Free A Little Wanting Song by Cath Crowley Page A

really. I hate snakes.”
    “They’re more scared of you than you are of them,” he says.
    “I don’t think that’s possible.”
    “In those boots, it’s possible.”
    “Don’t make me laugh. I’ll drop the tree.”
    “This tree could only look better if you dropped it. You picked a shit tree,” he says. It’s not even that funny but we’re laughing and I’ve got that crazy rubber hand thing happening so I can’t grip the trunk. “Wait, wait. I need to stop.”
    We sit in the shade and catch our breath. “So, Rose says you’re making her some music mixes.” He leans back on his elbows. “Can you make one for me?”
    “What sort of music do you like? Thrash, heavy metal, grunge?”
    “Rose said you gave her some girls playing guitars. That sounds like something I’d like.”
    It feels like maybe we’re talking in code, so I say, “I really love girls playing guitars.” I lean back like he’s leaning. Cool. Relaxed. But then I realize if we are talking in code, then I just told Dave I really love myself. He’s not acting like I’ve said anything stupid, though. He’s smiling.
    “You ready?”
    “I’m ready.” I’m changing my name legally to Ready Duskin.
    “What are you thinking?” Dave asks. “You’ve got a weird look on your face.”
    “But weird good, right?” I ask, picking up the tree.
    “Right. Of course.”
    “I was thinking about changing my name. What would you change yours to?”
    “I’m kind of comfortable with Dave.”
    “But if you needed a stage name, to give yourself some kick. Like Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
    “He changed it to Flea?”
    “I guess. I always figured his mum didn’t name him Flea at birth.” Bold move if she did. “I’d be Charlie Arabella Bird Duskin.”
    “Bird because you sing,” he says. “Is your middle name really Arabella?”
    “Yep. My mum’s name is Arabella Charlie. I’m Charlie Arabella. She used to say I’m her turned inside out.”
    “I could be Dave Rolling Robbie.”
    “No you couldn’t. That’s a bad name. I can’t let you have that name.”
    His dad walks out of the house. “You left the gate open. The cows could have been all over the road, you idiot.”
    Dave goes quiet. I put the tree down and stare at him. “Idiot doesn’t really suit you, either,” I say, and he’s laughing as he walks into the house.
    At Rose’s place, dinner was this concert of laughter and noise and mess. Lunch at Dave’s is quiet. Every time I clink my knife against the plate, it sounds as loud as if I’ve dropped it on the floor. “They didn’t get out,” Dave says when his dad goes on about the cows. He keeps going on, though, until Mrs. Robbie looks at him with concrete eyes and says, “They didn’t get out.”
    Everyone eats quickly. His dad talks about work and the things that need to be done, about the snakes in the back paddock. It’s not until he leaves that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
    “So, Charlie,” Mrs. Robbie says while Dave clears the plates and puts on the kettle. “You look exactly like your mother. God, she was gorgeous.” She pats my hand away from my face. “Stop that. Your smile’s beautiful.”
    Mrs. Robbie waits in the car while Dave carries the tree into our living room. He spends ages putting it in a bucket, steadying it with bricks. “That should stay now.”
    “Thanks, Dave.”
    “So we’re all going camping on the thirtieth. We’ll be back on New Year’s Eve.” He waves and walks out the door.
    I watch him go and try to remember the exact tune of his song.
So
we’re all going camping. So
we’re
all going camping. So we’re
all
going camping. He could have meant a million things. He could have meant nothing at all. “Maybe he was asking you to go with them,” Mum says.
    “Maybe he needed a line to get out of the house,” I say.
    “Maybe if you worried less, you’d have more than two ghosts for friends,” Gran says. Harsh, sure. But not entirely untrue.