Deception (Michael Clifford)

Thirty Two

I talked to Kellin for hours. He didn't mind. I told him about what I'd said to my mum, what she'd said in return, and about the situation. And whilst I was confident at the time that I could go back to Australia by myself, I'm starting to doubt it. Yes, legally, I am aloud. But it has been years since I've been back, and the prospect of returning without anyone by my side is making me nervous.

I pull my hair back with my hand and look in the mirror, then let it go.
It's almost time to leave, and I'm still struggling with what to wear. My black jeans are non negotiable, but the rest... I groan and collapse onto my bed, face falling onto a mountain of clothes.

Kellin offered to put me up for the night in their hotel, after my fight with mum, but I told him not to worry. Not only would it ruin the surprise for Jesse, but I would be an inconvenience. He doesn't have time to look after me whilst he's got a show to get ready for. So he talked me into going back to the hotel. Which I did, reluctantly. Turns out I didn't need to worry, because by the time I got back my mother had left for a meeting.

I check my phone anxiously. I have 20 minutes.
I push up off the bed once again and stare down at the messy pile of clothes.
Nothing really catches my eye, I've been living out of these clothes for 2 years and have grown bored of everything in here. But I pluck out a silky black top from the bottom of the pile and hold it up, examining it. I don't remember buying this. It's quite light, not too short, with a gold zip running up the side.
"It'll do."
I stand up and slip it on, happy with the way it sits on me. Right, I check my phone again. 15 minutes.
I go to the bathroom to put on some makeup, but then find I really can't be bothered, satisfied with the eyeliner I'm currently wearing, I return to my bed.

Mum was gone when I woke up, which I'm mostly glad about. I have been dreading the talk she's going to have with me. But everything I said was true. I can go back by myself, and no matter what she tells herself, she's been avoiding this since we left. It's why she took the job in America so easily, to get away from Australia and everything that it holds for her. But there's going to be a time when she'll need to face it, you can't ignore something like this forever.

That leaves me with the dilemma of whether to return by myself or except that my mum is not ready yet. If I did return, there would be nowhere for me to stay. The house we lived in has been sold, and I haven't any relatives I can contact. Since the day of my 16th birthday the family connections have been shattered. Most have probably moved away by now or changed their number.
I could always stay at Hannah's for a little while, that's assuming that the band will be going back to Melbourne. Actually, that's a good point, where are they going back to? Australia is a huge country, they could be going anywhere.
I don't want to leave the company of the band, considering they are all that I've got in the way of company and routine at the moment, but if they're all going back to their families, where does that leave me?
My hope starts to dwindle.

I sit up, as if to escape my thoughts and look around my 'room'. A small blind covering the window lets in slices of the evening sun, adding a warm glow to the white walls, which are decorated only by a single painting of the Los Angeles skyline. The sheets of my bed are messy, scrunched up and covered in clothes that have been pulled from my suitcase, then to the side, just under my red flannel, I spot the leathery corner of my sketchbook.
I stare at it solemnly. All the emotions that are wrapped up in that small leather journal, the stress showing in the frayed edges of paper and the bent wire spine. I remember the day I got it, we were in New Jersey, walking through the busy streets on a Wednesday evening, it was the day after the guys concert, and we were about to leave them to return to Australia. My dad was walking next to me, he wanted to see the city for the last time before we left. I loved that about him. He was an adventurer, like me, or like I was.
We walked past this older gentleman sitting on the side of the road, he had a blanket laid out on the ground, and it was covered in bit and pieces, things that he'd collected over the years. There were puzzles, paintings, old war memorabilia, carved figurines, and a small leather sketchbook. Most people simply walked past without sparing him a second glance. But I couldn't. Looking at him, sitting on the cold grey pavement, selling the last of his belongings, I felt sad. I wanted to give him money, but I didn't have much to give, plus he looked like a proud man. A soldier. The hard lines on his face, chin high, despite his situation. He wanted to earn his money, not received it out of pity. That's when I asked Dad about the sketchbook.
We gave him 50 for it, and it has been by my side ever since.