Henry Hoey Hobson by Christine Bongers

threatening. Vee, amused and amusing behind the black lipstick and eyeliner.
    I raised my glass. ‘To the unexpected,’ I said.
    Because tonight had turned out a whole lot better than the foot-long meatball sub that I originally had planned.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    There was a note on the kitchen bench when I hauled myself out of bed next morning.
    I’ll do dinner. CU at 6.30. xx
    I’d left her next door at nine-thirty the previous night, laughing and dazzling the neighbours. She had been drinking water, so I wasn’t worried about her tripping over her stilettos on the way home. And let’s face it, it wasn’t that far anyway. I could hear them laughing and talking as I got ready for bed. I’d drifted off trying to remember the last time my mother had been out at night without me.
    Halfway through my cereal, a thought hit me like a slap in the head.
    My swimming times.
    I hadn’t told Mum that she needed to come to the pool to time my races.
    I’d been so swept up in the crazy night at Caleb’s that I hadn’t talked to her about anything normal at all. The evening was like a dream, peopled with characters who had nothing in common with my everyday existence. Now, back in the stark light of day, all the humdrum bits of my life were coming back to haunt me.
    I called Mum’s mobile and blurted out what I needed to tell her. What I should have told her last night.
    The pause on the other end of the line warned me this wasn’t going to work out well for me.
    â€˜Honey-bun, I have an Open for Inspection from four to six. There’s no way I can make it to the pool this afternoon. I’m sorry.’
    â€˜You have to be there, Mum.’ Desperation was making me whine. ‘Mr Paulson and the old lady who runs the pool said that you have to sign off on my times and she won’t even give me the time sheet unless you’re there. They go towards Districts, Mum. Don’t make me miss it again this year.’
    The hum of traffic in the background told me she was still on the line. I pictured her frowning while she manoeuvred her little Getz through peak-hour traffic, trying to make the mismatched jigsaw pieces of our lives fit the functional-family picture that was on the cover of everyone else’s box.
    â€˜OK, OK, I’m on it, honey-bun. Don’t fret. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.’
    A groan burbled up from somewhere deep inside me and echoed down the disconnected line.
    If she’d just said I’ll see you this afternoon, I could have gone to school happy. But, I’m on it ? That was going to eat at me all day, gnawing a great pit in my stomach, while I wondered what the hell was going on in my own life.
    I considered my options. I could make another visit to the principal’s office. Mr Paulson wasn’t such a bad bloke; he’d probably hear me out. Maybe together we could work round my mother’s absence at all the critical points in my life.
    It wasn’t such a bad idea. But I just couldn’t see myself bagging my own mother to the princi pal. I also didn’t want to cut across any deal she might be working out that I didn’t know about yet.
    If there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that she was capable of surprising everyone with her complicated responses to routine requests. Any other mother would simply have taken her child to the pool, slipped Ma Mallory’s last time sheet into a clipboard and jotted down his times.
    I shuddered to think what loopy scheme she’d concoct to cover her inability to do what other mothers managed with boring regularity.
    My spoon scraped the bottom of my empty cereal bowl. I’d finished the lot, but it hadn’t made any difference. The pit in my stomach yawned deeper and wider than ever.
    â€˜Surprise, surprise. Look who’s last to arrive. Again.’
    It was Angelica. Ambushing me at the front gate, her posse lined up behind her. It was a