by Melissa Keil
‘And, but … d’you think she prefers it that way?’
Elsie lets out a laugh-choked sob. ‘How should I know? I have, like, five minutes left before I leave here, maybe forever, and my best friend has spent the last bit of it lying and … and excluding me. She needed me just as long as she didn’t have anyone else, but now I’m discardable.’
I place the last pair of lime-green Chucks beside the now-neat row. It’s only vaguely satisfying; there are untied, uneven shoelaces to deal with, and mismatched red and blue laces in one set of runners that make my eyes hurt. I rub my hands over my face, wondering if the Nayers would mind if I just curled up on their doorstep and slept for the next century.
‘I don’t know what to say, Elsie. The last thing I wanted was to mess up stuff between you. Maybe you have a right to be mad, or hurt, or whatever, but just don’t leave her alone. Please. Whatever you think, she needs you. Maybe … you’re the only person she needs.’
Elsie tugs angrily at her bird’s-nest bun. She gives me that testicle-shrivelling glare again. ‘There’s nothing she needs that you or I can give her. The sooner we both accept that, the better.’ She swallows convulsively. ‘Anyway, I’m not the one who made the decision. Sophia left me behind a long time ago.’
I stand. My fingers are jiggling, trying to take flight. I am making nothing better by being here, and I’m suddenly convinced that every second I stay is somehow making things worse.
‘Elsie, I’m really, really sorry. But I know you guys can fix this.’
Elsie’s tears spill without warning. I stare at her, frozen and useless. I dig through my pockets and hand her a crumpled piece of silk from my vanishing thumb kit. The plastic thumb is still attached. She takes it from me with a snicker.
‘Yeah. She said you were weird.’ She stands and peers at me, full in the face, the evaluating look so similar to her best friend’s it makes my knees wobbly. ‘But I dunno,’ she says softly. ‘I think maybe normal is overrated. Something tells me you might be okay.’
I heave a sigh. ‘Thanks. Elsie, I … don’t think it’s a good idea if I call her, but please don’t give up on her. You and Sophia, you’ll work it out. You have to.’
With no better options, I go home. I lie under my shelves with an old deck of cards, but I can’t find the drive for anything but the most basic shuffle. I ignore the school books still safe in my bag, my dry, pointless homework and the crumpled pages of a practice exam wedged in the bottom of my satchel. I reckon today is not the day to face the growing roil in my guts, the feeling that might look a lot like panic if I acknowledge how far behind I’ve probably fallen. And I ignore my phone – the only person who wants to talk to me is Damien Pagono, and I’m really not in the mood for another extended chat about boobs. I’m struck with the god-sucky realisation that this sensation of floating in the world with no purpose or meaning might be all I have to look forward to.
I have no idea what to do with myself.
So I YouTube some music.
I stick on my headphones. I hunker down in bed. And I pray real hard that my cat finds some sympathy for me and eats my spleen while I’m asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The proof of dark matter
Monday. My nights have been almost sleepless. I briefly consider skipping school, but quickly decide that avoidance is illogical. There are only weeks left till graduation, but barring an asteroid collision or an invite from a secret-genius division of the CIA, I cannot miss all of them.
This morning, Ms Heller decides that we need to work on ‘grounding ourselves in our physicality’, so our exam rehearsals will be replaced by a special class on Baal. It’s a play about a guy who sleeps with lots of women, murders someone, and then dies alone in a forest – so it’s both relevant and appropriate.
I should be relieved that she’s giving us a brief reprieve from exam preparation, but I am so exhausted I’m not sure I even care anymore. I go through the motions, reciting my lines, until my character thankfully drowns herself. Ms Heller scowls – clearly my monotone and stiff, misplaced hand gestures are not Tony Award-worthy – but regardless, my work is done. I retire to the darkness at the back of the room where I can, hopefully, take a nap.
There was nothing in my locker this morning but books. Nothing in my bag but my TARDIS pencil case and Specialist textbook and a crisp green apple, courtesy of Dad. My pockets contain nothing but lint and old tissues. There was nothing on my homeroom desk but new graffiti that read: Stefano Kendrick is a giant bag of dicks. Elsie is absent. I saw no sign of Joshua.
‘Hey, ah, Ms Reyhart?’
I jump. Damien Pagono has materialised beside me. He is not sporting his usual smug face, but actually looks a little uncomfortable, I think.
He pulls a chair in front of me and straddles it backwards.
‘Can I help you?’ I say tiredly.
He shrugs. ‘Nah. Can I help you?’
‘Pardon?’
Damien squirms. He searches through his bag and pulls out a squashed chocolate bar, which he immediately proceeds to devour.
‘Look,’ he says through a mouthful of Snickers. ‘I dunno what happened with you and my boy Josh, but – he’s a good guy. Like, really decent. So maybe you could, I dunno, cut him a bit of slack? Or at least, undo whatever made his face look like someone’s napalmed his cubby house with his cat or some shit in it?’
I want to have this conversation with Damien Pagono about as much as I want to get up on that stage and perform an improvised battle rap. But I parse Damien’s garbled sentences, and I’m arrested by one thought.
‘I’ve upset him?’
For a moment, something foreign flashes across his face. I think he actually looks a bit mad. He shrugs again, his expression settling back into neutral. ‘Look, I ain’t judging. I don’t know what went down – the boy’s a vault, and it’s not like we’re sharing BFF bracelets – but yeah. He’s pretty blue.’
I glance at the front of the room. Romy Hopwood and her friends are parked on the stage steps while Ms Heller potters around Jeremy, who can’t seem to figure out how to work his wig.
The girls are laughing, doubled over, that kind of gasping, tear-filled laughter where no-one can catch their breath. Every now and then they quieten, amid gulping breaths and lots of shushing. But then one escaped giggle or snort sets the whole group off again.
I wonder what particular psychological phenomena is responsible for collective laughter. Romy is hugging her friend Amber, her arms seemingly the only thing stopping the smaller girl from tumbling off the stairs in glee. What is it that makes this laughter ostensibly real, and genuine? Why do I recognise it as true laughter, as opposed to, say, the staccato-guffaw that is the only thing I am able to produce when the spotlight shines on me?
I close my eyes. ‘Listen, Damien? I … I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll talk to him, but I really don’t want to talk about this with you.’
Damien stands. ‘Okay. That’s cool. But, hey, ah, Sophia? You know, I’ve always thought you were pretty okay.’ He clears his throat. ‘If you ever wanna, you know, practise your monologue, or whatever, I’m down. I’m less shit in this class than in everything else and, well, maybe I can help. Or whatever.’
I stare at him. His cheeks are a little red, small eyes downcast. I wait for the punchline, but nothing is forthcoming. I can’t imagine what he could want, but for some unknown reason, I am suddenly sure that he is not messing with me.
‘Maybe. Thank you, Damien.’
He grins. ‘And don’t tell Josh I talked to you, okay? Cos he’s a nice guy and all, but I reckon he might, you know, conjure one of my nuts off if he knew.’
I may have learned nothing in this class; I can only hope that by some miracle of thespian osmosis, my subconscious has absorbed a few rudiments, some tiny fragments of acting skill.
I think perhaps I’m about to find out.
It’s cold in the main building as people head outside for morning break. The wide doors snap back
and forth, icy air careening through the corridors.
I concentrate on keeping my breathing even. The ceaseless churn that I’ve been experiencing since Saturday is something beyond my usual anxiety; something beyond fight or flight.
But when I round the corner and see Joshua leaning with his forehead against the locker bank, my heart seems to shift into something heavy and disquieting. The line of his back is slumped, and his long hair is covering his face. I see his fingers fluttering almost indiscernibly against the door.
All I want to do is turn and run. But something in his defeated posture calls me forward. It’s magnetic, this thing between us, the thing that got me into this mess. It makes my feet move of their own accord, despite the nerves and nausea.
‘Hello,’ I say.
He opens his eyes and turns around.
‘Hello, Sophia.’
I stop a few steps away. The grates on his locker door have left an impression on his forehead, three horizontal lines pressed into his skin. It makes him look sort of confused, or quizzical. I have this insane urge to smile. I don’t think it would be helpful.
I plunge my hand deep into my blazer pocket. ‘I’m sorry about the weekend. It was a mistake,’ I blurt. Heat immediately floods my cheeks.
Joshua’s face contorts. He swallows, jaw working back and forth. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen,’ he says slowly. ‘Or to tell you those things. I swear, I never planned to –’
‘No, you didn’t do anything wrong.’ My right hand forms a fist in my pocket. ‘It’s not you –’
Joshua laughs wearily. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Really? That’s the line you’re going with?’
I can’t meet his eye. ‘I suck at this. You know my information on these things comes from questionable sources,’ I mumble.
My eyes flicker back to his. He smiles, briefly. ‘Elsie’s crappy movies. I remember. Did I ever tell you Gilly and I watched Sleepless in Seattle? I liked it. I mean, when my sister wasn’t pretending to vomit in her mouth. That kinda ruined the ambience. Her verdict, and I quote, was that “old-people love is sick and wrong”. I think maybe she missed the point.’
His words bounce over each other at a steady clip, though his speech is beset by more tics and hitches than I have heard from him in a long time. ‘Oh, and by the way, you do not suck, Sophia.’
My brain tumbles back to the darkened stairwell, the things he said to me, the misguided, wonderful, terrifying way he sees me. I try, for an instant, to find the words and the will to push past my fear. But then Joshua takes a step towards me, his dark eyes solemn.
‘Sophia, I’ll do whatever you need. If you need me to leave you alone, I will. I just want … wanted … to help. That’s all.’
The corridor has almost emptied. My hand in my pocket is clenched so hard it’s hurting, nails biting into my palm. But what can I tell him? That it’s not his help that I need? My brain just doesn’t work this way. I don’t know how to be a normal girl, the sort of girl he needs, and it’s no use pretending otherwise. As much as I wish it could be different, my brain is a giant arsehole. I can’t live in his bubble. I need to burst it, once and for all.
I back up a few steps and shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Joshua,’ I say softly.
If I had to put a label to his expression, I think it would be resigned. He nods. ‘Yeah. Me too.’
I turn and walk away. I need go back to my life, to the moment before all my messes became tangled up in some boy with kind eyes and a hopeless ambition to fix all my problems.
I withdraw my hand from my pocket as I stumble outside, releasing the coin that I’ve been clutching. I don’t know what’s more disturbing – the fact that I have Abraham Lincoln’s face imprinted on my palm, or the fact that I had every intention of returning his lucky talisman, and have no reasonable explanation for why I didn’t.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For those who believe, no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not, none will suffice.
– JOSEPH DUNNINGER
So I made it through the week. Well – endured it. I showed up to class. I even wrote some stuff. I didn’t grab one of the multiple muesli bars Damien kept shoving at me and beat him over the head with it. I’m counting that as a win.
I’m not working till this afternoon, which means I get to spend Saturday morning flat on my back, shifting my gaze between the underside of my lowest bookshelf and the stack of practice exams on my desk. Beneath the shelf, a tiny spider is cocooning an insect in a web. Her legs, like fine eyelashes, dance merrily around the body of the hapless bug that’s soon to be her dinner.
‘Oh how I envy you, little bug guy,’ I moan.
The clomp of size-five Doc Martens turns my head. Gillian’s scowling face pokes around my door. ‘For God’s sake, Josh, could you be more wretched? Last time I saw something this pathetic, it was smeared over the highway on that Christmas trip to Wollongong.’
‘Gilly, go away. I need to be alone.’
The door flies open with a thump. ‘Yeah, I don’t think so. This room is starting to smell like someone took a dump in a HAZMAT bin. And do you know you have a Dorito in your hair?’
She sinks onto my bed and yanks the chip out of my hair. Then she grabs my face and squeezes. ‘Joshie, come on. Snap out of it, man. There’s only room for one depressed a-hole in this house.’
I force a laugh through mashed fish-lips. ‘I’d never peg you as depressed, Ms G. Infuriated, sure. Obstinate and uncooperative …’ I sigh. ‘What’ve you got to be sad about?’ My sister pats my cheek, a sting bordering on a slap. ‘Turns out I’ve got another emergency parent-teacher meeting-thingy this week. I dunno, you call the head of Humanities a “reject from the Mr Bean teaching academy” one time, and suddenly your “attitude is in need of adjustment”. Teach me something worth learning and maybe you’ll see my attitude improve. Right?’
And there it is again. The sharp wrench of guilt and responsibility, wrapped in a neat bow of self-loathing and shame.
I close my eyes, covering my foggy glasses with a forearm. ‘Gillian … I’m sorry. I am the worst. I’m a piss-poor excuse for a brother. Man, the only way you could have a worse influence is if you had one of the Manson family, or, like, Caligula for a sibling –’
‘Joshua – are you kidding me?’ she squeals. She shoves me over with her hip and flops onto the bed beside me. Her hair smells of baby shampoo and the chemical tint of new green dye. When she looks at me with her giant cobalt eyes, I find myself, mortifyingly, misting up a bit.
‘Josh – you’re the only reason I bother showing up to school at all. Ever since I was little … anything worth knowing, I know from you.’
Gillian’s face scrunches. Her eyes are confused, innocent, and yet anything but. I remember all the nights she spent right here when she was little, scared of shadows and storms. But now, as Gilly watches me uncertainly, I’m struck by this awful feeling of inevitability, like I’m fast-forwarding into a future that I’m not ready to see. Who is this turbulent person going to become? How will she shape herself into a real person with a place in the world? What if she can’t? The thought makes me feel shitty and dog-tired.
Gillian rests her head on my shoulder. ‘Josh, listen up, because I am never going to say this again. You are a doofus and, like, freakishly tall – seriously, dude, you look like a llama – and the magic thing is so dorky I can’t actually believe we were spawned from the same people.’ She drums black-inked fingernails on my arm. ‘But you’re also a good guy. You can be funny, and smart, when you’re not trying to pull a chicken out of my ear or something. You know a lot of really random stuff, and, okay, a lot of it’s about old dead people, but still, you’ve got this weird knack of making it all seem kind of cool and interesting. You’re nice. You deserve someone nice. And if this chick doesn’t get that, well then, screw her.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘You want me to run her over with the car? I know where Mum keeps the spare keys.’
I rest m
y cheek against her head. ‘No homicide, Gilly. It’s not Sophia’s fault. None of this is her fault. It’s just … crap timing. But, you know, thanks for the offer. Please don’t murder anyone on my behalf.’ I kiss the top of her hair. ‘You are a bit awesome, you know that? Scary, and unhinged. But awesome.’
I can all but feel Gilly rolling her eyes, even as she snuggles closer. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
I laugh, rubbing my eyes beneath my glasses. ‘I kinda hate myself a little bit right now.’
Gilly shrugs, her shoulder jostling my head. ‘You wanna help me design a tattoo? I’ve been reading up on how those guys give themselves prison tatts, and reckon I could do a decent job with a biro and a safety pin.’
I smack the back of her hand. ‘Pass.’
‘Well then … do you wanna watch Frozen? There’s leftover apple turnover in the fridge. Dad made it. It’s not, like, totally vile.’
‘Frozen? Do we even still have that? I thought Mum gave it to the Salvos. Unless someone rescued it from the bin …?’
She sits up, her cheeks a charming shade of red. ‘So?’ she snaps.
I sit up beside her. ‘Gillian Anna Bailey. If you wanna watch Frozen, just say so.’
She punches me in the arm. ‘Hey! I’m trying to be nice, you jackhole.’
I stare at her. She drops her eyes.
‘Yeah,’ she mumbles. ‘I wanna watch Frozen.’
The suckfest continues on Sunday, though I have made the heroic decision to remain in bed, semi-comatose, rather than confront the real world.
I’m trying to drown out my life with YouTube, headphones in my ears, my head shoved under a pillow, when I sense someone standing in my room. I’m hoping they’ll either go away, or maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll beat me to death with one of my broken clocks. I keep my eyes resolutely shut until an impatient hand swats me in the foot.
I reluctantly extract my head to see Sam standing at the end of my bed. He buries his hands in his hoodie pockets and rocks back on his heels, looking as uncomfortable as if he’d walked in on me splayed out naked, performing a Midas Touch.
