Kingaroy has always been a relatively small, country town. Here, rather than the fourteen and nine months deal, you can get a job at eleven. Sometimes you’ll get served at the liquor store by a guy who’d barely pass as a teenager out in the big city. We’re one big community here, all working together whether it’s in the fields harvesting peanuts and god knows what else, or back in the main street, entertaining all the tourists.

So it was natural that Cameron got his first job at only twelve years old. He works at the local corner store as the cashier, earning a decent wage of ten dollars an hour. I remember the moment we both turned twelve, how mum had given him permission to get his first real working experience. He used to go out to work every day at two, but now we’re in a real high school, it’s been a little trickier to find a workable timeslot. But he’s had the job ever since I can remember.

The first time he left on his bike to the store for his shift, I watched him from behind the kitchen window as he pedalled down the street and out of sight. The feelings that went through me could be summed up pretty darn easily with one word: envy. I’ve always known that getting a proper job would be challenging for a midget, and my options are slimmer than paper. So on that particular birthday, mum didn’t mention to me once about getting my own part time job. Not once. She raved with Cam about it, though. Somehow, when it comes to normal conversations, the two of them always find a way to exclude me.

As mum drives out of the school’s car park, I have my doubts. How the hell is she going to find someone who needs young, inexperienced workers who happen to be just under five inches tall height wise? I don’t think anyone is going to be interested. Actually, scratch that, I know that no one will be interested. “This is a waste of time, mum.” I snap from the passenger seat. My entire body vibrates uncontrollably with the car’s engine, but I’m used to the feeling. I just have to watch out when mum drives over potholes (I’ll go flying in pursuit of the windscreen) but other than that… “Let’s just go home now, seeing as you won’t let me act like a normal kid…”

Mum doesn’t meet my eyes since she’s driving, but she stares defiantly ahead of her at the road, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I hate it when you talk like that, Marco!” She says, using the nickname only Cam uses for me. I stare down glumly at my socked feet. Sitting in the passenger seat of a car is like sitting in the world’s biggest couch to me. “You’re so negative!” Mum continues when I say nothing.

“It’s true, though.” I say quietly, unsure that she actually heard the words. “It’s a waste of time.”

Obviously she did hear me over the car’s grumbling engine, because she shakes her head abruptly, eyes dead set on the road. I roll my own eyes but don’t question her any further. After all, I don’t have any say in this stupid situation. I never have. Kinda sucks? Yeah, I know…

Mum pulls into the underground carpark of what us country-folk call the ‘mall’. It isn’t anything flash; besides the supermarket and a few other retailers, but it’s something. It branches off Kingaroy’s main street, though, so there are always tourists here and there flashing cameras in our faces. I’ve had a few tourists pull up short at the sight of me in the past, actually. They usually regard me with confusion, before walking away in a rush. They probably think I’m some kind of human-alien hybrid. You never know.

“You’ve gotta trust me, hun.” Mum says gently, as she pulls the keys from the ignition and shoves them in her handbag. I don’t look up from into my lap. Not even when I feel a finger gently stroke my back. “I know you’re pissed at me, but just trust me.”

“I don’t want to go in.” I say bluntly, not meeting her eyes. I don’t need to, though, because I can practically feel her huge blue ones stare right through me. The finger on my back tenses, and I feel the slight pressure lift as mum withdraws her hand.

“Come on, Marcus!” She sighs. “You’ve wanted a job for years!”

Ok, that’s enough sulking. I pull myself angrily to my feet to glare up at my mother, who’s still seated beside me, making my smaller form look extremely out of proportion with everything else. It kinda is, anyway… “Mum, there’s no way you can find me something! I think you know it too, because it’s not that hard to work out! No one’s going to hire me! Just let. Me. Go. Home.”

“Don’t act like that.” Mum scolds, frowning down at me.

“Like what?” I snap back.

“Like you’re different. Because you’re not, Marcus. You’re just as human as everyone else!” Mum’s frown disappears as soon as it came.

“For god’s sake!” I yell. “I’m five inches tall! You call that human?!”

Mum opens the car door and climbs out, ignoring my bickering. I plonk back down into my seat, arms folded, but a giant hand catches me before I get the chance. Mum lifts me carefully outside into the concrete car park before placing me onto her shoulder. I let my legs hand over the edge as I sit there with my head in my lap. Most of the locals know me from my previous expeditions to the mall, but I can’t help but feel exposed. It has something to do with my midgetness, of course. If I was normal, no one would stare at me or point me out like I’m some kind of freak wherever I go.

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Mum sighs, once I’m on her shoulder. She closes the car door behind her and continues into the mall itself. I’m greeted with the familiar bright white lights, checked tile floor and scents of McDonalds and Subway as we enter. I don’t reply, and try to ignore the passers-by as they scrutinise me from my vantage point. I usually sit in mum’s pocket or something during shopping trips, but with my foul mood, I’m not really feeling all that choosy. Besides, I’m just as human as everyone else…God, I wish I was normal…

“What is that thing?” People snicker under their breaths as they pass us. Let’s just put it nice and simple: they don’t mean my mother. And without my earmuffs, which somehow managed to misplace themselves, I can hear everything. Especially, things I don’t want to hear at all. Supersonic hearing my ass. So yeah, that’s my average shopping experience. And let me tell you, it’s no fun.

“Happy?” I snap from mum’s shoulder as she walks. I fold my arms and look over the edge of my seat as she walks. Her giant jean covered legs are suddenly phenomenal to the eyes. Even more interesting than the 100 foot drop to the ground if I managed to slip off her shoulder. “You’ve humiliated me, taken me here and now you want to get me a job?”

Mum’s eyes swivel around to face me as I pout. I feel her smile dropping. She doesn’t reply, but continues to walk, until she stops finally outside a small, neatly fashioned store just outside the supermarket. When I squint around the bright lighting, I can make out the sign out front:

Johnson and Son’s Dollhouse

It’s written in fancy retro style writing, the white font standing out extremely well against the black painted wood. I groan, looking away. Dreading to see what lies behind the glass panel of a window. When I decide to take another peek, though, I realise mum’s now crouched down in front of a smaller sign, a crinkled sheet of A4 paper taped to the inside beside the open sign. There’s a few words typed out on the tea stained paper, but they’re enough to make me feel sick.

Young workers needed. Small hands in preference. Apply at the counter.

The words replay themselves in my head. Small hands in preference. Young workers…

You’ve got to be shitting me.

“It’s perfect!” Mum smiles in encouragement. I don’t look at her. Instead, I’m looking down at my open hands. I allow my fingers to clench into fists. If this is some kind of practical joke, I don’t find it at all amusing. Mum stands to her full height again, still just outside the entrance of the store. Here I get a better look at the inside. My suspicions are confirmed. It is indeed, a posh doll’s store. Something that would fascinate me on any other day but now.

“Can we please just screw it can go home?” I sigh. Mum looks at me again, but this time her own eyes are pleading.

“Marcus, you’ve gotta give it a shot! Life isn’t about hiding yourself away! At least let me take you in…”

“Fine.” I snap, silencing her. I pull my legs up to my chest tightly in attempt to make myself look as obscure as possible. My bare feet dig into mum’s shoulder blades. I doubt she even notices. After a few seconds, mum eases the glass door to the store open, causing a bell to tinkle quietly. Even so, I manage to cringe at the pitch. I want to leave already. But this is for mum. I’m making an effort for her sake, more than my own.

Gingerly, I force myself to look around the cluttered store. No one’s here, thank the lord, so I don’t have to hide myself away from any curious teenagers or hallucinating thugs. I stifle a gasp though, as I take in the surroundings. Tables laden with intricately designed cutlery sets, clothes, furniture, even full on houses. Rows and rows of precisely fashioned shoes, socks, clothes for any occasion. All built to my scale. If I was with Cam and not my mother, I would have gone nuts over all this. But I’m not with my brother today, and I don’t need to be embarrassed any more. So I stay put, studying the scenery with my eyes.

“Need any help?” A gruff sounding voice asks so suddenly I jump from mum’s shoulder. Mum turns around slowly to face a dark haired man in spectacles, probably around forty or so years old. He wears a neat white button up shirt and long pants. I have a hunch he’s the owner of this place. It isn’t exactly hard to guess. His long, bony hands are easily those of a craftsman. And it would take much more than a craftsman to carve, sew and paint these tiny (to their standards) items.

“Yes, actually.” Mum replies politely. I stiffen a little on her shoulder. It’s natural at first for the man not to see me, but as usual, it’s only a matter of time…

“My lord!” Yep, right on cue.

I raise my head to look the man right in the eye, before holding out my hand. After much speculation, and a great deal of eye rubbing, the bewildered man raises his own hand so I can shake his index finger. “I’m sorry for the shock, but this is my son, Marcus.” Mum smiles through her teeth. “He, um… how can I explain this…?”

The store’s manager tears his enormous brown eyes away from my face at last and I exhale in relief. That was intense. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I think I might need to lie down out back for a while. You can continue looking around as you please…” He blabbers, sweat beading on his forehead. I know the drill. He thinks he’s hallucinating, seeing a tiny kid on a woman’s shoulder. Exasperated, I stand upright on mum’s shoulder and fold my arms.

“I’d like to apply for a job here.” I state, maybe a smidge too blunt.

The man does several things at once. He wipes his forehead with one hand, inhales sharply, widens his eyes and last but not least, pees his pants. Hah! I’m joking about the last part. But everything else is pretty impressive. You’d think a guy who makes all this stuff for dolls would find me a tad more interesting…? I mean, come on! I’m scaled perfectly to every single item here! Coincidence? I think not!

Finally, the shopkeeper sighs. “Ok. I am not hallucinating.” He says.

“He’s perfectly real.” Mum creases her brow in annoyance at his reaction.

“That’s already been established.” I mutter sourly.

“Alright then.” The man says. He claps his hands together and I force myself not to wince. “Why don’t you two step into my office?”

“Gladly.” Mum smiles.

“Ok then, right this way.”

The shopkeeper leads my mother through a small aqua painted door at the far corner of the colourful store. Behind it is a makeshift workshop. There’s a desk and lamp in one corner, the desk laden with piles of documents and drawings. The rest of the small space is occupied by countless woodwork machines, jars of paints, strips of material and… a boy. He sits with a mug of hot chocolate on a ratty couch in the very back, his features relaxed as he sips at his drink. He wears dark glasses and a modified version of the shopkeeper’s work clothes. I almost don’t notice him as we enter. He looks around my age, but I can’t tell, with his shaggy black hair and glasses.

The shopkeeper catches me staring and he sighs for the second time. “That’s my son, Kyle.” There’s a long pause, before he adds. “He’s blind.”

That explains the glasses. I think.