Magenta McPhee by Catherine Bateson

said into the mirror, lowering my voice and trying to look mysteriously at my own reflection through my eyelashes. It cricked my neck slightly and made me look oddly cross-eyed, but the voice was okay.
    â€˜Magenta!’ Mum came to the doorway, ‘hurry up. What are you doing?’
    â€˜Nothing, just hanging up the phone.’
    â€˜Well come on, he’s just dropping some stuff off.’
    I followed Mum into the lounge room. Richard was slouched down on one of the chairs, drinking a beer with Trib.
    â€˜Hey, it’s Magwheels. How are you, gorgeous?’
    â€˜Hi, Richard.’ My voice didn’t sound husky and deep, but it didn’t quite squeak. Gorgeous, he called me gorgeous. Thank God for the little black t-shirt!
    â€˜Yeah, pretty good. And you?’
    â€˜Same old. Still writing?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s slow, you know. My latest theory is that fantasy is about a hundred times slower than other writing because people have to walk everywhere.’
    â€˜Good thinking,’ he said, ‘so why don’t you introduce an air machine or something. Like an airship – you know, anime-style. That’d be groovy.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m a traditionalist. I don’t want to muck with form.’
    â€˜I said she should do a car chase,’ Trib offered and the two boys guffawed for a while.
    â€˜Sorry,’ Richard said, finally noticing my exaggerated sighs and finger-tapping, ‘shouldn’t tease the workers. Hey, I didn’t forget you, Magenta, close your eyes, hold out your hand.’
    I did as I was told. He dropped something smooth, cold and egg-shaped into my hand. It was heavy.
    â€˜Open them.’
    He’d given me a rock: an egg-shaped, egg-sized, smooth, orangey rock. It was like a dragon’s egg. It grew warmer as I held it.
    â€˜From the desert,’ he said. ‘I saw it when the bus stopped and everyone thought I was crazy, but I knew you had to have it, Magenta.’
    â€˜Thanks, Richard.’
    â€˜I got you something else, too, just in case you thought a rock was a kind of cheap present. Here, hold out your wrist.’ He fastened a little bracelet made of shells round my wrist.
    â€˜Wow! Richard!’ I gave him a clumsy one-arm hug. He smelt great. I closed my eyes for a millisecond, just breathing the smell of him in. Some kind of cologne, a bit of honest sweat and the smell of new sheets that have dried in the sun. Oh, Ricardo!
    â€˜Hey, little cuz, it’s okay. Glad you like them.’
    â€˜I love them,’ I said and my voice squeaked again. Damn! Should practise husky more often.
    Then some current affairs program came on TV and he and Trib turned to it while Mum went into the kitchen to make herbal tea.
    I sat on the couch as close to Richard as I could get without being obvious. I pretended to watch TV but I was really admiring my new bracelet while I held my rock egg. The egg he’d brought for me, back from the desert. The one he’d seen and thought of me, all those kilometres – nearly two states – away. He’d risked ridicule picking it up and keeping it. For me.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, when the program finished, ‘better go. Good to see you all again, bye Tammy, bye Trib, bye Magwheels.’
    â€˜Come for dinner next time,’ Mum said. ‘Come for a gourmet pizza takeaway or even a home-cooked roast lamb.’
    We waved him off.
    â€˜He’s so thoughtful,’ Mum said to Trib, ‘honestly he needn’t have bought me anything.’ Richard had given her some shell-shaped soaps in a little bag dyed sea-colours. I had my eye on the bag. I could use it for my mobile phone.
    â€˜He’s a big kid who likes to shop,’ Trib said. ‘Plus he likes you. He’s a good kid. My sis did one thing right.’
    I slept that night with the egg-rock under my pillow. It was a bit lumpy, but I moved it until it was