The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley by Martine Murray Page A

autopilot, took it into the back garden. She didn’t say a word, didn’t emit one little squeak of excitement, and when she came back she just hovered for a moment with this stiff, thin smile, and then plunged into her bedroom.
    After that there was a hushedness. She and Mum would be talking in the kitchen, and whenever I came into the room they’d stop their conversation and Mum would turn to me and say something to change the topic, like, ‘Here’s Cedar.’ And I’d say, ‘Yep, here I am,’ and she’d say, ‘Still moping?’ and I’d say, ‘Yep, still moping,’ and then, after a significant pause, I’d say, ‘What are you two talking about?’ Of course I wanted all the pity I could get, especially now that something else was getting all the attention, but I also wanted to find out what was going on.
    â€˜I know how to stop you moping,’ said Aunt Squeezy.
    â€˜Cedar likes moping. She likes the attention,’ said Mum, somewhat cruelly, I thought. Where was all the sympathy going? Certainly not where it was needed. I rolled my eyes at Mum and, in order to prove her wrong, I faced Aunt Squeezy like a puppy, eager and willing. She grinned and leaned forward.
    â€˜Volunteer work. You can come with me tomorrow, after school. They always need some help down at the Learning Network.’
    â€˜What?’ I felt duped. I thought she was going to suggest a night at the movies, or a trip to the beach to try out some surfing, or at the very least a double choc Magnum and a video. I could see Mum was amused.
    â€˜What a great idea. If there’s one way to stop feeling sorry for yourself, it’s to stop thinking about yourself.’
    â€˜It might be more interesting,’ added Aunt Squeezy, and she made a pleading face, as if she knew it was a long shot to convince a devastated, lovelorn teenager that someone else’s troubles might be more interesting than her own. I knew they were trying to tell me that my ‘poor me’ act was worn out and overused and it was time to find a new act. But I can tell you, if I had a choice of new acts to choose from, volunteer wouldn’t even get in on the top fifty.
    â€˜I don’t think I’d make a good volunteer. What can I do? I can’t even tie a knot.’
    â€˜You could just come and see. I bet once you came and met some of the people there you’d think of something you could do.’ Aunt Squeezy shrugged and yawned. Her attention seemed to spiral inwards and she closed her eyes for a moment. Mum got up and patted her on the shoulder.
    â€˜Ginger tea?’ she said. I sighed and slumped dramatically on the table, as I could see I’d already lost their attention and had to resort to desperate measures.
    â€˜All right, I’ll do it, I’ll be a volunteer. I’ll come,’ I declared.
    â€˜Good on you,’ said Aunt Squeezy.‘We’ll go tomorrow.’
    Mum now had her attention on bills. She suddenly turned around waving an envelope, looking like a young girl, like a cheerleader.
    â€˜Look, it’s a letter to me. From Ruben.’
    â€˜To you?’ I wailed and leapt up to see. Surely it was a mistake.
    â€˜Yes, to me.’ She blushed and sunk into the chair. I couldn’t help frowning. Couldn’t help thinking that this made it even worse that Kite hadn’t written, even more obvious and inescapable and purposeful. And why would Ruben write to my mum? I couldn’t help wishing it was to ask for permission to let me go and train in the circus too. Suddenly I felt hopeful and watched her as she opened the letter.
    A small folded square of paper fell out and landed on her lap. She picked it up and squinted to read the writing, and then a small smile began to dance on her face. She handed it to me.
    â€˜This one’s for you, love.’
    â€˜For me?’ I squealed. My heart started to thud almost instantly. I