The Art of Not Breathing(6)
“Well, good,” she says. “Anyway, how about we celebrate your birthday next week? We could go out for a meal, the four of us. I saved some money especially.”
“Sure,” I say, disappointed that she doesn’t want to talk about Eddie any longer.
And I’m not holding out for the birthday meal. She says the same thing every year and it never happens.
“I did get you something small, but don’t tell your dad. You know what he’s like.”
She hands me a parcel wrapped in recycled Christmas paper. I can already tell it’s clothes.
“I’ll leave you to open it,” she says. “And there’s a card from Dillon too.”
She pulls an envelope from her back pocket. Dillon’s too scared to give it to me personally because he knows he should have stuck up for me when we were down at the Point. When Mum’s gone, I open the envelope first. On the front of the card is a chocolate cake with sixteen brightly colored candles. It’s signed from Dillon and Eddie. Dillon’s even tried to mimic Eddie’s straggly writing. Dillon does this pretending thing too. Sometimes I feel like we’re in a parallel world where Eddie is still here, but at the flick of a switch, we can be back in reality and he’s gone. Those days are the worst.
The present from Mum is a teeny, lacy black crop top. I’d be lucky to get it over my head, and even if I could, I’d then struggle to fit my arms through the flimsy sleeves. I’m about to put it in the bin but then remember Mum will want to borrow it one day. Last year’s present was clip-on hair extensions—as if I needed any more hair. I got Dillon to give it to the sister of one of his friends.
Eddie would have worn the crop top and the hair extensions just to make Mum laugh. My rib cage shudders. It feels like Eddie is trying to get out.
6
EDDIE LOVED BEING BURIED ALMOST AS MUCH AS HE LOVED THE DOLPHINS. The doctors told Mum and Dad that physical activity would help his development. They encouraged us to let him touch everything, show him all the different textures. He always wanted to dig holes or build things. Mum used to collect cardboard boxes and plastic tubs from deliveries at work and bring them home for him to play with.
When we were about seven, Mum came home with a really big box and some red paint. Eddie actually wet himself when he saw the box. He wanted to get into it straightaway.
Dad told us a story about the miners who live underground in the Australian outback.
“It’s so hot there that you can cook sausages on the ground in just a few seconds. It’s too hot to live in normal houses, so you have to live underground. When it’s hot, you have to say, “It’s a real sizzler.”
“Wow!” Eddie squealed. “I want to be underground in Straya.”
We painted the box an earthy red, and while we waited for it to dry, Dillon taught Eddie how to do an Australian accent.
“That’s a bonza steak you got on the barbie,” Dillon said as he flipped the plastic burgers from Eddie’s toy BBQ set.
“Bonza,” Eddie said as he stamped on one of the burgers and split it open.
Dad and I glued it back together with some old UHU glue we found in the kitchen drawer. Dad loved fixing all the small things—maybe it was his way of making up for not fixing our falling-apart house.
When the box was dry, Eddie climbed underneath it, but even though there was room for me, too, he wouldn’t let me in.
“You’re ’lowed to go to proper school,” he said. “All I have is my underground house in Straya.”
I was mad with him and called him a selfish shellfish.
“I hate you,” he whispered through the air hole that Dad had made on one side. He stayed under the box for hours. I think he must’ve fallen asleep, because later he yelled for me.
“Ellie, let me out!” he cried. “Ellie, I can’t breathe.”
I picture Eddie at sixteen, still calling me “Ellie,” still small, still clumsy. He’s at the school gate getting bullied. The younger boys, who are bigger than him, push him and steal his lunch money, and I rush to save him. I thump one of them in the face and give him a nosebleed, then take Eddie home as he cries.
Shame washes over me. If he were here and that happened, would I really save him?
7
I MEET DILLON ON THE STAIRS IN THE MORNING AS WE GET ready for our first day back at school. His newly short blond hair is gelled at the front and spiked up—a style he’s been experimenting with since he got together with Lara, this girl in my year. I used to quite like Lara—she once shared all of her stationery with me when my school bag went missing (I found it later shoved behind the bike sheds). But this year she’s become friends with the handbag girls, and more importantly, she’s got particularly close to my nemesis—Ailsa Fitzgerald. Dillon knows all of this, but he doesn’t seem to care that I don’t approve of his choice. The spiked-up style doesn’t suit him. I liked it better when his hair was long and floppy and hung over his eyes a bit. He’s wearing a light blue collared shirt, even though the S6s don’t have to be nicely dressed. I feel slightly ashamed of the way I look. My trousers are too tight around my backside, my socks are always on show, the button across my chest is about to pop off. I don’t think my uniform will last another week, let alone another year—I wish S4s didn’t have to wear uniforms.