Free Six Impossible Things by Fiona Wood

‘It’s a bit “creepy” when people look at you in class’ . . . ? There’s quite a difference.

    When I get home the phone is ringing and my mother’s not home. Despite my jostling worries I remember to answer the right way. ‘I Do Wedding Cakes, how may I help you?’ The voice at the other end sounds like someone my own age, ‘How may I help you, dick brain?’ There’s the sound of two people snorting with laughter. And they hang up. Thank you, Jayzo.
    My heart is racing, my face burning. The phone rings again. ‘Yes?’ I bark down the line. It’s my mother.
    ‘Dan, how many times are we going to go over this? Please answer with the business name. You’re so keen on telling me how to run the show, but you have to do your bit, too.’
    She’s ringing to let me know she’s at a small business seminar at the library and there’s some food in the fridge for dinner.
    When the phone rings again ten minutes later, I figure it’s her checking up on me. But no, it’s another prank call. ‘You may help me by walking under a truck,’ a girl sputters. More laughing and another hang up. A few minutes later another call – gee, the gang’s all there. ‘You “do” wedding cakes? That’s disgusting.’ The high-end wit keeps on coming. Four more calls in the next hour and that’s it. I put on the answering machine. Surprise, surprise, my amusing classmates’ calls peter out. I’m fuming. I’m embarrassed. I need to talk to Fred, but when I call, the Gazelle tells me he’s at debating.
    Before I get ready for bed I work out some anger with a good weights session. Why was I persisting despite my aching arms and aching face? Getting stronger and looking better is now imperative. I want to be able to stand up to Jayzo – and his prank-calling band of hyenas – including thumping him, if it comes to that. Also against all odds and any likelihood, I keep imagining the unimaginable – that I will somehow go to the social with Estelle. Despite knowing it is utterly stupid and I am utterly stupid, given the latest ‘creep’ update, images of us together keep invading my thoughts.
    I hear her moving in the attic, push on through the pain barrier, and re-enter the shame zone as I remember my second visit to the attic.

14
    T HE LAST WEEKEND OF the holidays we moved in, Estelle and her parents were going away. She and her mother were fighting, as usual – Estelle didn’t want to go.
    I waited until they’d left, and then another hour in case of an essential-item-forgotten return trip, before I decided the coast was clear.
    She hadn’t replaced the box of books over the hatch cover so I knew my first visit was undiscovered. I pushed the packing boxes away from the hole between my side and Estelle’s side of the attic, putting the cord in my pocket to reposition them on my way out. I was being sneaky and deliberate.
    It gets worse.
    A figure stepped towards me as I entered the space. As quickly as I gasped in terror and surprise, I recognised the looming shape as my own reflection. Estelle had moved one of the big mirrors. Calming down, I scoped the space and headed for the desk. I’d seen something in that first visit that my feet were making a beeline for. I still hadn’t consciously decided to go to the dark side. But it sure looked like I was heading that way. It was a pile of exercise books I’d noticed, and they were still there.
    Carefully noting exactly how they were positioned on the desk, and keeping them in order, my black heart gave the green light to my reading Estelle’s diaries.
    She’d started writing in grade six, and was still writing them. The subject matter was highs and lows, rather than day-to-day detail, although, like me, she is a chronic list-maker. I can’t offer any excuse for doing what I did, but I can say I read so fast it was as though someone had plugged a cord into my forehead and clicked an icon to download data. My eyes scanned those pages at the most feverish rate