‘We were such happy little dorks,’ she says.
‘Were?’ Prakash cracks.
Zoë looks closer at the photo. The paper in her hand is a printout of the hospital’s reference for her. She’s read it so many times in the past year that it’s committed to memory.
Zoë Russo is a determined and engaged young woman who demonstrates maturity, intelligence and a passion for the medical field well beyond her years. Her natural talent, combined with her determination, will see her go far. We would welcome Zoë back to our unit anytime and recommend her for any further placements or additional study or internships.
Zoë had shadowed different doctors and nurses on their rounds of the hospital wards. She’d seen mothers feeding newborn babies, bones being set, temperatures being taken and comforting words being given. On the last day, she’d been granted one-on-one time with three doctors to ask them anything she wanted about working in their field. She’d fired so many excited questions at one doctor that she’d had to politely ask Zoë to leave her office because her shift was over.
‘That week was incredible,’ she says.
Prakash laughs. ‘Maybe for you. I pressed the wrong button and killed the announcer’s microphone on live radio.’
‘Less than ideal.’
‘I did like reading the news though,’ he says in a formal newsreader voice, then cracks up. ‘Although they weren’t as impressed when I read the weather in a fake accent.’
‘Correction: a terrible fake accent.’
He grins. ‘It was only mostly terrible. Hey, remember when my parents and I busted you calling yourself Dr Russo in the mirror at my sixteenth?’
‘No!’ she says. Then, ‘Yes. I scarred the poor Patels for life.’
‘More like eternity.’
They break into laughter again.
Afterwards, they fall into silence until Zoë says in a quiet voice, ‘P, I still can’t believe I didn’t get into Number One.’
‘I know,’ Prakash says, his arm folding around her shoulders. ‘Me either. I know how badly you wanted it. Wanna talk?’
‘And say what? It is what it is.’
They fall into silence again and watch the sun weave a tapestry of bright oranges and pinks across the sky.
Prakash breaks first. ‘Well, one thing I could say is I’m convinced things will work out, even if it’s not the way you expect.’
‘I hope so,’ Zoë says with a small smile. ‘Still waiting to hear on Number Two. My last shot.’
‘Nah, there are so many pathways, Zo. If you don’t get the answer you want, there’ll be another way.’ His mouth breaks into a smirk. ‘And worst-case scenario: we concoct an evil plan to smuggle you into a medical degree. You’ve already got the bad girl rep after your night in a cell.’
‘Shut up,’ she says, elbowing him.
‘Here’s my theory: some slick producer will make a movie about you, the famous doctor — and me, because I’ll be the best-mate sidekick, of course. There’ll be a big premiere and you’ll take me as your plus-one, and some agent will see my raw potential, fall in love with my show reel and land me the role of a lifetime in Hollywood.’
Zoë passes him another slice of watermelon. ‘You’ve got it all planned out.’
‘I’m flexible,’ he says with a wink. ‘I’m open to directing a movie too. Oh, that reminds me . . .’ He passes her his phone again. ‘I cut together a little montage. It might be a while before we’re all together again and turns out Violet going full paparazzi was good for something after all.’
Zoë laughs. ‘The police photos better not be in here.’
‘Tempting, but I wouldn’t do you like that.’
‘P?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is all I wanted: my favourites, a hammock, a sunrise,’ she says, gesturing to the sky blossoming with reds and pinks.
‘Instead you got a sore head, family reunion and, as a bonus, a night in jail.’
‘Hey, it was only a few hours. Oh, and don’t forget my spill down the slide into the ball pit.’
Prakash grins. ‘The lesson here is: be more specific the next time you say you want a week to remember,’ he says, tweaking her nose. ‘I’m going to miss this, Zo. Hanging with everyone.’
‘I’ve never heard you admit that before.’
She rests her head on his shoulder as he presses play, and together they watch their week fly by in a mish-mash of colourful clips and photos.
Dahlia
Day 7: 7.49am
‘I’ve done something,’ Kiko says, pulling a folded piece of paper from her bag and passing it to Dahlia and Florence. ‘Look.’
Florence swallows the rest of her pancake and snatches the paper.
Beside her, Dahlia tries to peek over her shoulder. ‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘A revised list of everything we’ve done for Stevie,’ Kiko says. She pulls a baseball cap out of her tote and spins it on her closed fist. ‘Things this week, things before. It’s a mix of her original list and our humble attempts to make her proud. I felt all inspired after the concert last night and put it together.’
Dahlia snaps off a blade of grass and twirls it around her finger. ‘What about skydiving?’
‘I did that years ago, remember?’ Kiko replies. ‘Won that voucher through the school fundraiser. Based on our financial limitations, I vote that it counts.’
‘No argument here.’ Florence pulls the paper closer. ‘Learn the guitar? When did we do that?’
‘I play a few chords, badly, and I’ve had some lessons,’ Dahlia offers.
‘But none of us have been to Fiji,’ Florence adds. ‘A trip there was definitely on her original list.’
‘Shit, I forgot about Fiji,’ Kiko says, rifling through her tote. ‘And I don’t have a pen to add to the list.’
‘We’ll remember,’ assures Florence.
‘She also wanted a tattoo,’ Dahlia adds, her voice soft.
Kiko shudders. ‘Needles.’
‘Yeah.’ Florence grins. ‘We’ve already vetoed doing that.’
There’s a long lull as they realise that the list isn’t complete.
Then Dahlia clears her throat. ‘Maybe we could go on a holiday to Fiji one day?’
‘You mean fifty years from now, because that’s how long I’ll need to save up,’ Florence says.
Dahlia laughs. ‘Me too.’
‘It would be amazing,’ Kiko says, shaking her head with a wistful glimmer in her eyes.
‘Right?’ Dahlia plucks another blade of grass and twists it around the tip of her ring finger, winding it so tight the skin glows red. She stops herself. ‘I can’t believe this week is nearly over. If I go overseas—’
‘When you go overseas,’ Florence corrects her.
Dahlia smiles. ‘When I go . . . I’m going to be so far away from you both and I’m scared we’ll never see each other again.’ She cringes. ‘Who slipped me the truth serum on this trip?’
‘Of course we’ll see you,’ Kiko says, placing her baseball cap on Dahlia’s head. ‘And you can always be honest with us.’
Florence breaks into a warm grin. ‘We’ll all be seventy years old and rocking bikinis in Fiji, remember?’
‘Exactly,’ Kiko says. ‘You can’t get rid of us that easy.’
‘Good.’ Dahlia laughs. ‘Wouldn’t want to.’
‘There’s that truth serum again.’
‘No more reveals!’ Dahlia says. ‘Haven’t I admitted enough?’
‘This conversation reminds me we can add another thing to the list,’ Kiko says. ‘Radical honesty. Stevie was obsessed with the concept — no matter the consequences.’
Dahlia winces and pretends to hide beneath the cap. ‘Nightmare.’
Kiko smirks. ‘Here’s some honesty: this week has been perfect.’
‘Right,’ Dahlia scoffs. ‘We got robbed, nearly had a plane crash, my luggage still hasn’t shown up, I lost Stevie’s list—’
‘We swam at midnight, kisse
d on a beach, survived a haunted house, Florence skinny-dipped, you danced on a podium and we met Alotta,’ Kiko adds. She holds up her half-eaten pancake. ‘Even this terrible overcooked piece of rubber is perfect to me.’
‘We have done a lot of stuff,’ Dahlia admits.
‘That’s why Stevie would be proud: she knows how much we hate doing anything that involves getting off our bums,’ Florence says. ‘Here’s my radical honesty: I have this urge to go for a walk by the water right now because it looks so beautiful. Maybe I don’t hate doing stuff as much any more?’ She shudders. ‘Shit, am I earnest now?’
Dahlia laughs. ‘Who are you, Florence?’
The girls link arms and, with the sun beating down on their shoulders, walk towards the foamy cobalt waves rolling in to shore.
Dahlia expected to feel contentment when they ticked more items off Stevie’s list, but her mood falls flat. Out of instinct, her hand moves to her hair, winding the short pink strands around her fingers. She stares at the water, biting the inside of her cheek and feeling a year’s worth of emotions churn through her. Her sunglasses hide it all.
‘I miss her.’ Kiko’s cracked voice is quiet and small with grief. The paper dangles from her fingers. ‘So, so much.’
There are no words that feel enough, so Dahlia laces her fingers through Kiko’s.
Florence wipes away tears, staining her white T-shirt with mascara and lipstick. She steps in closer and they fall into a group hug.
Dahlia doesn’t know how long they stand like that; a human pretzel of limbs. She gives the others an extra tight hug, then gently peels back, making sure they’re all still connected.
‘I don’t think we’ll ever stop missing her,’ she whispers. ‘I watch these videos of us sometimes and think why wouldn’t we miss her? Stevie was wonderful.’
Florence sniffs. ‘I bet there are people who met her once, had a whirlwind time, never caught her last name, don’t even know what’s happened, who still talk about her.’
‘Exactly,’ Dahlia says, her fingertips grazing the fine gold chain around her neck. ‘She’s the most missable person.’
Kiko nods. ‘Trying to stop myself missing her makes it so much harder, like I’m fighting the most natural thing.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Florence says, rubbing at the red and black smears on her T-shirt.
‘So maybe we don’t try to stop ourselves missing her?’ Dahlia continues. ‘It makes sense that we miss her.’
‘It’s a feeling that’s here,’ Kiko says, closed fist to her chest. ‘Always.’
‘It is.’ Dahlia squeezes both the girls’ hands. ‘And I know I’ve been struggling this week — well, this year — but she was all of ours. I’ve been so lost in my own stuff I couldn’t see past myself.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you too.’
Florence wraps an arm around her. ‘Hey, you’re missing a little part of your heart, like the rest of us,’ she says.
Kiko flashes a weary smile. ‘Stevie would love this though.’
‘Us pining for her?’ Dahlia asks.
‘And snotting over our clothes,’ Florence adds, tugging at her stained T-shirt.
‘No, not that part . . . well, maybe.’ Kiko chuckles. ‘But us all being together on this trip. The laughing, the crying, the dancing, the list. It’s how she lived.’
‘Stevie gave life her all,’ Florence says, before snorting at herself. ‘I sound like a soppy card that you buy in a gift shop!’
‘It’s true though,’ Dahlia says. ‘Even if she was running at fifty per cent, she was still more alive than most people on earth. If she was here right now . . .’
She looks around. The toilet block is in one direction, the shuttle stop is in the other. A shuttle pulls in and a group of people wearing feather boas and crowns spill out of it.
‘The shuttles are free, right?’
Kiko nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Perfect. Any idea where they all go?’
‘None,’ Florence says.
‘Shall we?’ Dahlia asks.
‘It’s not quite skydiving or getting a tattoo, but let’s do it,’ Kiko says with a smile. ‘But first, more free pancakes.’
Samira
Day 7: 8.11am
Time can’t be stretched out any further so Samira says her goodbyes to the Peachies. Harry pecks her on the cheek and slips a handful of Alotta Peach confetti strips into her luggage. She and Kris share a misjudged hug that almost ends with a broken nose, then he insists she keep the red wig.
Tilly smiles a big bright smile, then hooks her arm through Samira’s and whisks her across the front yard away from the others.
‘Sammy, this has been some kind of magic,’ she says.
‘So you did place a hex on me,’ Samira teases.
‘I love my Peachies. We’ve been best friends forever and we’ve got another six months of following Alotta around. I couldn’t do life without them. But I’ve never made a good friend besides them, especially not out of nowhere, you know?’
Samira fights back tears. She does know.
‘We’ll come visit,’ Tilly adds. ‘I promise.’
Samira has heard those words more times than she can count from the friends at her previous school, who inevitably stopped messaging and drifted back into their own lives. But there’s something in the warm, open-hearted way Tilly looks at her that feels different this time.
Her stomach whirls and she dares herself to say it, her voice shaking a little. ‘I’d love that. And I’ll visit too. Maybe even save up enough money to meet you at an Alotta Peach show.’
‘Yes, yes! Who else can I watch old movies in fluffy bathrobes with?’
‘And devour fancy three-course meals and talk in front of portaloos with.’
‘And eat spontaneous dumplings and hold midnight exorcisms that absolutely, definitely work.’ Tilly bites her bottom lip. ‘I know you want to finish the trip in your own way before leaving today, but are you sure you want to be alone? I can stalk Alotta in a shopping centre anytime.’
Samira laughs. ‘And I’m sure you will. Thanks, but I need to do this final part by myself. Sounds weird, I know.’
‘I like weird.’
She smiles at the familiar words. ‘Me too.’ She pulls Tilly in close. ‘Last hug.’
‘For now.’
Samira winces. ‘I hate goodbyes. They suck every time.’
‘This isn’t a goodbye. It’s an “I’ll see you soon”.’
‘Then I’ll see you soon. Thanks again for the sword and shield. And for everything.’
‘The Warrior needs a sword and shield.’ Tilly grins. ‘And you deserve everything.’
Zoë
Day 7: 8.20am
The shuttle stop is flooded with people waiting for a free ride. They laze on the grass and pace the footpath running the length of the beach.
‘Delays,’ a man in a high-vis vest tells Zoë. ‘There’s a backlog from a jam on the highway. Shouldn’t be too long.’
Zoë joins Prakash, Greta and Luca who are stretched out on a patch of lawn not far from the shuttle stop.
‘What’s up with the wait?’ Prakash asks.
‘Traffic jam,’ Zoë says. ‘There’ll be one soon.’
‘Or I could book us a ride?’ Greta suggests.
‘Yes!’ Luca says as his phone bursts into life. ‘Oh, wait up, it’s Mum. Better take this.’
‘Say hi to Aunty Elena!’ Zoë calls out, while the others pull silly faces at him.
Luca shoos them away and wanders off, phone to ear, to stand by a large tree with a craggy trunk etched with love hearts and people’s initials.
Zoë’s phone buzzes. She looks down. There’s an email notification on her home screen.
‘It’s Number Two,’ she says. ‘I can’t bear to look.’ She throws the phone at Prakash, who fumbles to catch it. ‘I want to have a relaxed day at the markets.’
‘Zo, do it,’ he says, holding the phone out to her. ‘Not l
ooking won’t change anything.’
She refuses to take it. ‘It changes everything. Once I know, either way, nothing will feel the same. And if it’s a no, I don’t know what I’ll do.’
‘If it’s a no, we’ll be here with you. Whatever you need.’
‘Prakash is right,’ Greta says. ‘But what if it’s a yes?’
Zoë groans. ‘Fine! You two look, although you’ll probably need a password for the portal.’ She buries her face between her knees and pulls her arms around her. ‘Tell me when the pain’s over.’
There’s a long, tense pause but then she hears Greta gasp. She looks up.
‘Zo, there isn’t a portal . . .’ Prakash stammers.
‘What do you mean?’ Zoë’s eyes widen. ‘It says it in the email?’
Chest pounding, she snatches the phone from him. She only manages to read the first two sentences before her eyes are wet with tears. Her sniffs transform into heaving sobs and she flops back onto the grass, burying her face in the crook of her elbow.
‘You okay?’ Prakash asks. ‘Zo?’
‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ she gurgles, struggling to catch her breath.
Greta reaches for her hand. ‘You read it properly, right?’
‘Am I hallucinating?’ Zoë asks. Her voice is almost a squeak. ‘Is it a dream?’
Prakash breaks into a grin. ‘Nope. The doctor is in!’ He punches the air, scoops her up into his arms and swings her around. ‘You did it!’
‘Read it again,’ Greta urges.
Zoë exhales, hands shaking, barely feeling connected to her body.
Dear Zoë,
It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you that you have received early acceptance into our faculty of Medicine.
You have been given this opportunity in recognition of your personal and academic achievements.
For more than 125 years, students have entered our institution and left prepared for success in their field.
We attach a booklet with this email for you to review and familiarise yourself with the campus and its many facilities. A welcome package with further details will be mailed out within the next week.
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 22
