Peanut plays games in her head with the traffic as it passes. Two green cars in a row and her dad will be almost on time. A yellow truck and a motorbike, he’ll be here before lunch. Black car, white roof, he’ll invite her for a sleepover at his place.
He’s only a little bit late. He’s giving the garden a splash before he leaves. Ironing a shirt because he likes to look nice for mum.
Peanut waits on the old brick fence out the front, swinging her feet. Wearing her second-best bathers and her second-best hat because mum’s sick of buying new ones when they don’t come home in her bag after the weekend. Blue car, red truck and he’ll come round the corner, quick sticks.
He’s late because he stopped for strawberry ice-cream. The Italian kind she likes. Two scoops in a paper cup, no cone. Sprinkles.
Peanut picks at a scab on her knee, peels the thickened skin away, turns it over in her fingers, nibbles at the edges. She can feel her mum staring through the screen door, like she always does on dad’s days. Peanut feels it in her stomach, she won’t turn her head to look. Never, never.
He’s late because he’s picking up flowers for mum from a petrol station on the way. Because anyway, we’re still a family even if we live in separate houses.
She hears the door squeak on its hinges and click closed, then the weight of her mum’s hand on her shoulder. “Maybe he’s just not coming today Peanut,” she says, gently. “Maybe something came up.” Peanut ignores her. Stares intently down the road, says nothing. Doesn’t move with all her might.
He’s late because he’s picking up a puppy, the one he promised at Christmas only they all sold out. She’s going to call him Noodle.
Peanut’s mum strokes her hair, then goes back to the house. Peanut hops off the fence. Crawls into her favourite cubby hole, in the curtained canopy of a peppermint tree. Sits crossed-legged in a patch of dirt worn smooth. She can’t wait to show her dad the dresses she made for her doll out of orange hibiscus flowers and rainbow vine, twisted.
He’s late because the car broke down again. It’s hard to keep it running when mum takes all his money.
Her mum is inside shouting on the phone, the receiver slams down like a slap. Peanut startles, then stares at the ground tracing a pattern in the earth with the tip of her finger. The smell of peppermint is thick. If she listens hard, she can hear the sound of her father’s car coming over the hill, she can hear the crunch of wheels on gravel as he pulls into the drive.
