Chapter 7 Barnacles
barnacles
Hardened. Clinging to surfaces. Refusing to let go.
“Today we clean Grandpa’s room,” Trent says. “Donations to Moana by lunch; no excuses.”
Yes, I asked for this but . . . but cleaning. It doesn’t exactly spark joy.
I rub a hand over my shoulder, wincing. “I really threw my back out. I’m so sorry, I can’t—”
Trent captures my wrist and pulls me into Grandpa’s room. As protective of Ika as he might be, he’s also a strict brother. The worst kind, because he suspects every one of my excuses.
“Consider this quid pro quo for organising your studio wardrobe.”
He levels me a look, and I pause mid-wince.
I try again with the tragic shoulder rubbing and wincing. Until he spins me around and settles hands on both my shoulders. Large, warm, grounding.
Suddenly I know what real tension in my shoulders feels like.
And Grandpa is looking on from his bedside chair, where he’ll supervise while drinking a pot of ginger and lemon tea.
“Where should I rub you?” Trent says calmly, close to my ear, and I’m not only tense, I’m wobbly.
A very inappropriate shiver pools in a place I don’t want to be thinking about with Grandpa right there. Or while my ‘brother’ is clasping my shoulders . . .
“Let’s get cleaning!” I pump the air. Jump to show my athletic enthusiasm.
Trent just shakes his head, unimpressed. “Grandpa, turn on some beats.”
Grandpa squints at his phone, prodding at it, and while he does, I take in the battlefield before me.
Piles and piles of stuff. Clothes, gadgets, forgotten relics. Things that should have been thrown away decades ago but have instead become part of the furniture. All stacked up, waiting to be sorted, salvaged, or let’s face it: sacrificed.
But beneath all that, there’s one clear spot in the room: a round patch of carpet where nothing has been stored, nothing has been touched.
I’m standing in it. And so is Trent the Flooder.
Another little zap skates down my middle.
The speakers crackle to life.
“A good ol’ Kiwi classics,” Grandpa announces.
Tiki Taane, ‘Always On My Mind’.
Grandpa, delighted, points to the electric guitar in the corner. It’s dusty, neglected. A relic from a younger life.
Trent picks it up without hesitation, and he pretends to play it as he sings along.
So much for cleaning.
His voice is warm, pulling each lyric into something rich and weighty. And I shouldn’t be feeling it. Like a tug from my middle into his orbit.
He sings, eyes on me half the time. Maybe more than that.
But who is always on his mind?
I can’t . . .
I glance away. Look anywhere but at him.
He falters. Misses a beat for the first time all song.
He pivots, turning his attention to Grandpa instead, and finishes with exaggerated enthusiasm. Like that little misstep never happened.
Grandpa, completely unfazed, gestures to the guitar. “Used within the year. That means we keep it.”
I scoff. “Like I’d let him throw that away. Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ve got your back.”
I pause, pick up a typewriter, and grin. “Except for a few things that’ll be great for donating.”
“Does no one have any respect for history anymore?” Grandpa grumbles.
“Sure,” I say. “I respect you.”
Grandpa grabs his walking stick, and I hide behind Trent, peering out from behind his sleeve. The stick whips out, but Trent blocks it. “Leave Ika, he said it as it is. You’re history.”
“Why you little—”
I yank Trent back with me, laughing so hard I don’t see the pile of clothes until it’s too late.
I topple backwards, throwing my arm out to break my fall.
Whack.
My hand slams into something solid.
An ancient tin of Wattie’s spaghetti.
Ow.
I pick up the very old can, turning it in my hands. The label is curling at the edges, and if there’s an expiry date, it’s long faded. “Really, Grandpa?”
He shrugs. “You never know. What if there’s a big earthquake, no other food?”
Trent plucks it from my hand, humming. “I’ll take my chances.”
He opens a black rubbish bag.
And Grandpa launches off his chair for it.
“Over my dead body.”
I laugh, steering Grandpa away. “That might just happen if you eat it.”
Grandpa grumbles but relents, instead turning his focus to the piles on his bed. He digs deep, pulling from the bottom an old black shoebox.
My curiosity flickers.
What’s inside?
But before I can think too much, the next song kicks in. Not just any song. The Mutton Birds. ‘Anchor Me’.
Grandpa waves at Trent, but this one?
This song is mine.
I grab the guitar, sling the strap over my shoulder.
Grandpa sits back, expectant.
Trent leans against the wardrobe, watching quietly.
And then it’s just me and the song.
The chords pull deep. My eyes close. I cry out the chorus. Jump to it. Let the guitar hang as I throw my arms up.
Anchor me.
I finish with a release of breath.
Grandpa claps, grinning.
I set the guitar down and glance at Trent.
He pushes off the wardrobe and steps onto the round rug. “You can sing.”
“And dance. And act.” I smile, but he’s still looking at me. Still seeing me.
It’s almost too much.
It is too much.
I sweep my hair back, twisting it into a knot. Something, anything to do.
Grandpa rifles through the shoebox. The newspaper clippings inside look old. Ancient history.
I shift on my feet. Curl my toes against the rug.
Trent moves closer.
I glance up sharply. His eyes are focused on my face. He’s coming too close. Another zap. Time to step back. “Th-this room won’t sort itself.”
Grandpa schleps out of the room with his shoebox, muttering something about fresh air. And in a blink, he’s gone. Taking that box with him, and whatever past he wants to sit with alone.
Grandpa. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me alone with dark eyes that seem to behold me and swallow me and still see me as Ika.
Even the music doesn’t give me a reprieve. It just tightens the air between us.
The Exponents. ‘Why Does Love Do This to Me’.
“What?” I snap breathlessly. “What do you want?”
“Don’t be frightened,” he says. He lunges, hand cupping the side of my head, and my insides soar up into the base of my throat—
In a ticklish sweep, he removes his hand, and in it—
I gulp.
In the cage of his hand is a spider.
I scream, a shrill sound that accompanies a very thorough body shake and me slapping at my hair in case any more creepers are lurking.
Trent’s eyes flicker with amusement but before I can appreciate the rare twinkle, he’s moved to the window and freed the eight-legged beast.
With his back to me, Trent says, “Should’ve seen the one I found in bed this morning.”
“Trent!”
His bed is our bed. And . . . why do I have the feeling that Trent might be secretly laughing?
I sneak up to him, but if he’s been smirking he’s schooled it by the time I yank him around. He raises a brow.
I’ll catch you, one of these days.
“Let’s put these donation bags by the front door. Then it’s to Moana after lunch.”
He nods, a twinkle still in his eyes.
I might be here for Grandpa’s smiles, but sometimes I have a feeling I’m here for his, too.