Footprints on the Moon Read online

by sleep, my hair tousled

  to cloud dreams.

  I take time

  to wake from the night’s

  hibernation,

  but Cas is up, out

  of her bed on the other

  side of our room

  as soon as the sun’s watery

  light washes through

  the louvre slats

  of our window.

  ‘Turn it down,’ I bear-growl,

  but Cas is singing

  as she brushes

  her thick brown hair

  deliberately blocking me out.

  She stops singing

  as the music switches

  to the news.

  ‘Protests have taken place

  in America over the cost of the

  space moon program.

  “End poverty

  on Earth first”

  is the banner message.’

  Cas turns the volume down,

  not because I asked,

  but because

  she wants to say,

  ‘Of course they should

  grow more food,

  find more jobs,

  stop the wars here

  before they go

  to the moon frontier.’

  The hairbrush snags

  on a knot,

  ‘Ouch,’ she hisses.

  ‘And America should stop

  the war in Vietnam,’ she mutters

  and flings the hairbrush

  back on the dressing table.

  It makes a loud thud.

  I’m awake now and ask,

  ‘Vietnam? Since when did you

  become interested in the war?

  We are learning

  about Vietnam in Geography.

  But what’s it got to do with us

  in this little town so far

  away from the city?’

  Cas opens her mouth

  and looks at me.

  I’m looking right back

  wondering how Cas

  knows more than I do

  about the war

  that’s part

  of our lessons,

  complete with

  a school project.

  Then Peter Sarstedt

  sings the song

  ‘Where Do You Go To

  My Lovely?’

  and I don’t wait

  for Cas’s reply.

  I can’t help singing it

  and mouth all the lyrics

  to myself as I push back

  my quilt and open the louvres

  to let in the fresh breeze.

  Cas turns away,

  finishes getting

  ready for the day.

  She squeezes lemon juice

  on those

  tanned smooth legs,

  and I know

  as she makes

  her way to school

  later that eyes

  will flick,

  heads

  follow and even

  a wolf-whistle

  will be the reward

  of her citrus

  mornings.

  When the song finishes

  Cas looks at me.

  ‘You’ll be late,

  won’t have time

  to do your hair

  or clean your shoes.’

  ‘You didn’t care that much

  about me yesterday at school,

  you wouldn’t even know

  if my shoes were clean then,

  so why worry about it now?’

  And I wish I could throw

  something down so it made

  a great thwacking noise, too.

  Missing Dad

  ‘Moody,’ Cas calls me.

  ‘Sulky,’ Dad often says.

  ‘There’s a little

  man on your shoulder,’

  he jokes

  and goes to swipe it off.

  Then stops, laughs

  and begins to tell me

  the story of how his mother

  called him moody when

  he was my age.

  I like Dad’s

  stories and know ‘the little

  man’ is his way

  to shake me out

  of my dreaming.

  Or he might finish the story with:

  ‘You’ll never plough a field

  by turning it over in your mind.’

  That usually does the trick,

  I can’t see a plough in sight

  and my mind,

  is it really like a field?

  I’m not moody, just trying

  to work Cas out these days.

  I think she’s the one with

  mood swings.

  I feel like

  I don’t know

  this

  new

  Cas.

  Sulky? Nah!

  Dad is away so much lately

  that I’m unsure what to say

  when he is here.

  His work keeps him gone

  a month at a time.

  That’s ages, it really is.

  It’s like I’m meeting

  him again, like a long-

  lost relative,

  each time he comes

  home.

  He used to work on our little

  block of land, all the time,

  feeding the pens of chooks,

  keeping two cows,

  three pigs,

  a few sheep,

  lots of fruit trees

  and a big veggie patch.

  But selling eggs doesn’t pay.

  We would rather

  store-bought milk

  than straight from

  our cows,

  and keeping two

  growing girls

  costs a lot.

  So, Dad took a job

  selling farm goods

  to places a long way

  from here.

  Maybe I see the man

  in the moon

  more than I do

  my own dad.

  Last year, Dad would read

  me a serial; one time it was

  The Princess and the Goblin,

  another time Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

  He’d put on different voices

  especially for the scary parts,

  but now I’m a big

  high-schooler

  Cas says I’m too old

  for a bedtime story.

  But I still want stories,

  lots of them

  and time with my dad.

  But there’s Jules

  I have a cat, a very

  fluffy moccasin-slipper-

  like cat.

  ‘Shoo,’ says Cas

  if Jules tries to sneak

  into our bedroom.

  If we leave

  the louvres

  of our window

  open just cat-width,

  Jules will

  curl like a seashell

  on one of our

  patchwork quilts.

  This morning

  I wish I could run

  my feet over

  Jules’s soft back.

  Instead, I switch off

  Cas’s radio and feel better.

  I go to the bathroom,

  wash my face

  with cold water;

  Jules follows.

  I smell toast cooking,


  hear the kettle

  singing on

  the wood stove

  and hurry for hot Milo,

  warm buttery

  crunchy toast

  and Mum’s

  good-morning smile.

  But Mum’s talking

  on the phone,

  the long black cord

  jiggling as she

  pulls it taut,

  trying to cook toast

  as well as listen.

  Her hand stills,

  her face creases,

  and I know it’s

  my grandmother.

  When she puts

  down the receiver

  I ask, ‘What’s wrong?

  It’s Grandma, isn’t it?’

  My voice catches

  on the last word.

  ‘Not now, Sharnie,

  you’ll be late for the bus.’

  Mum is distracted,

  Mum is keeping

  Grandma from me.

  ‘But—’ I say.

  ‘Ten minutes

  and I’m walking,’ calls Cas.

  I know it takes us

  longer than that

  to walk to the bus stop.

  Cas is in the bathroom,

  again.

  I wonder if the mirror

  ever gets a chance to show

  someone else’s reflection.

  I gobble the last

  of my toast,

  rinse my plate and mug,

  look one last time

  at Mum who is

  buttering bread,

  finding apples,

  packing our lunches

  as if everything is fine.

  But it’s not, it’s not.

  She’s been talking

  to Grandma,

  listening, but not sharing

  with me, with Cas.

  I hate not knowing.

  I’m not a child anymore.

  I’m trying hard to be

  a high-schooler,

  more grown up.

  I’m trying,

  really trying.

  History for real

  Mia sits with me again,

  a Vietnam continent

  still splashed on the wall.

  Miss Parkes is

  pointing with a stick

  to areas on the map

  like Biên Hòa:

  ‘Where the first

  Australian battalion

  served with American troops

  under their command.

  This was June 1965.’

  ‘Biên Hòa,’ Mia whispers,

  and somehow

  we find it funny

  and our giggles

  seep through

  hands held

  to our mouths

  and come squeaking

  and muffled

  into the big

  classroom.

  We duck our

  heads lower

  but giggling

  is like the measles:

  contagious and makes

  us red-cheeked.

  We are laughing

  for no reason,

  but stop suddenly

  when Miss Parkes

  looks straight

  at Mia and me

  and says:

  ‘So this is your Geography

  report – very topical –

  on the start and causes

  of the Vietnam War.

  Why is Australia

  involved in this war?’

  There are shuffling feet,

  loud whispers

  and hands shoot up

  to ask questions.

  ‘Hands down,’

  says Miss Parkes.

  ‘These questions are part

  of your assignment.

  You will need

  to seek

  answers yourselves,

  read the newspapers,

  look up the library’s

  encyclopedias.

  I have written

  a basic timeline here

  on these sheets

  and it will be your task

  to fill in the gaps.

  As the sheets are passed

  from desk to desk,

  Gail, sitting behind us,

  taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘What are you laughing at?

  Are you laughing at me?’

  she asks.

  That only makes

  me giggle more.

  Ellie and her friend, Marg,

  at the desk across from us

  laugh too, but somehow

  their expressions stop

  my giggles. They are

  smirking at Gail.

  Did I look like that?

  That horrible sneer

  on Ellie’s face?

  Goading Gail, almost

  as if she wants

  Gail to fight back,

  taunt back, hit back,

  anything,

  but Gail ignores her

  and asks me

  a question

  that should have been

  fired on Ellie.

  ‘No, Gail,’ I protest.

  ‘I wouldn’t laugh at you.

  I’m sorry if you thought that.’

  And my face flames red

  as if I’ve been caught out

  in a lie.

  But it’s true; I’m

  not like Ellie,

  not at all.

  Even though we had

  a fit of giggles,

  I just don’t laugh

  at people.

  I don’t want to say

  Gail is weird.

  Different,

  yes,

  lonely,

  yes.

  How lonely,

  I don’t know

  until we are

  in the next class.

  Moon craters of our own

  Miss Anders, of Social Studies fame

  puts Simon & Garfunkel’s

  ‘I Am a Rock’

  on the portable record player

  she brought to the lesson.

  ‘Are we individual rocks

  or part of a group?

  Are there times when

  we feel like lone rocks?’

  The music and words

  are familiar to us all,

  but Miss Anders makes

  me think.

  Mia giggles; I don’t.

  Ellie sort of snorts,

  half-laugh,

  half-growl.

  It seems to be

  a signal for the rest

  of the class.

  No one answers,

  several girls cough,

  some shuffle feet,

  deliberately

  knock a ruler

  to the floor.

  Gail speaks in a rush,

  ‘It’s good to be

  an island sometimes.’

  Ellie sniggers,

  then Marg and some

  of their other friends

  sing softly, about Gail

  being a rock,

  on her own island

  far, far away.

  Miss Anders pushes

  her glasses

  up onto the bridge

  of her nose

  and tries to quieten Ellie

  and her friends,

  her arms waving

 
like seaweed,

  to and fro.

  But Ellie

  guffaws and sings

  even louder.

  Gail drops her head

  into her arms

  on the desk,

  and Miss Anders wails,

  ‘Girls, please!’

  I’m stunned, and think

  about turning to Gail,

  about thumbing my nose

  at Ellie, but all I really do

  is sit there and watch.

  A little tsunami has just

  washed over Gail’s beach

  and wet us through,

  making me gritty

  and uneasy.

  I know I should do

  something,

  say something,

  but I am just

  like everyone

  else in the class:

  I leave Gail

  to sink or swim.

  Our own archeology of artefacts

  The ringing of the bell

  saves everyone.

  The girls

  are like trumpeting

  elephants

  storming for the door,

  storming down

  the corridor

  to lockers and lunch,

  until the principal,

  Mr Grear,

  calls them to stop

  and serves

  them a little homily.

  Miss Anders, shuffling

  through her notes,

  packing up the portable

  record player, looks up

  and smiles weakly

  at Mia and me. But

  doesn’t even offer

  Gail a gentle word.

  I think maybe we

  are like rocks,

  and Ellie and her friends

  are like the sea smashing

  at us, but mainly at Gail.

  Mia and I go

  to the small hill

  near the hockey oval

  at lunchtime.

  It’s quiet

  and we’re still

  thinking of rocks.

  The hill has lots

  of rocks;

  we pull and dig

  and turn them over.

  I find a little rock

  with curvy lines through it

  like chocolate melting.

  ‘This would be good

  for the treasures

  Grandma puts in her pots,’

  I say. Mia finds another

  stone and hands it to me,

  then she gets tired

  of looking.

  ‘Rocks, rocks, rocks,’

  mutters Mia.

  I ask,

  ‘What’s wrong with Gail?’

  Mia doesn’t know.

  I say, ‘Maybe Gail

  is drowning.’

  I’m suddenly serious,

  and straightaway

  I’m sorry

  for those words.

  Somehow, when I see Gail

  I think of Grandma;

  they are both flickering

  on their own moonbeams

  and I’m trying

  to reach Grandma

  but her light is

  quickly going dim.