The Crush by Scott Monk

from India: masks, rugs, carved elephants, hanging shawls, ornate chests, photos, dolls and paintings. She led him into the kitchen-cum-family room where a fan whirled above a circular table well lit by a large bay window. Outside in a small garden, a blue-green peacock and white peahen strutted pompously next to an aviary full of orange and brown finches. In the back of Matt’s mind, he realised he had never seen a white peacock before. Weird.
    â€˜Sit! Sit!’ the woman urged. ‘What would you like to drink?’
    â€˜Juice,’ he said, unsure if he had actually spoken out loud.
    While she hunted for a glass, Matt’s eyes scouted the room as his brain finally yelled at him to run. He shouldn’t have come inside. Curiosity got the better of him. Problem was, this woman was mad. Imagine thinking he was her grandson!
    Several framed pictures near the window caught his eye. They were part of a collection of large photos and yellowed newspaper clippings sealed under glass. They were all of a boy, whose life had been chronicled by various papers over six years. In one, the kid had scored a record seven tries for his Campbelltown primary school. Another showed him collecting a giant cheque after winning a junior sportsperson of the month award. In another, he’d been snapped with a dozen other boys collecting autographs from their footy heroes. The next frame was a classic. It must have been summer. The boy was dressed in cricket whites. However, a heavy downpour had washed out the match and turned the pitch into a mud bath. The kid had been photographed sliding on his belly through the brown mess, much to the amusement of his mates in thebackground. The final frames reported that the boy, now fifteen, had scored all twenty-eight points for his new team, the Bankstown Central High Mongrels. One showed him grinning after scoring the winning try against the Princes Boys College Lions.
    Matt choked. The articles were about him!
    When the woman placed the glass of orange juice in front of him, he reeled backwards from his chair and demanded what was going on. ‘I don’t know who you are, lady, but you’re scaring me!’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Half my life is on your walls!’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, aren’t you going to tell me why?’
    â€˜Because like any grandmother, I like surrounding myself with pictures of my grandchild.’
    â€˜Stop saying that! My real grandmother lives at Campbelltown.’
    â€˜And your other grandmother?’
    â€˜She doesn’t exist.’
    The woman placed her own orange juice on the round wooden table. ‘Is that what your mother’s been telling you for the past fifteen years?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Then she’s a liar.’
    Matt shook his head. ‘You’re the liar. A sicko too ifyou ask me.’ He bumped into the wall behind him, knocking one of the framed photos. He almost tore it off in disgust.
    â€˜I know you’re shocked—’
    â€˜Lady, I’m not shocked. I’m furious. I should call the cops to find out what’s going on here.’
    â€˜Keep your voice down. I don’t want to alarm the neighbours.’
    â€˜Forget the neighbours! I’ll scream and shout all I like! I want these pictures of me taken down!’
    He grabbed the nearest one, ripped it off the wall and chucked it onto the ground. Glass shattered but it didn’t stop him reaching for a second frame.
    â€˜Stop it!’ she said, holding the picture between them like a tug-o-war. ‘You’re carrying on like a child. Is this how Heather’s raised you?’
    â€˜Don’t you badmouth my mum. She’s a good mother. I don’t know what mess she’s got into with you, but back off!’
    He let go of the frame in disgust. He had to get out of this house.
    â€˜Where are you going?’
    â€˜None of your business.’
    She chased him down the hallway.