Free Peeling the Onion by Wendy Orr Page B

before?' Hayden asks.
    'Sydney—Coogee. Could have done without changing school systems this year, but'—he looks at Jenny—'sometimes you've got to be unlucky to be lucky.'
    'You left Sydney for Yarralong?’
    'My dad got a chance at a franchise here—he'd only ever be a manager in Sydney. My mum thought a country town would be safer for my sisters—and there's a big enough Greek community to have a church, so she's happy.'
    I have a feeling Coogee's on the sea. 'So do you surf?'
    'Not any more! I keep taking my board down to the river, waiting for the swell . . . never seems to come up.'
    'It's good for swimming,' Jenny says loyally.
    'You and your river,' Costa teases, and they're off on another of those looks. His arm's around her shoulders now, his fingers stroking her neck under her hair, straying across her shoulders, while she relaxes and leans into him—their bodies look so comfortable together! On our side of the table, Hayden and I are sitting up good-children-straight; I'm on the right and I know he's too scared of hurting my thumb to hold my left hand, but I wish I had the nerve to rest my hand on his thigh, to do anything to be a couple like they are. Instead Hayden goes up for another coke, and I finish my coffee; it's hard to think of anything to say when the others have forgotten we're here.
    Sometimes I feel so cheated. I'm not taking time off—I've had a whole chunk of my life stolen. Nobody's going to hand me a few months at the other end and say, 'Here you are, here's the bit you missed out on.'
    The wheelchair's leaving. Cleaned; folded; packed into the boot of Dad's car like a guilty secret. Tough luck, chair —I win, you lose — I'm not a cripple after all.
    'Keep it a bit longer, Anna,' Matt wheedles. 'You might need it!' He and Bronwyn have invented wheelchair surfing in the carport—one person stands on the seat; the other gives it a running push. Whoever falls off least wins.
    'Or you might,' says Dad. 'Maybe we could go for a hat trick—all three of you with broken necks!'
    Mum bakes an apple cake to see it off.
    But physio Brian isn't celebrating. He's not happy about the way I'm walking. I don't like it much either—like carrying my own personal bed of nails; one goes through my foot each time I step on it.
    He's more worried about the deformed way I put it down.
    And how I put all the weight on my left leg. He's worried about the damage I'm doing to my hips and knees.
    'Shit, Brian, my hips are the only things I didn't hurt!'
    'So let's keep it that way.' And he hands me a stick. A walking stick, a cane. Like old people use.
    'Or anyone that breaks a leg!' he says. 'Come on, the important thing here is to get you walking properly again.'
    'But I didn't have one at first! I feel like I'm going backwards.' 'You weren't fit enough to hold anything at first,' he snaps.
    'And you weren't moving around much, either. Now let me get the right height for you, and you can have a little practice.'
    My stick is dark brown wood, the handle dips so that I can hold it without hurting my thumb. It's polished smooth and absolutely plain.
    When I walk out into the street after physio I feel as if it glows like a neon sign, a three-metre barber's pole flashing white and red with a siren on top. People stop what they're doing to stare open-mouthed at the freak teenager with a stick.
    'It's not that bad,' Jenny tries to convince me. 'It's nothing like the neck brace.'
    'But that's temporary; I'll be getting rid of it soon. A stick makes me look disabled—spastic!'
    The very worst thing about the stick—and I don't even admit this to Jen—is that it helps. My foot doesn't hurt so much, I walk better—and I'm not as dizzy, though that's so strange I don't even like admitting it to myself.
    Just when I think life couldn't get worse, Mum brings up what Mr Sandberg said about doing Year 12 over two years. Sensible, she says. The pits, I say: everyone