‘No-one does that here,’ Samira says. ‘And it’s nearly ten months.’ She smiles. ‘Now I’d love to spend another eight hundred hours convincing you I’m fine, but everyone’s waiting for me.’
Her mum pulls her in for a hug, and Teta envelops them both.
‘How did you grow up so fast?’ Samira’s mum murmurs. ‘I swear you were a toddler staggering around on beautiful, squishy legs just yesterday.’
‘It’s only seven days, and I still have beautiful, squishy legs,’ Samira says with a wink. She pecks them both on the cheek. ‘Things don’t change that much. Although I will be another year older when you see me next. Probably not wiser.’
Her mum cups her face. ‘Make good choices.’
‘Go quickly before she changes her mind,’ says Teta, squeezing Samira’s hands. ‘I never let her do anything this exciting.’
Samira walks towards the ticket gates and blows them a kiss over her shoulder. Her mum dabs at her eyes but waves her on.
‘Love love love you! Best week ever!’ Samira calls out, before barrelling through the gate into the maze of platforms.
A crowd of people with leis looped around their necks stride past. Samira’s mouth cracks into a grin so wide it hurts a little. The mood is electric. In less than a minute she’ll be with her people and, suddenly, anything feels possible.
* * *
She checks her ticket against the rolling information on the electronic screens around the station and makes her way to Platform One. She spots her group huddled around a table in the corner surrounded by luggage and beach umbrellas. As always, the girls are immaculately dressed with sleek hair and flawless nails. Anoush, Claire and Rashida nibble on bacon and egg muffins, while Mathieu is folded over with his head resting on the table. Zain isn’t with them.
‘Hey hey!’ Samira says, suddenly self-conscious about her denim shorts. ‘Early start to get here, huh? Everyone excited?’
The girls look up with bleary eyes framed by thick lash extensions.
‘Hey, Samira,’ Anoush mumbles with a yawn.
Claire grimaces. ‘Who thought the train was a good idea?’ She brushes crumbs off her flowing dress. ‘This should be classified as torture.’
‘Is it too late to book flights?’ Rashida asks.
Mathieu utters a pained groan.
Samira blushes, fingertips reaching for her lanyard. She’d wanted to save everyone money to spend on their beach-house accommodation and activities-packed schedule so had chosen the cheapest train. No-one had cared when she’d checked with them before booking. Now, it feels like a problem.
‘It’ll be worth it, promise . . . and I have everyone’s party passes,’ Samira volunteers in an attempt to shift the mood. ‘They’re, like, your most prized possession this week. You’ll need them for the smash room this afternoon.’
‘Nice,’ Anoush says, taking hers and looping it around her neck. ‘I’m going to slam a teapot so hard.’ She turns to the girls. ‘I hope we meet some hot guys this week. There’s something about a beach holiday that’s so romantic.’
Rashida winces, pointing at Mathieu scratching himself. ‘We need fresh meat, one thousand per cent.’
Samira hands the passes out to the others, still standing because there isn’t a chair for her. The group fall into silence, yawning and checking their phones.
Samira looks around. ‘Where’s Zain?’
Anoush points in the direction of Platform Two. Samira walks around the corner and finds Zain standing in front of a vending machine. As she gets closer, she sees his packet of chips is caught. His hands grasp each side of the machine and he shakes it, but the packet doesn’t budge. He swears and runs his fingers through his tousled dark hair.
Samira bounds over and places her hands over his eyes. ‘Guess who?’
Zain peels her hands off his face. ‘Hey babe,’ he says.
She leans in for a kiss but she gets caught in his backpack straps and his lips miss hers and catch her earlobe instead. They laugh awkwardly as they pull apart.
‘Pumped for the trip?’ Samira asks.
He covers a yawn. ‘Yeah.’
‘Me too. So much! But everyone seems flat.’
‘The early start to get here was brutal.’
She cringes. ‘Oh.’
‘So how are you, babe?’
‘It’s the week. The week,’ Samira says, arms flailing with excitement. ‘I can’t believe it, I can’t.’
Mathieu saunters up behind them, holding out a half-empty bottle of orange juice. ‘Yo, can’t believe what? Oh shit, you told her already, man?’ His eyes widen. ‘Samira, I can’t believe it either, none of us can, but some things aren’t meant to be.’
There’s a lingering pause. Samira looks to Zain for answers, but he avoids eye contact. She fiddles with her party pass. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Mat, it’s chill,’ Zain says to Mathieu. A frozen fake smile is locked on his face.
‘Tell me,’ she says, wrapping the lanyard so tightly around her finger that it burns red.
Mathieu winces. ‘I’ll go catch up with the others. Unless you want some juice, Samira?’ Zain glares at him. ‘You know what, I’m out. Sorry, man. I’ll be over there.’
Zain rolls his eyes as Mathieu lopes off. ‘Great. Thanks.’ His gaze fixes on a muddy footprint on the tiles.
Samira steps in closer. ‘What am I missing?’
‘My mind’s everywhere,’ Zain shakes his head. ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
Samira feels a burning sensation spread across her cheeks. ‘You’re dumping me?’
Silence. He kicks at the ground.
‘Zain?’
‘I hate the word “dumping”. Maybe we could chill out for a bit?’
‘That’s the thing you say when you’re too scared to break up with someone.’ Her bottom lip quivers. ‘You told me you wanted to be my first. I booked us a hotel for my birthday night. And you said you loved me, like, yesterday. Look!’ Samira scrolls through her phone desperately. ‘Well, I can’t find the message now, but you said it. I know you did.’
The loudspeaker system interrupts her. The train is due in five minutes.
Zain groans. ‘I didn’t want it to go down like this, babe. Mathieu should’ve kept his mouth shut.’
‘Is this so you can hook up with other girls?’
‘I don’t know! Maybe it’s so we can both be with other people. It’s your week too.’
‘Don’t pretend you’re doing me a favour.’ Samira’s lip trembles again. ‘I can’t believe Mathieu knew before me.’
Zain hangs his head. ‘Forget that. Let’s try to stay friends, babe.’
‘Stop calling me that.’ Samira can’t hold her emotions in any longer. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she makes her way back to the group. Claire’s and Rashida’s gazes stay low; Mathieu has filled them in.
Anoush walks over. ‘What happened?’
‘He broke up with me,’ Samira says. She swipes away tears and stares at the black mascara staining her fingertips. ‘We’re over. He wants to be with other people.’
Anoush shakes her head. ‘Oh, girl, I’m sorry. This is unbelievable.’
‘I feel like a loser. Omigod, here I am planning this trip for us and . . . bam! Dumped.’ A knot hardens in her stomach. ‘This is a nightmare, Anoush. How am I going to survive this week?’
Dahlia
Day 1: 12.38pm
Dahlia’s head is as fuzzy as if it were dancing in the clouds. She’s frozen in the plane aisle, unable to tear her gaze from the vacant seat next to Florence. Stevie’s seat.
Dahlia’s back teeth grind as she imagines a stranger squeezing past her to curl their body into the space where Stevie was supposed to be. She grasps at the fine gold chain with the ‘S’ pendant laced around her neck. It was given to her a year ago, just after the funeral, and she’s only taken it off once.
There’s a sharp dig in the small of her back. It’
s Kiko, nudging her forward to their row.
‘You’re with me, lady,’ Kiko tells her. She checks her ticket then slides into the window seat behind Florence’s row. ‘Coming?’ she asks.
Dahlia looks again at the empty seat next to Florence. ‘But then Florence is by herself.’
Florence shrugs. ‘It’s the tickets’ wishes. Well, for now. The air-con is freezing so I’ll need a warm body to spoon for some of this trip.’
‘This is what a two-seater world serves up for groups of three,’ Kiko says, stretching out her hand to Dahlia and drawing her into her seat. ‘It’s a logistical mess. We’ll rotate.’
Kiko drapes a jacket around her shoulders as she and Florence crack jokes over the seats. Their laughter about an older couple they saw making out in the departure lounge bounces around the plane. The noise draws some looks, but they don’t seem to care. No-one claims the empty seat next to Florence, so she piles it high with carry-on luggage.
Dahlia sinks back into her seat, twisting her fingers through the pastel pink hues of her pixie cut. She runs her tongue over her braces, overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds. Her journal — her usual outlet for daydreaming and untangling her feelings — is stuck in her check-in luggage but that doesn’t stop her mind from wandering. And, as they often do, her thoughts drift to Stevie. It’s been a year since they said goodbye. A year since the girls got drunk and wrote Fuck cancer on the wall of the bathroom at Stevie’s wake. A year since their hearts broke.
Not that Stevie let the brain tumour get the last word. After her death, Dahlia, Kiko and Florence discovered that she’d left each of them a small sum of money to put towards a week away after school finished to mark their graduation and ring in a new life chapter. After endless teary and grief-fuelled arguments, the girls agreed to spend the majority of the money on flights and added the rest to a shared kitty for the week.
Money had always been tight in their world so Kiko and Florence were on board with Stevie’s idea from the beginning. Dahlia was less than thrilled. She’d give up the money, the trip, the necklace, all of it, to get her best friend back. She can’t imagine surviving the week without her.
Her thoughts need somewhere to escape to so, with her journal trapped in her checked-in luggage, she settles on writing on her phone instead.
5 Things I’d Rather Do Instead Of This Holiday
Be chased by a bear in the woods
Walk on fire/nails/broken glass
Spend time with Dad’s new girlfriend
Swim with great white sharks
Eat pig brains
There’s something about the ordering and categorising of a list that soothes Dahlia, even if she’s not sure why. All she knows is that her top-five lists soften the sharper edges of life.
Florence’s and Kiko’s laughter hits a crescendo and snaps Dahlia back to reality. With the sound of their happiness in her ears, she begins her usual flying rituals to manage her growing anxiety. Checking and rechecking her seatbelt. Avoiding eye contact with the flight attendant as he details what to do if they land in the sea. Drawing in deep breaths as the plane whirs and hums on the runway. Another check of her seatbelt. She silently curses Stevie for putting her through this, then immediately feels guilty.
As the plane soars into a sky of pale blue, Dahlia tries to shrug off her concern about how she’ll endure the long-haul flight overseas when she packs her life into a backpack to work as an au pair for a year. She’d considered cancelling the gap year because the original plan had been for her and Stevie to go together.
When Stevie told her about the opportunity, it had seemed like a dream come true. The hiring families covered airfares and accommodation, and they’d have every second weekend off to explore neighbouring cities. But then tragedy struck and Dahlia barely made it through the final year of school without Stevie. It seemed impossible to accept what a future beyond that might look like. Staying close to home was being close to Stevie.
Even now, the thought of moving overseas without her seems so hard. Dahlia’s free weekends won’t be full of adventures with Stevie. Her days won’t be buoyed by Stevie’s brightness. She won’t be known as Stevie’s best friend. Instead, she’ll be the girl whose best friend died. Every memory seeped into the soil of their hometown will be left behind.
The thought of that happening is unbearable. Dahlia bites the inside of her cheek as the plane passes through a scattering of clouds. It’s hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to draw blood. Her right hand reaches for the top of her head, fingering the fairy-floss-shaded strands closest to the roots. She gently pulls like she’s in a trance, then yanks harder, feeling a strand of hair rip from her scalp. She tugs at another. This time, the hair breaks off halfway.
She tousles her hair to disguise it and quickly glances at the others. They’re in their own worlds. Kiko is humming and staring out the window. The blunt ends of her black bob kiss her collarbone as she plays with the dainty stud in her nose. Florence’s headphones are on and she’s slumped back and snoring. Dahlia notices Stevie’s prized lightning-bolt brooch is pinned to the front of Florence’s satchel. Her heart pounds as she hopes the brooch is clipped on properly.
‘You okay?’ Kiko asks.
Dahlia nods, but her watery eyes can’t lie.
Kiko reaches for her hand, but the movement startles Dahlia and she jolts forward, hipbones straining against the seatbelt.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Kiko says. She peels off her jacket and drapes it over Dahlia’s lap. ‘Try to close your eyes and think of the beach. We’re nearly there.’
It’s a lie, but Dahlia appreciates it. ‘How high are we?’
‘The beach, the beach,’ Kiko repeats with a smile. ‘Swimming, relaxing, partying . . . That’s all you need to think of until we land.’
‘Stevie would be proud of your bossiness.’
‘I learnt from the best,’ Kiko says.
‘We all did.’ Dahlia relaxes into her seat and takes a deep breath. ‘Fine, you win. Stevie wanted this for us. Beach, swimming, blah, blah, blah. I’m in.’
‘Tray tables down, please,’ a voice booms above them.
The girls look up and the flight attendant passes them lunch.
‘This mystery meat might kill me,’ Kiko says, poking at the hunks of brown meat swimming in red sauce. ‘I would have preferred Mum’s world-famous tamagoyaki as my last meal on earth, but at least I’ll have died eating.’
‘Do you have to talk like that?’ Dahlia asks.
Kiko’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘Like what?’
‘Like death is funny. Like it’s all a joke.’
‘For once can you not make everything about—’ Kiko catches herself. She exhales. ‘Sure.’
‘Thanks,’ Dahlia murmurs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so . . .’
She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Despite keeping a journal since she was eleven, Dahlia often can’t conjure the words she needs to explain how she feels.
‘I get it. Besides, now who’s bossy?’ Kiko adds with a grin to soften the mood.
Dahlia returns her smile, then grimaces at a sudden digging in her abdomen. She lifts up her T-shirt to adjust her mum’s old money belt from when she’d backpacked in her twenties.
‘That thing is hilarious,’ Kiko teases her. ‘Very retiree-on-holidays chic.’
Dahlia laughs. ‘Shut up. Lady, you’re jealous because I — oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!’
Without warning, the plane plummets a hundred feet. Loose items go flying. Screams shatter the air and red sauce drips from the cabin ceiling. A girl across the aisle is bleeding from her cheek. She whimpers as a friend presses a serviette against the gash.
Dahlia clings to the armrests. Her stomach flip-flops and the taste of bile hits the back of her throat.
The attendants are calm but firm, directing everyone to stay in their seats as they stagger down the aisle to their assigned spots and wrestle with their seatbelts.
Hands tremblin
g, Dahlia dares to reach out for a sick bag. But before she can open it up, the plane drops again.
Dahlia’s hands snap back onto the armrests as they’re tossed around the sky. The screaming this time is higher, shriller, although maybe it never stopped from the first time. A boy a few rows ahead has thrown up on himself, while the couple behind them sob as they say how much they love each other.
This time, Dahlia reaches for Kiko’s hand. They lace their fingers together and Dahlia’s eyes clamp shut, blocking everything out. For a split-second she sees nothing but the darkness of the back of her eyelids.
The plane lurches.
She yelps, imagining it hurtling through the clouds.
‘This is it,’ she murmurs, gripping Kiko’s hand tighter.
‘I’m here,’ Kiko says. ‘Don’t let go.’
The plane shudders before levelling out. But then it drops again. This time it’s hundreds of feet in seconds.
The plane is vibrating so hard that Dahlia is convinced it’s moments away from cracking apart into a million pieces and raining down into the ocean. Her brain feels scrambled as she struggles to recall a single word of the flight attendant’s instructions about what to do in case of an emergency.
Dahlia looks at Kiko. They’re still holding hands tighter than she’s ever held a hand before. Their hair is laced with red sauce. She tries to stop seeing it as blood oozing from a wound on Kiko’s head but can’t. She closes her eyes and inhales through her nose, deeply, slowly, like a counsellor at a grief support group taught her last year, but keeps catching herself holding her breath.
‘Dahlia,’ she hears Kiko murmur.
She can’t seem to move her lips to reply.
‘Dahlia?’ Kiko repeats. ‘Dahlia Raine Valour, can you hear me?’
‘Mmm?’ Dahlia manages. She doesn’t open her eyes.
‘We’re okay,’ Kiko says. Dahlia feels their knees gently bump together. ‘Join us out here in this mess.’
Dahlia’s eyelids crack open slightly. Kiko’s face is blurred and up close to hers.
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 2
