Mirror Me Read online

  ‘I wish you’d said something.’ My eyes fill with tears. I turn away and start walking.

  ‘Abbie –’ Zeke calls after me but I can’t listen to him anymore.

  Part of me knows it’s a bad idea but I can’t help myself. After an early dinner with Mum and Stacey, I shut myself in my bedroom and turn my laptop on. It feels wrong and terrifying, but I know I’m going to do it anyway. I take a breath then type Rebecca O’Reilley into Google. About a billion results come up: a singer from Fort Worth Texas; a model; a lawyer specialising in medical negligence. The lawyer is based in Sydney. That’s getting closer, geographically at least. I scroll through for a minute then give up and try again: Rebecca O’Reilley murder Derrington

  I get an article with a picture and for a moment I can’t breathe.

  Dave Hill wasn’t kidding. The resemblance is enough to make my skin crawl. I’m looking at a school photo. Rebecca’s caramel-coloured hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s looking directly into the camera and smiling. It’s true – we have the same smile. My own hair could have been photo-shopped directly onto her head. And there’s something about the set of our eyes that’s almost identical. My skin rises into goosebumps and a lump fills my throat. I can’t look away. I think if I used that photo on an ID, nobody would question it. I think if the girl in the photo and I were sitting next to one another on a bus, people would assume we were sisters.

  Except that’s not going to happen because Rebecca O’Reilley is dead.

  I think of all the reactions people have had to me since we arrived – the covert glances followed by failure to make eye contact. The sense I had that people were talking behind my back. The way people went out of their way to avoid being near me. And I think of the note – I assumed that was about Mum and Stacey, but what if that wasn’t it at all? What if it was about me?

  Suddenly it all makes sense. I must have been causing a wave of disquiet wherever I went, because this is only a small town. Surely everybody knew Becky O’Reilley. I click through a couple of links to news stories about the murders and start reading.

  It’s after midnight when I finally turn my computer off. Mum has come in a couple of times, brought me a hot chocolate, asked repeatedly if I was okay. She has a second sense for when things aren’t right. I told her I had a test to prepare for. I haven’t even looked at the maths exercises. Once I started reading about the murders I couldn’t stop.

  Now as I lie down in the darkness and close my eyes, my mind is buzzing. I keep getting flashes of images from what I’ve read. I feel uncomfortable, like something is wrong with the bed or my room or myself. Something is wrong with the world.

  Rebecca O’Reilley was stabbed twenty-seven times. Her brother was arrested the next day for her murder. There was blood in her upstairs bedroom, down the stairs, down the hallway, in the kitchen. Her body was found near the back door. She must have been so scared. She tried so hard to get away and she couldn’t. I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know I looked like her. I wish I didn’t know how she died. But now I do and it’s like the whole world has shifted. I brush warm tears from my cheeks and roll onto my side.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to settle down and go to sleep, but all I can think about is that number. What kind of rage would it take for a person to stab Rebecca O’Reilley, over and over, twenty-seven times?

  Chapter eight

  ‘Time’s up. Pass your worksheets forward. Make sure your name is on the top.’

  I’ve filled in around half the questions and of those, I’m only confident about a couple of them. I’m tired, my mind is foggy and my eyes feel red and raw. To top it all off, I’ve got my period and my abdomen aches like someone lobbed a basketball at my mid-section. It’s better than it was, at least. Six months ago, the pain used to be so bad I’d have to stay home from school, and the bleeding was so heavy Mum made me take iron supplements to stave off anaemia. I’m on some new tablets now that seem to help, but today I half wish I wasn’t. I’d rather be at home, in agony and bleeding like a stuck pig, than at Derrington State High, looking like Rebecca O’Reilley and failing maths. All around me, everyone else seems cheerful and relieved.

  This isn’t like me. I’m good at maths. I do well in tests. I go in prepared. I don’t freak out. I rarely get less than a B. Not anymore, apparently. I want to burn up with shame.

  I watch the piece of paper with my worthless scribblings on it make its way forward, passed from hand to hand and piled up with other pieces of paper. I hopefully imagine it spontaneously combusting, falling to the ground as a pile of ash. It doesn’t happen. I pick my bag up and file out of the room. I want to lose myself in the crowd.

  No such luck. Dave Hill is leaning against the wall opposite, watching me as I emerge. He wasn’t at homeroom this morning and I’d hoped that meant he was off sick, or better still had been hit by a truck on the way home last night.

  He’s staring at me with an ugly leer. ‘Looking hot today, Abbie. I like what you’ve done with your hair…’

  I look away. Dave was right. After seeing those pictures of Rebecca O’Reilley, I’d made an effort to do something different when I got ready this morning. I’d tied my hair back in a ponytail. I’d put on some makeup, darkening my eyes. I’d worn some dangly earrings that were probably against school regulations, though they were nothing compared to what Cara turned up in. Stacey said she thought I was going for the gypsy fortune-teller look.

  I avoid eye contact with Dave, walk faster down the corridor to get away from him, but I can’t escape the sound of his voice behind me, sing-song and low –

  ‘Bye-bye Abi-gail…’

  Then I hear some footsteps and someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I assume it’s Zeke, we’ve got Australian history together next and he said he’d try to find me beforehand.

  But when I turn, it’s not Zeke. I take a step back. It’s a guy who sits a couple of desks in front of me in maths. I don’t know his name, but I recognise him. From behind he looks kind of like a mountain. He’s tall and built like a rugby player: thick neck, broad shoulders, solid torso. His blond hair is a bit too long and messy. His eyes are the kind of blue that if it were a pencil I’d choose for the sea, even though I know from living in Sydney that the sea is hardly ever really that colour.

  ‘I heard Dave talking to you. Is he bothering you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say and keep walking.

  ‘I know what he’s like,’ the guy says. ‘This isn’t the first time he’s behaved like this. You don’t have to put up with him hassling you. Don’t let him get away with it.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, although the wobbling of my legs contradicts my words.

  The last thing I want is for somebody else to get involved and the situation to escalate. I figure that if I ignore Dave, he’ll give up eventually. And then I just have to get through the year, and before I know it I’ll be done with Derrington forever. We’ll move back to Sydney and I’ll forget Rebecca O’Reilley ever existed. Right now that’s the only thing I want: for this to all be over. For my life to go back to normal.

  I should tell Mum and Stacey about Rebecca O’Reilley but something stops me. It’s just – they look so happy. Mum’s really excited about getting the surgery up and running and Stacey has been working hard to make the house more homely. They’re the happiest I’ve seen them in ages and I don’t want to spoil it for them. But I figure Mum would want to know. Someone might mention it to her and I’d rather she heard it from me first.

  I put it off all week. I don’t say anything on Saturday, even though it’s all I can think about. I tell myself I’m waiting for the right moment. We always do Sunday brunch and Mum makes it a time to talk about the past week and think about what’s coming up. It sounds kind of daggy but when you combine it with delicious food it’s a pretty good family ritual. On Sunday morning I’m sitting at the kitchen table coring strawberries and watching Stacey prepping pancakes. I’m working myself up to say something when I he
ar a car coming down the driveway.

  ‘Anna, the bloke’s here,’ Stacey yells.

  ‘What bloke?’ I ask. I’m in the boxers and singlet I wear for pyjamas in the summer. I’m ready for brunch, not for random bloke encounters. But before I have the chance to get changed or find out more, there’s a knock on the door.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Mum calls.

  A moment later, she’s walking into the kitchen with a guy who doesn’t look much older than me. I cross my arms over my chest and sink down a little behind the table. He’s wearing long navy slacks and a pale blue polo-neck and big steel-capped boots. He’s got wavy dark hair and inky-dark eyes and his chin is scratchy with stubble. He looks at me for a second then looks away.

  ‘Everyone, this is Andy. He comes highly recommended at fixing stuff by the real estate agent. Andy this is everyone.’

  Andy mutters something in reply.

  ‘Are you hungry? Or do you need a coffee before you get started?’ Stacey asks. ‘The kettle just boiled.’

  ‘Nah, I’m all good,’ he says, looking at the floor.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give you the list of what needs doing,’ Mum says. ‘Stacey and I have to head into town after brunch and organise a few things for Monday. I’m expecting a delivery this afternoon at the surgery. Abbie you don’t mind staying here do you? Tom’ll keep you company.’

  ‘I wanted to come with you guys,’ Tom says. ‘Jamie said there’s a soccer match on at the oval. I might even get to play. It starts at eleven. You could drop me off? Jamie said his mum could drive me home when it’s finished. Pleeease…’

  ‘You know you’re meant to call it football, right?’ I say, put out by my brother’s sudden busy social calendar and enthusiasm for everything Derrington. ‘That’s what everybody else in the entire world calls it. Not soccer.’

  Mum ignores me. ‘Of course, darling, that sounds fine, so long as Abbie doesn’t mind staying here on her own for a bit?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘No worries.’

  So brunch comes and goes and I don’t say anything. Andy is clumping around in his work boots and I feel shy, knowing there’s someone else in the house who might be listening in. And more than that I suddenly feel stupid – so I look like Rebecca O’Reilley. What’s Mum going to do about it? What does it even mean? What does it matter?

  Once the others are gone I see Andy frowning as he studies the list Mum gave him.

  ‘Mum’s got doctor handwriting. Ask me if you can’t read anything.’

  ‘All good,’ he crouches down and sorts through his tool kit.

  I still have boxes to unpack. I’ve left them untouched in denial of having moved but I guess now’s the time to face them, so I head to my room.

  I soon regret having decided that I’d sort everything out when I got here. I packed a lot of junk. Not just like – this is something sentimental that I may or may not want to keep. Actual junk. Empty juice bottles. A pamphlet about Jesus that a guy on the street gave to me and I accepted before I realised it wasn’t going to get me cheap pizzas. A busted plastic sandal. Purple lipstick that Leah bought as a joke for two dollars and dared me to wear every day for a week.

  I go out to the kitchen, find a rubbish bag, and take it back in with me. I can’t see Andy, but I can hear banging noises coming from somewhere in the house, so I figure he’s doing whatever he’s meant to be doing. I start to fill the bag. Don’t want it, don’t need it – ditch it. Ditto for actual rubbish, stuff that’s broken or no longer fitting, and impulse-buy disasters. It feels good to get rid of some things. I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that I almost yelp when I look up and see Andy standing in the doorway.

  ‘Um, do you need a hand with something?’ I ask. I realise at that moment that I’m holding a rainbow bear that I made at a Build-A-Bear party a few years ago. It’s wearing a cowboy hat and glittery pink boots. I put it down carefully, like if I do it slowly enough he won’t notice I was ever holding it.

  ‘I think your mum wants me to fix something in here, unless I’m reading her writing wrong?’

  ‘Probably the window, right?’ I say, trying to sound normal. ‘The lock’s busted and she couldn’t work out how to fix it. But if it’s a problem, don’t worry about it. It’s cool.’

  ‘Yeah, the window, that was it. I’ll just go get my gear,’ he says, and then turns and heads back down the hallway. I shove the bear back into a box and close the lid. I do a quick scan of the room, jam some pairs of undies into my drawer, pull the bedcovers up over the bed then back out slowly.

  ‘So, you guys are from Sydney?’ Andy says as he examines the locking mechanism, jiggling it a few times, then turning back to his toolbox and pulling out a screwdriver.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. The silence extends awkwardly. It’s hard not to be aware of the empty rooms in the rest of the house, the driveway with only his ute in it. How far away Mum and Stacey and Tom are.

  ‘Must be a big change,’ he starts unscrewing the lock.

  ‘I’m still adjusting,’ I say. ‘Did you grow up in Derrington?’

  ‘Born and bred. Derrington State High Alumni of 2011. Didn’t finish year twelve though. Does Mrs Marks still drive that little yellow sports car?’

  I laugh. ‘The kids call it the buzzy bee…’

  ‘Still hasn’t got the engine tuned properly then…’

  ‘Those black racing stripes down the side are pretty fetching though.’

  ‘I saw her once taking it for a spin out in the country. I swear she cracked 180 in that thing. It’s always the quiet ones, hey…’ He looks at me and grins, one eyebrow raised, and suddenly he looks younger, hardly older than me, and I feel myself relax. Then he turns back to the lock, grabs a can of spray and gives a few squirts of something that smells like our old garage.

  ‘That should do the trick,’ he says, tightening the screw with quick, easy turns. ‘Now, what else was on the list…’

  As he heads back down the corridor to tackle the next job I wonder if he knew Rebecca O’Reilley? He looked a bit sketchy when he first saw me, but maybe he’s just shy? He hasn’t treated me weirdly, like pretty much everyone else has. He hasn’t tried to avoid me. Maybe he never knew her because of their age difference? Maybe he was away when it all happened? Maybe he just doesn’t watch the news?

  It feels good, I realise. It makes a change to talk to someone without feeling like Rebecca O’Reilley’s ghost is standing right there next to me.

  Chapter nine

  Monday comes around too fast. I know I can’t keep missing homeroom so I force myself to go. I get my maths book out and try to work through the homework exercises while avoiding eye contact with everybody. I hear Dave Hill – he’s always the loudest person in the room. He’s making dirty jokes and laughing at them until Ms Masters tells him to stop. He doesn’t say anything to me. I allow myself the tiniest spark of hope that maybe he’ll leave me alone now. Maybe everyone will lose interest, and seeing me around the school will become unremarkable, and all the stares and whispers and avoidance will stop.

  Maybe.

  At lunchtime I think about going to the library, but I feel bad that Zeke and I almost had an argument last time we spoke. I’ve been thinking about it since then and even though I wish he’d told me – I wish anyone other than Dave Hill had told me – I appreciate what he and Helena and Cara were trying to do. They thought they could spare me from knowing about Rebecca O’Reilley because they knew it would mess with my head, and they were absolutely right about that. Their intentions were good.

  When I get to our spot under the tree, Zeke is already there, lying on his back in the shade, head resting on his frayed backpack, arms crossed over his chest, looking up into the canopy.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, dumping my bag and sitting down cross-legged beside him.

  ‘Hey,’ Zeke says and gives me a tentative smile. ‘You still mad?’

  I let out a sigh. ‘No. Let’s just forget about it, okay? Where are Cara and Helena?’

  ‘Cara�
��s got detention for uniform infringements and Helena’s got her trombone lesson.’

  It’s just me and Zeke this lunchtime.

  Zeke’s smile widens, and it warms me from the inside the way it always seems to do. He’s wearing the same scuffed converse sneakers and long baggy school shorts as always. He’s lightly-built but I can tell he’s strong too. His shirt is untucked and has ridden up a bit, and I can see the muscled smoothness of his stomach and the dark line of hair that runs down its centre. I look away. I don’t want him to catch me checking him out.

  Zeke pulls a piece of paper from his bag and passes it across to me. He clears his throat. ‘Have you seen this yet?’

  It’s a flyer for the Derro Ball. Which is on this coming Saturday.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘The social highlight of the year. Well, not really, but you should come Abbie, it’ll be a blast…’

  ‘I don’t know…’ I have an aversion to school social events. Nothing good has ever happened to me at a school social. Of course, it doesn’t help that at the last one I went to, Leah hooked up with Declan Moore and spent half the night pashing him in a corner until one of the teachers came and broke them up. They just about had to hose them down with cold water to get them apart. I was lonely and bored and swore I’d never go to another bloody social ever again.

  ‘Pleeease…’ Zeke reminds me of my brother when he begs. He gets the balance of hope and desperation just right. ‘It will be so much more fun if you’re there. Otherwise it’ll just be the same old same old. Come with me Abbie?’

  And my heart almost skips a beat. Is it possible that Zeke is asking me-asking me? As in, asking me on a date-asking me?

  ‘Um…’ I can’t ask him if it’s a date because that would be hideously awkward. But if he is actually asking me and I say no, that would be terrible. I like Zeke. A lot. He’s quirky and sweet and too damn cute, with those stormy eyes and that grin that lights my insides like a string of fairy-lights.