Free Portraits of Celina by Sue Whiting

night of the stranger. I catapult out of bed, dragging my sheet onto the floor behind me, and scamper to Amelia’s room. I pull open the door.
    “Amel–” Her bed is empty. I rush to the window, in time to catch sight of her jogging down the drive and around the corner towards the gate.
    Great. Just great.
    I tiptoe down the hall – I don’t want to disturb Seth; it took me almost an hour and a dozen stories before he settled down enough to sleep. But once I am past his room, I speed down the stairs and out the door in chase of my sister.
    Amelia is already out of sight. The sky is clear, the moon one slice off full, and I am surprised at how well I can see. I make my way down the drive, through the open gate and onto the dirt road. I can hear soft voices. Several. And laughter. A car door is clicked shut. I race down the road. Up ahead, a white sedan is parked at the edge of the road, partly obscured by scrubby bushes. A group of four or five are huddled around it.
    “Amelia!” I shout.
    “It’s my sister.” I can hear Amelia’s rough whisper. A cigarette is flung to the road and ground out; a door is opened and something thrown onto the seat. There is a lot of giggling.
    Amelia breaks from the group and charges up to me. She stinks of cigarette smoke and the lousy thief is wearing a row of my red bangles up her arm. “You following me now?” she hisses.
    “What are you doing with my bangles?” I snarl.
    “You followed me out here to ask me that?”
    “Where are you going?” I say, the words an accusation. “Who’s that?”
    “Friends. We’re hanging out for a bit. Nothing to get in a twist about.”
    I tug at the edges of my thin singlet top, dragging it down as low as possible, suddenly aware that I am almost naked, dressed in a singlet and undies.
    “Don’t run away.” I say the words before I’ve even realised I’ve thought them, and the fear of the possibility rises up my throat. “It will kill Mum. Don’t do it.”
    Amelia rolls her eyes. “I’m not running away, moron. Just having some fun. Now go home.”
    “Don’t do this to Mum.” I am pleading.
    “I’m not doing anything to Mum. It’s her who’s doing me in. Besides, she’ll only know if you tell. It’s all up to you, Bayley.” She takes a few steps towards the car, before turning and adding in a softer voice, “I’ll be home before Mum gets back. I promise. They’re passing through – on their way up the coast to a music festival. They’ve only come to say hi.”
    “Promise you’ll come back.”
    “Promise – as long as you don’t dob.”
    I hesitate, chew at my lip.
    “Tell Mum and I’ll tell her about the sick story you’re writing in that book under your mattress. You’re seriously deranged, Bayley.” Amelia’s smile is nothing short of cruel. Confident she has secured my silence, she races down to the car and slides onto the back seat.
    The car chucks a U-turn and disappears down the road in an explosion of dust.
    And I am slugged by a hefty dose of reality. Nothing has changed. Nothing is going to change. We are stuck on the same path as we were in Cronulla and there’s no way off it.
    I walk back along the road. I don’t know if I have ever felt so alone.

twelve
    Over the whine of electric saws and the relentless punch of nail guns, there is a crunch of gravel under tyres, a honk of a horn and a “Now, where is everyone?”
    “Gran!” I cry, bolting from the barn to the car and throwing my arms around my grandmother’s neck before she is even properly out of her seat. “Mum didn’t tell us you were coming.”
    “Your mother is full of surprises, isn’t she?” She locks eyes on Mum, who is hovering alongside me.
    Gran embraces Mum. Mum clutches onto Gran fiercely, and buries her head in Gran’s neck and shoulder, choking up, and tears well unbidden in my own eyes.
    Gran breaks free and rubs Mum’s back. “What does someone have to do to get a cuppa round here?” Mum relaxes, and she and