the couch being quiet. The man in the flannelette shirt puts the pieces onto a shiny scale the colour of pirate coins. That side falls down to the table. He puts a little brass thing onto the other side. Then that side falls down. He adds a smaller brass thing, and then takes the bigger one away. The two sides of the scale seesaw, then balance.
‘Never seen a scale like that before,’ says the man watching.
‘Belonged to my granddad,’ Daddy says. ‘He owned a corner store in Bankstown before the foreigners took over.’
The light in the kitchen makes the scale and the pieces of brass sparkle like the doubloons in the book about pirates, or the gold in the pot at the end of the rainbow.
‘Buried treasure!’ I yell, pointing to the scales with my Texta.
Everyone laughs, but Daddy folds his arms across his chest and says, ‘Possum, go outside and play.’
I throw the doona off, grab my notebook, and write down what I remembered about Daddy and the scales.
The shower’s free, so I take my toiletries and bathrobe. Music is blasting from Bindi’s room down the hall . It’s Saturday, so Lyyssa’s rule about no loud music on weekdays doesn’t apply.
Bindi and Cinnamon must have heard me going into the showers; one of them screams a couple of bars from, ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ over the music, then they both laugh. They’ll probably rag me about that song for a week or two before they get tired of it.
When I come out of the shower, they’ve put on some gangsta rap. They yell along with whoever’s singing about bitches and ho’s.
Lyyssa will probably tell them to turn it down when she gets back, but I don’t think I can stand it that long. I’ve got to get out of the house. I cram a book, my bathing suit, towel and all the rest of my swimming stuff into my backpack. It’s warm enough to swim and read in the park afterwards.
I grab a couple of muesli bars from the kitchen and write, ‘Gone to the pool – back before curfew. Len’ on the whiteboard.
The only stroke I like is freestyle. My swim teacher made me learn backstroke and breast stroke to get my certificate of completion, but I never do them on my own.
Lyyssa asked me once how many laps I do. For once, it was a question of hers that I didn’t mind, but I couldn’t answer because I don’t know. I don’t see the point in counting. Scott, the physio, tried to get me to start counting my laps and work up gradually, or at least time myself so that I don’t strain anything. But I don’t. I just swim until I get tired.
Stroke, two, three, breathe. Stroke, two, three, breathe. Don’t lift your head out of the water and gasp for air. Turn your head to the side, let the water cushion your head like a pillow, inhale. Look straight at the bottom of the pool. Stroke, two, three, breathe.
If you’re lucky, there aren’t any screaming kids splashing around or grannies puttering along at a snail’s pace with their kickboards, afraid of getting their hair wet.
Once I’m warmed up, stroke-two-three-breathe becomes pull-pull-pull-breathe. I forget about everything except the blue of the water and the taste of chlorine. When my left shoulder starts to ache and my elbows feel funny and cold, I ease off, then pull myself out of the pool and run to the showers, where there are signs warning that inappropriate behaviour will not be tolerated.
I think I know why they’d put a sign like that in the men’s showers. But why in the ladies?
At three o’clock I’m in the park with my swimsuit and towel spread across the grass to dry, when a shadow falls across my book.
The sun has dropped behind a tree. I could just move, but I’m getting hungry and I’ve already eaten the two muesli bars I brought. Where could I get something to eat?
I walk to Town Hall Station and fifteen minutes later, I’m riding up a long escalator. I go across a concourse with a newsagent and shoe-repair shop, then up another escalator. On street level to the
‘Never seen a scale like that before,’ says the man watching.
‘Belonged to my granddad,’ Daddy says. ‘He owned a corner store in Bankstown before the foreigners took over.’
The light in the kitchen makes the scale and the pieces of brass sparkle like the doubloons in the book about pirates, or the gold in the pot at the end of the rainbow.
‘Buried treasure!’ I yell, pointing to the scales with my Texta.
Everyone laughs, but Daddy folds his arms across his chest and says, ‘Possum, go outside and play.’
I throw the doona off, grab my notebook, and write down what I remembered about Daddy and the scales.
The shower’s free, so I take my toiletries and bathrobe. Music is blasting from Bindi’s room down the hall . It’s Saturday, so Lyyssa’s rule about no loud music on weekdays doesn’t apply.
Bindi and Cinnamon must have heard me going into the showers; one of them screams a couple of bars from, ‘I’m Still a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ over the music, then they both laugh. They’ll probably rag me about that song for a week or two before they get tired of it.
When I come out of the shower, they’ve put on some gangsta rap. They yell along with whoever’s singing about bitches and ho’s.
Lyyssa will probably tell them to turn it down when she gets back, but I don’t think I can stand it that long. I’ve got to get out of the house. I cram a book, my bathing suit, towel and all the rest of my swimming stuff into my backpack. It’s warm enough to swim and read in the park afterwards.
I grab a couple of muesli bars from the kitchen and write, ‘Gone to the pool – back before curfew. Len’ on the whiteboard.
The only stroke I like is freestyle. My swim teacher made me learn backstroke and breast stroke to get my certificate of completion, but I never do them on my own.
Lyyssa asked me once how many laps I do. For once, it was a question of hers that I didn’t mind, but I couldn’t answer because I don’t know. I don’t see the point in counting. Scott, the physio, tried to get me to start counting my laps and work up gradually, or at least time myself so that I don’t strain anything. But I don’t. I just swim until I get tired.
Stroke, two, three, breathe. Stroke, two, three, breathe. Don’t lift your head out of the water and gasp for air. Turn your head to the side, let the water cushion your head like a pillow, inhale. Look straight at the bottom of the pool. Stroke, two, three, breathe.
If you’re lucky, there aren’t any screaming kids splashing around or grannies puttering along at a snail’s pace with their kickboards, afraid of getting their hair wet.
Once I’m warmed up, stroke-two-three-breathe becomes pull-pull-pull-breathe. I forget about everything except the blue of the water and the taste of chlorine. When my left shoulder starts to ache and my elbows feel funny and cold, I ease off, then pull myself out of the pool and run to the showers, where there are signs warning that inappropriate behaviour will not be tolerated.
I think I know why they’d put a sign like that in the men’s showers. But why in the ladies?
At three o’clock I’m in the park with my swimsuit and towel spread across the grass to dry, when a shadow falls across my book.
The sun has dropped behind a tree. I could just move, but I’m getting hungry and I’ve already eaten the two muesli bars I brought. Where could I get something to eat?
I walk to Town Hall Station and fifteen minutes later, I’m riding up a long escalator. I go across a concourse with a newsagent and shoe-repair shop, then up another escalator. On street level to the
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