Ocean Pearl by J.C. Burke Read Free Book Online Page A

Georgie?'
    I smiled back. I liked Bridget. She was almost like my
second mum.
    When I was nine, Mum and Dad went on a holiday
to Hawaii. Two days after they left I woke up with
the worst case of chickenpox. You name the part of the
body, I had spots there. It was horrible.
    Grandpa and Nanna had moved in to look after us
but they were so busy with my high-maintenance little
sisters that Bridget ended up having to nurse me.
Charlie wasn't even born in those days.
    I have these pictures in my head of waking up and
seeing Bridget sitting by my bed; of her feeding me
salty chicken soup, dabbing cold pink lotion onto my
crusty spots and watching every episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch with me.
    So that afternoon when I walked in to find Kia
cutting herself in our upstairs bathroom, one of the
things I thought was: would Bridget hate me?
    Because straight away, I knew I had to tell.
    And I did. I told Mum. Mum told Bridget. Bridget
confronted Kia. But the final one, the big, huge, scary one, never happened, because Kia never confronted
me, she just stopped speaking to me.
    'Georgie?' Kia was laughing and nudging me.
'Georgie, for the tenth time, do you want maple syrup
or jam on your pancakes?'
    'Huh?'
    'Earth to Georgie, Earth to Georgie.' Behind me, Reg
was speaking like a robot or an idiot, depending on
which way you looked at it. 'We have contact. We have
contact.'
    'Oh? Maple syrup, please,' I replied.
    There's something different about walking into your
own bathroom to find your best friend in a sweaty
heap on the floor, one hand holding the flesh of her
thigh while the other hand dragged scissors across it.
    One, it was in my house, and two, she had specifically
come here to do it.

KIA
    There was still a heap to organise but it looked ninety-nine
per cent definite that Micki was going to move in
with us. I was feeling proud of myself too 'cause it was
my suggestion. Micki didn't know that though.
    About six weeks ago, Dad got one of those late-night
calls.
    Before I met Micki I used to think that Davo only
telephoned late at night because he knew my mum
would be at work. I'd also thought that he was calling
to invite my dad to watch Micki surf in some contest.
    Yeah, I'd love to, Davo , I'd imagine Dad saying. Micki's such an awesome surfer, much better than Kia. I'll come up tomorrow morning. Great! Can't wait.
    A few minutes later I'd hear the squeak of the
bedroom drawers opening, the zipper of Dad's bag and
I'd know that he'd started to pack and would be waiting
to leave the second Mum got back from night duty.
    My hands would twist the sheets around and
around my wrists till they were so tight my fingers
would begin to tingle.
    'I hate Micki Elvich,' I'd whisper. Sometimes I'd add,
'And I hate my father too.'
    These days when the phone rang late at night, I'd
tiptoe down the hall and listen to what Dad was saying.
I'd catch words like 'That's not good,' 'Oh dear' and
'Micki, you shouldn't have to put up with that.'
    It was Micki he'd be talking to. It always had been.
Never Davo. I felt so ashamed. A normal girl would
never think like that.
    That night six weeks ago, I heard Dad's mobile ring
and ring and ring. This time I did something different. I
got up, marched down the hall and stood right in the
doorway of my parents' room.
    Dad was leaning against the wall and staring out the
window, a frown almost sinking through his face. On
the bed lay Dad's phone, still ringing and flashing red.
    'Answer it!' I grabbed it and held it in Dad's face.
'Answer it!'
    Dad pushed my hand away.
    'But isn't it . . .?'
    'No.' He sighed. 'She's at school camp.'
    It was only then that I noticed the name 'Davo' lit up
on the screen. 'Shouldn't you still . . . answer it?'
    Dad didn't move. He just seemed to sink into the
wall a little more.
    'Dad, I know about Davo.'
    Silence. Just a tiny, tiny nod from him.
    I went and sat on the end of their bed but still Dad
didn't move from the window.
    'Dad?' I said a bit louder. 'What exactly