The Gaps by Leanne Hall (young adult books to read .TXT) 📗

‘Why don’t you stick to your drawings? They’re so good.’ Liana squeezes my arm. ‘I’ve still got every single one you’ve given me.’

I stare at the rising flames.

I know Katie and Liana say they miss me, but no one has asked me about anything but the kidnapping. And while they’ve filled me in on the Morrison news, they don’t seem that interested in what’s going on in my life. I could tell them how I’m avoiding Dad’s calls or that Arnold got in a fight with Ron and Pearl’s cat or that I think Mum has a crush on someone at work but I can’t figure out who.

‘Shit!’ Tim hops around the circle swearing. Dirty grey smoke plumes off his shoe. Brandon picks up the esky full of ice and instead of tipping it on Tim’s foot, tips it over his head. Tim swears even more and starts swinging furiously at Brandon.

Liana immediately rushes towards them, getting the situation under control like she always does. In the kitchen window Mrs Barrie moves like an automaton, between bench and sink. She doesn’t notice the chaos outside. I realise that I can’t go back to Morrison, and I don’t want to.

It’s impossible not to be affected by the shiny, revving Balmoral girls who plan to climb confidently to the top, to be engineers and lawyers and surgeons and diplomats. They know they can be anything they want to be. Being around them has made me think differently about my own life, and what I expect from myself.

I remind myself about the outrageous levels of privilege my new classmates have, the money and opportunities thrown at them every day, not to mention that, despite their advantages, they seem overwhelmed half the time with eating disorders and anxiety and expectations, but I still feel like a traitor.

Katie couldn’t care less about Tim’s smoking foot. She rattles the empty beer can at me. ‘You little cow. You drank it all.’

Mum is surprised when I get home. She puts down the fat crime novel she’s been reading and pushes her empty chocolate wrapper between the couch cushions.

‘I thought I was going to have to wait up until at least midnight worrying about you.’

‘I’m tired.’

And hungry. I go to the kitchenette and grab a bag of rice crackers.

‘How’s everyone?’ Mum yawns.

It’s nice to see her relaxing for a change, on the couch in her sloppy tracky daks and old Nirvana t-shirt. She’s taken the next week off for annual leave and already has a stack of library books waiting for her.

‘Fine.’ I can barely talk around a massive crunchy mouthful of cracker. I check out her library haul on the bench as I chew.

Every crime novel has the same cover. Dark backgrounds with bold all-caps titles in white, blue or yellow. A surprising amount of them have dead girls or about-to-be-dead girls on the front cover. The blurbs speak of unhappy wives who drink so much they can’t tell if they’ve seen a murder or not, women whose pasts have come back to haunt them, and promising young girls who’ll never get to realise their dreams. The titles tell us how lost, how alone, how trapped all these lovely girls and women are.

Even though the photos are supposed to show something raw and horrible, they’re actually incredibly polished and posed and digitally altered. I look closely at Blood Sisters, which has the best cover. It fits right in with all the reference images I’ve been collecting for my project.

‘Are you planning to elaborate on that?’ Mum asks.

‘Not right now, no.’ I hold up Blood Sisters. ‘Can I borrow this for a few days?’

I sit on my bed with my earbuds in, listening to music and flicking through the photos I took at Brandon’s tonight. Selfies of Katie, Liana and I with our faces squished together. Was being at Morrison High the main thing we had in common? Is that all it takes to end friendships, a change of habit or routine? I thought we were stronger than that.

A hot whoosh of air rises through the vents in the floor and I realise that Sam has sneakily turned the heating on even though I tell him all the time we can’t afford to turn it on every night.

When I go to the control panel in the dark hallway to turn it off, something shifts in the very corner of my vision, in the shadows.

My heart leaps for a brief moment, before I realise it’s Sam, shuffling slowly out of his bedroom. A white smudge in the dark corridor, arms dangling by his sides. His eyes are open but he doesn’t see anything.

I catch up to him in the middle of the living room, swaying uncertainly.

‘Back to bed, Sam.’ I take him by the shoulders and try to steer him gently back towards his room.

‘I saw him,’ he mumbles. ‘Hiding…’

‘You’re sleepwalking, buddy. Come on.’

I walk him back to his room and tuck his covers around him after he lies down. I switch his old nightlight on, still plugged in at the socket, and stars made of light oscillate around the room.

The sleepwalking started just over a week ago, around the time the media started calling Yin’s abductor Doctor Calm. The name has invaded Sam’s brain, we don’t know how, because we’ve made sure he doesn’t watch the news. They’ve probably been talking about it at school.

We keep finding Sam in random locations around the house, asleep and confused. He’s fine during the day, but at night he roams.

I return to my room and check the latest news reports—my sick new ritual before going to sleep each night.

After four weeks most of the information is old. The only new thing is a sketch of a house that police say could be Doctor Calm’s, made from evidence given by Karolina Bauer.

It’s disconcerting how ordinary the house looks.

The bedroom has a double bed, two bedside tables, matching lamps with yellow lampshades. Striped