‘What, to replace me?’ Cassie said.
‘That’s what I said!’
I didn’t know what else to say to him; I didn’t think he’d be interested in anything I’d been doing. I thought of telling him about Wally’s teeth, how his jaw had swelled up like a pumpkin after the second dentist visit when they yanked nearly everything else out.
‘He won’t talk to me,’ Cassie said. His voice sounded muffled, wool in his throat.
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Ian. He won’t talk to me.’
I didn’t want to think about Ian. It was like he was a disease we’d finally got rid of, and just having him back in my brain might make the germs spread, could make everyone sick again.
‘Well, maybe you can make some new friends now,’ I said. ‘Ian wasn’t that great.’
Cassie didn’t say anything.
‘I can be your friend,’ I said. ‘If you want.’
But Cassie didn’t say anything to that either.
I saw Cassie for the first time a week later, as we were crossing through the park, past the skate ramp where all the scabby dropkicks loafed around in clumps. Tilly pointed him out, and at first I didn’t believe her. Tilly and Wally always said they saw Cassie in all sorts of places—out of car windows, or walking down Main Street—but every time I’d turn around it wouldn’t be him; it would look nothing like him. I knew they were tricking me, that they did it just to get me excited, and they’d laugh when I’d chase after the car or start to run down the street.
Except this time it was him. He was sitting on the grass with his back pressed against a tree, his same chunky boots folded beneath him, flashes of ankle-thin calves, white as icing.
‘Let’s go over,’ I said.
‘No way,’ Wally said. ‘He doesn’t want to see us.’
‘He looks different,’ said Tilly, wrinkling her nose. ‘He looks kind of feral.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I said. ‘He looks fine.’
When Cassie saw us he scrambled up off the grass. If he was so happy to see us, then why hadn’t he made the effort before? He did look different, did look a bit feral. He was even skinnier than when he left, his shirt flapping around him like extra skin.
‘How’s Christine?’ Cassie asked, wiping his hands on his pants. His fingernails were long and as thin as paper.
‘Why’re you calling her that?’ I said.
‘Well, that’s her name, isn’t it?’ said Cassie. ‘So how is she?’
‘She’s alright,’ I said, shrugging. I felt shy all of a sudden, had forgotten how to talk to him in a normal way.
‘Good,’ Cassie said, nodding, distracted. He looked up at the sky, which was creamy, like blue food dye whisked through milk. ‘Hey,’ he said, as though he’d suddenly remembered something important, as though something had dropped from the milky sky and into his brain. He reached into his baggy pockets and pulled out a fistful of Ghost Drops. ‘Here.’ He stuffed them in my hands, his own tongue stained lizard blue.
I looked down at the Ghost Drops. Some of them were just wrappers, the lolly already sucked away. Something about those empty wrappers made me want to cry. ‘When are you coming home?’ I blurted out. ‘Just tell Dad you’re sorry and he’ll let you come back, I bet. I bet he’s not even that mad anymore.’
Cassie paused. ‘I work at the Connolly now,’ he said, as though that were an answer.
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘You already told me on the phone.’
‘And I bought a car,’ he said. ‘Got my licence and everything.’ Cassie scratched at his neck. A spot of blood appeared but he didn’t notice. ‘Come down to the Connolly sometime,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a fizzy drink, on the house.’
I looked over at Wally, who was staring at the dropkicks. He hadn’t said anything the whole time.
‘Have you talked to Ian?’ I asked.
‘Nah,’ Cassie said. ‘You were right. He’s not a good guy.’
‘So come home then,’ I said.
‘I’m free now,’ Cassie said. ‘Don’t have the brute breathing down my neck every minute.’
‘What about Mum?’ I asked.
‘What about her? You said she was fine.’
‘Well, she’s not fine,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
I didn’t want to remind him that what he predicted had come true; that Mum was going bad because of my digging around, because of my dobbing. If I’d just left things as they were then everyone would be happy. I tried to change the subject. ‘You could come for a visit,’ I said. ‘Come and see Mango. I hate cats but I like this one.’
Cassie looked over his shoulder. The dropkicks were huddled in a circle, like cattle. They didn’t seem to realise he’d left.
It was hard to notice at first. Mum seemed to get skinnier, more wispy-looking. One afternoon I was watching TV for nearly ten minutes and didn’t even realise she’d been sitting there on the couch behind me the whole time. But while Mum got quieter, Dad got louder. A few days after we saw Cassie in the park Dad stormed inside after work, stomping out of his splotchy boots, kicking one hard against the wall. He went straight to the fridge for a beer, grey socks bunched around his ankles in elephant wrinkles, and clattered the bottle top in the sink, a warning bell. I was doing my homework and he didn’t seem to see me at the table.
‘Tea not on then?’ Dad called out.
‘Not yet,’ Mum said from the couch, her voice slow and flat, as though speaking was too much effort.
‘Hey?’ Dad said.
‘I said I haven’t planned anything.’
‘Well, are you bloody going to?’
Mum got up—blanket wrapped around her shoulders—and padded into the kitchen. She took a loaf of bread from the freezer and tossed it on the bench. ‘Make a toastie if you’re hungry,’ she said, heading back to the couch. ‘You’re a grown man; surely you can manage to make yourself a sandwich.’
Dad grabbed the bread bag. ‘What bloody use are you if can’t even sort yourself out to prepare a meal?’ he barked. ‘Sitting around on your arse all day while I slave away to put food on the table.’
Mum didn’t even look up. ‘No use, Colin,’ she said, not worrying about winding Dad up even more, not worrying about anything. ‘No use at all.’
I stayed quiet, tried to stay out of the way. Without Cassie here, it was as though Dad’s anger was pinging every way possible, and you never knew when it might land on you.
Dad stood with his hands on his hips. Picked up the bread and put it down again. He went over to the couch, pressed his hand on Mum’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I just can’t help it.’
Mum grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Her voice cut through the drone. ‘Well, neither can I.’
The next day Dad came out of the shower smelling like Minties. Wally and I had just come in from the dam, and we dumped our grainy towels on the verandah. Warm light shone in through the window and we drank water straight from the tap. Dad took a beer out of the fridge. His hair was wet and combed back with gel, and he had his dress pants on, tips of his unbuckled belt flapping.
‘Get dressed, you lot,’ Dad said.
‘Why?’ Wally said.
‘We’re going out for tea.’
‘The Chinese?’ Wally said, eyes widening.
‘To the pub,’ Dad said.
‘Why?’
‘Do I need a reason to take my family out for a nice meal?’
Wally and I scrambled to get changed. We dressed in our good clothes and raced into the kitchen, didn’t even care that they fit weirdly, didn’t care they made us look like big dorks. Mum was sitting at the table. She was drinking a glass of yellow wine and wearing a shirt with white lace around the neck. She had strips of rag bowed in her hair, her brick-coloured lipstick on.