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Another Day in Paradise

Margaret Doonan

    “How was school?”
    He shrugged, dropping his backpack and kicking it to the wall. Her fingers twisted in the tattered dish cloth, the modest rock on her ring finger catching the afternoon sun and shooting sparks of white and blue across the tiles.
    “Anything you want to tell me?”
    “Nah,” he yanked open the fridge and stared at the shelves. Grabbing an already opened Royal Cola can, he let the door swing shut by itself, the thinning seals meeting with a solid thunk.
    “No sweets before dinner,” she rubbed the dish cloth over a faded floral plate from the sink.
    He swigged at the can, smacking his lips noisily and walking into the living room. She watched him from behind the bench, corners of the dish cloth flailing as she picked up a bowl. He dropped onto the couch, shoes hitting the tired coffee table’s top and making the legs shudder.
    “Don’t you have an essay due?”
    “Not till Monday,” he reached for the remote.
     The red light blinked, hesitated, then, after a moment, the screen flickered to life. The wonders of Easy-Off Bam blared from the box. She placed the last bowl on the bench top and wrung her fingers through the cloth again, paying extra attention to the water hugging the skin under the band of her ring.
    “I saw Terry’s mother today.”
    He flicked through the channels lazily.
    “She told me Terry’s been getting into a bit of trouble at school.”
    He lifted a shoulder.
    “Fighting, and cheating on exams, and he was even caught smoking,” her slippers flip-flopped against the tiles as she stepped towards his crumpled backpack, tucking the dish cloth into the waist of her skirt as she moved.
    “So?”
    “So, isn’t Terry your best friend?”
    “So what if he is?”
    She bent down and picked up the backpack. Placing it on the bench, she unzipped the front pocket. She saw his neck stiffen at the sound.
    “I also received a call today,” her fingers dipped into the pocket, running along the walls of the compartment until they slid across a cardboard corner. “From Principal Garret,” her fingers traced the edge until they closed over the shape. The smell of stale tobacco followed as she drew the small packet from the pocket.
    Elle McPherson crooned the marvel of her sunscreen, her lean limbs twisting and curling for the camera. Her voice hung in the air, lingering in the hollow silence.
    His gaze remained on the television until the bronze blonde had winked into a Toyota commercial. Pulling his shoes from the coffee table, he turned to face her.
    “Anything you want to tell me?” She repeated, flakes of loose tobacco scattering she tapped the corner of the packet on a blister on the benchtop.
    His Adams-apple bounced. “They’re not mine. Terry asked me to hold them for him.”
    “Really,” she flipped the lid back and counted four mangled cigarettes. “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah, his mum was flipping out, so I said I’d hang onto them for a couple of days,” he licked his lips.
    “Terry smokes Winfield?”
    He nodded.
    “The cigarettes in the packet are Peter Jackson.”
    “What?” He blinked. “Yeah, that’s what I meant, Terry smokes PJ’s.”
    “Stop it, Andrew. Admit it.”
    “Admit what?” His eyes darted from the packet to her face and back again. “You don’t believe me?”
    “Andrew, the principal caught you on the oval.”
    “As if you would take Garrets word over your own kid’s,” his shoulders bunched as he pushed up from the couch. “That jackass hates me, he’d say anything to get me in shit.”
    “Language please,” she dropped the box on the bench and folded her arms. “Principal Garret doesn’t hate you, now just come clean.”
    He snorted. “This is bullshit, your always taking everyone’s side but mine.”
    “That is not what this is about. Just admit you were smoking, all I want is the truth for once.”
    “You don’t want the truth, it’s another one of your excuses to stop me from having a life.”
    She sighed. “Andrew, that’s not fair.”
    “Whatever.” He fell back onto the couch and grabbed the remote. “Dad would’ve believed me.”
    “Andrew,” her arms lowered, finger grasping at the dish cloth. “Andrew, please.”
    The virtues of throw-away kitchen wipes boomed across the room, making her ears ache and her eyes burn.

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