Lisa （age 6）
“Go play with your dolls,” meanie-pants Griff says, nudging me away from the kitchen.
I throw my backpack on the floor. I don’t want to play with dolls, I want to play with my big brother. “Please, Griff! I wanna
make dinner with you! Mummy said you are making roast pork and crackling tonight! Pleaaaase.”
“No. You know how it ended last time.”
“It’s not my fault salt and sugar look the same!”
“You’ll only be in the way. Cooking is my thing.”
He shuts the kitchen door, but I open it again and tug at his shirt. “You always say that. Why can’t it be my thing too?”
He sighs. “Because you never follow instructions, and you’re messy.”
“But I cleaned today! I can be tidy too, come see.” I’ll show him, the ratbag! I drag him by the hand into my bedroom.
“Good job,” he says. “You didn’t use a garbage bag this time, did you?”
I see my cheeks color in the mirror.
“Lisa, you have to do it properly. You stay here. I need to keep going on dinner.” He heads for the door.
What a doofus he is. I just want him to be proud of me and not see me like a little kid.
Shooting him my worst stink-eye, I yank open my cupboard and push the garbage bag to one side, pulling out the birthday present I begged Mum and Dad for: a white chef’s apron, just like Griff’s. I tie it around my waist and check the mirror. Something’s missing: a hat. All proper chefs wear hats.
I raid the craft box for butcher’s paper, the big scissors and a bottle of Clag, and get to work. Next, I grab a big sheet
of paper and scrawl a giant name label in purple crayon: SUE. Play School says all the helper chefs are called Sue. For a moment, I think about keeping the fun to myself. But it wouldn’t be the same
without Griff, so I make him a hat and a label too. His says Griff the Great in my best big letters.
Proudly wearing my creations, I head back into the kitchen, hands on hips, ready for our shift. “Look, Griff! See? I’m a proper
cook too. I’ve got a uniform and everything!”
He looks down at me and the mad leaves his face, but before I have a chance to show him his name tag, the back door bangs
open. I run down the hall to see who it is.
“Hey there, princess!” Daddy calls as he steps inside, grinning. He scoops me up without warning and spins me in a circle.
I squeal, giggling as he pulls a strawberry lollipop from his pocket and gives it to me.
“Yum! Thanks, Daddy!”
“Anything for my princess! Did you make that hat all by yourself?”
I nod. “And a name tag! I’m Sue Chef! See?”
“Well, Sue Chef,” he says, tapping my nose a bit too hard, “you’re in charge of dinner tonight. Go and kick that other princess
out of the kitchen.” His smile disappears. “Where’s your mother?” he mutters, heading up the stairs.
Griff appears in the hallway a second later, drying his hands on a tea towel.
“Daddy, wait for me!” I call after him. “I want to show Mummy my hat!”
“Lisa, no,” Griff says in a loud whisper. “You can’t go up there. Your dad’s sick.”
“No, he’s not! I just saw him. And he’s your father now too, you know.”
Daddy isn’t sick, although he did smell a bit like cough syrup. Maybe he has a cold. I’d better stay away to be on the safe side. I don’t want to miss show-and-tell. I have to make up for last week. How was I supposed to know the little brown rocks I found were actually rabbit poo?
“Well, I’m finding Mummy, then,” I say to Griff.
His eyes get big like Fluffy’s, the cat next door, when she sees a poodle; she’s terrified of poodles. “No, Mum’s upstairs
having a lie-down. She’s . . . sick too.”
“Mummy!” I call out, running toward the stairs.
He grabs my arm.
“Ow! Stop it!” I yell, scrunching up his name label and throwing it in the bin. “You don’t deserve this!”
“If you don’t want to play with your toys then go watch TV. Mr. Squiggle is on.”
I stomp my foot. “Fine.” I do like Mr. Squiggle, and I’m not usually allowed to watch TV until I’ve unpacked my bag. I grab paper and pencil so I can draw along, flick on
the telly and sprawl out on the rug.
Ratbag runs upstairs. Why does he get to see Mum and Dad?
I’ve only drawn one line when I hear a loud noise upstairs. Then the shouting starts. It’s always so loud, and I don’t like
it. Why do boys have to fight? Ratbag shouldn’t be yelling at Daddy if he’s sick.
Daddy has a lot of names for Griff, but they’re all lovely, like “fairy” and “princess” and “pansy,” and he’s always telling
Griff he’s a “pretty boy.” So I don’t know why Griff can’t be nice back. I look out the window at the purple and yellow pansies
in Mrs. Lebowski’s garden next door. They’re so beautiful. Maybe Griff is cross because Daddy said Griff’s best friend Michael
had to leave and wasn’t allowed to come over anymore after Daddy found them holding hands in his room. Mummy wanted Michael
to stay, but then Mum and Dad had a grown-up conversation about it and she changed her mind and said he’d better just do what
Daddy says. I think Michael’s hands must have been dirty; Dad is always telling me to wash mine. He hates germs.
I turn up the volume so I won’t hear the noise.
A minute later, the shouting stops. I stay still on the rug, hugging my pencil.
Footsteps thud on the stairs—the slow, stampy kind that mean it’s Griff. He disappears into the kitchen, cupboards banging,
something sizzling. The TV show finishes, and the door opens. “Here,” he says, placing a plate on the floor near me.
It’s a slice of crackling, wrapped in foil.