OK then.
Still … that’s promising.
He picks his way across the room and notices the front curtains are drawn. Another sign that the occupants are away.
Then he sees a huge whiteboard hanging in the kitchen, horribly decorated with dolphin glitter stickers, and sporting messages like:
DENTIST @ 3:40 JACK – DO !! NOT !! SKIP !! AGAIN !!
PLS BUY MILK
JACK NEVER CLEANS THE BATHROOM
GRADY HAS CAR THURSDAYS
US TEENS COME BACK FROM CAMPING ON SUNDAY (DON’T SAY WE DIDN’T GIVE YOU DETAILS, DAD)
Sam shoulders sag with relief.
Back on Sunday.
The house is his.
He rummages through a medicine kit in one of the cramped cupboards and helps himself to flu meds. Take that, you freaking streaming nose. He swallows the tablets dry and vaguely wonders if they’re drowsy-inducing.
He takes his slow, aching bones upstairs to a second floor that is as chaotic as the first. But through the mess of art projects, bags, and enough Lego on the floor to be considered warfare – the house feels warm. Cosy. Lived in. Sam’s favourite type of house.
By the way, Sam, you are a freak.
He feels feverishly warm.
A brief tour of the bedrooms concludes that this house is mainly populated by boys. Only one bedroom looks remotely feminine, with two identical white beds with floral bedspreads. A piece of duct tape runs down the middle of the floor to separate one side’s haphazard piles of books and swords made from sticks – from the other of pincushions and fabric and boxes of buttons.
OK, so these people don’t believe in cupboards. They believe in obstacle courses.
He has a new appreciation for only having one brother. Imagine a dozen Averys? No thank you.
He picks through a closet and finds a fresh T-shirt, since he’s been using his to mop his streaming eyes and nose, and then he wanders into an office. He could pick any bed, obviously, but it’s tidier in here and somehow he ends up in a comfy armchair in a pool of sunshine. Once he’s curled up in a shirt that smells of eucalyptus washing powder, with his backpack dumped on the floor and the sun petting his hair, Sam finds he can’t get back up.
He is so very, very tired.
He curls into a ball as the flu meds kick in. Side effects probably … definitely … include … drowsiness.
The sun is so warm on his cheek.
He’ll just sit here for a minute and then—
He’s seven years old, seatbelt cutting into his chest as the car speeds across the dark city.
The strap is broken so his dad tied it down – tight, too tight. But if Sammy complains he’ll just get another slap. Instead, he chews his lip as they pull into a car park in front of a club that pulses a kaleidoscope of coloured lights and thundering beats.
Avery hums softly to himself in the seat beside Sammy. He runs his favourite toy car over his face, eyes closed in a momentary bliss of sensation. He reaches over to run the car on Sammy’s face too, but Sammy shoves him back with a scowl.
He knows Avery’s just sharing, but Sammy’s hungry. He hurts. He’s tired of being stuck in a car for days and days with Avery and his stupid toys.
Sammy says, ‘Dad, he won’t stop touching me,’ before he really thinks about it. Then he goes still. Scared of a slap. Scared, even more, that Avery will get it.
He should’ve stayed quiet.
His dad shuts off the car and is on his phone, craning his neck to see the club. People stream out and in, wearing silly dresses. They must be cold. Sam’s cold. He can’t ask for his jacket because Avery was shivering earlier and Sam let him wear it.
His dad half turns in the front seat, his eyes molasses pits in the dark car. He reaches back and snatches the toy off Avery.
Avery gives a surprised yelp.
A sick hole gnaws at Sam’s stomach. He didn’t mean … he just … He doesn’t want Avery to cry.
‘Grow up, Avery,’ their dad snaps. ‘You’re too old for this rubbish.’
Avery’s mouth makes a perfect O and he flaps his hands in front of his face. Another thing he’s too old to be doing that makes their dad so annoyed.
Their dad gives a disgusted growl and shoves open his door. He gets out, breathing smoke in the frosty night air, and then leans back in to look at his sons again.
His voice is a warning growl. ‘I’ll be a few minutes. Sit here while I pick something up. If I hear a peep, you get hell, understand?’ He glances at his phone again. ‘After this we drive to your aunt’s and see if your mother has run off there.’
Avery lurches half out of his seat, hands flapping wildly. ‘My car!’
Their dad smacks his hand against the roof of the car and Avery shrinks back. ‘You get the toy back when you stop being such a brat.’ He slams the door, swearing.
They watch him stride across the car park, shoving Avery’s toy car into his pocket and putting his phone back to his ear.
Sammy glances sideways at Avery. He watches his brother’s chest going in and out so so fast.
‘I n-n-need need need—’ Avery breaks off, looking at Sammy with wild, wet eyes.
He needs his car. It’s his special car. He always has it.
Fix this, Sammy.
‘He’ll give it back,’ says Sammy. ‘Just be good. Just wait.’ Please please please.
They’ve been driving for ever, since their mother took a packet of cigarettes and their dad’s wallet and stormed out of the caravan they were borrowing and didn’t come back.
His dad has been angry ever since.
Well, he’s always angry.
‘Just be good, Avery,’ Sammy repeats, desperate now – but Avery’s already popped open his door and slid out.
This is not good.
Sammy grabs for his own seatbelt, but it’s tied so tight. He can’t move. ‘Avery, don’t.’
But Avery’s already trotting towards the pulsing lights and music, his tongue sticking out in determination. He hates loud things. Why’s he going in there? He doesn’t need his car that much, does he?
Sammy doesn’t want to get hell when their dad comes back.
He tugs harder at his belt and then kicks his legs, but he’s stuck.
He sits there, handfuls of wild butterflies in his belly. He wants his mum and some honeyed toast and Avery snuggled up next to him in their trundle bed in the caravan, humming a little song and breaking off to kiss Sammy’s elbow because he hasn’t figured out brothers are supposed to fight and bite now that they’re seven and nine. Avery never figures anything out.