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guinea pig letters

    As it turned out, Jazzi’s idea of cleaning out the guinea pig hutch myself wasn’t all that bad. Jazzi was at our place more and more and cleaning up after Fifi and Lulu gave me something to do while she and Dad gazed into each other’s eyes, held hands and they drank endless cups of tea. At least with Jazzi around so much, the guinea pigs never ran out of apple or celery or broccoli.
    Fifi and Lulu began to come out of their little bedroom when they heard me coming. I would squat down next to the hutch and hold out bits of food without moving, even though sometimes my legsbegan to hurt. Eventually Fifi, she was the brave one, would dart forward and grab the celery or apple or broccoli and then rush away and nibble at it down in the far corner. Once she’d done it, Lulu would come in twitching and nervy to get the other piece.
    But there were other ideas of Jazzi’s that weren’t so good.
    â€˜Why do I have to make my bed in the morning?’
    â€˜Because it looks neat and pretty.’
    â€˜I don’t have time in the morning.’
    â€˜Get up a little earlier. It only takes five minutes.’
    â€˜Five minutes when I could be asleep and dreaming.’
    â€˜Or five minutes when you could be up, enjoying the day.’
    â€˜I’d rather enjoy my dreams.’
    â€˜Why do you always have to argue?’
    â€˜I don’t always argue. It’s just that I do prefer dreaming. Once the morning starts it’s just go, go, go and everyone ends up grumpy.’
    â€˜I just want you to make your bed. It’s not much to ask.’
    â€˜I didn’t have to do it for Dad.’
    â€˜But you do have to for me.’
    â€˜It seems like I have to do a lot of things for you when you don’t even live here and we’re not even related. I don’t think it’s fair. You’re not my mother,Jazzi, and you never will be.’
    Jazzi stopped making my lunch sandwiches and just looked at me. I swallowed hard. I didn’t like the way she was looking. I didn’t mind it if she got mad, but she didn’t look angry, she just looked very sad. Her eyes went all wavery the way mine did right before I started to cry. She sniffed, turned away and did something in the sink. When she turned back her eyes were okay again and I thought I must have been imagining things.
    â€˜I know I’m not your mother. I’m not stupid enough to think I can replace her in either your life or your dad’s.’
    â€˜I don’t like how everything’s changed,’ I said. ‘I liked things the way they were, before you came along and ruined everything.’
    I called good-bye to Dad and walked to school with Jazzi without talking once. She pointed out things on the way like she always did – a puppy in a car window, a baby so new its face was still all crumpled, and some bright pink flowers on a bush – but I didn’t even look at them.
    Jazzi worked five mornings a week at the high school up the road as an integration aide.
    â€˜Which is terrific,’ Dad said, ‘because it means that she’ll be able to drop you off at school some mornings and then some afternoons she’ll pick you up and some afternoons Nanna will pick you up.’
    As it turned out, Nanna hardly ever picked me up. Some afternoons I used to walk over to her place because I missed her. Then we’d all sit around playing cards just like we used to. Often, though, Jazzi had things she wanted me to do.
    Some of these were okay. If it was hot, we’d go swimming at the pool across the road. Nanna didn’t like going to the pool because she had to sit out on the grass or in the sun and she said she was too old to do that. Jazzi didn’t mind. She’d bring her knitting or a book and a big hat and sit there wrapped up in a sarong. Sometimes she came and did some laps of breaststroke, holding her head high out of the water.
    Other things