Cassie by Barry Jonsberg Page A

catch the tail end of their conversation.
    â€˜. . . what you say, Fern. But that doesn’t mean Holly isn’t grounded. Possibly for the rest of her life.’
    â€˜She’s probably expecting that.’
    â€˜Good. She won’t be disappointed.’
    Fern
    Fern lay on her side and watched Cassie sleep. No matter how many times she did it, it always struck her as a miracle. In sleep, Cass’s features were relaxed. She didn’t twitch. Her arms and legs appeared wasted, it was true. Cass didn’t have the motor skills to keep them in good condition. But they lay at peace.
    It was only on waking that Cassie’s brain would send messages destined never to arrive. Or rather, messages that arrived damaged, altered, twisted, like those Chinese whispers they used to play at school. Fern stretched out an arm, adjusted the pillow that Cass kept between her knees when she slept. The girl didn’t stir.
    Fern thought about her sister. How she had a daughter who didn’t ring, who wagged school, who took off shopping with friends, who screamed and shouted and argued with her mother, who ran off to her bedroom, slammed the door.
    She wondered if Ivy knew how lucky she was.
    Holly
    Holly sat on the end of her bed. The wardrobe door was open and she could see the black dress hanging up, the red boots neatly arranged beneath. A mirror inside the door showed her reflection, pale and blurred in the dim moonlight. She cocked her head to one side. She looked so different. Even now, after an hour staring at her reflection, she couldn’t quite fit it to how she felt inside. The face that looked back was confident, cocky almost. The image of someone who could steal from a shop and not think twice about it. The dress was the only thing she had hung up. The rest of the clothes, the ones Demi and Kari and Georgia had given her, were still in their bags, scrunched down into the dark recesses of the wardrobe.
    Holly tried not to think about them.
    She thought instead about a young girl and a rose tattoo.

7
    Fern
    It was a miserable Saturday. Dawn struggled through a fine, unenthusiastic rain.
    Fern groaned and tried to ignore the sound of jingling bells.
    â€˜It’s six-thirty, Cass,’ she whispered. ‘Virtually the middle of the night, kiddo. The birds aren’t even up yet. They’re having a sleep in. Why don’t we join them? It’s the weekend, after all.’
    The bells tinkled more insistently.
    â€˜All right, all right. Keep the noise down or you’ll wake the birds.’ Fern struggled to swing her legs out of bed. She slumped for a moment, rubbed at her eyes. Had someone sneaked in during the night and sprinkled grit in them? She stumbled to the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. Whoever had done the grit-sprinkling had also done the foldy-face bit. She looked like she needed ironing. Not surprising, given the lack of sleep.
    Fern splashed cold water into her face. She’d have a shower after breakfast. For now, the water made her feel slightly more awake, but she still shuffled as she went back to the bedroom.
    Ivy
    Fern was nursing a cup of coffee when Ivy dragged herself into the kitchen. The sisters groaned at each other and Ivy poured herself a mug from the pot on the stove. She thought about milk and decided against it. Strong and black. It was just a pity she couldn’t have it intravenously. She plopped herself down opposite Fern and they groaned at each other again.
    â€˜This is what happens when your daughter turns into a delinquent,’ said Ivy. ‘I guess that’s why our mum aged ten years overnight. Do I look as bad as I feel?’
    â€˜I can’t look as bad as I feel,’ replied Fern. ‘Otherwise you’d be screaming and holding up a crucifix.’
    â€˜I would if I had the energy.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜Where’s Cass?’ said Ivy.
    â€˜In her room.’ Fern poured herself another cup of