A Weekend with Oscar Read online

  “You mean realism,” she says.

  “Okay. And modern art, some of which looks like it was produced in kindergarten – splotches on a canvas, or weird geometrical shapes. I know it’s meant to be deep and meaningful, but there’s always a long-winded explanation about how and why it’s deep and meaningful, which seems to me to defeat the purpose.”

  Zara is laughing. “There’s more than two kinds. There’s painterly art, expressionism, impressionism, fauvism, photorealism, surrealism, decorative, contemporary, vintage . . . Shall I go on?”

  Her laughter’s contagious; I’m laughing too. “Told you I know nothing about art,” I say. “But my point is, yours is different.” And I mean it. With Zara’s art, I can tell right away what she’s trying to say.

  “Art is communication,” she says, suddenly shy, “and my work is also about communication. So, what you get is, ‘communication about communication’. Kind of like a ‘play within a play’ or a ‘song about a song’.” She pauses. “But it’s probably rubbish, because if I have to explain it, I’ve failed.”

  “You didn’t have to. I got it straightaway.” And it’s true, I did. “I’m impressed,” I add. “I couldn’t draw to save my life.”

  She laughs again, a bell-like sound that warms my insides. “Lucky you don’t have to,” she replies.

  My mood is lighter than it has been in months and the feeling lasts for the rest of the evening, while I’m going over the maths for tomorrow’s test, making a start on my English essay and reducing the large mountain of homework on my desk to a slightly smaller one.

  I lie awake reliving the hours I spent with Zara. For the first time since he died, I fall asleep thinking of someone other than Dad.

  The next day, Zara’s late to maths and I don’t see her at lunchtime. I keep hoping I’ll bump into her and I can’t shake my disappointment when the day drags on and we still haven’t crossed paths.

  As I head towards the school gates at the end of the day, I see her in the distance, hurrying through them.

  I walk home with Dan, who lives five houses away from me. Normally, we part ways outside my house, but he’s lingering.

  “Come in,” I say. I want to be as good a friend to him as he’s been to me, so I don’t mention that I’m supposed to be playing basketball this evening and have a ton of stuff to do before then.

  Dan follows me into the kitchen. Oscar grins when he sees us.

  “Hi,” says Dan.

  “Hi,” says Oscar. “It’s eleven days till my birthday. Will you come to my party?”

  “Sure will,” says Dan.

  Dan watches silently as I make us coffee using the fancy machine that Dad bought shortly before he died. I bring the cups over to the table and cut two large slices of carrot cake.

  He takes a bite. “This is delicious,” he says to Mum when she enters the kitchen.

  “Take a slice home with you,” says Mum. She notices Oscar, still in the clothes he wore to school. “Haven’t you changed yet? Hurry up, Oscar. We need to leave.”

  “I’m going to my dance class,” Oscar tells Dan.

  “What, mate?” Dan’s known Oscar for years, but still finds it hard to understand him.

  “He says he’s going to his dance class,” I interpret.

  “You won’t be going anywhere unless you change into your dance clothes quick smart,” says Mum. She takes him by the shoulders, turns him around and propels him gently out of the room.

  The moment they leave, Dan lets his guard down and I see the misery in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Well, nothing new.”

  “You should talk to your mum.”

  “I can’t,” he says simply.

  “Didn’t she go to that parent information session at the start of the year? You know, the one that was all about not pressuring your kids and the importance of work – life balance?”

  “Ha! That made zero impression on her.”

  “Then how about talking to someone at school?”

  “Like who?” he asks.

  “Like Mr Patterson, or the year level coordinator.”

  Dan looks incredulous. “You’re telling me to see Patterson? You haven’t even seen him yourself.”

  “Okay.” I raise my hands in surrender, because I don’t want to argue. “Ronnie Chieng?”

  “Now you’re talking.” Ronnie Chieng is Dan’s favourite comedian. I flick through some YouTube videos and it’s not long before we’re immersed in a Ronnie Chieng comedy sketch, my default remedy for Dan when all else fails.

  After Dan leaves, I change quickly into my basketball clothes and make my way to Hampton Park.

  “Jamie, catch!”

  Not the best tactic on Dylan’s part. If he’d just made eye contact, I’d have had a decent chance of catching the ball. Now the defence are all over me and I don’t have a hope. Within seconds, the other team has the ball.

  I’m in the B team. Most people in the B team have spent years trying to make the A team, and a few guys who didn’t make the A team gave up basketball altogether. Not me, though. I’m not especially tall and I know I’ll never excel.

  It was Oscar who taught me that you don’t have to be good at something to do it.

  “Look how much fun they’re having,” Mum used to say as we watched Oscar and his team on the basketball court. “They don’t seem to care how good they are or how they look.”

  It’s true; Oscar does stuff just because he likes it. While Mum has filled almost every spare hour of his day, she hasn’t pushed him into anything. He loves joining in.

  “Grab it, Jamie,” yells Dylan.

  This time I manage to grab the ball.

  We lose spectacularly – ten points to two.

  Dylan high-fives me after the game.

  “That was fun,” I say, as I high-five him back, but most of our team members have left the court looking defeated.

  On Thursday lunchtime, my heart skips a beat when I find Zara in the school cafeteria. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey! Good to see you.”

  We stand in line together as we queue for tomato soup, the only kind on offer in the school canteen.

  “I was hoping to catch you yesterday,” she says. I’m absurdly pleased to hear those words. “But I had to rush off. Some days, Mum needs help with Hayley.” Zara lets out a sigh. “She’s regressed a lot in the last few weeks since we moved to Melbourne, so if Dad has to work late, I need to be home.”

  “That must be tough,” I say.

  “It’s not that I mind,” Zara continues. “I mean, Hayley’s my sister and I love her, and lately Mum can’t cope on her own. No one could. It can take an hour for two people just to get her to move from one room to another. She hates change, can’t handle it. And it’s hard for her to get used to new people. She’s become less communicative, less cooperative. She hasn’t said a word since we got here. Moving here has really upset her.”

  “How was it for you?”

  She gives a short, dismissive laugh. “It had to be okay for me. But honestly, no one gave me a second thought. My parents are all, “Oh, Zara’s so easygoing. She’ll be fine.” Not that I blame them. I am fine. I have to be. And if I’m not, they’ll never know.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  We exchange a look of mutual understanding.

  “I knew you’d get it.” Zara smiles.

  I’m longing to touch her as we inch our way forwards in the queue.

  “Did it occur to anyone to let you start off in a regular class? I mean, it’s bad enough moving schools mid-year, but then being in the accelerated class, especially when you have to help with Hayley.”

  Zara shrugs. “They assume I’ll cope.”

  “Still, apart from schoolwork, it must be rough.”

  “What?” she asks. “Leaving the friends I’ve had for years and almost all my relatives? Or having a sister with autism?”

  “Both,” I say.

  “You�
�re right, it is. But I wouldn’t change either. I wouldn’t move back to Adelaide if given the choice, because I’ve already moved once and I wouldn’t want to do it again. And I can’t wish that Hayley wasn’t my sister, because I love who she is, but I’d definitely make life easier for her if I could.”

  “That’s how I feel about Oscar.”

  “Do you have to help out with Oscar at home?”

  “Not much,” I say. “My parents always felt that it wasn’t my job. The thing is, I want to help more.”

  “What! Why?”

  “It’s self-preservation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I picture Mum as she used to be – occasionally stressed but genuinely happy. Now, her smile rarely reaches her eyes. Life’s been hard for her since Dad died. And I really need her to be okay, because if she isn’t, how can I be?

  But how can I explain all this to Zara?

  “I’ve only got one parent left.”

  She nods thoughtfully. I think she gets it.

  I try to forget the conversation I had with Mum soon after Dad’s death, the one that has a way of sneaking into my mind when I let my guard down. The queue moves up. Zara takes her soup and her change and waits for me while I take mine. We head towards an empty table.

  “What about weekends?” I ask her. “Do you have to help out at home on weekends?”

  “Dad’s around on weekends. So I’m usually free.”

  “Do you want to do something this weekend?”

  “Sure. Like what?”

  We both like movies. A movie is the obvious choice.

  “Depends when you’re free. What are you doing on Saturday?”

  “Maths in the morning,” she says.

  “Yep, me too.” We’ve both got a practice exam on Monday.

  “And in the afternoon, I’m going to the National Gallery.”

  “How about Sunday, then? McDonald’s and a movie?”

  “Great,” she says.

  I feel like punching the air.

  The next day, I head straight for the cafeteria at lunchtime. I can’t see Zara in the queue, but I join it anyway. When Zara walks in, I catch her eye and wave her over.

  “I saved you a spot in the queue.”

  The girl in front of me rolls her eyes as I make room for Zara.

  “Thanks,” says Zara.

  “Hey,” says the girl directly behind us, “that’s pushing in.”

  “Sorry,” says Zara. “Do you want to go in front of us?”

  “Never mind,” says the girl, in a long-suffering voice. Zara and I share a secret, slightly conspiratorial smile.

  “So, what movie do you want to see?” I ask as we wait in line.

  “No idea,” Zara says. “I don’t even know what’s on. I think it’s been over six months since I last went to the movies.”

  “What genres do you like?” The last time we talked movies, we only talked about specific ones.

  “I like movies about artists, writers and musicians,” she says. “And other good dramas.”

  “Me too.”

  “The occasional comedy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hate violence. Love period pieces.”

  “You mean the old-fashioned kind that put you to sleep?”

  She gives me a playful punch on the arm.

  Once again, we head towards an empty table with our disposable cups of steaming soup. I put my cup down carefully.

  Zara takes a sip of hers. “Ow, burnt my tongue.”

  “I’ll cool it down for you.” I pick up her cup and blow gently in what’s meant to be a gallant gesture. The liquid ripples. I hope she doesn’t think it’s gross, me blowing my germs all over her soup. I give it another ten seconds, then pass the cup back.

  She laughs and takes another sip.

  Leaving the cafeteria, we cross the school quadrangle to get to class. Martin Keaton, a kid in Year 7 with cerebral palsy, is limping ahead of us, and as luck would have it, Ethan Chandler chooses this moment to appear.

  “Kids like that,” he says, pointing to Martin, “are a drain on the system. They shouldn’t be at this school.” He talks as if he has personally contributed to the school’s finances.

  I don’t reply. No point wasting my breath on a jerk like Chandler.

  Zara has frozen, her eyes wide in disbelief. “He did not just say that, did he?”

  We watch Chandler’s retreating back. “Yeah, he said it. He baits me deliberately. Because of Oscar. Always has.”

  “What a douchebag!”

  “Yeah. And he’s never even met Oscar. Oscar started school when Chandler and I were both in our final year at Bayside Primary, and even though the school accepted kids with DS and other disabilities, my parents made a point of sending him to a different school.

  “But everyone who knows me knows about Oscar,” I continue, “and most people are cool. The only ones who ever insult him are those who have disabilities themselves, and don’t know what they’re doing. And Ethan Chandler.

  “Once, in Year 6, his family were at McDonald’s the same night we were, and I could see him watching Oscar. The next day, the ribbing started. I was hoping we’d go our separate ways at the end of the year, but Chandler ended up here, and we’ve been in the same home room ever since.”

  We reach the other side of the quadrangle. Chandler is loitering in the doorway to the building.

  “Be careful, new girl,” he says to Zara. “Anderson’s got moron genes. They might rub off.”

  Zara rolls her eyes as we try to walk past but Chandler loves stirring. “What’s wrong, Anderson? Need help with your homework?”

  Walking home – briskly, because of the cold – I call Dan to find out why he wasn’t at school.

  “I had better things to do,” he jokes.

  I can’t help laughing, which is exactly the reaction he wants.

  “At some point, someone’s going to notice.” Dan’s skipped so many days this year, it’s hard to keep track. “I seriously think you should talk to your mum.”

  “I did,” he says.

  “Really? What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Will I get in trouble for something I didn’t do?’ She said, ‘No, of course not.’

  “I said, ‘Good, because I didn’t go to school today.’ I don’t think she believed me. She said, ‘Don’t give me cheek.’”

  I’m laughing again and so is he. He’s so good at deflecting.

  I tell him about my plans with Zara.

  “That’s awesome,” says Dan.

  There’s a spring in my step as I end the call and turn into Trent Street. The day after tomorrow is Sunday. Not too long to wait!

  Is it my imagination, or are things easier at home? When Mum brings Oscar back from speech therapy later that afternoon, for the first time in ages she is humming.

  Once we have eaten a vegetable curry with brown rice and lentils, and Oscar is showered and in his pyjamas, Mum switches on the TV. Oscar is colouring in his mandala colouring book – the geometric designs and the colouring soothe him – and Mum is sipping herbal tea and actually relaxing as she watches the news. It’s kind of peaceful.

  I’ve just started reading when Mum’s mobile rings.

  She answers in the chirpy “telephone” voice that Dad and I used to make fun of, but a second later, her tone changes.

  “Oh, no! Oh, I’m so sorry, Selena . . . Yes, yes, I’ll book a flight as soon as I get off the phone.”

  She catches the question in my eyes.

  Selena is my mother’s sister. She and her husband, Roger, live in Perth. Usually, we stay with them for a week or two over Christmas and Easter, but after Dad died, Selena came down to Melbourne alone and stayed for a month.

  “Roger’s upped and left,” says Mum, half in a daze. “Just like that. No warning. Selena came home and found a note. It said he hadn’t been happy for a long time, so he’s moving on, and Selena shouldn’t wait around for him because he won’t be back.” Mum sighs. “
Poor Selena, she had no idea. She thought they were fine. They’ve been married for nearly twenty-five years.

  “Will you be okay on your own for the weekend? I’ll book a flight for me and Oscar. How about that, Oscar?”

  Oscar stops colouring and looks up. “What?” he says.

  “How do you feel about coming to Perth with me for the weekend? To visit Aunty Selena?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got cooking and swimming tomorrow and soccer on Sunday.”

  No need for a diary with Oscar around.

  “You can miss them,” says Mum. “Just this once. Aunty Selena needs me.”

  “Where did Uncle Roger go?”

  Oscar always astounds me. You think he hasn’t heard or understood and then he asks a question that shows he has.

  “We’re not sure, darling.”

  “Will I see him?”

  Mum hesitates. “I don’t know, Oscar.”

  “I’m not going,” says Oscar, starting to cry. He associates people with places, and he hates it when those who are part of his life are not where they should be.

  Mum goes over and sits beside Oscar. She puts her arm around him, hugs him to her. “It’ll be okay, Oscar, my love. Really it will.” She’s trying to reassure herself as much as Oscar. She’s not very convincing.

  If Oscar is forced to go to Perth, the weekend will be hell for Mum.

  Could I look after Oscar for the weekend? Honestly, I don’t love the idea – for one thing, it would totally ruin my plans with Zara. But this is my chance to help Mum out, to show her that she’s not alone.

  Though I feel for Oscar, it’s more for Mum and Selena’s sake that I say, “Oscar can stay home, Mum. I’ll look after him.”

  Mum looks surprised and a little hopeful. “Jamie, that’s . . . But I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.”

  “You didn’t. I offered.”

  Mum shakes her head. “You’ve never looked after Oscar for more than a couple of hours at a time.”

  “It’s only a weekend. Don’t you want quality time with Selena?”

  We both know that with Oscar around, she won’t have much time or energy left for her sister.