by Rebecca Lim
‘I’m Laurence Barry,’ interrupts the elderly music director of Little Falls, moving forward with his right hand held out. Not scowling at me today, not at all.
‘Have you considered —’
Someone else cuts in before the old man can finish his sentence or touch me, which I’m grateful for. ‘Paul Stenborg,’ he says, as if he hadn’t ignored me all morning, his light, luminous eyes looking over and past Carmen Zappacosta’s nondescript head, her nondescript features.
‘Though of course you know that already. Certainly hiding your light under a bushel there, young woman, extraordinary, so unexpected …’
I feel eyes on my back and turn. Catch the back view of Tiffany tossing her side pony over her shoulder.
She leads the other St Joseph’s girls away to first period without a word and I know from the way she’s holding herself that she thinks I’ve engineered all this deliberately to give myself a bigger profile.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the spotty tenor 98
who’s been following Tiffany around like a whipped dog for the last few days. By the weirdly attentive look in his eyes, it seems he may now have switched his unnerving allegiance to me. Behind him stands the bulky, dark-haired bass singer, Tod, and three local girls, the witchy Brenda — Ryan’s ex — among them, all watching me closely.
‘That was fan tastic,’ the boy breathes, and I have to move back subtly or risk being engulfed by partially digested Spanish onion. ‘So are you coming tonight, or what?’
I feel Carmen’s forehead wrinkle up, me doing it. If something’s on tonight, Tiffany and her posse haven’t bothered to keep me informed, which is typical because Carmen always finds out about the good stuff way after it’s already happened.
‘Uh, I …’ I draw out the syllables hesitantly to give someone a chance to fill me in on the details.
‘You have to come,’ purrs one of the girls standing beside Tod, a horsy-faced dirty blonde in tightly layered tops and even tighter jeans, with impossibly long and perfect peach-coloured nails. ‘If only to put that Tiffany Lazer of yours in her place.’
‘She’s getting on our … nerves,’ adds the other girl I 99
don’t know, a crop-haired, biker-chick brunette wearing way too much heavy navy eyeliner.
‘Thinks she’s better than all of us,’ the flame-haired Brenda interjects waspishly. ‘When clearly she’s not.’
‘So will you come?’ Spotty Boy leans forward expectantly. I watch his Adam’s apple slide up and down as I step back a fraction.
‘Um, sure,’ I say, assuming a polite smile. ‘How do I get there again?’
‘Brenda will pick you up,’ replies Tod quickly. ‘Won’t you, Bren?’
‘Sure,’ says Brenda, with a sidelong look at the girls she’s standing with. ‘It’s not like I don’t know the way to where you’re staying.’ Her laughter is forced. ‘Eight thirty, then.’ She smiles in a way that doesn’t reach her extraordinary violet eyes.
‘Eight thirty,’ I agree, not sure what it is I’ve agreed to, but I’m no coward. Bring it on.
We leave the assembly hall in formation, all of them flanking me as if I might somehow change my mind and do a runner.
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Chapter 12
It’s eight thirty, and Ryan’s escorting me out through the front gates after dinner, following the usual elaborate ritual of imprisoning the dogs behind the steel side gate so they don’t rend me limb from limb like an ancient Roman sacrifice. He tackles the padlock and chain and we’re finally standing outside his house on the footpath.
All this time I’ve been conscious of his hand at my back. He’s looking the goods in a beat-up dark leather jacket, faded tee and lean indigo jeans. But I give good poker face, and he has no way of knowing what I’m thinking. Carmen’s heart feels like it’s just broken sub-nine seconds on the 100-metre sprint.
‘You don’t have to stay,’ I tell him tightly, looking up and down the street for Brenda’s car.
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‘It doesn’t bother me either way,’ Ryan drawls.
‘Stand under the streetlight, yeah?’
We move under it just as Brenda pulls up in a sleek hard-top convertible in an unmissable bright yellow.
Her flashy transport clashes terribly with her hair, but it’s not up to me to point that out. I realise suddenly that maybe Ryan’s here to see her under climate-controlled conditions rather than keep me any kind of company.
I’m not sure what to feel about that.
Brenda kills the engine then looks coolly through her windscreen at Ryan, who stares back equally intently from the kerb. No one seems game to break eye contact first and I’m trying hard not to laugh as the seconds tick by. I wonder how these two left things when they finally called it quits, what was said. From Brenda’s expression, maybe what was thrown.
Finally, she slides her long, slim legs out of the driver’s seat. She’s wearing slinky black patterned tights, a barely there skirt in jewel green, and a purple cashmere pullover that goes unbelievably well with her huge, violet eyes. Boho chandelier earrings brush the tops of her narrow shoulders. Her razor-cut, shoulder-length red hair is styled to within an inch of its life so that individual strands don’t move in the chill night breeze.
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She’s perfection.
‘Well, look who’s here,’ Brenda says icily. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Brenda Sorensen,’ Ryan replies through his teeth.
There’s a strange look on his face that might be regret.
Or maybe indigestion, the evil part of me whispers.
‘Where have you been?’ Brenda continues, barely acknowledging me, though it is me she is ostensibly here for. ‘You’re like a ghost these days.’
‘You know what I’ve been up to,’ Ryan says warily, taking a step closer, out of the circle of light he’s placed us in. ‘There’s no point acting as if nothing’s happened when I know she’s out there somewhere. I mean, school’s always going to be there …’
And she won’t. He doesn’t have to say it. I can read it in his face. Since when did I get so good at doing that?
Together, they are a total contrast in height, colour, personality. If Brenda has a nice, soft side, I’m yet to see it. But she sure rocks her outfit and towering fringed heels. Tonight, she’s beautiful. One of those people for whom moonlight does wonders. I’m beginning to see the attraction she might have held for him. She’s like a lethal wisp of steel beside him, crowned with fire. I can see how life with someone like Brenda would never be …
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boring.
‘I don’t mean to be insensitive,’ Brenda breathes finally, running the fingers of one hand lightly up Ryan’s jacket front as if I’m not standing right there, ‘but Lauren would have hated seeing you this way. Running in circles. Going nowhere. I miss you. It might not seem that way, but I do.’ Her voice drops a notch. ‘There’s nothing left to prove, you know.’ Her tone is almost pleading now and something softens in the harsh lines of Ryan’s face. ‘You’ve done everything you can. No one could have done more. She would have wanted you to get on with your life.’ Brenda’s pale hand lingers a moment longer on the collar of Ryan’s leather jacket before falling gracefully away.
‘How would you know what Lauren would have wanted?’ Ryan says bleakly.
‘Because she was my best friend,’ Brenda replies softly. ‘And maybe now you’re beginning to see that you’re wasting your time when the people who are still alive need you.’ She steps even closer to him, her dainty profile tilted up towards his, earrings jangling softly. ‘We haven’t won a game since you quit on us, the forward line’s a mess. And nothing’s been right since we —’
‘We’ve talked about this,’ Ryan sighs. ‘Speaking of 104
circles.’
Brenda leans in but then stops short, her attention suddenly arrested. She frowns. ‘Why are the dogs barking like that?’
Good pick-up, I think acidly. Sorry to
spoil your touching little reunion, but it sounds like an insane asylum to me, too, from where I’m standing.
Ryan stiffens, recalled to my slight presence in the pool of light at his shoulder. ‘They’re a little sensitive to
—’
‘The perfume I’m wearing,’ I jump in. ‘It’s a doozy.’
I’m about to move forward towards Brenda’s car, fully appraised of the fascinating situation between them now, when Ryan steps backwards heavily onto my foot, pinning me in place.
‘Hey,’ I growl, heart back under control and doing a steady eighty-two beats per minute. ‘I’m walking here.’
‘I’ll drive,’ he says, his weight still keeping me in check.
Carmen’s toes are beginning to throb and I twist my foot angrily, only to have Ryan stomp down harder. Our eyes clash for a moment.
The look of delight on Brenda’s face is unmistakeable.
‘You will?’ she almost squeals, her violet eyes wide.
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‘Does that mean …?’
‘It means I feel like a bit of company tonight,’ Ryan replies, swinging back round to face his ex-girlfriend, his heel still firmly pinning me down. ‘It’s been way, way too long. You two wait right here. Don’t move a muscle.’
He releases Carmen’s foot and I flex it, feeling the blood come rushing back.
‘And I mean wait, pipsqueak,’ he hisses, for my benefit alone. ‘You’re no good — in the dark.’
And suddenly I understand. All along, I thought his attention was squarely focused on the fashion plate in front of us when really he was on the lookout for me as well. I’d be kind of touched if I wasn’t such a hard ass.
I glance down at my hands, touch my face self-consciously, and wonder whether Brenda sees.
* * *
The dogs are still going mad as Ryan backs his rusting, white four-wheel drive onto the road and slides out to shut and chain the gates and let Brenda into the front seat. She is a happy blur of accessories, coltish legs and motion as she throws herself into the car without turning to see if I’m coming. As she slams the door shut, Ryan 106
tilts his head towards the back seat behind Brenda’s and snarls, ‘Keep your head down, whatever you do.’
I nod tightly, still embarrassed that he seems to know me better than I know myself. We both get into the car then, slam the doors.
We set off through the dark, wide, unremarkable streets of Paradise, with its generous plots of land, its regular-looking, two-car houses spaced at even intervals.
‘I so can’t wait to get out of here,’ Brenda mutters, her shining gaze fixed on Ryan’s profile, like a blind woman whose sight has suddenly been restored. ‘It’s a place where whales and old people come to die.’
‘Or tree-changers like my folks,’ Ryan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the darkened road ahead. ‘I wish we’d never come here, moved away from the city. Maybe it would never have happened …’
As I watch through the thick, woolly fringe of Carmen’s hair, Brenda puts a hand lightly on his arm with a slight pout. ‘But then we’d never have met, Ry!
Lauren and I used to make plans all the time about how we were going to escape here right after school finished, and take you back with us, to the city …’
‘And now there’s no escape for any of us,’ Ryan murmurs and Brenda’s fingers tighten briefly on him like 107
claws. ‘So where are we going, Bren?’
‘To Mulvany’s,’ she says, swinging around suddenly to look at me.
I’m ready for her, though, and stare fixedly through the side window so that all she sees is the side of Carmen’s head, our palely glowing profile shielded by a mass of dark hair.
I hear the slight jangle of Brenda’s earrings as she turns back to Ryan, and feel more than see the curl of Ryan’s lip as he exclaims, ‘That dive! Since when did
“the gang” start hanging out at Mulvany’s?’
‘Since Mr Masson thought it would be a great idea to show the St Joseph’s girls and their teachers a “good time” at Paradise’s “one and only international karaoke lounge”.’ Brenda’s tone is derisive. ‘It’s so lame. Like all they’d ever want to do in this town is sing, right, Carmen?’
The word sends a thrill of apprehension down my spine. ‘Sing?’ I mutter.
‘Sure,’ Brenda purrs happily. ‘If Tiffany Lazer thinks she’s going to hog the spotlight tonight, she’s in for a shock. That’s why I had to make sure you were coming, Carmen. You’ll put her right back into her box. The music teachers all get hard-ons every time we have one 108
of these inter-school concerts,’ she adds, lip curling. ‘And when “singers of the calibre of the young women of St Joseph’s are visiting” — to show us yokels a thing or two
— the music teachers get positively orgasmic. Though it wouldn’t be too much of a punishment getting into Paul Stenborg’s pants. Everyone tries hard enough, and rumour has it that he doesn’t always say no. He’s always taking his little favourites out for “coffee”.’ Her voice is malicious, or maybe it’s just envy, pure and simple.
What she’s saying isn’t really penetrating my consciousness though. Sing?
I swallow hard as we pull into the crowded car park of Paradise’s one and only international karaoke lounge.
‘I can’t do this,’ I hiss at Ryan’s broad back as we leave our coats with the barely dressed coat-check girl and pay our cover charge of twelve dollars a head, unlimited soft drinks included.
As he turns to look at me, Brenda tugs hard at his hand and says brightly, ‘Come on, Ry! This may turn out to be fun, after all.’
We pass some seedy-looking, middle-aged punters at the bar, who check Brenda out with more than a little interest, as we head towards a private function room 109
out the back. It’s decked out cheesily with coloured helium balloons and two twirling disco balls that fleck the walls and ceiling with broken light. The space is dominated by a wall of video screens in front of which is a small, maroon velveteen-bedecked stage. Two of the kids from Paradise High are half-turned towards the bank of televisions, crooning sickeningly at each other: my … endless … love. There is good-natured snickering and heckling from the tightly packed crowd of drink-clutching teens at their feet.
In the way that I sometimes have of seeing too much, too quickly, I pick out a tight knot of adults clustered across the room, Miss Fellows, Miss Dustin, Gerard Masson and Laurence Barry among them, together with a few watchful parents whose eyes narrow collectively and speculatively as they alight on Ryan Daley’s tall figure. Other kids begin to point, stare and murmur as they spot him, too. Clearly, Ryan was never one of the choirboys.
Brenda practically drags him around the room on a victory lap. His eyes search for mine and he throws me an apologetic look.
There must be almost a hundred people here. I zero in on Tiffany Lazer, surrounded by the St Joseph’s 110
faithful, and Brenda’s two henchwomen, Tod and Spotty Boy standing nearby. Spotty Boy hasn’t yet seen me, and I duck my head down and push through in the opposite direction, happy to stand on my own.
The lights are so bright in here I can relax on that score. I clock that there’s only one way in and one way out, and hope fiercely that, if no one sees me, I can hightail it out of here at the earliest opportunity. But I see another victim step up to the mike after a round of lazy applause greets the grating finale of the endless lovers, and I know I’m in trouble when a boy I don’t recall meeting thrusts a drink and a plastic-covered song list into my hand and says, ‘Where were you? We were all waiting. You’re almost up next. So choose already.’
I quickly scull the contents of my plastic cup, and the boy gives me a huge grin and two thumbs up. There’s something in the cola, I realise, because he’s making a secretive tippy tippy manoeuvre with his hand, his back to the adults across the room. Before I can say no to another, I’ve got a new cup in my hand and he’s standing there with expectant eyes, willing me to finish it
.
‘Right under their noses,’ he says with satisfaction, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’m Bailey, by the way.’
The taste of the adulterated cola isn’t unpleasant 111
and, as I thumb through the sticky pages of the song list, I down three more drinks, thanks to sheer, fearful adrenaline. The guy’s eyes are wide with wonder as he melts away to keep me supplied with more.
I look up sharply as Tiffany begins to sing. It’s a song with a big, thumping chorus about survival and heartache with a driving, insistent beat. It’s a crowd-pleaser with the girls in particular — they’re all throwing their hands in the air and screaming along with the words, every single one of which they seem to have committed to memory. Of course, being me, I have no recollection of this song and remain unmoved in the heaving, thrusting bedlam.
Tiffany’s beat that stare finds me over the heads of the throng as she continues to belt out the words, and that cold feeling in my spine returns, the sense of being balanced on razor wire over the shrieking abyss.
Everything a freakin’ contest.
‘Man, you can put that shit away!’ shouts Bailey admiringly as he watches me crush yet another empty plastic cup in my hand.
That gives me an idea, and a moment later, I let my eyes roll back in my head as I fall to the ground. Like a tree crashing to the forest floor.
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Chapter 13
A girl nearby screams, ‘Oh — my — GOD!’ as the boy, Bailey, shouts above me, ‘Shit, shit, shit! Someone help me here!’
I keep my eyes resolutely shut as a swirl of activity takes place over and around Carmen’s prone body.
‘How much did you give her to drink, Bails?’
someone hisses.
Bailey’s panicky whisper confirms I chugalugged eight bourbon-spiked colas in one sitting.
‘She’s probably in a freakin’ coma,’ exclaims a girl nearby. ‘She’ll need her stomach pumped out for sure.’
Someone bends to check I have a pulse. A touch so brief, there isn’t time for me to make a connection, and for that I am truly grateful. From the ambient smell of 113
