Zoë moves towards the bathrooms, but a group of boys barrel towards her, hollering at each other. Their hot bodies and sweaty T-shirts are too close, so she slips out of their web and heads for an exit. She spills outside and gulps in the fresh air. The sun is setting, its glow sinking lower in the sky, and Saldana Strip is flooded with people singing and shouting.
She watches the bar’s entrance, waiting for Prakash to hurry out with a sheepish smile on his face, or Luca to saunter out with a new friend hooked through his arm. But everyone is going in. The line snakes around the building and down the street.
Zoë fishes her phone out of her bag to text the others. Flat battery. She swears.
She walks up to the bar’s entrance but a bouncer steps in front of her. ‘Back of the line,’ he says, arms folded over his chest.
‘I just came out,’ she says, hiding Luca’s glass behind her back. ‘I’m looking for my friends. Can I go in to find them and we’ll leave straight away?’
‘Sounds likely.’ The bouncer puffs out his chest.
‘I’ll only be a second.’
‘No-one jumps the queue.’
‘Please!’
He ignores her, so she walks over to a nearby bench and sits down, staring at all the people milling around. She swallows, suddenly feeling the weight of being alone in a strange city.
Her eyes hurt from the pulsing neon lights all along the Strip, so she squeezes them shut and wills her friends to appear.
Samira
Day 4: 6.39pm
At the train station, Samira drags her suitcase to the ticket machines. She rereads the timetable: she’s missed the evening train by fifteen minutes, and the overnight train doesn’t leave for six hours.
An annoyed grunt sounds behind her. She turns to see an older woman wheeling a small suitcase. ‘Are you buying a ticket, darl?’ she asks.
‘Ah . . . maybe, I . . .’ Samira’s knuckles whiten on her suitcase handle. ‘Actually, you go ahead.’
She steps to the side and checks her phone again. No messages or missed calls.
She tries her mum again. Nothing.
A quick glance up reveals the ticket machine is free. She strides forward, jaw hardening, and buys a ticket for the overnight train before she changes her mind.
* * *
Samira’s phone rings. It’s a withheld number so she doesn’t answer. She’s sitting slumped against the brick wall at the train station. Its hard edges dig into her spine. Her stomach growls and she regrets not raiding the fridge before storming out of the house.
She glances up at the enormous Alotta Peach billboard that dominates the train station. Alotta is dressed as a glittery flamingo and holds a bunch of peach-coloured helium balloons. Moments later, Samira’s phone beeps with a new message. She glances at the screen, expecting to see her mum’s name appear. It’s Tilly.
Late notice but wanna hang? We’re bored! Feel free to bring your group
Samira’s fingers hover over the keys. She’s unsure how to tell her new friends she’s leaving.
She tries her mum again. No answer.
Out of habit, her fingers go to text Anoush. She’s halfway through writing her an emotional message when she remembers overhearing the conversation earlier. Her stomach lurches. But then she imagines Anoush arriving back to their room with no warning of Samira’s departure. In her fantasy life, she stormed out like she’s the star of a soap opera, determined to never look back. But as hurt as she feels, she can’t leave without saying something.
She deletes her first message to Anoush and writes a new one.
A, things have got weird. Call me ASAP
Her phone rings again. Zain. So much for Tilly’s exorcism.
Samira swallows. Zain never calls. Not even when they were together. She stares at his name on her screen, remembering him with the girl in the bathroom or running his hands over the redhead’s hips at the foam party.
She wants to move on. But she also wants to know why the boy who never rings is calling her.
‘Yeah?’ she says, surprising herself with the sharpness of her tone.
‘Are you okay, Samira? I’m worried.’
She can tell from the thumping music that he’s at a bar. He can’t be that worried if he’s out partying.
‘I’m fine. We’re not together, remember?’ She glances at the Alotta Peach billboard again and the lyrics to ‘Live Your Way’ dance through her mind. ‘I’ve left.’
‘As in, going home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come meet me, we’ll talk.’
‘I . . . can’t,’ she says, twirling her Alotta Peach bangle. ‘Please don’t call me again.’
As she’s slipping the phone into her handbag it rings again. She snatches it up. ‘Zain, I said don’t call me,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t take any more!’
There’s a silence so long that Samira worries she’s on speakerphone to the group. She holds her breath, waiting for an inevitable eruption of laughter.
Instead, a man clears his throat. ‘Samira Makhlouf?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ she stammers. She glances at the phone screen. Withheld number. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Tony from Tony’s Luxury Limousines. I’m your driver for the evening, ma’am.’
‘Omigod, I completely forgot.’
‘Is your party ready? I’ve been waiting out the front for a while and no-one seems to be home.’
Like everything this week, Samira had booked the limo in happier times. It was to take the group clubbing, but the girls had ditched the itinerary plan in favour of Dan’s party.
‘Should I knock on the door again?’ Tony asks.
‘Um . . .’ Samira glances at her train ticket. Maybe there’s time. ‘Tony, I’m so sorry for the confusion but there’s been a change of plan. Any chance you can pick me up at the train station?’
‘Yes, ma’am. The complimentary drinks and cheeses will be ready on arrival.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll be out the front by the gardens and fountain.’
Samira’s eyes water as she takes in the colourful blooms and magnificent trees by the nearby lagoon. She’d originally planned for the group to have a photo shoot here later in the week before the Alotta Peach concert. It was supposed to be a keepsake before they all went in different directions because Anoush always complained they never had any pictures of everyone together.
When Samira slips into the back of the limo, she’s hit with an overpowering loneliness. Where she’d imagined her friends, there are only empty seats. Instead of party music pumping and competing conversations, there’s nothing but the sound of Tony huffing and grunting as he struggles to put her luggage into the boot of the limo.
She tries to call Anoush just in case. As predicted, it goes to voicemail.
Her phone beeps. A message from Zain.
can we talk?
Beep.
Pls
Another beep.
i made a mistake
Seconds later, a bubble with three dots appears on the screen. Zain is typing. Samira holds her breath and stares at the dancing dots. But then they disappear and no more messages come through.
Tony starts the limo. ‘Where to, ma’am?’
Samira’s stomach flutters with butterflies as she tells him the address.
As the limo drives along winding streets lined with palm trees Samira loses herself to the music on the radio. When they get to the beach house, she notes that it’s dark inside and still picture-perfect, just like in the brochures. The limo edges past and pulls up in front of Tilly’s house next door.
‘Here, ma’am?’ Tony asks.
‘Here, thanks. Back in a sec.’
Samira gets out of the limo and pauses to take in the atmosphere. It’s quiet on the street, almost eerily so compared to the chaos of Saldana Strip and the train station. But then she hears familiar laughter from inside.
She knocks and the door swings open to reveal Tilly.
‘I love surprises,’ Tilly cheers. ‘The Warrior has come to save us from boredom and ourselves.’ She waves Samira inside, then plucks a purple plastic sword and shield from the kitchen counter. ‘For you. We found them at an op-shop today.’
‘Omigod, too good.’ Samira breaks into a grin as she strikes a pose with the armour.
‘Now you look like a true Warrior,’ Tilly says, waving her in. ‘Sammy, I’m so relieved you’re here. Kris and Harry are joking about leaving! At least I think they’re joking. Turns out we should’ve made some plans beyond trailing Alotta Peach this week.’
Samira smirks at the irony. ‘You need something to do? I might have an idea.’
‘I like ideas.’
‘I swear this isn’t a regular activity for me, but . . . do you want to ride in a limo? As in, right now?’
Tilly’s eyes light up. ‘Absolutely!’ She turns and shouts into the house: ‘Bums off the couch and get fancy, you two! We’re going in a limo!’
While Tilly rounds up Kris and Harry, Samira waits on the front lawn under the stars, twirling the shield in one hand and swishing the sword through the air. She stops, conscious that Tony might see her, then shrugs and gives the shield another spin.
Her phone beeps. It’s her mum.
Sorry I missed you darling! Is it a good time to call? x
As the Peachies spill out of the house, Samira fires off a text — Just saying hi. Talk soon x — then slips her phone into her bag.
Tilly leads the boys down the pathway towards Samira, her knee-high laced boots striding over the grass and cloak soaring behind, her long red hair in a high ponytail and adorned with a bejewelled plastic crown.
Kris hobbles along in a silver DIY robot costume. He bumps into the mailbox and an overgrown flower bush before he reaches Samira.
‘Can you even sit in that?’ she asks, admiring his handiwork.
‘With great difficulty.’
Harry, who’s wearing tattered trousers, a black bandanna and an eye patch, ties a purple cape around Samira’s neck. ‘Borrow this,’ he says, stepping back in his heavy boots to admire it. ‘It completes your look.’
Samira stands a little taller and leads the Peachies to the limo. They erupt with excitement when they see it.
‘This is like a movie!’ Tilly squeals.
‘Living for this,’ Kris says, opening the door and peering inside. ‘There are teeny-tiny bottles in there.’
‘Why are teeny-tiny bottles so much better?’ Tilly asks. ‘No-one even answer that! We just know they are.’
Harry cocks his head to one side. ‘Sammy, your group’s missing this? Are they out of their minds?’
Samira shrugs. ‘I know. Should we do this or . . .?’
‘We should. Their loss!’ Harry cheers and crawls into the limo next to Kris, whose costume takes up half the back seat. ‘Thanks, Sammy. Best surprise ever.’
Tilly and Samira pile in too, everyone’s costumes squishing up against each other.
‘Where to?’ Tony asks from the driver’s seat as the boys ferret through the smorgasbord of drinks and snacks.
Samira’s phone buzzes, but it’s slipped out of her bag and is trapped under Kris’s costume. She lets it ring out and instructs Tony to head for Saldana Strip; they’ll direct him from there. She doesn’t want to stray too far from the train station, but she also wants to see where the night takes them.
As they drive along the Strip, Harry winds down a window. He pokes his head out. ‘Best night ever!’ he shouts as Tony honks the horn and the others whoop and cheer.
A bus goes past with an enormous Alotta Peach advertisement on the side of it. The Peachies scream. Tilly holds up her phone, blasting an Alotta song to the group. The familiar soaring strings kick off, followed by a vulnerable, almost whispering Alotta, but then the chorus fires up and she and the Peachies belt out the vocals.
Her phone buzzes again. Kris rescues it from beneath his leg and passes it over.
It’s Zain. Another message.
have you rly left?
She stares at the message, then puts the phone away without answering.
Zoë
Day 4: 8.13pm
‘You there! Wanna party? We’ve got something that’ll wake you up.’
Zoë cringes at a group of strangers hollering at her as they meander along Saldana Strip.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m fine.’ And she folds her arms around herself, as though she’s trying to hide away in the night. She’s lost track of how long she’s been waiting. One thing seems clear though: Luca and Prakash have disappeared.
She stands up, still holding Luca’s drink, and attempts to recall the direction of their resort, but the beach and rows of shops stretch on. Her head buzzes so hard she can’t remember their resort’s name, let alone its address.
She walks left, desperately looking for a landmark beyond the swarming crowd to prove she’s headed in the correct direction. But by night the high-rise buildings looming on Saldana Strip seem identical in size, height and colour. Everything mixes together and nothing seems familiar. Zoë wants to be home right now, in her bed, listening to the muffled noises of her parents pottering around the house.
She walks a bit further along the footpath, head pounding and swaying a little as she clings to her bag. When she looks over her shoulder for any sign of her friends, there’s a guy leering at her. He’s so close she can smell the rum on his breath.
‘Hey cutie,’ he says. ‘I like your lips.’
Zoë grimaces. ‘Leave me alone,’ she snaps, picking up her pace to escape him. She weaves around parked cars to avoid the flow of people on the footpath. Many of them are waving glowsticks and smoking cigarettes. Streetlights blur her vision as she stumbles along, her hips occasionally knocking into cars’ side mirrors.
SCREEEEEEEECH. The squeal of brakes pierces the night as a moped swerves to miss hitting Zoë.
In shock, she steps backwards. Luca’s drink slips from her grasp and shatters on the concrete, dusting glass over her toes. She hears muffled shouts behind her, but is fixated on the moped now pulling up at a red light. The rider turns around and swears, shaking her fist.
* * *
As two police officers ask Zoë questions, her mind won’t stop replaying an incident from Year Eight. She’d been scribbling notes and talking with a friend in music class, so the teacher gave them a warning. They stopped momentarily, before changing to whispering behind their hands. The teacher stormed over and threatened them with detention if they spoke again while she was talking. That was the only time Zoë ever got in trouble at school.
The older of the two officers, Senior Constable Bette Kolovelonis, notices the shattered glass. ‘How many drinks have you had?’ she asks Zoë.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘More than that one?’ Constable Terri Inglis suggests. ‘Is that alcohol spilled down the front of your dress?’
Zoë’s chest tightens. She nods.
Kolovelonis clears her throat. ‘You could have caused a pile-up tonight. Why were you on the street instead of the footpath?’
‘I . . . I was only walking,’ Zoë stammers. ‘Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?’
‘We’re just asking a few questions and want to make sure you get back to your accommodation safely,’ Kolovelonis says. ‘We need to see some ID though.’
‘Sure.’ Zoë reaches into her bag and rifles around for her wallet. There’s a long pause. ‘I don’t have it.’
‘You don’t have any ID?’ Kolovelonis asks, eyebrow raised.
‘My entire wallet. I had it at the supermarket because I paid, and I thought I had it in the bar . . .’ She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘My name is Zoë Rusho.’
Inglis smiles. ‘Okay, Zoë Rusho, what are you—’
‘I mean Russo,’ Zoë interrupts, biting her lip at her mistake. ‘Sorry, I’m nervous. It’s definitely Russo.’
‘Zoë, are you under the influence of any i
llicit substances?’ Inglis asks.
‘No! Never.’
Kolovelonis makes a note in her pad. ‘This is serious, you get that right?’
‘I’m fine, I promise.’
The officer’s jaw hardens. ‘Ms Russo, do you know what we’ve already seen this week?’ Zoë shakes her head.
‘Drug-dealing. Ticket-scalping. Multiple overdoses. More arrests for drunken and disorderly behaviour than the last two years combined. One critical injury from balcony-hopping. One death: a drowning at an unpatrolled beach a few kilometres away. All because someone made a choice they shouldn’t have.’
‘Am I under arrest?’ Zoë asks again, tears spilling down her cheeks.
‘No, Ms Russo, Senior Constable Kolovelonis is just laying out the facts,’ Inglis explains.
‘It’s clear you’ve been drinking alcohol — some of it in a public space,’ Kolovelonis goes on. ‘And you almost caused a potentially fatal crash on the main street. Plus, you have no ID, no friends around, and it’s night-time.’
Zoë hangs her head in shame.
‘Based on all that, we’re going to give you a lift back to your accommodation,’ Inglis adds. ‘We can’t have you wandering around Saldana Strip by yourself.’
Zoë glances at the police car and imagines having to sit in it like a criminal. ‘I’m meeting my friends,’ she says. ‘I’ll call them right now.’
She reaches for her phone and remembers the battery is flat. It lies in her hand, useless.
‘Where are you staying, Ms Russo?’ asks Kolovelonis.
Zoë catches her breath. Her mind is blank. She can picture the resort’s lush greenery, sweeping landscapes and ocean views. But she still can’t remember its name.
‘It’s not far from here,’ she says. ‘Maybe the Seaside on the Strip? No, that’s not it. But it’s big, really really big, and has palm trees and a pool.’
Kolovelonis raises an eyebrow. ‘A pool? That doesn’t narrow it down.’
‘The Ella Suites?’ Inglis suggests.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Zoë says. ‘I’ll get myself there. I promise.’
‘You don’t know where you’re staying or where your friends are, or even how to reach them,’ Kolovelonis says. ‘We’re sticking with Plan A: you’ll come to the station and hang out until you sober up, then we’ll get you back to your friends. Deal?’
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 13
