Silhouette by Thalia Kalkipsakis Page B

consider myself in the mirror. This is who he’s expecting to see. Someone wild, sexy, fearless …
    So this is who I will become.
    Mum’s crouching down at the oven when I go downstairs.
    ‘I’m going out,’ I say to the back of her head.
    The oven thuds shut, Mum turns and her face falls. ‘But I’ve made a chicken casserole.’
    ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve already eaten.’
    I watch her eyes travel down. Hair. Make-up. Skinny jeans. Heels. Go on, say something.
    ‘Scarlett, we need to talk.’ She places both hands on the back of a chair. ‘I know you’re upset, but you can’t keep avoiding me.’
    ‘What’s there to talk about?’
    ‘You need to understand what your father was going through.’ She leans over the chair, eyes searching mine. ‘It’s not easy for me to talk about, but now that you know some of what happened I think you should hear all of it.’
    ‘Oh, and you’re going to tell me now, are you?’ I’m nodding sarcastically, angrily. ‘You never understood him, so what makes you think you can explain it to me? I know where he was that night and I don’t blame him .’
    Mum turns away and for a moment I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Why am I torturing her like this?
    Because she’s here. And he isn’t.
    I shake my head. ‘You lied to me, Mum. How could you do that?’
    There’s a pause before she turns back to me. ‘Actually, the lying was easy. It’s telling the truth that’s hard.’
    ‘Yeah? Well, good luck with that.’ I’m out of the kitchen and into the hall.
    ‘Wait, Scarlett.’ Mum rushes after me. ‘At least tell me where you’re going.’
    I spin around. ‘Out.’
    It’s like she’s been slapped in the face, and I know why. She can’t do anything to stop me.
    I catch a bus into Central, then a taxi. The driver is helpful, taking me to the road that Moss lives on, then slowing down while I peer up driveways for the right set of gates.
    It feels strange driving up to that huge house. What must the taxi driver think?
    Moss opens the door. ‘Heeeey.’ Even cuter than I remember, and barefoot again. He places a hand on my back and guides me inside.
    It’s just the inner sanctum here tonight. I’m not sure how I know, maybe from how relaxed everyone is, lounging around the living room. The coffee table is full of bottles and ashtrays. I try to ignore the smoke. Bruno introduces me to Bryn, the pencil-thin guitarist, and his girlfriend Rachel, the keyboard player with short blonde hair. Six or seven more names are given to me and I only manage to hold on to one or two.
    All the couches and armchairs are taken so Moss drags a dining chair over for me. I feel out of place sitting on it, too upright. Then he hands me a glass of something that’s bubbly and clear, and disappears again. The drink tastes bitter, but it grows on me as I sip.
    ‘Hey,’ says a guy with long hair on the couch beside my chair. He holds out a hand-rolled cigarette. A joint, I guess.
    I scrunch up my nose. ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s against my religion.’
    The guy just blinks.
    ‘Here,’ says Bruno from my other side, reaching across to take the joint. He sucks it before passing it on.
    There’s talk of music charts, and someone who’s had food poisoning. When the joint comes around again, the guy leans forwards in his seat, holding it out awkwardly for Bruno, so I take it and pass it on. It smells sweet and mild.
    ‘Sick dancing,’ says Bruno. He coughs and punches his chest with a balled fist.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘The “Everywhere” video. Wicked dancing.’
    ‘Oh … thanks.’
    Bruno leans forward. ‘No, really, I mean it. I don’t know much about that stuff, but I can tell what’s good, you know?’
    This time I relax into a smile. ‘Well then, thanks.’
    He grunts in response. ‘Did you know that Moss wrote that song about his sister?’
    ‘Really?’ This time it’s my turn to lean forwards as the lines of the song come back to me. There’s no-one there