Stevie became obsessed with perfect last times and wrote them up in the Last Time List. No matter the weather or mood, there was always something for her to do each day. Visit the beach. Eat a block of chocolate in one sitting. Kiss a cute boy. Smoke a full cigarette behind the bushes on the oval.
‘It tastes like a bin but I’m dying anyway, right?’ she spluttered as the girls doused her in perfume to hide the smell.
It was a happy list and it buoyed Stevie every day.
But the crumpled torn page in Dahlia’s shaking hands isn’t that list. The spidery handwriting dancing across the lines isn’t her final catalogue of perfect endings, goodbyes and last times. Stevie was equally fixated on the things she’d never get to do. Despite her mum’s pleading not to, she also wrote another document. The Too Late List.
Some people found it morbid, but in typical Stevie style, she didn’t worry about what others thought. She wasn’t depressed by the list, which seemed to grow longer every day. She was simply fascinated by the possibilities humans have on offer in a lifetime.
‘No-one can experience everything,’ she announced to Dahlia one rainy afternoon as she tinkered with the list in bed. ‘It’s not like I’m the only person who misses out on stuff. It’s how life is designed.’
‘Totally . . . So, ah, you want to watch a movie or something?’
Stevie groaned. ‘Dahlia Raine Valour, did you change the topic? Everyone acts like my problems will go away if I shrink myself down and stay quiet. Don’t you dare be like everyone else, don’t you dare.’
Dahlia’s lip trembled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t. I’m listening.’
‘Good. Because I’m sick, and I need someone to talk about it with. I need you.’
Dahlia nodded for Stevie to continue.
‘Thank you. So this is my theory: life is filled with crossroads and if you choose one path, then the other path, as it was, closes up.’
‘So you’re saying life is the most hectic game of choose your own adventure?’
‘Yes! Only in life you can’t flip back to chapter one and start over. You can’t read it again to experience every possible ending.’
‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’
‘No-one gets everything. You make your choices and have to live with them. I think it’s why so many adults are moody — they’re too busy moping about those closed-off paths. Well, and bills.’
The girls cracked up.
‘Oh, and you know what I’m not sad to miss out on when I’m old?’ Stevie added. ‘False teeth.’
They laughed so hard that afternoon that Stevie’s mum knocked on the bedroom door to check everything was okay.
Dahlia watched Stevie add experiences to her Too Late List for weeks.
Meet a celebrity
Skinny-dip
Meditate
Fall in love
Get married
Visit a haunted house
Travel to Fiji
Get a tattoo
Save a life
Try radical honesty
Learn the guitar
Skydive
The list went on and on. Daydreaming and talking about it kept Stevie occupied for months through all the scans, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, the poking and prodding.
Things were slow at first, but then they got fast when Stevie was moved into palliative care. She never made it to Christmas lunch.
‘Thank you, my people,’ she croaked to Dahlia, Florence and Kiko through split, whitened lips on their final day together. ‘We’re still us and always will be.’
They clung to each other’s hands, hers, theirs. Stevie’s were alarmingly cold but the girls didn’t let go until the nurse asked them to leave so Stevie could rest. Stevie’s eyes glistened as the girls stroked her forehead and told her they’d see her tomorrow.
The next day, Stevie’s mum called Dahlia to say Stevie had passed away in her sleep that morning.
The girls all wore blue, her favourite colour, to the funeral and snuck a bottle of wine out of the wake to drink in her honour on Florence’s verandah while her father and step-mum pretended not to notice. The next day, Stevie’s mum dropped off some of her personal mementos. For Dahlia, her necklace. For Florence, her brooch. And for Kiko, her Polaroid camera.
Stevie’s mum also told them about the money Stevie had left for them to take a trip together. Life went on, just as Stevie had said it would. But it hadn’t felt the same since.
Dahlia takes a deep breath and presses her back against the wall. She scans the list for the first time in over a year, fighting back tears at seeing all the things Stevie never got the chance to do. Knees to her chest, she nibbles on the skin next to her thumbnail, biting until it bleeds.
Samira
Day 2: 12.03pm
Samira’s nose crinkles at the stench of sweat in the marquee. She and the other girls wade through waist-high foamy bubbles towards an empty table near the bar, slipping and laughing as their bling-covered sandals stick to the floor.
Anoush releases a pained groan as she wrings out her skirt. ‘My head hurts,’ she says, sinking onto a stool. ‘I don’t think I can face this.’
Rashida sips her drink. ‘No bailing, girl.’
‘You already missed last night,’ Claire adds, pursing her lips in disapproval. ‘Find your second wind.’
‘I’ll get you some water, Anoush,’ Samira offers.
As she fills a glass at the bar, her gaze locks on Zain on the opposite side of the room. He and Mathieu flash toothy grins as they flirt with two girls with long damp hair and side-swept bangs. One of the girls, a redhead in a soaking wet miniskirt, looks at Zain like he’s a roast dinner with all the trimmings. Stepping in closer, the girl scoops up a handful of bubbles and blows them in his direction.
Samira returns to the table. ‘This song sucks,’ she shouts over the thumping track, glancing at Zain and the redhead twisted together in the corner. His arms are around her waist. Her hands are everywhere.
Samira’s throat burns with the lump she’s been trying to push down since yesterday. She dares to steal another look. Zain’s and the redhead’s limbs are entwined now in a mess of foam and wet hair as they gyrate to the music. Their lips meet, and the girl’s hand snakes up the back of Zain’s head to pull him in even closer. When they break apart, his mouth cracks into a smile. Then his lips brush against hers again.
‘I’m about to be sick,’ Samira murmurs.
Anoush whimpers. ‘Me too.’
Samira smiles at her. ‘You’re a good friend.’
‘No, I need to throw up,’ she gags, hand covering her mouth. ‘Right now.’
Anoush sprints towards the marquee exit, disappearing into the ocean of foam and people. Samira follows, weaving and bumping against sticky hands and elbows, before spilling out the exit and onto a stretch of parkland running alongside Saldana Strip. She spots Anoush hunched over under a weathered tree near the rows of portaloos.
‘You alright?’ Samira calls, rushing over to hold back Anoush’s shiny long hair.
‘Don’t look at me, it’s hideous,’ Anoush groans, pulling her hair into a topknot. When she sees the portaloos, she gags again. ‘I think it was better inside.’
Samira holds out her water. ‘Here. Take it.’
‘Thanks,’ Anoush says, taking a small sip. ‘Hey, we’ve got a girls’ day tomorrow, right? You and me.’
‘Sure do, it’s on the itinerary.’
‘Nice.’ Anoush collects herself and applies some lipgloss. ‘Let’s go back in and find the others.’
Samira pauses, remembering Zain and the redhead’s passionate kiss. Her stomach churns at the thought of having to see them again. ‘I might hang out here a little longer. Enjoy the quiet and fresh air.’
Anoush gestures to the portaloos. ‘Really?’
Samira laughs. ‘You know what I mean. I’ll see you soon.’
She joins the queue to the toilets. Two girls standing in line in front of her take
selfies, pouting and smiling and stopping to check their angles. Samira pulls out her phone and scrolls through her camera roll. A photo of last night’s sunset. A photo of Anoush jumping on their bed in her furry lion onesie. A photo of Claire’s shoulder sunburn.
Before the trip, Samira imagined taking hundreds of photos with Zain, with Anoush, with the group. But like everything this week, nothing’s going to plan. She doesn’t know if she even wants to remember the trip, let alone collect photos that will transport her back to this feeling. A single tear escapes.
‘Toilet’s free,’ a bubbly voice announces.
A girl wearing a plastic gold crown, singlet and puffy tutu stands in front of Samira. Her dyed cherry-red hair is pulled into a high ponytail that cascades down her back, and her wrists are loaded with colourful bangles that rattle with every theatrical hand movement.
‘I can’t even tell you how hard it is to wee in this,’ the girl adds, tugging at the tutu. ‘My fault for guzzling two jugs of water! Ten out of ten do not recommend.’
Samira can’t help but smile. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
The girl cocks her head to one side. ‘Hey, you poor thing, have you been crying?’
‘No, all good,’ Samira fibs, letting the girl behind her go ahead in the queue. ‘Just got some of the foamy bubbles in my eyes.’
‘Ouch!’ The girl fishes a pair of cheap yellow sunglasses in the shape of sunflowers from her bag, and passes them to Samira. ‘Here, take these. Sounds like you need them more than me. Anyway, have fun!’
She pirouettes away, trips over her feet mid-spin and lands on the grass. It’s only then that Samira recognises the flowery tattoo stretched across her thigh.
‘Wait, you’re the Queen!’ she gasps. ‘From next door!’
The girl struggles to her feet. ‘I mean, this is my everyday crown, not my evening crown, but that’s me. Wait, you’re at that massive house next door? You’re fancy.’
‘Not even a little bit. But I did see the fire pit and the dancing.’
‘You should have come over!’ The girl beams so brightly it’s like someone has turned on all the lights. ‘It was our Alotta Peach Appreciation Fire Pit. You know her?’
‘She’s headlining this week, right?’
‘It’s why we’re here.’
‘You’re, like, her groupies?’
The girl cackles. ‘Peachies. We follow her around. I saved up all year for a meet-and-greet at this week’s concert and I already know it will be the best five minutes of my life.’ She slips off a colourful bangle and passes it to Samira. ‘It’s yours. I have heaps at the house.’
‘More stuff? Thanks,’ Samira says, slipping it onto her wrist. The bangle features a row of cartoon peach illustrations, a pastel AP logo and the line: Live your way, baby. ‘You’re a walking gift shop.’
‘I also answer to the name Tilly.’
‘Oh, um, I’m Samira,’ she says, letting another girl go ahead of her to the toilets.
‘Sounds like a pop star!’ Tilly’s indigo eyes glitter in the sun. ‘I can picture the letters up in sparkling lights with thousands of fans in the audience.’
‘You really like pop stars, huh?’
‘I really like most things.’ She grins. ‘Hey, can I call you Sammy? You seem like a Sammy.’
‘That’s what Mum calls me. Go for it.’
There’s a sharp tap on Samira’s shoulder. She turns to see a long queue of girls with wet clothes and matted hair.
At the front, a short girl taps her boot on the grass. ‘You going?’ she barks. ‘We’re nearly wetting our knickers here. Shut up and get on with it.’
Tilly smiles. ‘Hey, there’s no need for that. Why don’t we all—’
‘Pipe down, freak,’ the girl in the boots snarls.
Samira swears. ‘Don’t talk to her like that. She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘Her outfit is all kinds of wrong,’ the girl sneers, gesturing to Tilly’s tutu. Behind her, other girls titter. ‘Tell her to go back to the circus.’
Samira’s jaw drops and she feels a fury building inside her. Tilly mutters for Samira to ignore her, but she’s fixated on the girl. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Your friend’s a freak,’ the girl says, spitting on the grass near Samira’s foot. ‘And newsflash, you’re a loser. How do you like that, loser?’
Samira steps in closer, rage bubbling beneath the surface. For once, the words come to her at the right moment. ‘Say that one more time.’
‘Loser.’ The girl pushes Samira’s chest, sending her flying backwards onto the grass. She hits the ground hard.
Tilly rushes to her side. ‘Sammy! Sammy! You okay?’
She nods, a little winded, as Tilly pulls her to her feet and helps her brush off dirt and grass from her clothes and elbows. When they look back to the queue, the girl has disappeared into the crowd.
‘Sammy, there are more toilets around the corner,’ Tilly says, glaring at everyone in the queue who stayed silent. ‘Come with me.’
Afterwards, in the park, the girls sit in the sun eating triple-stacked rainbow ice-cream cones from the food truck parked outside the marquee.
‘How’s your bum?’ asks Tilly, licking droplets off her wrist.
‘As bruised as my pride. I’ve never been in a fight before and it shows.’
‘You were a real-life superhero, but you didn’t have to do that,’ Tilly says. ‘I’m used to people treating me that way.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Dressing how I feel on the inside is the world’s worst crime apparently.’ Tilly pauses. ‘Other than my two best friends, you’re the first person to stand up for me.’
‘Ever?’
‘Correct. So thank you,’ she says, clinking her ice-cream with Samira’s. ‘And sorry about the sore bum.’
‘It’ll survive.’ Samira grins. ‘I better get back to the party. My friend Anoush was in a world of hurt when I saw her last.’
‘Well, the boys probably think I’ve snuck into Alotta’s dressing room to steal her wigs.’
Samira snorts. ‘Thanks again for the gifts.’
‘No problem, neighbour,’ Tilly says, jumping to her feet. ‘Come over sometime.’
Samira’s fingers trace the Alotta Peach bangle on her wrist as she watches Tilly skip away.
Live your way, baby.
Zoë
Day 2: 1.06pm
Akito plunges his finger into the baba ganoush, laughing as Zoë rolls her eyes. He licks off the dip, unfazed, and reaches towards the bowl again.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Zoë smacks his hand away as she reaches for a cracker.
‘I didn’t realise a queen was here at the Grand Southwell,’ he teases in a high-pitched voice, lounging back on the couch next to Prakash. ‘We must be on our best behaviour for Queen Russo.’
Prakash rolls his eyes. ‘Come on, man.’
‘Why aren’t you lot dressed for the party?’ Akito asks, sizing up the girls’ outfits.
His new friend Darius, who’s staying in the penthouse suite above theirs, called out over the balcony twenty minutes earlier and invited them all to his traffic light party. The rules are simple according to Akito. The colours relate to relationship status: green is single, red is in a relationship or not interested, yellow is maybe interested but unsure.
Violet raises an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me? You’re critiquing us,’ she says to Akito, gesturing to her pink bodycon dress and Zoë’s purple off-the-shoulder top and miniskirt.
The girls have been picking out clothes, trying them on, and swapping them all morning. Their rooms look like they’ve been ransacked.
‘Luca, tell him what’s what,’ Violet adds.
Luca grins as he tops up everyone’s drinks. ‘You look fierce, Violet. No further comment.’
Akito runs his hands through his jet-black hair. ‘You girls look nice but I’m not seeing any green, red or yellow.’ He pops the collar of his green polo shirt, then points at Prak
ash’s shirt with a yellow abstract design down the front. ‘See, yellow! Even P’s into it.’
Violet shrugs. ‘Green does nothing for my skin tone.’
‘And yellow washes me out,’ Luca says with a wink. ‘I’m not changing.’
Zoë rifles through Violet’s costume jewellery and slips a ring with a ruby red gemstone onto her middle finger. ‘There,’ she says, sticking her finger up in Akito’s face. ‘Red. Happy now?’
He rubs his palms together. ‘Party time.’
They cram into the penthouse suite one floor up with a sea of strangers draped in red, yellow and green. The lights are low and the air stinks of sweat and salt and cigarette smoke. There’s no sign of the mysterious Darius who has apparently invited half of paradise.
Zoë and Prakash splutter at the stench, covering their mouths.
The group quickly splits apart. Luca and Violet make a beeline for the food table, while Akito slinks across the room to a leather couch in the corner. Wads of cash are piled on the coffee table for a strip poker game. Akito slips on a shiny green poker visor and nestles among a group of girls in skimpy dresses and guys undressed down to their shorts. He waves at Prakash and Zoë to join him.
‘Want to?’ Prakash asks.
Zoë’s throat is scratchy from the smoke. ‘Can we get some air?’
They head towards a full-length sliding glass door that leads onto an enormous balcony. A cool breeze licks Zoë’s skin as she steps onto the tiles. Music from inside thumps behind her, and a handful of boys are flopped on a daybed playing cards in the corner. Prakash gives them a polite nod, but Zoë walks on, squeezing past a dining setting and rows of sunlounges.
The bright sunlight stings her eyes but she forces them to stay open to take in the view. Saldana Strip, the ocean brushing the skyline, the mountains in the distance. She slips her phone out of her tote and takes a few photos of the soft pastel swirls of the clouds and the glowing sun cracked open above the sea. She exhales. This is the escape she’s been holding her breath for all year long, but thanks to the guilty churning in her stomach she wonders if she should have followed her parents’ orders and stayed home.
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 5
