Free Girl Defective by Simmone Howell Page B

Dunlops bottles.
    Dad smelled pickled. His eyes were rheumy. I stared at his tear troughs, the flecks of gray in his beard.
    â€œAlcohol is very aging,” I reported. “Alcohol and sugar.”
    â€œI’m not worried about my age,” Dad said. “I’m worried about yours. You’re only fifteen—”
    â€œI’ll be sixteen next week.”
    â€œYou’re only fifteen and Nancy’s . . . older.”
    â€œBut she’s pretty immature.” I was angling for a smile. It worked. Dad’s eyes crinkled almost to extinction.
    â€œDon’t,” he said. “I’m serious. I didn’t know where you were. And then you come in with Eve and you looked all . . .” He waved his hand around. “You can’t be walking home alone like that. That’s the worst of it. This isn’t the country. Bad things happen to girls out there.”
    â€œI know,” I said, thinking of Mia, and then suddenly I was talking about her, putting her on the table.
    â€œDid you know about Luke’s sister?”
    Dad looked wary. “How do you know about that?”
    â€œI worked it out.”
    â€œDon’t tell Gully.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œJesus, imagine what he’d do with that. We’d never hear the end of it.”
    â€œI said I won’t tell him.”
    â€œAnd don’t go talking to Luke about it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause she’s dead, that’s why not. Don’t be an idiot, Sky.”
    I pondered this. “He might want to talk about her. Not everyone is as closed up as you are.”
    â€œClosed up! Who’s closed up?”
    â€œYou are. Vesna said it. She said you were like those Chinese boxes that no one can figure out how to open.”
    â€œVesna said that?”
    Dad was smiling fondly—maybe an image of Vesnain her Daisy Dukes was scrolling across his mind. Vesna had been his pub-friend-turned-girlfriend. She’d moved in for a little while after Mum vamoosed, and tried to sort us all out. Vesna was addicted to Zumba and beauty products. She watched infomercials with religious zeal. She had this facelift device that she used to wear strapped to her cheeks while she did the dishes. It made her look like an anglerfish. When she moved out, Vesna bequeathed us her Fitball. For a long time it migrated from room to room, and no one ever went near it. I was sure this was symbolic.
    Dad was looking misty; I tried to get his attention back. “Nancy calls you Bill the Patriarch. She thinks you’re looking for a surrogate son.”
    â€œNancy’s wrong.”
    â€œShe says you want someone to pass your knowledge on to, and you won’t pass it on to me because I have a vagina.”
    Dad spluttered coffee across the kitchen table. He shook his head and pointed at me.
    â€œYou’re grounded.”
    â€œWhat about my birthday? School break, Christmas?”
    Dad kept shaking his head. “And I want you to look after Gully. The shop’s getting busier—you should keep him occupied.”
    â€œWith what?”
    Half of Dad’s mouth turned upward. “Help him solve the Bricker case.”
    â€œI thought we weren’t supposed to encourage him.” I folded my arms on the table and rested my chin on my wristbone. All the talk had made me tired. Maybe I hadn’t quite recovered from Friday night; maybe I never would recover. Suddenly I felt weepy. My voice cracked a little. “Why can’t we just hang around the shop? Last holidays—”
    â€œThat was different.”
    â€œI’ll say.” I picked up the Dunlops bottles and clanged them into the recycling bin. Last summer—post-rehab—all Gully and I did was hang around the shop. We played at buying, and Dad spent long hours lying on the back-room floor listening to Can on his oversize headphones. I didn’t want to look at Dad now, so I looked