Dahlia wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. She knows the date of the clip by heart. Stevie was diagnosed with a brain tumour five weeks later.
Stomach churning, Dahlia turns off her phone to stop herself from watching another video. When she glances up, Florence and Kiko are sword-fighting with their sweet potato fries.
‘So what’s next on Stevie’s list?’ Kiko asks. ‘I’ve lost track, but we can cross off Attend epic beach party. This is next level.’
‘Stevie would be jealous of the daybed,’ Dahlia adds. ‘I wish she could see it.’
The girls lapse into silence.
‘So . . .’ Kiko says, ‘the list?’
Florence stuffs a sweet potato fry into her mouth. ‘You had it, right, lady?’ she asks Dahlia.
‘Oh yeah,’ Dahlia says, reaching into her shorts’ pocket. She pauses. Digs deeper. ‘Wait . . .’ Her heart races as she checks the other side. ‘That’s strange.’
The girls sit up, watching her.
‘Is it in your bag?’ Kiko asks, leaning in closer.
Dahlia pulls everything out of her tote and lines it all up on the daybed. ‘No. It’s not here.’ She takes a deep breath before checking her pockets again. Still nothing. She swallows. Checks her wallet. Nothing. The bottom of her tote. Her wallet again. Her pockets again. Her tote again. ‘Shit. Are you sure you don’t have it, Kiko?’
Kiko feels inside her pockets and bag. ‘I swear I gave it to you after we had those vegie burgers at the park. I’d spilt the sauce on it and you wanted it for safekeeping, remember?’
Dahlia does. She’d been so worried about the list being ruined and now she’s lost it.
She nibbles the inside of her cheek as she silently catalogues her thoughts.
5 Lost Things In Order of Least to Most Important
Bobbypins (all of them, ever)
Hair ties (all of them, ever)
Matching earrings (all of them, ever)
The ring Mum gave me for my sixteenth birthday
Stevie’s Too Late List
‘It’s alright, it’ll show up,’ Kiko says, nudging the bowl of fries closer to Dahlia. ‘You’ve probably put it somewhere extra safe.’
‘Maybe it’s back at the hostel,’ Florence chimes in.
‘It was with me,’ Dahlia says. ‘It was here.’ Her chest tightens as she scans the throbbing party. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s all we have left of her.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Kiko. ‘The necklace, the brooch, the camera. Plus, photos, letters, our memories . . . we have so much.’
‘But we’re meant to be ticking things off the list, like you said.’ Dahlia’s fingers tug at her hair. She stops herself. ‘Her mum trusted us. I can’t be the reason we have to stop now. I can’t, I can’t, I—’
‘Breathe, Dahlia,’ Kiko says. ‘We’ll work it out.’
Florence picks up her phone. ‘What was left on the list?’ she asks, tapping away at the screen. ‘I’ll write them down.’
Dahlia’s head feels hollowed out. She can’t think or remember. ‘I don’t know . . . there was the haunted house . . . and Florence did skinny-dipping . . .’ Her voice trails off. She can picture Stevie’s scrawled handwriting in her mind but can’t make out any of the words. ‘I think Swim under a waterfall was on there too.’
‘Or did she do that with her parents?’ Kiko asks. ‘I swear I’ve seen a photo.’
Dahlia closes her eyes and tries to visualise Stevie’s family’s living room. Her mother had photos cluttering the mantelpiece, lining the walls, hanging off the fridge. In most of the shots, no matter her age, Stevie’s eyes were often closed, her hair always messy, and her mouth wide with laughter. Dahlia tries to pinpoint a photo of Stevie beneath a waterfall but she can’t.
‘I don’t remember seeing it,’ she says, a desperate note to her voice.
She doesn’t dare mention that she’s not sure if that’s because it doesn’t exist or because she’s starting to lose Stevie. Memories already seem fuzzier, their details so blurred that sometimes it’s hard for her to know what’s real and what she’s rewritten in her mind during the past year. It’s why she watches the video clips on repeat. Saying goodbye to Stevie was hard enough the first time. She can’t bear to do it again.
‘Hey!’ Kiko says, reaching for her hand. ‘It’ll be alright.’
Dahlia nods, biting the inside of her cheek again. She’s aching to admit that she’s struggling and that she’s sorry. But for some reason Kiko’s caring gesture makes it even harder to summon the right words.
The music from the beach party throbs around them, which only compounds Dahlia’s tangled thoughts. Beside her, the girls struggle to piece together their scrambled memories of Stevie to form a new list.
‘What else?’ Kiko murmurs.
Florence grimaces. ‘No idea. Dahlia, can you think of anything else Stevie wanted to do?’
Dahlia locks eyes with Kiko, her heart aching when she sees them glistening with worry. But she can’t take another second of the noise.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear myself think,’ she stammers, standing up and shoving her belongings into her tote.
‘Dahlia, wait,’ Kiko says. ‘Talk to us.’
‘I’ll meet up with you later, okay?’ Dahlia loops her bag over her shoulder. ‘Don’t hate me.’
She hears Kiko and Florence calling for her to stop, but Dahlia is already running across the golden sand and into the crowd.
Zoë
Day 4: 4.48pm
Bags of chips. Wheels of cheese. Blocks of chocolate. A tub of ice-cream. Rainbow sprinkles. Crackers. Dips. Zoë grins and tosses four more blocks of chocolate into their shopping trolley, before swinging her leg over and clambering in.
Luca cheers and climbs in too, jostling and laughing as he and Zoë struggle for space.
‘More dips, more chocolate, more crackers,’ Zoë chants as Prakash pushes them along the confectionery aisle. ‘This is unquestionably more fun than hanging with Darius.’
Luca laughs. ‘Hell no, it’s not. We’re grocery shopping, he’s throwing a party. Violet says there’s a bottomless punch bar.’
‘Damn it, man,’ Prakash says. ‘What are we doing, Zo?’
‘I’ve got all I need here,’ she grins, gesturing to the treats in their trolley.
‘He’s not that bad,’ Luca says. ‘You’ll have us making voodoo dolls of the guy next! Just let him live.’
‘Fine, don’t listen to me,’ Zoë says. ‘But you’re as indoctrinated as Violet.’
‘Wait, I need a photo,’ Prakash says, stopping the trolley in front of an assortment of lollies. Zoë and Luca wave the rainbow sprinkles and cheese at the camera as he snaps a few shots. ‘If our arteries survive this week, we need to remember the most amazing shop of our lives.’
‘And the time Zoë forced us to miss the party of the year to stock up on toilet paper,’ adds Luca.
At the checkout, Zoë puts the groceries on her card and the others promise to transfer money later. The receipt is so long she wraps it around her neck like a scarf.
They lug their shopping bags along the street, stopping every few metres to readjust their grip.
‘Half-price drinks,’ Luca announces, nodding towards a sign out the front of a bar. ‘Should we have a little celebration before we meet the others?’
‘Celebrating what?’ asks Prakash with a grin.
‘Our pure awesomeness. Look, even their buffalo wings are half-price. It’s meant to be.’
Zoë’s phone beeps. A new email.
She swears. ‘It’s from Number Three.’
Prakash and Luca exchange looks as she opens the email and scans for information, swearing again when the instructions tell her to log into the university’s portal to view her status. After endless scrolling through her inbox, she unearths her username and password.
Once she’s in the portal, she clicks for the answer. Her hand covers her mouth.
‘Well?’ Luca prompts her. ‘Y
ou’re in, right?’
Zoë hangs her head. ‘Better make them commiseration buffalo wings.’
Prakash swears. ‘You’re kidding? There’s still two more though — don’t give up.’
She nods, deflated. ‘Maybe I should head back to the resort. Have a lie-down.’
‘First, a drink on me,’ Luca says, opening the door and waving them in. ‘We’ll dazzle you with our wit and make everything okay.’
‘Either that or the blue cheese sauce will,’ Prakash says, and Zoë manages a small smile.
Inside the bar, they slide into a booth and order drinks, seasoned fries and a bowl of wings. Luca twirls the paper umbrella around in his glass before tucking it behind Zoë’s ear. By the time the food arrives, he’s talking to a boy with a bun and a leather jacket three booths over.
‘Leather? That guy must be on fire,’ Prakash says. ‘I’m hot in shorts.’
Zoë laughs, then clashes hands with Prakash as they reach for the same buffalo wing.
‘Yours,’ he says, nudging it towards her. ‘How’s your head after yesterday?’
‘I got lucky, it’s fine.’ She dunks the wing into the sauce. ‘But can I tell you something that I know the others won’t get, not even Luca?’
Prakash nods. ‘Course.’
‘Last night’s little fainting adventure wasn’t great, but after meeting the doctor I couldn’t stop thinking, I want what this person has. I need it. She’s helping people! She’s helping me! It was so amazing.’
‘Does your brain ever stop?’ he asks.
‘Never.’ She lets out a groan. ‘P, I’ve been working towards this one thing, and I’m so, so scared it will be for nothing.’
‘You’re letting all kinds of thoughts take over now. You’ve got a week off from worrying about it, okay?’
Zoë’s phone buzzes. A text from Greta.
Hi Zoë, how are things going? Gx
Zoë groans. ‘Greta’s spy school continues. It’s like she’s paranoid I’ll ruin Mum and Dad’s life. If she cared about me a speck of the amount she cares about impressing them . . .’
Prakash smirks. ‘Admit one thing: it was cool how she helped your dad see the light about this week.’
‘Fine.’ Zoë smiles. ‘True. But still, she’s this perfect untouchable person in their eyes, and every time I screw up it only lifts her higher. How am I ever meant to keep up?’ She looks around the bar. ‘Everyone in here is so happy. Why am I the only one sweating over results and acceptance letters?’
‘You’ve wanted to be a doctor forever,’ Prakash says. ‘Remember your little red stethoscope?’
Zoë sighs. ‘What did I know? I was four! Maybe it’s better if I don’t get into medicine — I mean, someone’s life in my hands. These hands!’ She wiggles her fingers, which are stained with buffalo-wing seasoning.
Prakash shrugs. ‘Deep down, everyone else in here is stressing too. They’re just trying to block out the future for five seconds.’ He points at a guy doing shots at the bar. ‘He’s petrified he didn’t get into his course and he’ll have to spend the next year living in his parents’ basement.’ He gestures at a girl nearby. ‘She slept through her alarm on the final day and missed the entire exam, not only the final page. And him,’ he signals a guy arguing with a bouncer by the pool table, ‘he’s the most stressed of them all. He’s angry ’cos he wishes he’d tried harder, or ’cos his mates are headed to the other side of the country. Or maybe it’s ’cos no-one’s doing anything about climate change, or his girlfriend dumped him two weeks ago. Maybe all of the above.’
‘That’s quite the story,’ Zoë says. ‘Feel free to teach me your compartmentalising skills, Prakash Patel.’
He grins at her. ‘You can’t re-sit that exam or change what the email said, so you may as well have another buffalo wing.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Luca says, sliding back into the booth next to Zoë and picking up a wing. ‘The boys here are so immature I could die. Now, who’s up for Would You Rather?’
‘No more games,’ Prakash and Zoë cry out in unison.
A woman on rollerskates glides up holding a tray brimming with gifts and merchandise. ‘Can I tempt you with a little memento, kids?’ she asks in between chewing on gum. It snaps and clicks in her mouth. ‘I’ve got roses, teddy bears, commemorative spoons and shot glasses.’
They decline, and Luca and Zoë lean over the table to admire her rollerskates.
‘Hey Prakash, didn’t you used to collect spoons?’ Zoë asks. ‘You had a little display on your desk?’
He grins. ‘Shut up, but damn straight.’
The woman chuckles and tucks a pile of temporary tattoo stickers under their plate of wings. ‘Here, knock yourselves out,’ she says, before skating off to the next booth.
Luca picks up the tattoos and leafs through them. ‘Seahorse, no. Dragonfly, as if. A dog’s face? What? Its tongue is hanging out!’
‘You should get that,’ Prakash says with a wink.
‘And you should get . . .’ Luca sorts through the pile. ‘This!’ The design shows a smiling troll holding up a pint of beer.
Zoë flicks through the stack while Luca and Prakash joke around and tease each other. Prakash goes to get more drinks, dismissing their offers to take their wallets to pay at the bar. Then, Zoë sees it. The heartbeat. Small, fine, black in colour; a similar design to what she saw at the tattoo parlour.
She peels off the clear backing and places the tiny heartbeat ink-side down on the inside of her wrist, then dunks a serviette in her glass and presses it over her skin. She peels off the paper and admires the heartbeat zigzagging across her wrist.
‘Thoughts?’ She holds out her arm.
Luca claps. ‘Adore! Why that design though?’ His jaw drops. ‘Are you in love? It’s Prakash, isn’t it? He’s cute, I’ve always thought that.’
Zoë rolls her eyes. ‘I just like it.’
She doesn’t bother explaining that the heartbeat reminds her of what she wants and why she’s pushed herself so hard. The study, the work experience, the sacrifice. She just gazes at the jagged black lines on her skin and smiles.
Prakash arrives back at the table with more drinks.
‘Zoë got a tattoo!’ announces Luca.
‘She did what?’
‘Temporary.’ Zoë thrusts out her wrist. ‘It’s no little red stethoscope, but you like?’
‘Love. Good one, Zo.’
Zoë sips her drink, feeling warm again. It’s only then she notices how flushed the boys look too. She takes in the table cluttered with empty glasses and jugs, and for the first time since they arrived looks at the clock hanging above the bar.
‘Hold up!’ she gasps. ‘We’ve been gone forever.’
Prakash looks up at the time and swears, before bursting into drunken giggles.
Zoë groans. ‘Oh no, I just remembered . . .’ She reaches into a shopping bag and pulls out the ice-cream tub. ‘In news that will be shocking to no-one, it’s totally melted!’
‘Well, it’s as hot as a volcano in here,’ Prakash says.
‘It’s still good,’ Luca says, swirling his finger through the melted ice-cream. ‘Dare you to drink it all.’
‘No more dares,’ Zoë says. ‘I want chilled-out paradise.’
‘Shots first.’ Luca signals to the bartender. ‘More drinks too.’
‘No way,’ Zoë says. ‘Let’s go back to the resort and binge something in our PJs.’
‘First my thing, then your thing,’ Luca says, gesturing to the bartender who’s already making their drinks.
‘Fine, but I’m picking what we watch.’
‘Deal,’ says Luca, leaning over to shake her hand. ‘But it better not be one of those antiques shows.’
More time disappears before they remember they’re supposed to be leaving. By now, Luca has ordered another round to celebrate Zoë’s temporary tattoo, Prakash has fallen asleep in the corner of the booth, and Zoë’s hugged the waiter who brought over their salt and
pepper calamari.
The music suddenly kicks up in volume. Cheering with excitement, Zoë climbs onto their table and struggles to her feet, swaying along to the music with her arms stretched high.
Luca leaps up to join her. He takes Zoë’s hand and twirls her around, dipping her backwards until her head almost grazes the cluttered table. They laugh, Luca’s hands slip and they crash down onto the tabletop.
‘Time to leave, you two,’ a man bellows. ‘And wake up Sleeping Beauty while you’re at it.’
They clamber down, grab the bags and shake Prakash on the shoulder.
‘I need to pee,’ he yawns. ‘Meet you outside soon.’
Zoë picks up her drink, which miraculously wasn’t knocked over in the chaos, and finishes it. She takes Luca’s hand and spins him around on the wet carpet, then they fan out into a line and do the can-can.
‘Kick ’em higher! Higher! Higher!’ Luca yells.
A nearby waiter looks over at his boss for help.
Suddenly the bouncer’s there again. ‘Listen, I said get out. That means now.’
‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,’ Zoë says, giving a quick salute.
Luca’s eyes widen. ‘Actually, right after I visit the bathroom too.’ He leans in so close to Zoë that their noses bump. ‘Your eyes are glassy.’
‘I’ve never been better,’ Zoë says, only now realising everything is spinning.
Luca thrusts his drink into her hands. ‘Have this if you’re thirsty. Back soon.’
Once alone, Zoë notices how loud and dark it is in the bar. Groups of people laugh and shout in booths, on stools, around the bar, and out in the beer garden. She feels outnumbered and impossibly small.
She sips Luca’s drink but the feeling clings to her. There’s a whiff of danger, like something might go wrong any second.
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 12
