We enter the commercial section of Easton, near the main mall. The streets are grey and filled with clothing shops, pharmacies, bakeries and restaurants. Aaron pulls into a parking lot behind a bunch of brick buildings and parks in a car park labelled “staff.”
“This is the back,” Aaron says, gesturing at one of the brick buildings. A metal yellow sign attached to it reads “Wynn’s Fan and Lighting.”
Inside, half of the storefront is filled with fans and other air-conditioners, and the other half glows golden with lights: chandeliers, lamps, avant-garde fixtures and circular lights. Aaron takes me into an office where I meet his parents, who are both in yellow shirts with their store’s logo embroidered on the breast. Aaron’s dad, John, is tall and broad-shouldered, like Aaron, whereas his mum, Andrea, has his round cheeks and raven black hair.
John and Andrea are friendly like Aaron, but while Aaron’s always seemed — at least to me — distantly polite, his parents are total extraverts, telling me how they inherited the business from Andrea’s parents and how they chose the logo and asking me about everything from moving to Easton to whether I’d tried the pizza restaurant down the street. Printing out my resumeseemed unnecessary, because they barely glance at it before asking when I’m available to start work.
Later, they give me a tour of the store with Aaron trailing behind us, and run through my duties, mostly moving merchandise and serving customers. I’ll begin the first Monday of the holidays.
Afterwards, I thank them and say goodbye. Aaron follows me to the front door. “Do you need a ride home?”
Getting a lift from him would be more convenient, but he’s already been nice to me. “That’s okay,” I say.
He nods and goes back inside. I take out my phone and search Easton’s bus routes.
“Where did you go after school?” Mum asks at dinner.
We sit at the small square table that functions as our dining table since we don’t need anything larger for two people. Mum sits across from me, carefully cutting a steak, and now that I’m looking at her face-on, up close, I see that the lines around her eyes look more pronounced than the last time I noticed them.
“I went for a job interview,” I say. “I’m getting a temp job for the holidays.”
Mum pauses her cutting. “Shouldn’t you be spending the holidays studying?”
“I will, but I want to work too.”
“You already have one job, and you know how I feel about that.” Mum thought my shoe shop job would be a distraction from school. I didn’t tell her I wanted to make money so that I’ll be financially independent after I graduate.
“It’s fine, Mum,” I say impatiently.
“I’m only saying this because I want the best for you,” Mum says. “I don’t want you to compromise your future.” The rest of that sentence hangs in the air.Like Winona.
“I won’t. Trust me,” I say.
“You’re lucky to go to Easton Grammar,” Mum continues, and she’s right. “No fights. No drugs. No broken laws. No bad influences.”
Compared to my old school, Easton Grammar is full of saints. I’ve heard rumours that fights have broken out in the past, and people definitely bring weed to parties, but at school, everyone is well-behaved. In fact, the only scandalous thing I can think of happening in my two terms of being there is the fact I’m hooking up with a stranger in a storeroom.
“Everything is set for you to have a bright future, Jude,” Mum finishes. “Make the most of it.”
“Yes, Mum.”
I finish off the rest of my dinner. Before I can leave the table, though, Mum stretches out a hand.
I stare at it, my gut twisting.
“How long will you keep doing this?” I ask as I take out my phone from my pants pocket and place it on her palm.
She frowns at me, and I can’t blame her for being surprised. It’s been a while since I last complained.
Silently, she goes through my phone. I can’t see exactly what she’s looking at since I’m on the other side of the table, but she won’t find anything anyway. I don’t have any social media except for a messaging app, which includes a Year 12 group chat and a conversation with Tim, where we send each other pictures of homework we’re struggling with.
Mum only takes a few minutes, which isn’t enough to check everything, but she must be satisfied with what she’s found. Or rather, what she hasn’t found.
She hands me back my phone. She must feel guilty, or perhaps I’m scowling more than usual tonight, because she says, “it’s because I care about you.”
I don’t say anything back. I take my dish to the sink, wash it more aggressively than it deserves, then stomp back to my room where I manage not to slam the door shut.
“Is everything okay?” R asks.
