Chapter 13 Penguins
penguins
Mate for life.
Family.
The word lingers between us, heavier than the sky about to rain.
His fingers ghost the brim of Grandpa’s hat. “Dylan . . .”
“We should go,” I say quickly. Lightly.
But he doesn’t quite let it drop. Just like I hoped, and . . .
Just like I hate.
Two weeks later, hours before the birthday bash, I’m still gripping Grandpa’s hat too tight. Stupid, stupid mouth.
Why did I bring it up?
Why did I give in to that curling need for him to know I’m a me? A me with my own set of hurts and comfort needs. Why did I want him to curl an arm around me for support?
Why did he offer it?
The warmth of his arm pulling me close, steady, there, grounding. The slightly ill-timed pat, fingers pressing for just a second too long. Enough I can feel his hesitation. Then the gravel in his voice: “Do you want to talk about it?”
No. But under that, I’m crying yes, yes, please, yes.
Instead, what comes out is silence. A breath. A heartbeat. Then, “Maybe another time.”
No, no other time. What’s the point? What’s the point, making things about me? This is a job. A job about Ika. And even . . . even if the lines blurred, did I really want to talk about back then? Or did I just want his arm around me, asking?
I groan, pressing my forehead to the desk. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Yet not stupid enough to quit ruminating.
At least Trent hasn’t brought it up again.
He’s simply continued on with his doting-on-his-little-bro act.
Maybe he’s been a bit less dry.
“Are self-inflicted concussions part of your daily routine now?”
Then again, maybe not.
I lift my head to find him standing there, slipping his sunglasses onto his head.
“I just finished a two-hour improv lesson,” I mutter, shooting him a glare. “I was taking a five-minute break.”
“Before the kiddo class comes?”
“Before you come.”
“You did promise the studio this evening for Grandpa’s bash.”
“You’d have come anyway.”
“You’d have wanted me to.”
I huff. “We definitely have brotherly squabbling down.”
It’s almost imperceptible, but he flinches. It’s just a second, barely that. But I caught it, and that fraction of a moment lingers in my mind. Ready for me to overanalyse. Along with everything else.
Thank God for the chaos of kiddos pouring into the room. Thank God for Moana calling in sick, keeping me busy taking over her class. Thank God for Holly needing help with her homework after the others have left.
She pulls a picture from her bag and hands it to me. “You keep looking at it, so I drew another tree. You can . . .” She points to the wall. “Hang it in here.”
She extends the coloured image. It’s one to one like her other family tree, without the cut-up photos and the names. The same carefully coloured tree, with the same branches, and the same number of green leaves.
Holly seems excited by the prospect of her work hanging up, and I . . . can’t let her down. I swallow thickly. “There’s a frame in the wardrobe just perfect for this.”
She helps me find the frame, and then watches with a satisfied smile when I hammer up a picture hook and slip the picture onto the wall.
From behind his laptop, Trent keeps looking over, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if this family tree has him recalling our picnic. I had one once.
With shaky hands, I straighten the frame and use my hoodie sleeve to polish a smudge on the glass. Holly comes so close her face is reflected in it.
“You handed your homework in already?” I ask, pulling on a smile.
“I’m not finished yet.” Holly sighs. “I have to write a page on each person. Something interesting about them. My teacher says it’s to open up conversations at home.” She shrugs, and stares into the middle distance. “But I don’t know what to write about Beth. I have to make it up.”
She doesn’t want to ask her mum about her dead sister.
My swallow is very raw, and I can feel Trent tense behind the desk too.
My fingers curl. The lump thickens in my throat. “I—I can make up some stories for you?”
Holly is already grabbing her pen, like talking about family is finally easy at last. She’s found me. She doesn’t have to ask her mum.
She slings herself on my chair butted close up to Trent’s, and I feel more than see Trent listening as I speak.
He’s tense; he’s reminded of his real Ika.
He’s curious; he’s reminded of me. I had one once.
What did he mean? Does it hurt him talking about family trees?
What is he thinking as he tells stories for Holly? Is that bright smile all an act?
That’s what his silence asks.
“Stories, stories, stories.” I hum, and snap my fingers. “Beth. Twelve-year-old Beth loved horses and horseriding and took really good care of her horse until the day she fell off its ironing board back and broke her arm.”
Holly giggles. “It wasn’t a real horse?”
“Nope. She wasn’t allowed in real life.”
“Why not?”
“Her mum was afraid she’d break her arm.”
Holly laughs louder. “That happened anyway. Another story!”
I tap my mouth, pondering. “Fourteen-year-old Beth would do anything to protect the ‘perfect’ chicken sandwich. She’d order it just exactly right and never share it.
Not even if you offered her chocolate in return for a bite.
And if the cat came and pinched a bit when she wasn’t looking .
. . beware kitty. You’re in for ten minutes time out. ”
Holly scribbles down the story. “We don’t have a cat, but I think we can use this story. Time out how?”
“Put in the shower box until someone saved it.”
“Beth is minxy!”
“Beth would also give the cat extra treats when no one was looking.”
“Another two,” Holly says. “I have to fill up this page.”
“Beth once decided she was a professional hairdresser. Her first client disagreed. Loudly. With many tears. The moment he saw himself in the mirror, he demanded all his hair back. So Beth, feeling very guilty, marched to a real hairdresser and had hers chopped off too. ‘To be fair’, she said.”
“This Beth sounds like she would’ve been an awesome big sister.”
I drum my fingers against the desk, grinning. “Okay, one more. Let’s call this the Ultimate Beth Classic.”
Holly leans forward, pen hovering over her paper.
I lower my voice to a top-secret whisper. “Once upon a time, Beth tried to turn a penguin into a prince.”
Holly blinks up at me.
So does Trent.
“A penguin prince?” Holly says.
“The penguin came up under the house. Beth discovered it. They made eye contact and ‘boom’ she swore it was fate. That a real soul was trapped inside its feathery body. She wrapped the little penguin in a jersey and sneaked it to an abandoned tub in the garden, and—”
“She didn’t kiss it!” Holly chokes on a laugh.
I lean in, solemnly. “She did.”
“My teacher won’t believe this story.”
“Your teacher will love this story.”
“Go on, finish then.” Holly is grinning. She wants to know the end of this one.
And Trent has definitely shifted more in our direction too, fingers tapping the table in a drum of curiosity.
“Beth thought she didn’t do it right the first time. So she conducted a marriage ceremony first with her and Sir Waddlington the Thirteenth.”
Holly folds on a shriek, and Trent has given up half-listening to turn his chair in my direction, wholly giving himself to this tale.
“I suppose it didn’t work the second time either?”
“Well, Trent,” I say on a hopping laugh. “If it had, you’d have read about this miracle-marriage already.”
Holly can’t stop laughing. Her eyes are squinting with it. “What happens next?”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Divorce, of course. They were clearly incompatible.”
Trent snorts, while Holly hiccups from laughing so hard.
“The poor penguin,” Holly says.
“Who was smartly returned to the safety of the beach,” I say. “Presumably where it waddled off to warn all its other penguin friends about the girl looking for her prince.”
“This is the story!” Holly bends over her paper, giggling as she writes.
My smile softens on the back of her head and when I sweep my gaze to Trent, I feel my smile wobble. He’s watching me.
Trent is watching me with gently curved lips.
His eyes clasp with mine and in that moment it’s like he becomes aware of himself. He rubs a palm over his jaw and stands, scooping up the bags stashed against the wall behind him. “I should start setting up. I’ll bring in the tables.”
Two hours later, Grandpa and his daycare mates pile out of the van in their penguin suits.
Upstairs, the rehearsal room has been transformed into a glitzy, old-school ballroom, dripping with nostalgia to make the oldies feel like they’ve stepped back, all that way back, to their prime.
I stand under the shimmering disco ball, waving them into the twinkling light. To the left, swing your fake hips to slow dance melodies; to the right, grab a mocktail at the glowing bar, manned of course by Trent our volunteer eye-candy.
Had a few too many mocktails? Swap the martini glasses and citrus garnishes for cheese squares skewered by tiny umbrellas.
Grandpa pulls at his white bowtie and stamps his walking stick against the floor, surveying the scene with a glint in his eye. “Candlelit tables . . . card games . . . a photo booth. Where do we start, ladies and gentlemen?”
“A dance with your favourite, of course.” I extend my hand.
Grandpa throws back his head with a laugh, already reaching for my fingers. We start on a foxtrot, him leading, our steps light, easy, matching the hum of harmony in the air.
“Psst,” he murmurs as we spin, “what’s with the sofa hiding behind curtains?”
“For sipping drinks and swapping scandalous stories, of course.”
Grandpa snorts. “Most of these guys are divorced, widowed, or lifelong flirts. You better head there regularly with a torch to keep things PG.”
Behind us, a tinkering laugh. “Let’s see if you still got it. Foxtrot with me, you coward.”
Grandpa halts after another spin, breath coming a little harder. I quickly hand him back his stick. He leans on it, smirking.