Entwine by Rebecca Berto Page A

“Shit, right. Let me walk you to your door.”
    “O … okay,” she stuttered. At least she didn’t feel bad, knowing he was horny and lost for words too.
    She stopped him halfway through walking down the sidewalk in front of her next-door neighbour’s house. She looked to her mobile; it said 12.50 am. Her mum could easily be up in the front lounge room, peering out waiting, or in bed, looking out the window for the sight of her.
    “Wait,” Sarah said, hand clutching Malik’s bicep. It barely made it around his circumference. “I’m just next door. Best to say bye here.”
    They shared a gaze, and she didn’t want to say anything, or for him to, either. No, no, no. Why did she have to work? Adrenaline would keep her up and going, despite the fact she’d only get four and a half hours sleep. Why couldn’t they just stay hanging out for even an hour longer?
    It. Wasn’t. Enough.
    Malik slipped both hands around her shoulders and cupped the back of her neck while gazing at her. “Trust me when I say tonight couldn’t have gone better than it did. I wouldn’t have changed a thing .”
    He didn’t say bye as he waited for her to leave. Rather, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be calling.”
    She nodded furiously, blew a kiss to him and walked back to her door. Two things happened at the same time: he finally got in his car and drove by, at the same time as her mum came out and saw the stupid smile on Sarah’s face, and Malik waving as he drove away.
    “Who was he?” her mum asked.
    “A friend.”
    “Does your friend have a name?”
    “Malik.”
    “Malik,” her mum repeated. Her tone wasn’t playful. If anything, she seemed unimpressed. What wasn’t honourable about that? He was a complete gentleman, judging by what her mum could have seen. Especially since he’d driven her home.
    “Something wrong with him?” Sarah asked.
    “Not really. What did he drive?”
    “Drive …” Sarah’s mind rustled for the details. She remembered soon enough. “Um, a black XR6 Turbo, why?”
    “Huh,” her mum said, and walked up the stairs and disappeared, not finishing with anything of more substance.
    Sarah lay in bed that night, thinking how weird that was, until she got a text at 1.10 am with a few words: “Miss you already. xx”
    Then she slept.

CRUMBLE
    THEN
     
    Within two weeks, her dad was kicked out and renting. Sarah knew he was to blame for breaking up her family, and he knew it, too. The man didn’t fight back when her mum confronted him and, though he’d slump over his suitcases and mope around from cardboard box to closet, he didn’t grumble about having to pack, either.
    He didn’t fight to get her mum back, and Sarah watched hour after hour, day after day, watching him pack up not only his belongings, but part of the life she loved. He sealed it up for good. She didn’t want to have her world pulled out from under her, but she was sixteen, and having to learn a new way of life.
    But why didn’t he fight? Sarah would never shut up and let something happen that she didn’t want to. She knew her family couldn’t be a normal, nuclear unit anymore, but didn’t he want to try? Sarah had fought before: for friends, for grades, for an expensive dress. She wondered, during the days her father packed up, why the hell he didn’t fight for his daughter, or for Sarah’s mum to love him again.
    Was he glad it was all over?
    After thinking that, Sarah decided to give up too, and along with the numb feeling came peace, at a price.
    The afternoon that her dad was leaving, she caught him on a trip to his car boot with a box hugged to his chest.
    “Dad!” she called from the front door.
    He stopped and Sarah jogged up to him, followed him to the boot where he placed the box in a corner with the others already in there. It occurred to Sarah that he hadn’t had a proper chat to her. At what point was he going to stop and talk things through? Would she see him again? Surely. But Sarah needed to know.