Read Online Thirteen Pearls by Melaina Faranda - Free Book Online

the kitchen my heart sank. I had no idea how to tackle such foul detritus. I mentally attempted to clear some bench space on which to stack things to rinse and . . .
    â€˜Who used up all the water?’ Uncle Red stomped into the shed, his face thunderous. ‘I’d just filled a whole drum.’
    I gulped. ‘Um, me. Sorry. Aran wet the bed.’
    Red stared.
    â€˜My bed,’ I clarified. ‘Is there a water shortage on the island?’ I came from Cairns: water was never an issue – six months of the year it rained. How was I meant to know it would be a problem up here?
    â€˜Yes,’ Red said coldly, ‘There is a water shortage on this island. Even though it’s the wet season, we’re in a rain shadow from the bigger islands. In the future, you’ll need to keep your water use to a minimum. We can’t afford to run out.’
    I fought hard to not collapse into a quaking schoolgirl. I could understand now why Mum hated him – he was a bully.
    And I wouldn’t be my mother’s daughter if I didn’t counter: ‘What about washing? I saw the heap of Aran’s wet sheets. They look as though they’ve been piled there for weeks.’
    At least Uncle Red had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘You’ll have to hand wash them. The machine uses too much water.’
    â€˜And all this washing up?’
    It was weirdly pleasurable to see him on the back foot. But he wouldn’t meet my eyes. ‘Things got a bit crazy here after Lowanna had to go. She did all the female jobs. Obviously you’ll need to use water for that.’
    I could almost see my mother fainting and falling from our rickety verandah at this crude demarcation. Pink jobs and blue jobs. Dad would have shaken his head, wondering how two such different people could have come from the same family. My mother never washed up. She said it gave her eczema, but I’ve yet to see a rash on her lily-white hands. Basically she just resented the whole business. Said it was pointless – all the dishes clean and gleaming and then they got mucked up again the next day and the day after that.
    I pressed on. ‘Does Aran actually talk?’
    Uncle Red shifted his tree trunk legs (it was a wonder the concrete didn’t crack beneath them) and his eyes darted from one side of the shed to another, glancing anywhere but at me. ‘He and Lowanna used to talk in Thai.’
    â€˜Yeah, but does he speak any English?’
    Uncle Red’s gaze alighted on a spanner half-buried beneath a pile of rolled socks, old tobacco papers and a beer coaster. ‘There it is! Boys need it down at the plant.’ He strode over, grabbed it, and stumped out.
    I watched, mouth open, fascinated by this act of unapologetic subject-avoidance. If I’d tried that on with Mum and Dad they would have hunted me down and badgered me for an answer. Or I would have hunted them down – bursting into the bathroom while Dad was shaving his sideburns, or interrupting Mum mid-typing to get the answer to my question. And just imagine trying to do that in school!
    I took a deep breath. Four thousand dollars and the Ulysses would be completed. Well, complete enough for me to sail enough to get my sea legs at least.
    I ducked into our bedroom partition. Aran was still sleeping in the patch of wee – poor kid. I’d let him sleep and then wrangle him out later to the blue shower drum. I tugged on a singlet and shorts and for good measure grabbed my iPod too. Then I doubled back to run a brush through my hair and tie it in a ponytail so that strands wouldn’t flop in my face while I tackled THE NIGHTMARE BEYOND THE CURTAIN.
    There was no discernible mirror, which was good in terms of vanity, but unnerving too, with two disturbingly cute guys around and no way at all of knowing if there would be spaghetti in my hair. But it didn’t matter what I looked like because the boys were down at the plant.
    I