by Emily Gale
I linger outside her bedroom door, scared of what I’ll find if I go in. Dad’s taken Sophie out for ice cream, so it’s just me. I worry I’m not up to this task.
The sobbing stops. It’s quiet, then she blows her nose. I knock softly.
‘Come in.’
Mum’s on the bed, facing the window. I sit down next to her and look out the same way she is.
‘I hate that tree,’ she says.
‘Is that why you’re upset?’
She laughs. ‘No, sweetheart.’
‘What, then?’
‘Oh, love.’ She takes one of my hands. ‘I’m all right.’
I look at her face. ‘Are you and Dad splitting up?’
‘No!’ she says, watching our hands. ‘I had a scare – a bad one – but I’m okay. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Tell me, Mum. I can handle it.’
‘I’ve no doubt that you could, Mi. In fact I’ve no doubt that you could handle anything you set your mind to. Okay. It was a breast-cancer scare. And I’ve been trying to keep it all a secret because I didn’t want to upset everyone. Now your dad’s found out and he’s pretty hurt that I didn’t tell him.’
The piece of information that I couldn’t fit into place suddenly slots in.
‘Is that why you were taking a naked selfie in the bathroom?’
‘Good grief, you saw me?’
‘Accidentally.’
Mum puts her free hand over her eyes. ‘Oh, Milo. I’m sorry. What must you have thought?’
‘I did a good job of un-thinking it in the end. That doesn’t matter. Are you really not sick?’
‘I’m really not. I’m so lucky I could scream. And I’ve realised lately that I was so busy rushing around trying to make everything perfect for you and Soph, I couldn’t see that things were already as perfect as life gets.’ She rubs the hand she’s holding with her other hand. ‘I wish I’d slowed down.’ Mum looks into my eyes. ‘I will slow down now. I won’t go back to being that headless chicken in gym gear.’
‘I like your gym gear.’
She smiles. ‘Maybe I’ll still wear it a bit, then. But no more Instagramming Sophie’s entire life. I know the part I played in her sending that video of herself to a boy. She doesn’t want to be my doll, and I don’t blame her.’
I cast my mind back to the last few weeks. The way Mum seemed to do even more than usual for a while. And then the changes that we only noticed because it meant we weren’t getting the same things from her. Our barometer of Mum has always been the things she does for us. ‘Did you find out about the scare just before school started back?’
‘That’s when I first suspected. Why?’
‘You were never still. And then you went really quiet.’
‘I did, didn’t I? I thought that, if I didn’t stop for a single moment, I could outrun my fear. Convinced myself that wishing and doing and rushing were going to be enough. But it’s always better to face things – that’s what I’ve learnt.’
Mum looks at me – really looks at me – like she can see the real me. And for the first time in a long time – or maybe ever – I can see the real Mum.
After dark, I go into the garden. The moon is tucked behind a tree. A yellow light comes from Wren’s open window. Finally, they’ve got electricity again. Whenever she wanted me to meet her at the fence, she used to throw a stone against my side window. And I had a bird call. It always worked, and she’d come out laughing because she thought it was the worst impression of an owl that she’d ever heard.
‘Whoo … Whoo!’
I sit with my back to the fence, by the ear-shaped hole, and wait. After a minute, the fence moves against my back and I know she’s there.
‘I heard about what you did,’ she says.
‘It wasn’t just me. People helped.’
‘Well, it was brilliant. Thank you.’
‘I did it for everyone.’
‘I know. But I’m thankful to have someone like you … Except, do I have you, Milo? Are we still friends?’
‘Yes, we’re friends. But I need to ask you something.’
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then: ‘Okay. Ask.’
‘I’m just going to say it.’
‘Yep. Do it.’
‘Straight out. Right now.’
‘Milo …’
Deep breath. ‘Wren, do you want to be my girlfriend?’
I rub the palm of my hand hard with my thumb. I have to know the answer – and I really don’t want the answer.
‘No, Milo.’
I hold my head. Oh God. I knew this would happen, but I still hoped.
‘Milo, say something.’
I get up, only using my legs and abdomen, grasping my head because it feels like it’s going to explode. ‘I have to go.’
‘Milo …’
I turn to face the fence. A million words she’s said and things we’ve done are charging around inside me. This is much more painful than I could have imagined.
‘Milo …?’
One of her fingers comes through the hole and grips the edge of it. Her nail is bitten, the fingertip dirty with her favourite charcoal. I hold all the pain of love inside my skull and go back inside my house.
Close to midnight, I sense the door open and Sophie walks in. I don’t take off my headphones. Sophie puts a piece of paper in front of me. It says ‘thank you’ in swirly writing, with hearts all over it. Silently, I nod at her once and prop the note against my laptop screen. She puts another piece of paper on the keyboard.
I, Milo Witkin, do solemnly swear to go on a Wren-free diet until I am happy again. Because I deserve it (to be happy, I mean). And p.s. my sister Sophie thinks I’m ace.
Signed: …………….
The first week back after my suspension has been a bit different. A lot of people like what I did with the hacking and aren’t shy about telling me, so suddenly I’m not the school defect. Unfortunately, it’s also led to people begging me to do it again, with messages I’m not so comfortable about sharing. I mumble something about firewalls and new security and throw in some other words they’ve probably never heard of.
The attention is confusing. That’s not why I did it. I did it for Sophie and Wren and everyone – all the people who were hurt.
I miss Wren. Yesterday, I reached down the side of my wardrobe for the portrait – Wren’s face in the map – but it wasn’t there. I panicked. Actually, I tore my room apart and cried. I asked Dan what he thought had happened and he said, ‘I reckon it’s hidden in a safe place, like your friendship is. Don’t worry.’ And that’s pretty much the best advice he’s ever given me.
One month later – a month largely spent in my bedroom – I hear footsteps on the porch. The doorbell rings, Mum’s runners squeak up the hall, and there’s a voice I don’t recognise. My bedroom door opens and this tall, scruffy-haired boy with a massive smile decked out in braces is standing there.
‘Dan?’ I get up.
‘I think so. Yep, I’m sure it’s me.’ He walks in and puts his bag on my bed.
‘We thought it was about time you two had a weekend together,’ says Mum. She scoots off, yelling something about pizza in an hour.
‘I can’t believe it, Dan.’
‘Well, believe it, dude, cos here I am.’
I can’t stop staring at him.
He moves around my room picking up all my stuff. ‘Cool night-vision goggles. Hey, I have this exact Enderman mug. Poems by Emily Dickinson – what the hell, dude?’
I’m still staring.
Then he plonks down on my bed and I sit on my chair and … It’s awkward.
How can it be awkward between us?
Dan gives me this goofy metal smile and then reaches for his backpack. He takes out his laptop and settles himself comfortably with his feet on my bed. He types something and points at my computer.
D: This is weird.
M: I’m freaking out.
D: Feels better now, though. Right?
D: I like your room in real life. We could chill here for a while. I have chips in my bag. Eat snacks and kill zombies for a few hours?
M: Cool. Get on my server and see all the new stuff I’ve built.
D: Who’s this other player in here? WeirdPoet – who’s he?
M: She.
D: You mean Juliet? She plays Minecraft? Since when?
M: Not long. But she’s really good. You’ll like her.
D: Oh my god, you’ve kissed her.
M: No comment.
D: You have. I can feel it.
M: Still can’t believe you’re here. Maybe tomorrow, when this isn’t so strange, I can show you around.
D: Will there be any girls? (Totally kissed her!)
M: Hundreds, Dan. There will be hundreds. (Shhh! Yesterday.)
Six months later
‘This is the last one,’ Juliet says, twisting the wire around the base of the candle and passing it to me. ‘I can’t believe we made fifty of them. And we only broke … about a million pieces of willow.’
‘That was mostly Wren.’ Hari hangs the one she’s finished up to dry and turns to smile at me. I don’t deny it.
There’s barely room to move in Juliet’s apartment. The wedding is tonight, and apparently all weddings are incredibly stressful even if you keep saying for six months, as Juliet’s mums have been, that they don’t want a fuss, just something low-key.
But it’s going to be beautiful.
‘What did you tell your mum in the end?’ Juliet asks Hari.
‘Actually, I told her the truth about who was getting married. She reacted exactly how I thought she would, but then Dad persuaded her to let me come. Baby steps.’
It isn’t fair, but it’s not my business to say that to her. Somehow Hari’s more herself than anyone I’ve ever met, secrets or not.
Adie comes out of Jean and Tracey’s bedroom, looking pale. ‘Remind me again why I agreed to do their hair and make-up.’
‘To get out of making the lanterns,’ I say.
‘Oh, that’s right! Well, these are amazing.’
‘How do the mums look?’ asks Juliet.
‘Jean’s done. I’m pretty sure I’ve created a masterpiece. I’m going into your room to do Tracey now.’
‘And they really haven’t seen each other all day?’ says Hari. ‘That’s quite an achievement. What happens when one of them needs the toilet?’
‘There’s a special knock,’ says Adie.
‘And we have to keep guard because Jean keeps trying to cheat.’
Adie crosses the living room and goes into Juliet’s bedroom to get Tracey ready. Their doorbell rings.
‘Wren, can you get that?’ says Juliet. ‘I’m covered in glue.’
I know who it is by the height behind the mottled glass. There’s only a whisper of nerves, a flicker of awkwardness now, when I see him. We’re slowly getting back to where we were.
‘Welcome to the sisterhood,’ I say.
‘Is it safe to come in?’
‘Take your chances.’ I step back and open the door wider to let him pass.
‘You cut your hair,’ he says, stopping suddenly.
I shrug, like it’s no big deal, when in fact it was my first haircut in five years and I still keep reaching for my hair and gasping when I feel the ends up by my ears.
‘Nice.’ He carries on walking.
From the hallway, I listen.
‘You’re here already!’ Juliet says. ‘Okay, come and meet my mums. They want to thank you for drawing the map for the invitations. But you have to meet them one by one because they’re being held in separate rooms.’
I can just picture Milo frowning, and I walk in to see if I’m right.
I’m right.
‘Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,’ I clarify.
‘Right. But maybe it’s cancelled out if it’s two brides.’
‘Don’t confuse us, Milo. Come on, meet Jean first,’ says Juliet.
‘Okay, I’ll do my best to be …’ He looks from Juliet to me and back again.
‘Be you,’ she says, as I’m thinking it. The two of them go to Jean’s room.
When I look at Hari, she’s got the cat in her arms.
‘Pretty cute, those two,’ I say.
Hari buries her nose in the cat’s fur and keeps looking at me with her deep brown eyes, and I get the flip in my stomach that I’ve been trying to ignore.
Everyone meets at the X on Milo’s hand-drawn map: a small park not far from the high street where a friend of Tracey’s has parked with the back of her ute filled with our paper lanterns. Hari and I are in charge of handing out the long willow sticks with hooks on the end, while Milo goes around attaching each lantern and Juliet reaches in carefully through the paper windows to light the candles.
It’s mostly an older crowd. Jean and Tracey’s friends, Jean’s parents, Tracey’s younger sister, who’s flown over from Germany – she looks a lot like Adie, actually. On the outskirts of the group, Tom from school stands with his dad, both a head taller than the next tallest person. The lanterns are like golden pyramids. There’s no wind. A few people are taking photographs, but I don’t know if this could be captured by anything except your own eyes and every nerve ending.
‘Well, I think we’re ready,’ says Jean.
She already has tears in her eyes and it’s setting everyone else off, but I just have goosebumps with how this is going to look – fifty people walking through the streets and along the Yarra River with glowing paper lanterns.
‘Milo and Juliet, I want you up in front navigating. And then me, followed by all you beautiful people,’ she says, wiping her eyes.
‘We love you, Jeannie!’ shouts a man from the crowd. A few others whistle and cheer, the lanterns sway and the moon is up, and it feels like there’s something powerful and elemental about tonight and this group of people. Jean laughs as she cries.
‘Mum,’ giggles Juliet. ‘Come on, dry your eyes, think of the photos.’ Then, in a loud voice, she calls out, ‘Everyone, follow two by two after Jean.’
Tracey is already at the boathouse, with Adie and their own lanterns, waiting on the jetty for the procession to arrive.
They set off and Hari whispers, ‘Let’s go last.’
The sky is a purple haze and the lanterns bob away from us, gently, in twos. Hari’s hand slips into mine and I squeeze it, my heart thudding so incredibly loudly. I think this is it. The distance between us and the back of the line grows, but we don’t move.
I look up, see her lips – a small, beautiful smile – and I know that the time for us to decide has passed. There’s only one answer to this moment. My breath quickens as we move closer, eyes open. Our lips touch yes, touch yes again. I move one hand to the back of her neck; she slides one arm around my waist. Our lips know more than we do. I close my eyes and now the kiss is deep. It is everything I want to say to her, and it is unafraid with electric waves that make us hold each other tighter.
A beginning kiss, underneath our lanterns, while the sky turns and turns around us.
As I write this note of thanks, I find it hard to believe that this book is finished. There were many times when I thought I’d never get here, and now that I am it’s difficult to let go.
I don’t think I would have begun this book in the first place were it not for the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, writers, teachers, and readers of all ages who wrote to me or showed their support in other ways for The Other Side of Summer. You gave me the courage to try something that has been my ambition for a long time.
Once I’d finished writing The Other Side of Summer, there was so much more I wanted to say about Summer’s sister, Wren, and their next-door neighbour, Milo. When a writer whose work I adore suggested the same thing, unprompted, it was the spark I needed to get going – thank you, Fiona Wood.
My publisher, Zoe Walton, has been the voice of reason througho
ut the process. Thank you, Zoe, for your passion and encouragement, too. There could not be a more patient editor than Catriona Murdie. Thank you for everything you’ve done, Catriona – all the wrangling, every gremlin you located, every reassuring note in the margins. And thank you to Victoria Stone for the finishing touches.
Thank you to everyone at Penguin Random House who helped to get The Other Side of Summer into the right hands and for helping me to fulfil this ambition of putting a big-sister book out into the world.
I lost my mind several times over this story and there are three people who listened and gave wonderful advice and support numerous times over two years. Nova Weetman, I’m so lucky to know you. Nina Kenwood and Bronte Coates, you are both amazing. Thank you.
A lot of research went into this book, but the insights of two readers in particular proved essential. Jess Flint, I’m grateful for your generosity, diligence and humour – thank you for your brilliant notes and for sharing so much. Steph Cuthbert, your observations and suggestions were so spot-on and valuable. I can only hope I’ve done justice to the notes I received from both of you. Any errors are mine.
Astred Hicks is the most incredible cover designer. Thank you, Astred, for making the two companion books look perfect side by side.
Thank you to the real Mr Witheridge, one of several English teachers whose lessons were always my favourite.
Cece Jackman’s self-portrait was inspired by the work of the brilliant artist Lily Mae Martin.
Thank you to my children, Maddy and Jonah – not only for wisely ignoring me when I was tearing my hair out, but for answering all of my questions about language, Minecraft, snakes, teenagers, art, friendship, feelings, school – basically everything this book is about. I love you.
Finally, thank you to Aaron Smith, to whom this book is dedicated. I know the island bit didn’t work out, but I hope you can see all the bits that did. Thank you for storing a screenshot of that one time I said I was happy with my work and for showing it to me every time I said I was not, and for all the other ways that your humour and patience nudge their way into the difficult days and make things better.
