Cicada Summer by Kate Constable

that horrible sensation when Anna’s dad had looked through her, spoken through her, as if she didn’t exist. In the other time, Eloise was a ghost – except to Anna . . .
    And, Eloise realised, she was as good as a ghost in her own time, too: silent, invisible, sidling out of rooms. Maybe Mo was wrong. Maybe she did need help, after all. Her throat tightened.
    Mo asked her suddenly, ‘You’re all right, aren’t you? Getting along? Finding enough to do?’
    Eloise nodded. She could speak to Anna, but she couldn’t speak to Mo – not yet. Her hands were still spattered with grey and green and white paint. She wondered if Mo would ask what she’d been doing, but she didn’t.
    As Eloise picked the paint from under her fingernails, she reflected that Mo wasn’t very good at noticing. Either that or she was extra good at pretending not to.
    ‘Your father rang today.’ Mo dropped the serving spoon back into the casserole dish. ‘Says he’ll be here on Christmas Eve.’ She looked at Eloise sharply. ‘You know it’s Christmas next week, don’t you? On Tuesday?’
    Eloise chewed slowly. She had no idea what day it was.
    ‘Today’s Saturday, by the way,’ said Mo dryly. ‘You need money? For presents?’
    Eloise paused, then, inspired, she shook her head. She could give them drawings: one for Mo and one for Dad. She could do that by Tuesday, easily. Dad would have a picture of the house, of course. And for
    Mo she could copy the summerhouse painting – the girl swimming through the window. Yes, she was sure Mo would like that . . .
    But what about Anna?
    Time ran at a different, faster speed for Anna; perhaps she’d already had her Christmas. But Eloise wanted to give her a present too, especially after what had happened today. After all, it was Eloise’s fault that her father had growled at her.
    She shovelled up the last of her rice and curry and slid from the table.
    ‘Don’t suppose there’s any point asking what you want?’ asked Mo abruptly. ‘Books? A camera? Think I got my first camera when I was about your age. Paints?’
    Eloise nodded eagerly to the last. But it wasn’t till she was seated cross-legged on her island bed, sketching, that she realised that Mo would have to ask the Durranis to buy her present for her. It was weird to think of Tommy, or his father, who she barely knew, shopping for her Christmas present.
    Then another thought struck her. She tore a page from her sketchbook and wrote a laborious note.
    When she knocked on Mo’s door, the noise of typing broke off into a startled silence. Eloise knocked again.
    ‘Come in then, don’t stand there like a stunned mullet,’ came Mo’s impatient voice.
    Eloise pushed open the door. It was the first time she’d ever been inside Mo’s study. It was stuffy and airless, and an old-fashioned fan whirred on the floor, riffling sheaves of paper on Mo’s desk as it rotated. The desk was under the window, the computer propped on a stack of books. Mo swung around in her chair. Her hair was wild, as if she’d been digging her hands through it. One pair of glasses rested on her head, one pair at the end of her nose and a third dangled round her neck. She glared at Eloise. ‘Don’t you remember rule number one? What’s the matter?’
    Mutely Eloise handed her the note.
    Mo squinted at Eloise’s terrible handwriting, ‘ Do you want me to buy presents for the Next Doors? ’ She grimaced at Eloise. ‘Not game to spell Durrani, eh? Don’t blame you.’ She folded the paper, gazing at Eloise over her glasses. ‘There’s no need for that. I’ve asked your father to take care of it, as a matter of fact. But thank you for asking. It was . . . thoughtful.’
    Eloise stared at the carpet. The fan whirred around and lifted the hair on her forehead.
    ‘All right,’ said Mo. ‘My sea voyages are calling. Buzz off.’
    Eloise withdrew, and a minute later the clackety-clack of the computer keyboard started up again on the far side of the door.