A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

pour him drinks and refill the chip bowl. Either way, she found it impossible to relax around him.

‘That’s not yours to take,’ she objected as Macca unplugged Corey’s PlayStation.

‘It’s not yours to keep.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Secret men’s business.’ He tapped his nose and leered, clearly getting off on the power trip.

She changed tack as he pushed past her to the door. ‘You better bring it back before Milo’s birthday. Corey wouldn’t miss that.’

‘You keep telling yourself that, sunshine.’

He slammed the door behind him and she jumped. Milo cried.

‘Shh, buddy, it’s okay. That horrible man’s gone now and Daddy will be home for your birthday. He misses us. We miss him.’

You keep telling yourself that.

An unfamiliar sensation knotted her stomach, heavy and mocking. She did miss Corey. He missed them too. He loved them—she knew that. And the only reason he didn’t text much or call was because he was busy.

On the walk to the garden, the knot loosened a little, but it didn’t completely untie until she was standing in front of her garden bed. She still pinched herself it was hers. Lifting the cuttings carefully from under the pram, she checked the tiny white roots on a hydrangea, a geranium, a coleus and some Federation daisies. The day before, the supermarket had discounted a half-dead punnet of petunias and she’d haggled them down even further to a dollar, pointing out it was more than they’d get when they dumped them. Her plan was to lavish the annuals with TLC, liquid fertiliser and surround them with snail bait so they created a colourful border.

She moved a sleeping Milo into the shade, then pulled on the new gloves. Delight buzzed her as she flicked her wrist, admiring the way the gloves fitted her small hands.

Using the key Helen had given her, she opened the glossy black lock on the shiny silver shed. As she surveyed all the equipment and picked up a trowel and a watering can, she gave a whoop of joy. It echoed back to her. She was a member of the garden and allowed to use all this lovely gear.

Later, when she was lugging the watering can back from the tap, she saw a flash of fuchsia pink, royal blue and emerald green. A tall and slender woman was walking towards her, her face wreathed in a smile and her hand up in a wave. Jade’s body involuntarily flinched, wary and curious at the same time. She’d never been this close to anyone so black.

‘Hello.’ The woman’s teeth were brilliant white against her full dark lips. ‘I am Fiza.’

Jade had expected a heavy and unintelligible accent, but Fiza was a lot easier to understand than the Hazara women. Just like them, she covered her head, but that’s where the similarities stopped. The Hazaras’ scarves were plain material, mostly black or white, that fell around their faces and covered their shoulders like the habits old nuns wore. But there was nothing plain about Fiza’s scarf or the intricate way it was tied. Three shades of colour—hot fuchsia to barely pink—were braided together across the top of her head and wound in a knot that sat high like a crown. Fiza was tall, like the models in the Vogue magazine Jade had read at the doctor’s, and the topknot was a flash of colour that made her stand out even more. How did she get it to stay on her head?

Fiza was staring back at Jade, her eyes full of questions. ‘Do I have dirt on my face?’

Jade’s cheeks heated and a spurt of anger got tangled with her embarrassment at being caught staring. ‘Could I tell if you did?’

‘Not as easily as I can see it on your face.’ She pointed to Jade’s left cheek. ‘You have a smudge.’

‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ Jade wiped her cheek on her sleeve, prickling with surprise that the stranger had bothered to tell her. People a lot closer to her had allowed her to walk down the street with her dress tucked into her undies or, worse, with period blood staining her pants. She got a sudden urge to explain herself, which was weird, because she hardly ever did that unless it was demanded of her. ‘I wasn’t staring at you. I was trying to work out how you made that cool knot on your turban thingie.’

‘It’s not hard. You could do it.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t have to hide my hair.’

Fiza laughed. ‘Not even on a bad hair day? It’s a handy trick to know. My mother taught me, but you can learn from YouTube.’

‘You’re shitting me?’

‘Lots of Muslim girls have their own Instagram accounts and YouTube channels for hair, make-up and fashion tips.’

Jade was still digesting this unexpected piece of information when Fiza said, ‘I hope your new plants grow better than my maize.’

‘What’s maize?’

‘It’s like corn.’

Jade was on a fast learning curve about gardening with information from Bob and books Fran from the library had recommended. ‘Did you test the soil before you planted?’

‘I did everything the way my father taught me, but …’ Fiza’s straight shoulders sagged. ‘Perhaps I have been away too long. My maize is struggling and I don’t know why.’

A wail came from the pram and Jade hurried over to unstrap Milo. ‘Hey, buddy, did you have a nice sleep?’

‘G’day, Jade.’ Bob crossed the garden and ruffled Milo’s sleep-damp hair. ‘Hello, sport. You just wake up?’

Milo extended his pudgy arms towards Bob and his glasses. The man laughed, ducked and weaved. Squealing, Milo flung himself sideways and Jade had to tighten her grip.

Bob grinned. ‘Want to come to Uncle Bob?’

The nice ones are always the pedos. Corey’s warning sounded loud in her head and she hesitated, even though she didn’t want to.

Bob was kind. He’d suggested she get her own garden bed and stuck up for her when Helen said she should grow vegetables. He’d even done most of the digging and given her advice whenever she asked. Unlike Helen, he didn’t lecture her and he could take a