Mud Girl by Alison Acheson Page A

face with no expression. None Abi can read. What’s he thinking when he’s like that? Almost seems to be listening to voices in his head. Whose voices? Mum’s? Abi’s when she was little? His own mother’s? Father’s? Or is he just sitting, listening to the silence, now that all those people are no longer here?
    She looks through the screen door. No blue pickup in sight. Not yet.
    In the cupboard there’s a small jar of instant coffee. She puts the kettle on the stove. Jude will probably be here before the water boils. Dad won’t miss the coffee, she suspects.
    A watched pot never boils.
    If you watch it long enough, it does.
    She makes the coffee and sets it in front of Dad. He says nothing at first, then he wraps both of his hands around it as if he’s cold on this hot July day. His hands are big, capable-looking. He murmurs a thank you, as if he’s suddenly remembered some part of himself.
    â€œYou’re welcome.” She watches as he slowly drinks the coffee. After each sip he peers into the mug, hands still tight to the ceramic. Makes her think of a little kid – Dyl, with his glass of juice.
    Maybe that’s why Jude is taking a long time: something’s happening with Dyl.
    Then she hears the churn of gravel, the honk of a horn. Dad looks up. “I always said, if a boy comes calling for my girl with a honk of the horn, I’ll…” He drifts off, trying to remember his threat. Then he goes on. “I’ll…rip out his wires. That’s what I always said.”
    He’s left Abi speechless. Motionless, too. She can’t seem to move from where she is – halfway to the door, but he makes no move either; so much for his threat.
    Jude’s horn sounds again. Twice. Impatient.
    She’s out the door and hauling herself up the passenger side of the raised pickup.
    â€œStarting to wonder if you were going to come through that door,” says Jude. He’s smiling, but she’s not.
    â€œI was starting to wonder if you were going to
come
!” she says.
    He reaches over and clasps her kneecap. “Didn’t think I’d stand you up, did you?”
    â€œNo.” She pauses. “Not really.”
    He starts the truck. “My mum’s sick again. I had to settle Dyl down with a video and convince Mum she’d be okay for a while.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you bring him then?”
    He’d put his hand to the stick shift to get into gear, butabruptly he reaches out to Abi and crushes her in his arms. She can hear his heart beating fast, she can smell deodorant, a faint smell of smoke, paint thinner, and yes, a whiff of apple juice. There’s an urgency in his hug.
    â€œI was hoping we could be alone,” he says as they move apart, and he shifts into first with such a determined push, pulls the truck out into the road, shifts to second, quickly to third.
    She’s certain he can hear her heart clear across the truck over the open-window traffic noise. She looks out her window. Isn’t this what ballet dancers do to keep themselves from falling over when they turn quick pirouettes? They fix on a point, find it with their eyes, hold on it, hold, hold…
    â€œHow about you?” asks Jude.
    â€œMe what?”
    â€œWeren’t you hoping we could be alone?”
    â€œMe. Yeah. Sure. Of course,” she adds.
Fix on a point. Hold. Holding.
She can’t look at him right now; she’s too full, might overflow.
Yes, of course that’s what I wanted.
    For some reason, she can see Mum, that time she cried. She pushes the mental picture away.
    â€œYou’re shivering!” says Jude. “What’s with that?”
    â€œJust the cool air blowing in the window, I guess.”
    He’s doing that looking-at-her again.
    â€œWatch the road; you make me nervous.”
    She thinks of Horace’s bus driving.
Why are all these people converging in my head at just this time?