‘So. How’s life, Sarah?’ he asks.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Clem gets to his feet and paces around the living room. ‘How can she not know your name? We met in kindergarten!’
‘It really doesn’t matter. I don’t care.’
‘Well, I do!’ He stops pacing and gazes at me. ‘You’re . . . you’re my . . .’ He reddens a bit and reaches up to his neck, like he does when he’s wearing his tie.
‘Jeez, Clem. I’m your what?’
‘You’re my Price!’ he says, shaking his hands in the air. ‘You’re my Price and she should know that you’re my Price.’
I blink and type the name of another video into the search bar. ‘Alright.’
‘She just . . . I wish . . .’
‘What can you do about it, though?’ I ask, looking up from the screen. ‘Like, would sitting down and talking to them about it help, do you think?’
‘No. They wouldn’t listen.’
‘Is there anything else that would help them understand that you want, like, more from them?’
‘No. Not that I can think of.’
‘Well, then. Who cares?’
Clem sighs and scratches the back of his head. ‘You know, all the family drama you’ve got going on? Well, you could move in here,’ he says, watching me. His face twists. ‘I don’t think they’d even notice.’
***
Later, when I’m leaving through the back door, I hear someone clearing their throat and swing around to come face to face with Clem’s mum.
‘Hi,’ I say, my voice coming out in a sort of squeak.
‘You’re always welcome to visit, but I don’t think you should really be here by yourself.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re giving him the wrong idea. It’s not fair to him.’
‘Huh?’
She looks at me impatiently. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘I really, really don’t.’
She gives me a long look and then disappears back inside.
I stand there for a moment, wondering if she still thinks I’m Sarah or whether she’s realised I’m Stella. I wonder what she means, but it doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t know Clem or me well enough to be right about anything like that. I slowly walk home to Fairyland, kicking loose stones along the footpath as I go.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning it’s raining, and Taylor and I can’t find our umbrellas. I figure Mum or Dad must have tossed them before we moved. The whole cabin feels clammy and too small. It’s a relief to step out into the sharp day, even if we are decked out in plastic ponchos.
‘If anyone sees me, I’ll die,’ mutters Taylor, putting her earphones in. She’s in a bad mood because the bar fridge died and her favourite yoghurt went off. I never imagined I’d feel nostalgic about our old kitchen. But as I rummage through boxes of groceries for something that could pass for breakfast, I feel a pang of longing for our crooked kitchen cupboards and our noisy, broken fridge. I gaze at our kitchen set-up. At the electric frypan and oven; at the bucket for dishwashing and the boxes of food. I can’t look at it for long. It hurts too much.
As we’re struggling to get our backpacks on over our ponchos, I notice someone walking past the front of our cabin and accidentally bang my shin against the barbecue that Dad’s set up. ‘It’s Matthew!’
Taylor looks at me irritably. ‘What?’
‘It’s Matthew Clarke!’
She glances out the plastic window and tenses. ‘So?’
I crane my neck as he walks past in his wet school uniform with his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look like someone hurrying through somewhere he’s not meant to be. He looks like he belongs, except Matthew Clarke is the last person I would’ve expected to belong at Fairyland Caravan Park.
‘Did you have anything to do with him?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘C’mon. We’ll be late.’
Richard is waiting for us by the gate, wearing a parka and a purple beanie, even though it’s not that cold. ‘River might flood,’ he says, although it’s only drizzling. ‘You going to come to the garden night on Friday?’
Taylor turns her Discman up loud and speeds up along the footpath towards the bus stop to catch the bus that goes to Ascott.
‘The what?’ I say.
‘The garden night. We do it once a month. We all meet in the hall and everyone brings a plate, and then we head out and do some gardening. It’s cool.’
‘What kind of gardening?’
‘Flowers. Herbs. Vegetables, mostly. We grow a lot of food here.’
I blink. ‘I’ve noticed those red flowers everywhere. And the pink ones.’
‘Geraniums. They’re Mum’s favourite. She’s got about ten plants out the front of our place. But, yeah. The garden night – not everyone comes.’ He leans in a bit closer as we walk. ‘Some of the people here are a bit dodgy, you know? They don’t really want to plant potatoes and prune back rosemary. But they generally don’t stay here that long. They just sort of blow in and out, you know?’
‘You don’t say.’
‘But most of them are great. The people at Fairyland. Muriel knitted me this, see?’ He points up at his beanie. ‘She might knit you guys one, too. She says it helps her arthritis.’
‘Ha.’ I clear my throat. ‘Hey, Richard?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Does . . . Matthew Clarke live here?’
Richard leans in again as we walk. ‘Matthew Clarke from Year Eleven?’
‘Well, yeah. There’s only one Matthew at school.’
‘Yeah, he lives here.’ Richard’s tone is hushed, as though he’s worried he’ll be overheard. ‘His dad manages the place.’
‘Really?’
‘They live in the manager’s house.’ Richard turns his head slightly and I can see a tired-looking weatherboard at the front of the park. I’d simply assumed it was a neighbour’s place, but I see now that there’s no proper fence separating it from the park, just a narrow strip of star pickets, wire and a crooked gate.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘He normally goes in early,’ Richard says. ‘He used to walk with me. When I first started school and people were . . .’ He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. ‘It was before I had my growth spurt. I was puny, you know?’
I wince.
‘But seeing me with Matthew . . . people backed off. He’s cool, you know?’
‘I guess so,’ I say. I’ve never thought of Matthew as being cool. He sort of seems to exist beyond the student hierarchy. But I don’t think I’ve ever really seen anyone mess with him, and I guess, for pre-growth-spurt Richard, that would’ve been about as cool as things get.
‘We don’t really see his dad much, but Matthew’s around a lot,’ Richard says.
I nod and scuff my shoe on the footpath. The rain’s starting to wet my socks.
‘I can smell cookies,’ I say.
‘Yeah, that’ll be me. I was baking this morning.’