Alex as Well by Alyssa Brugman Read Free Book Online

Daily Show . They don’t even flinch at the swear words.
    ‘Have you got homework?’ Mum asks.
    ‘I did it on the train.’
    ‘Good thinking,’ Dad says. ‘Our little guy has really grown up.’
    And then we all freeze, but I say, ‘It’s ok. It’s going to take some getting used to. I understand that.’
    We all relax, and Dad says, ‘Hey, why don’t I run down to the servo and buy us all an ice-cream?’
    So we had ice-cream and I went to bed a happy girl knowing it would all be all right. The end.
    Actually, that’s not how it happened. Could you tell? I’m sure there are families out there that have nights like that. There must be, but not my house. Our house has never been like that. My mother has never suggested I help her cook. She has always shooed me out because I’m under her feet. My dad has never gone out to get us ice-cream, but I know he likes sweet things because there are always lolly wrappers under the seat in his car.
    I imagine Amina’s family. All those kids sitting around arguing, laughing, their dad saying something like, ‘keep it down to a dull roar’. I see her mother tall and elegant, and dark in one of those bright-coloured African headdresses, handing around plates of couscous and eggplant, with the scent of cumin and paprika.
    I expect Sierra’s family are probably more subdued. I wonder if they are religious and pray before their meal, holding hands around the table, heads bent.
    Julia might even be telling her host family right now about the fast clapping we did at lunchtime. I hope so. The host father would give it a try and she would explain to him about the brushing action.
    Ty might be telling his family about a girl he met today.
    I hope one of them tells their family about the new girl at school.

    This is what really happened.
    We get home from the hardware shop and I go upstairs and put some music on in my room. Adam Lambert. It’s perfect. I’m going through all the clothes in my wardrobe.
    (What do you want from me?)
    I am throwing out all the stuff that is sporty and boyish. I’m setting aside all the things that I might still be able to wear. There’s not much left. Mum has bought every single thing in blue or khaki. I hold up a jacket. It’s a light grey linen. I like the material, but I’ve never worn it. I never found the right occasion.
    If I wore it with a wide belt and sewed on big buttons or flowers, or even bedazzled the pockets. Then I am inspired, because I could pretty much bedazzle everything left here. With bright buttons and blanket stitching, and scarves, I could reuse them. I’d like to ask my mum because she is really into craft. I know she knows how to do these things. We could girlify these clothes. We could do it together, but she won’t. She’ll make it into a drama. I have always wanted to do craft with her, but she would do a total head-exploding nana.
    What have I got left? There are the clothes I bought the other day, a few T-shirts, some jeans, and some cargo pants. Meanwhile, the unwearable pile is almost as tall as me. I shove the unwearables into some garbagebags. I have decided to chuck them into the back of the cupboard. She will go nuts if I throw them out.
    I need money. I need clothes to wear that match how I feel on the inside. It shouldn’t be so hard.
    My dad is standing in the doorway. He’s watching me, with his head slunk down, like an old dog.
    ‘Can I come in for a minute…?’ He was going to say ‘son’, or ‘sport’, because that’s what he calls me, but I am still in my tunic. I have long socks with ribbons on the top and the steel-capped boots on. I love it. It merges the Alexes. But it has made Dad shut down.
    I nod.
    He sits on the edge of my bed. There’s not much room with all the clothes I have piled up there.
    While I wait for him to say something I tug the braids out of my hair. I can see him in the mirror. He’s crying.
    ‘Can I be totally honest with you?’
    I don’t answer, because how