Free A Little Wanting Song by Cath Crowley Page B

I start in with the tinsel.

I watch Dave heaving and dragging a Christmas tree into Charlie’s house. Looks like he’s finally working on something other than cars.
    “Hi,” I call as he walks out.
    “Hi, Rosie. I told Charlie we were camping before New Year’s.”
    I think about that for a second. “You told her we were going, or you invited her to come?”
    “Shit,” he says, and makes a sign to his mum that he’ll be a minute. He goes back to her door, rehearsing what he’s going to say. Charlie opens it before he knocks. Both of them look surprised. Dave laughs and walks inside. I sit on myfront step waiting for the outcome. He walks out a while later, grinning.
    “Happy Christmas,” I tell him.
    “Not Christmas till tomorrow, Rosie,” he says.
    Sure it isn’t. Looks like New Year’s won’t be half so boring this year after all.

I open the door to let in some breeze, and Dave’s standing there. Both of us jump.
    “Sorry. I was about to knock. Can I see the tree?”
    “Sure. But it’s only been five minutes. It pretty much looks the same except for one bit of tinsel.” I walk down the corridor, and he follows.
    “That piece of tinsel makes a big difference,” he says.
    “It’s because it’s expertly arranged. It’s still a bit lopsided,” I say, and lean my head over so the tree’s not crooked.
    “I like lopsided,” he says, and keeps looking at it straight on. “So, before, when I said we were going camping, I meant you should come.”
    “Will there be snakes?”
    “There are always snakes in the bush. You won’t see them, though.”
    “That’s comforting.”
    “Just make some noise to scare them off. You can wear those stylish boots, too,” he says.
    “Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.” I smile. I show him to the door. I close it.
    And then I put on a Spiderbait CD and turn it up loud. “You’re fucken awesome,” I sing, and throw tinsel. “You’re fucken awesome.” Mum and Gran are dancing right here with me. We bounce down the hall. I’m about to go on the only date I’ve ever been asked on, and that calls for some kitchen moves. I’m yelling out lyrics and making toast when Dad walks in. “Good,” he says. “You’ve got dinner.”
    At least I think that’s what he says, because even though he walked through the living room, he didn’t turn down the music. “I was thinking of this more as a predinner snack,” I say.
    “What?”
    “I could go for some of your pasta,” I yell.
    He walks to the freezer and pulls out a container. “Not exactly what I had in mind, Dad.”
    “Sorry, Charlotte?”
    “Hang on. I’ll turn the music off.”
    He waves. “Don’t worry. I’m going out. This doesn’t wake Grandpa?”
    “A truck speeding through his bedroom probably wouldn’t wake Grandpa.”
    I don’t know if Dad heard over the music. He checks that the buttons on his shirt are done up, which is the sign that he’s not so happy with me. We don’t say words like “truck” or “dead” or “cemetery.” Apart from the funeral, we haven’t been back there.
    He leans in to kiss the top of my head but misses. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
    “Of course you’ll see me tomorrow. It’s Christmas.” He looks surprised. The lopsided tree flipping you the finger didn’t give it away?
    I turn off the music after he’s gone and eat my microwaved gnocchi. One night when Mum was sick, I sat in Dad’s office at the restaurant and watched him through the glass. Everyone was noisy except him. He chopped and fried and set out plates and helped people without yelling that they were too slow. In the middle of all that noise, no one noticed an apprentice’s pan catch fire. The flames were huge but Dad leaned over and dropped a lid on it without saying a word. He saw me looking and winked. He’s always been quiet but before Mum died it was a cool quiet that people really liked. He took notice of things. He took notice of me. I remember sitting next to him at the