Cicada Summer Read Free Page A

at the back door. Dad folded his arms, and for a moment he and Mo glared at each other, chins jutting, like mirror images. Then Mo said grimly, ‘I am not going to take responsibility for your damaged child. That’s your job, not mine. Is that clear?’
    She pushed back her chair and marched out of the room.
    Dad glanced at Eloise. ‘All right, Electron Microscope?’
    A tear ran down the side of Eloise’s nose. She shook her head.
    ‘Oh Lord,’ muttered Dad. ‘Not now . . .’
    There were voices in the hall. Then Mo reappeared in the doorway, propelling before her a dark-haired boy a year or two older than Eloise. He held a cardboard box full of groceries.
    ‘Tommy Durrani,’ announced Mo. ‘From next door. He does all my errands. Worth his weight in gold, this boy. Be lost without him.’
    Tommy mumbled something and ducked his head. His grey eyes were fringed with long lashes.
    Dad jumped up and thrust out his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, young man. Tommy, was it? Glad to hear you’re taking such good care of my old mum.’
    Tommy shook the tips of Dad’s fingers, hampered by the box in his arms.
    ‘My son, Stephen. My granddaughter, Eloise,’ said Mo.
    Tommy looked at Eloise. ‘You coming to stay?’
    Eloise stared at her soup bowl. Another tear stung at her eye but didn’t fall.
    ‘Eloise might be staying here for a little while,’ Mo said grudgingly at last.
    ‘Wonderful!’ Dad shouted. ‘That’s marvellous. Thanks, Mo. Thanks, err . . . Tommy.’ He fumbled for his wallet and tried to press a fifty-dollar note into Tommy’s hand. But Tommy stepped sharply backward.
    ‘I don’t help Mrs Mo for money.’ He scowled, and turned to Mo. ‘I’ll put this in the kitchen.’ He vanished, and a minute later they heard the back door click shut.
    Pink-faced, Dad shoved the fifty dollars back into his wallet.
    ‘Not everybody lives for the almighty dollar, believe it or not,’ said Mo. ‘A thoroughly nice boy, that Tommy. His family’s been in Turner nearly two years now. Sydney before that. The mother’s our local doctor. The father used to be a professor in Afghanistan. Hasn’t got a job here yet.’
    ‘Professor of what?’ Dad was grumpy now.
    ‘Psychology.’
    ‘Huh,’ said Dad.
    ‘Don’t say it,’ warned Mo.
    Dad spread his hands. ‘Say what?’
    Eloise didn’t know what either, but then Mo spun around and fixed her with a ferocious stare. ‘As for you, young lady, you need a rest. Think I can’t recognise an over-tired child when I see one? Go and lie down on my bed.’
    Eloise froze, but Dad nudged her. ‘Go on. Mo’s right. We’ve had a long day, and a late one last night.’
    Mo swept Eloise into her bedroom. Numbly, Eloise removed her shoes and scrambled onto the high white bed. Mo grunted and closed the door.
    Eloise lay flat on her back and gazed up at the blotchy ceiling. It was a relief to be alone. People tired her out, especially new people. A murmur of voices came from the living room. Probably Dad and Mo were talking about her. She rolled onto her side and pulled a pillow over her ear.
    Even with the awning down, Mo’s bedroom was like an oven; the sun had baked the roof all afternoon. The world was getting hotter and hotter, Eloise knew that. But there were lots of things she didn’t know. Bree had told Dad she was unbelievably naïve . That was one of the things Eloise wasn’t supposed to hear. But she was pretty sure that Bree had never seen a ghost . . .
    A shiver ran across Eloise’s skin. She sat up and looked around for a pen or a piece of paper, but there was nothing to draw with. She lay back down and imagined the ceiling was a sheet of paper. She raised one hand and traced the shape of the girl in the air: the grey shadows behind her, the pale outline of her dress, the dark cloud of the girl’s hair beneath her hat. Eloise moved her hand this way and that, tilting the invisible pencil, slowly filling in the blankness with lines, with smudges and