BOY DOWN UNDER
Sally Odgers

Chapter One. Raspberry Jell-O.

Ro to Mahalia Thomas. Ro to Mahalia-come in, Mahalia! Call me, Hallie. Write me. Send me an e-mail. Do something to let me know I’m not in the twilight zone!

I squinch my eyes shut and send Hallie a mental message, just like we agreed. Call Ro. Call Ro. Call Ro.

And does she call? My best friend since our diaper days? Does she sense my misery and come rescue me?

Does she what. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Not a whisper. Not so much as a tremble in cyberspace or a quiver in the ether.

Thanks a lot, Hallie. I owe you. Not. Don’t forget some of this is down to you.

I open my eyes again. I look about. Same old, same old. I sigh. Get over it, already! So you’re stuck in a village at the butt of the world. It could be worse. (So I tell myself.) You might be hiking through a tick-infested jungle. You might be stuck in summer school. You might be flipping burgers at Greedy Gus. I crank another sigh. I could go a burger, or a chilidog right now. I could swallow any diet-buster with a thick shake chaser. Gaining a few pounds then losing them again would give me something to do. Something aside from fret about the boy I met downunder.

Boys, who needs them? I used to say to Hallie.

And Hallie’d give me the big eye-roll and tell me; We do, Ro! What are you like?

"Hey, honey." Mom’s voice breaks in on my thoughts. Mom’s smile pours over me, sweet and slow as molasses. Mom’s as happy as a honeybee tucked up in clover. All her spiky edges have smoothed right down. She loves it here in Tasmania.

It’s so quiet, she says.

And I say; she’s not wrong about that.

It’s peaceful, she says. Just to place to do some work on her book.

"Don’t you miss anything in Sydney?" I ask.

Mom shakes her head no. "What’s to miss? Lectures, teachers, people, problems…"

"Listen up, Mom," I said, the first time she mentioned the P-word. (The P-for-Peaceful, that is.) "You might find it peaceful now, but surely after a while you’ll miss something.

"What do you miss, honey?" asks Mom, gazing dreamily into the clouds.

And then in a rush I decide to tell Mom all about it. It can hardly matter now… "I miss P–"

My voice broke off at that point. Just snapped off like a rotten old twig.

"Miss what, honey?" asked Mom.

"I miss P--" My voice did it again. I struggled. I really did. I opened my mouth and wrapped my tongue around the words I meant to say. It was like talking through a mouthful of raspberry Jell-O.

"…miss…?" Mom actually took off her shades and turned to stare at me. "You miss what, honey?"

"I miss P-people," I said, lamely.

That wasn’t what I wanted to say, but it was all my mouth could manage.

What I meant to say was that I missed Patrick. I wanted to say I missed Patrick Carroll with an ache that calm Tasmania couldn’t soothe.

There! I said it. I thought it, anyway. If I close my eyes again, maybe I can bring him into focus. Maybe I can pin him to the sky like a butterfly on a board, like a shimmering mirage.

Ro to Patrick. Ro to Patrick. Come in Patrick Carroll. Come back from wherever you went so we can fight some more.

The sky is the blue of the dress Mom wore to the Prom a million years ago. There’s a wisp of cloud like the stole she had over her shoulders.

And Patrick isn’t there. Not on the clouds, not in the sky, not standing in front of me gripping my hands as if he’d drown without me. Not laughing and giving me the kiss-that-didn’t-miss and saying; Love, you, Ro.

"Patrick," I whisper. "Oh, Patrick. Please come back."

"What’s that, honey?"

Patrick.

The word never leaves my mouth. I try to mention him to Mom. I struggle to say the name. It’s raspberry Jell-O time again. And now it isn’t fair. Now that he’s gone, why shouldn’t I say his name?

"Ro, are you all right?"

"Yes," I said, but it’s a lie. "Just a tickle in my throat."

"Fix yourself some juice," suggests Mom.

But drinking juice won’t fix what’s wrong with me.

"Patrick." It comes as the tiniest whisper. Mom doesn’t lift her head.