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vacuuming. At first she was nothing but warm and supportive toward my mother. But at some point the expiry date for accepted grief passed and Mum’s behaviour has slipped from natural to indulgent in Nanna’s eyes. She’s troubled that our house hasn’t returned to its former Vogue Living standard. My mother has lost her passion for finding the perfect throw cushion and to Nanna this is equivalent to losing the will to live. Her remedy is frozen meals and Mr Sheen.
    In case it isn’t obvious, Nanna is my mother’s mother. I have no idea how old she is as her appearance hasn’t changed in my lifetime. I have never seen a grey hair on her head or her fingernails unlacquered. She is the sort of person who takes other people’s lack of grooming as a personal affront. There is nothing that can’t be achieved, in her opinion, with the right hairstyle and a well-ironed pants suit.
    She turns into our driveway and parks the car. She looks over at me, lips pursed.
    â€˜Well, how is she?’ Meaning my mother.
    â€˜The same.’
    Nanna sighs and opens her door. ‘Have you had your colours done yet?’ she asks, referring to the gift voucher she got me for a session with a colour consultant whose job is to tell you what season your complexion is and how to dress accordingly. Nanna is evangelical in her attitude toward the practice.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You should, it will make the world of difference.’
    Inside, the house is as quiet as if it were empty. Nanna bustles past me and down the hallway.
    â€˜Yoo-hoo! Paula!’
    â€˜She might be asleep, Nan,’ I say. But then this possibility is the very reason Nanna is here. She lets herself into Mum’s bedroom and I hear Mum raising her voice. I start unpacking the groceries. A few minutes later Nanna re-emerges.
    â€˜She’s not doing anyone any favours carrying on like this,’ she mutters. She pulls a bottle of disinfectant from the cupboard and heads for the bathroom.
    I should point out that Nanna isn’t intentionally callous. It’s not that she doesn’t mourn for her eldest granddaughter. Nanna adored Katie. She loved her sharp remarks and her attitude and the fact that she carefully plucked her eyebrows. But she believes in proactivity as if it were a religion. It’s like she has decided that crying is a waste of time because it won’t achieve anything. Or maybe her grief is an energy that she just doesn’t know how to deal with, so she has channelled everything into getting Mum back on track.
    When the bathroom is presumably back to hospital standards of cleanliness, Nanna raps sharply on my bedroom door and lets herself in. She finds me sitting on the floor, reading.
    â€˜That a schoolbook?’ she asks, suspicion in her voice.
    â€˜Um. No.’
    She raises her left eyebrow. ‘Do you have homework?’
    â€˜Not really.’
    â€˜You’re not a very good liar, Hannah.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    She throws a small pink box onto my bed. ‘I got you those. Wax strips. For your legs, you’ll find it better than shaving.’
    It’s that – not Katie’s photos or her empty bedroom or the spare seat at the dinner table – it’s that small moment that pulls a lump into my throat.

SIX
    Items I needed to replace after high school started:
    *School shirts (x 4)
    *Backpack (stolen)
    *Pencil case (vandalised)
    *Phone (screen smashed)
    The fruit is bullet hard and bursts in a cold fright between my shoulders. It is recess, I am on my way to my spot when it hits me, the shock of it halts me there in the middle of the yard. I turn around in time to see Josh’s face freeze when he realises he’s hit the wrong target. There are a few laughs and then silence. Tara and Charlotte are standing not far away talking to a year twelve guy. Tara’s mouth drops open and she tries to stop herself from laughing. Charlotte just looks worried. I