âI appreciate your honesty.â
âDonât go,â I say. âWe still have work to do on the Secret Project.â
He shrugs on his backpack. âMy mum is expecting me home for dinner,â he says.
I tell Mum Iâm not feeling well and go to bed before dinner. This has been the worst weekend of my entire life. I canât imagine how it can get any worse than this. I realise that having a good long cry might make me feel better, but I canât do it. There arenât any tears. Iâm tired and empty and more than anything I just want to be asleep.
I wake up at 3 am, starving. I tiptoe downstairs.
As Iâm walking through the darkened lounge room, I hear noises in the kitchen. The door is ajar, and the kitchen light is on. Itâs a strange, sniffling, choking sound. Our old dog used to sound like that just before he threw up.
I peer around the kitchen door.
Itâs Dad. He has a cup of tea in front of him, and his shoulders are shaking up and down and heâs making this strange, gasping, gulping noise.
I wonder if itâs Grandma. Maybe sheâs dead. I suddenly feel guilty for not visiting her.
Iâm about to say something, but Dad looks so weird. Iâve never seen him cry before. Parents arenât supposed to cry. Theyâre not supposed to have emotions, apart from anger, disappointment and pride. And fatigue. But theyâre never supposed to cry . It seems like such a personal, private thing. I wonder why heâs crying down here. Why isnât he crying in the bedroom where Mum can comfort him? Does he think itâs not manly to cry? Is he embarrassed?
Maybe he hasnât told Mum about Grandma. Maybe heâs trying to figure out how to tell her. And me.
I feel cold and sick, a bit like I did last night at the party.
Itâs scary seeing Dad cry.
I sneak back upstairs and slide into bed. I squeeze Gregory tight. I donât want to turn the light off. Iâm far too old to be scared of the dark, but all of a sudden I want to be a kid again. The party, Ben, Tahni. Mum acting strange. Dad crying.
Life used to be so much simpler.
11 re·cal·ci·trant
âadjective; resisting authority; not obedient; rebellious.
â The Wordsmithâs Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
The next morning I go downstairs with my face composed. I wonder what I should do when they tell me Grandmaâs dead. Should I act surprised? Should I cry? Iâm not sure if I can cry, now that I already know.
Dadâs sitting at the breakfast table, in almost exactly the same position as he was last night. Except now there is a newspaper spread on the table, and heâs wearing a suit and has a bowl of muesli in front of him.
âHi, Dad,â I say.
He looks up and smiles. âMorning, chicken,â he says, then goes back to his newspaper.
I open the fridge and fossick around for the orange juice, waiting for him to tell me.
He turns a page of the newspaper.
I pour a glass of orange juice, and pull out last nightâs leftover curry and start to eat it cold.
Dad makes a face. Here it comes. âMidge, that smells revolting,â he says. âI donât know how you can eat that stuff so early in the morning.â
Maybe heâs softening the blow. Maybe he doesnât want to tell me before school.
I canât stand the pressure.
âHow was Grandma yesterday?â
Dad shrugs. âOh, you know your grandmother,â he says. âIn her own happy little world. She asked me if Iâd come to deliver the new bookshelves. Then she told me a story about when she used to live in Scotland.â
âGrandma lived in Scotland?â
âOf course she didnât,â says Dad. âSheâs never left Australia.â
âOh.â I put the rest of the curry back in the fridge. âSo sheâs all right, then? Healthy?â
âAs a horse,â says Dad. âI think sheâll outlive us
âDonât go,â I say. âWe still have work to do on the Secret Project.â
He shrugs on his backpack. âMy mum is expecting me home for dinner,â he says.
I tell Mum Iâm not feeling well and go to bed before dinner. This has been the worst weekend of my entire life. I canât imagine how it can get any worse than this. I realise that having a good long cry might make me feel better, but I canât do it. There arenât any tears. Iâm tired and empty and more than anything I just want to be asleep.
I wake up at 3 am, starving. I tiptoe downstairs.
As Iâm walking through the darkened lounge room, I hear noises in the kitchen. The door is ajar, and the kitchen light is on. Itâs a strange, sniffling, choking sound. Our old dog used to sound like that just before he threw up.
I peer around the kitchen door.
Itâs Dad. He has a cup of tea in front of him, and his shoulders are shaking up and down and heâs making this strange, gasping, gulping noise.
I wonder if itâs Grandma. Maybe sheâs dead. I suddenly feel guilty for not visiting her.
Iâm about to say something, but Dad looks so weird. Iâve never seen him cry before. Parents arenât supposed to cry. Theyâre not supposed to have emotions, apart from anger, disappointment and pride. And fatigue. But theyâre never supposed to cry . It seems like such a personal, private thing. I wonder why heâs crying down here. Why isnât he crying in the bedroom where Mum can comfort him? Does he think itâs not manly to cry? Is he embarrassed?
Maybe he hasnât told Mum about Grandma. Maybe heâs trying to figure out how to tell her. And me.
I feel cold and sick, a bit like I did last night at the party.
Itâs scary seeing Dad cry.
I sneak back upstairs and slide into bed. I squeeze Gregory tight. I donât want to turn the light off. Iâm far too old to be scared of the dark, but all of a sudden I want to be a kid again. The party, Ben, Tahni. Mum acting strange. Dad crying.
Life used to be so much simpler.
11 re·cal·ci·trant
âadjective; resisting authority; not obedient; rebellious.
â The Wordsmithâs Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
The next morning I go downstairs with my face composed. I wonder what I should do when they tell me Grandmaâs dead. Should I act surprised? Should I cry? Iâm not sure if I can cry, now that I already know.
Dadâs sitting at the breakfast table, in almost exactly the same position as he was last night. Except now there is a newspaper spread on the table, and heâs wearing a suit and has a bowl of muesli in front of him.
âHi, Dad,â I say.
He looks up and smiles. âMorning, chicken,â he says, then goes back to his newspaper.
I open the fridge and fossick around for the orange juice, waiting for him to tell me.
He turns a page of the newspaper.
I pour a glass of orange juice, and pull out last nightâs leftover curry and start to eat it cold.
Dad makes a face. Here it comes. âMidge, that smells revolting,â he says. âI donât know how you can eat that stuff so early in the morning.â
Maybe heâs softening the blow. Maybe he doesnât want to tell me before school.
I canât stand the pressure.
âHow was Grandma yesterday?â
Dad shrugs. âOh, you know your grandmother,â he says. âIn her own happy little world. She asked me if Iâd come to deliver the new bookshelves. Then she told me a story about when she used to live in Scotland.â
âGrandma lived in Scotland?â
âOf course she didnât,â says Dad. âSheâs never left Australia.â
âOh.â I put the rest of the curry back in the fridge. âSo sheâs all right, then? Healthy?â
âAs a horse,â says Dad. âI think sheâll outlive us
Similar Books
