Free Six Impossible Things by Fiona Wood Page A

imaginable. I’d race back to the top of each page, unable to believe I’d read everything in the first rush of blood. But I always had. I was as thirsty for those words as it is possible to be. I needed to know her, and here was a foul means dangled before me. I failed the test completely. I hardly struggled. I knew what I was doing was morally reprehensible. And still I did it. All’s fair in love and war, right?
    Right?
    I felt empathy for eleven-year-old Estelle’s feelings on her parents’ imminent overseas trip – I remember thinking exactly the same sort of stuff:
    It’s official. I HATE my mum and dad. They’re probably not even my real parents. Let them see how much they miss me when I’m DEAD. See if I care if they go to Paris for work. AS IF it would matter for me to miss two weeks of SHI T school. I’ll probably catch meningococcal virus and then they’ll be sorry, but it will be WAY TOO LATE.
    Since the ‘creep’ episode, I take pathetic vengeful pleasure remembering Estelle’s falling out with Janie in Year Seven. I try not to dwell on the fact that I’ve earned the epithet a thousand times over:
    Janie Bacon better get her friends SORTED OUT. She likes me or not, and I couldn’t care less either way. She’ll soon find out she can’t play her petty little HOT and COLD guessing games with me. She needs a wake-up call BIG TIME. And I’m just the one to do it before she turns into a giant, friend-slaying bitch for good.
    An involuntary goofy smile hits me when I think about her cloud sandwiches:
    I’ll scoop off a sweet piece of that cloud and lie it down on some bread. I’ll put another slice on top, so gently the cloud won’t fly away, and when I bite down and stray wisps whoosh out the sides, I’ll lick them up. They’ll taste like atomised Turkish delight. I’ll call it a floating sandwich. First it will make me dream of flying, then it will make me fly.
    I take a break between sets with the weights and visit the inventory for the millionth time:
    Our bands in common are Hot Chip, TV on the Radio and Kings of Leon.
    We both hate humid weather and long-haul flights and most fantasy writing.
    We’re both list and chart makers. She catalogues all her ‘likes’ and ‘dislikes’ – bands, books, films, food. In grade six her favourite lolly was a redskin and savoury junk was Twisties. In Year Nine it’s sour worms and salt and vinegar chips. In the hot drinks zone it was hot chocolate with pink marshmallows and now it’s mochaccino. Film was
10 Things I Hate About You
, and now it’s Baz Luhrmann’s
Romeo + Juliet
and
Donnie Darko
.
    At the time of the snooping, before we’d even met, I realised that just as my regard for her grew with every word I read, hers for me would surely diminish in far greater proportion if she ever found out what I had done.
    Knowing her now, even so slightly, only makes what I did seem more horrible.
    I’ve paid a high price for knowledge that should have been earned, not stolen. It’s a bad bargain, and one from which I can’t see an escape. Like all good traps, climbing in was easy, getting out might prove to be impossible.

15
    ‘Y OU KNOW WHO
is
a good guy?’ my mother asks me over porridge, in a tone suggesting we’ve just been talking about who’s
not
a good guy, which we haven’t.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Thom Yorke. He is a truly good guy.’ Radiohead’s singer, songwriter. The unnatural interest isn’t going away.
    ‘What makes you think that?’
    ‘Because he’s passionate, Dan; he cares passionately about his music. You just have to watch him performing to see it. He looks like he’s going to burst every blood vessel in his head . . .’
    ‘What’s so good about that?’
    ‘He’s also an environmental activist.’ She stirs sugar into her tea, a dreamy expression on her face. ‘He cares about climate change. He went to Copenhagen, for God’s sake! He’s helping the planet.’
    ‘Okay.’ I’m putting my lunch together. I’ve