She ran over to the laptop. But the call had not been disconnected. She could see her father, now a tiny figure at the back of the computer screen. Around him stood a circle of men and women in fancy clothing. They were all chatting and laughing.
‘Daddy,’ said Blue, tapping the screen to get his attention.
‘Daddy,’ she said a little louder. ‘Did you see my front flip?’
It was hopeless. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, her father couldn’t hear her. Blue tried to convince herself they must have been discussing some sort of urgent business. Daddy had often told her his business required a lot of ‘schmoozing’. From what Blue could gather, schmoozing was work that didn’t resemble work at all but looked a lot like a party. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about Dr Boogaloo yet. Blue decided to sit and wait till her daddy had finished schmoozing, but eventually she gave up trying to get his attention.
‘Night, Daddy,’ said Blue.
She closed her laptop. ‘Night, Dad.’
To say she was disappointed didn’t describe how Blue was feeling at all. It was a feeling worse than disappointment. It was the feeling you get when you know someone else finds you a disappointment. Weren’t fathers meant to think their daughters were the best thing ever? Even when they weren’t?
Blue could feel the prickle of tears coming, but she refused to cry. After all, what good would that do? Instead, she reminded herself of all the gifts her father had sent her. From the outside, you would surely think her father loved her to bits. I mean, all those expensive presents. But from the inside, sometimes it felt as if he didn’t really know her or love her at all. He felt present and absent all at the same time. It made Blue feel so muddled up.
Blue lay back down on the grass and watched the squiggles of smoke from the Taylors’ yard puff and thicken into miniature storm clouds. The smell of burnt sausages wafted over the fence.
Blue got up and looked through the hole in the fence to see what was happening.
Mr Taylor was running around the yard, a boy under each arm, their small arms spinning in circles. They were playing seaplanes.
‘My turn, my turn!’ yelled Riley.
‘All right, you’re up next, Riles,’ said Mr Taylor. ‘Coming in for landing … Nnnnneeeeeaaaoooowww …’
Mr Taylor threw both boys onto the trampoline.
‘Oh yes, perfect landing, pilot of the year!’ yelled Mr Taylor, thrusting his arms victoriously in the air. As always, a rebellious tuft of hair stood straight up on his head like a sulphur-crested cockatoo.
Blue cupped her hand and put her lips to the hole in the fence. ‘Excuse me, Mr Taylor … I think the sausages are burning!’
But Mr Taylor couldn’t hear. He had already taxied down the imaginary runway with Jeannie and Riley tucked under his armpits.
‘Nnnnneeeeeaaaoooowww …’
‘EXCUSE ME, MR TAYLOR!’ shouted Blue through the hole. ‘THE SAUSAGES ARE BURNING!’
Mrs Taylor came outside. Her hands were covered in flour, and there was a ghostly white smudge across her forehead. Her hair was stacked in a messy pile on top of her head. It looked like the perfect nest for Mr Taylor’s sulphur-crested cockatoo. ‘Oh no! The bloody sausages are burnt to a crisp!’
Mr Taylor looked up. ‘Nooooooooooo,’ he said, tossing Jeannie and Riley on top of Ned and Tom.
‘Oh well,’ said Mrs Taylor, wiping another white stripe across her cheek, ‘it’s just as well I’ve made damper. In two ticks those boys will be drowning the snags in a bloodbath of tomato sauce, anyway. They wouldn’t know if they were eating live squid or fried grass if I served it up to them.’
Mrs Taylor walked over to the fence. She put her eye up to the hole and looked through. ‘Thanks for the warning, hon. You wouldn’t like to join us for an incinerated snag, by any chance?’
Blue was sure her mother would be absolutely furious if she took up Mrs Taylor’s offer.
‘Thanks so much, Mrs Taylor, but I better not,’ replied Blue.
‘Not at all, hon, there’s plenty here if you change your mind.’ Mrs Taylor went back inside.
Blue went upstairs to her bedroom. From her window she could see down into the Taylors’ yard. Mr Taylor was carrying the tray of burnt sausages to the table. Jeannie was catching a ride on his left foot while Riley was on his right, their arms wrapped around his legs like koalas in a tree. Tom was on his father’s back. ‘Giddy up, horsey!’ he cried. ‘Giddy up!’
Mr Taylor was doing everything he could not to fall over or drop the sausages, dragging his feet along in a straight-legged zombie walk. Ned was standing on a chair, busting some crazy dance moves while Moose barked at him.
Blue would have liked to join them, even though the sausages resembled the charcoal sticks they used in art class. She shut her bedroom window. ‘I guess it’s dinner alone again for me tonight.’
CHAPTER 7
Monday
Blue woke early. She raced downstairs and fell over the couch. White couches, white carpet, Blue was always falling over some piece of furniture. Her mother’s white phase had proven to be particularly bad for bruised shins and golf-ball foreheads and other such minor injuries. After Blue found the fridge, she gulped down a bowl of Crispies and ran out front to wait for Bessie. She looked at her watch.
Six-thirty!
It seemed like a whole day before Bessie finally arrived. Blue could hear her long before she could see her. It was the sound of a Swahili gospel choir accompanied by flutes and electric guitar. In the distance, Bessie looked just like a snail – the back a hump of instruments, up front googly-eyed maracas wobbling on storks, and behind her a shimmering trail of music.
Bessie was wearing a magnificent orange skirt that matched her hair
