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I didn’t know what I was apologising for. ‘We both know Ma has never forgiven you for leaving.’
    ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Trudy spat. ‘I didn’t leave . Anyway, she’s not mad at me. She doesn’t care about me. She’s mad at you—you weren’t supposed to turn out like this!’
    Like what? All I did was work and save and feed a starving cat and hold back my sister’s hair while she threw up, and stare at my old house because I didn’t feel I could knock on the door, and wait, wait, wait as my world kept shrinking.
    ‘How did we get from me asking what you did with my money to you lecturing me? You’re turning into Ma!’
    ‘And you’re turning into me!’ Trudy fired back. ‘If I don’t call you on your bullshit, Jack, who will?’
    ‘Thank you for being honest,’ I said.
    ‘My pleasure.’
    ‘And fuck you for being mean.’
    She gave me the finger and picked up her magazine.
    The next morning I skipped breakfast, slung my satchel over my shoulder and went to