‘Thanks for looking after me,’ I say.
Steffi drags her eyes from my house and looks at me, her face flushed. ‘No worries.’ She shrugs and smiles. ‘You know, if you’re going off the deep end I can help.’
I laugh, try to sound light. We used to be the same, her and me, same life experiences, same everything. Now she seems to have years on me.
‘Later, Luce,’ she says and walks off to her place.
I count to ten, then cross the road and walk up the front steps. I didn’t mean to stay out all night, I’m in so much trouble.
The house reeks of bacon and it makes my stomach turn. Dad’s at the dining table, reading the paper, relaxed—not looking for me. Auntie Deb is in the kitchen washing up.
She bustles over to me and grabs my arm, her hand hot and damp with suds. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
I glance at Dad. ‘I’m home,’ I call. He looks up and I pull my arm back from Deb.
‘Been out for an early?’ he says, eyes still flicking back to the paper. He thinks I’ve been surfing?
‘No,’ I say, he should know I haven’t been to the beach in months—he should know that.
‘What the hell?’ Dad snaps and my stomach pinches. He whacks the paper. ‘Towra is getting a Bunnings. That’s too damn close.’ He rubs his head. ‘How am I gonna compete with those prices?’
Deb clears her throat and Dad refocuses on us. ‘She’s been out all night.’
I cut my eyes to Deb.
‘You what?’ Dad folds the paper. ‘Where were you?’
I want to tell him the truth. That I got passed out drunk and slept in a strange boy’s bed. I want to see what he’d do—he didn’t even notice I wasn’t here. But I’m too chicken shit.
‘I was at Megan’s,’ I say.
He looks at Deb. ‘Did we know that?’ She shakes her head. ‘I expect better than that, Lucy. We need to know where you are.’
You need to notice I’m not here.
‘Okay?’ he says.
I suck in my cheeks and nod.
He goes back to the paper. Dad doesn’t see me anymore. He doesn’t see anything. And I doubt Mum’s even out of bed yet.
I disappear into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I run the water too hot and stand under it too long.
After my shower I collapse across my bed. I imagine I’m far away, disappearing in the clouds, and everyone and everything gets smaller and smaller. The headland spreads out like a quilt underneath me. Somewhere down there my brother is buried—a box of underground sea.
After a while my damp towel makes my skin itch and I’m forced out of bed to find clothes. I pull on undies and a T-shirt, bury myself back under the covers and sleep the rest of the day away.
It’s dark when I wake up. I check my phone: 10.15. My skin is burning and I push back my covers, tugging up my sweaty T-shirt and exposing my stomach to the slightly cooler air.
It physically hurts to move but I get out of bed and creep into the kitchen for some water. The house is dark except for the blue glow of the muted television. Dad is asleep on the couch. I get my water and head back to my room.
I slide open my door to the deck. The air is hot but a cool breeze twists its way through. The cicadas are in full force tonight, drowning out the distant crash of the ocean.
I go back inside and take Cam’s shoebox out from under my bed. Why were these all tucked up high in a box? I run my hands over them, feeling the charcoal between my fingers. I lay out the faceless girl and try to see something new.
Her T-shirt hangs loose from her frame, collarbone pronounced, everything detailed except her face. He took so much care, the detail must’ve taken hours. Was she important to him? The drawing is made up of separate sheets of paper—maybe once she had a face and he took it away. Who is she?
I rifle through the top drawer of my desk until I find my charger. Lucky the parents got us the same crappy phone. I take Cam’s phone out from where I hid it between my socks, and plug it in.
The screen takes ages to light up. There’s no reception but that’s not surprising. The headland tends to block most mobile signals. Besides, it’s not as if I’m going to call anyone. I open his photos and hunt through for any girls it could be. Beaches, Cam, Ryan. Where the hell is Ryan? I want to call him. Simmo said he was back but he’s still not here. I close Cam’s photos and open his text messages.
There’s one from Ryan that just says ‘you know I’m right’, and one from Simmo asking ‘Where R U guys?’
And that’s it. Except it’s not. There’s a new message from an unknown number.
Watcher
You stand on the sand
Board under your arm
Eyes tight against the sun
You pick your spot and enter the waves
The swell sucks you in and pulls you under
You wait while the current surges
Then lifts you up and sends you back to shore
6
Nine weeks.
My brother has an end point. No matter how bad I crave those last few weeks with him back, and to know they would be his last, to somehow reach out and stop him, time will keep taking me further away.
He has stopped and I keep going.
Three knocks on my bedroom door. ‘Lucy?’ Auntie Deb. ‘Someone’s here to see you.’
I’m plastered to my bed, aching, sweaty and sour.
‘Lucy?’
Cam’s phone tells me it’s after 10. Turns out all I needed was copious amounts of alcohol to sleep in like a normal person.
Someone’s here to see me.
My throat’s rusty and I cough to get my voice back. ‘Yeah,’ I croak at Deb.
Peeling myself out of bed I find some pants and slide open my door to the deck. Slowly, so slowly, I walk round to the front door.
Megan turns towards me. She’s dressed in black Adidas shorts and a matching tight black T-shirt—as if she’s jogged here all the way from Port.
Megan is what you picture when you think of an athlete: strong, calm, disciplined. Everything about her is purposeful.
In primary school I used to idolise her. The way she’d walk around the swim centre like she owned it. I was ten when I first started going, and immediately signed up for all the same classes as her. I remember telling Mum my red swimsuit was no good and I needed a blue Speedo one. She said my swimsuit was fine, and it was. Until I took the scissors to it.
Megan holds up my blue mesh swim bag. ‘Thought you might want this back.’
‘Thanks,’ I say but make no move to take it.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ I straighten up. ‘Fine.’ My brother’s phone has a weird stalky text message and I’m fighting an urge to throw up but I’m fine.
She takes a step towards me and places the bag on the deck between us. ‘I can’t stay long. Mum’s waiting in the car.’
I glance at the silver four-wheel drive on the street, yellow L-plate magnets stuck to the front and back. I didn’t even know she’d gone for her test.
‘I was thinking maybe you’d like to come over.’
The phone is in my back pocket, switched to vibrate, because that message wasn’t there when the police checked his phone and whoever it was might send another one.
‘What for?’ I ask. Not hearing from her for months . . . although at the time I almost valued her silence, it stung.
She presses her lips together. ‘We could use my pool. I’ve got club at four but we could try before then.’
‘Yeah. Maybe,’ I mutter.
‘Maybe means no, right? What about getting down to Canberra? You’ve still got time.’
She means the Institute of Sport week coming up in May. I suck in my bottom lip and glare at my feet. ‘You know I don’t.’ I’m out of sync and it would take me too long to reach my peak again. ‘I’ve been out too long.’
‘How about the carnival next week? Look, have you tried again?’
I stare at her.
‘Lucy.’ She sighs.
‘I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘I Googled it,’ she says.
‘Googled what?’
‘Fear of the water. Aquaphobia.’
‘God, Megan.’ I rake my hands through my hair. ‘I’m not scared of the water.’ I keep my voice low, not knowing who might be home and able to hear.
‘I think you are. And I think it’s to do with your brother.’
My eyes sting and I glare at the cloudless sky. I am not going to cry.
‘Because he drowned,’ she says. ‘It’s traumatised you.’
Cam in the water. It was dark, he couldn’t see. Cam’s face under the water—he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
My lungs close up.
‘No,’ I say, pulling at my shirt.
‘Lucy?’
‘Shut up, all right? Just, shut up.’ I breathe deep through my nose.
‘Let me help you.’
‘I don’t want your help,’ I snap. ‘Just go, all right?’ I point at the car. ‘Go.’
She goes.
I stagger back inside and dry-retch over the toilet.
At school I’m a zombie.
The teachers try to engage me, ask me questions, but I can’t make myself respond. I sit in class with the text message on Cam’s phone repeating in my brain.
Watcher.
Who’d be watching him surf? Tara, maybe. Probably. I can picture her doing it, eyeing him from further up the beach—sorry for what she did.
‘Do you want to be here?’
I shake my head and make myself focus. Ms Dyer is standing over Jeremy Haines, hands on her hips while he tries to eat his laughter.
The bell rings, she gives him detention, and we all shuffle out to lunch.
But why text him? He’s not here, he can’t answer. Do they know that? I check the date: last week, first day of school.
‘Lucy?’ Megan waves her hand in front of my face.
‘Huh?’ I shove the phone back in my pocket. We’re sitting at our usual lunch table in the quad. Neither of us mentioning her coming over yesterday.
‘I asked if you could give Al some tips—help her get her speed up.’
Alix gives me a small smile, rubbing her elbow.
‘Al knows what to do,’ I tell Megan. ‘She’s gonna get it back.’
‘Thanks,’ Alix whispers.
Megan groans. ‘That doesn’t help me now,’ she snaps.
‘Well guess what, Megan,’ I snap back, ‘not everything’s about you.’
I chuck the remainder of my lunch in the bin and head to class. Maybe if I’m ten minutes early I’ll be able to focus.
I’m a passable student for my next two classes and then the final bell rings for the day.
I’ve got some time before my bus so I take the long way round, past the table near the art room where my brother and his friends always sat.
Echoes of them settle around me as two birds squabble over food scraps on the table.
‘Dude! That was my pie!’ Ryan punched Cam in the arm and Cam shot him a pastry-flecked grin.
‘I’d say sorry,’ he shrugged and grinned again, ‘but I was hungry.’
‘You arsebag.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ Cam stood on the table and pointed at his friend. ‘You know I love you.’
‘No.’ Ryan buried his face in his hands.
I hung back near the path and watched as he belted out ‘Boys of Summer’ in Ryan’s honour.
I skirt the art building and the empty table and head for my bus stop. Taking Cam’s phone from my pocket, I hover on a photo of Ryan—grinning at the camera, all blond hair, blue eyes and dimples—then flick to the message and reread it for the hundredth time.
My eyes land on the time and—oh shit! My bus leaves now. I sprint the rest of the way and make it to the gate in time to see it drive off.
I drop my bag and kick it. ‘Fuck!’
‘Well,’ says a voice next to me, ‘you carry a girl up a hill and this is how she greets you.’
I whirl around. Evan is sitting on the bench near me, tapping at his phone. He’s slunk down low, legs spread wide.
‘I . . . sorry. I missed my bus.’ Oh God, I’m going to have to call Deb.
Evan glances up from his phone. ‘Sucks.’
I grab the strap of my bag and drag it over the concrete. Evan straightens up as I sit down.
‘This day has been the worst.’ I hunt through my bag for my phone—because of course it’s not where I usually put it.
‘So,’ Evan says, ‘you recover all right after Friday?’
I find my phone—wedged between the pages of my maths book—and look over at Evan, my mind slowly putting together what he said before. ‘Did you really carry me back from the cove?’
‘You don’t remember?’
I swallow, I know I got up the hill somehow and I have vague memories of being carried. But I don’t remember who carried me. ‘Not really.’
He shakes his head. ‘My most heroic moment and you don’t even remember.’ His mouth quirks into a smile. ‘How am I gonna impress you now?’
‘I’m really sorry. But, thank you? I mean, that was really nice of you and I don’t normally do that and . . .’ I shut my mouth. ‘I can’t believe I was that drunk.’
‘Don’t worry. I spent most of last year that drunk.’ Evan drums an uncertain beat on the seat and my eyes rest on the brightly coloured rubber band bracelet on his left wrist—so out of place with the rest of him. He continues to fidget, drumming his fingers and jiggling his knee, then he goes back to his phone.
I pause on Deb’s name on my screen and decide to call her later. I find my earbuds and scroll through the music on my phone—I was only able to fit a fraction of what I wanted on here.
Evan leans over and I show him my screen with The Flaming Lips artwork on it. ‘Good song,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’ I smile. ‘I like this one more though.’ I swipe to the next track but my thumb is trembling and I lose my spot. ‘Ahh.’ I flick back. ‘Here.’
‘Mm.’ He takes my other earbud and puts it in his ear. ‘Yep. Right in the heart.’
‘My brother got me into them,’ I say and it comes out high and jumpy.
He keeps talking, asking me if I’ve heard of different bands and what I’m into, and it dawns on me that Evan doesn’t know. He has no idea who my brother is or was and what happened.
Then he goes quiet and we sit there, joined by a thin cord, as The Flaming Lips ask us if we realise.
‘Well that was a waste of time.’ Steffi barges out of the school gate. I’m still not used to her hair and I wonder if she’s gotten flack about it from anyone. At school, changing anything is up for stupid commentary. ‘Are you ready to go?’ she asks Evan. She sees me. ‘Lucy,’ she says.
‘Steffi,’ I answer.
Evan hands back my earbud and stands, grabbing his bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder. He digs his keys from his pocket, looks at the ground then at me. ‘You want a ride home?’
I follow them through the half-empty car park, past utes, four-wheel drives and Yarises. Evan unlocks the door of an old three-door red hatchback.
I stop. ‘That’s your car?’
‘Yep.’ Evan opens the boot and dumps his bag in. ‘’78 Holden Sunbird.’
He says it like it’s something to be proud of.
Steffi yanks open the passenger door. ‘It was our grandma’s.’ She pulls the front seat forward so I can climb in the back.
‘Not gonna be much grandma about it when I’m done.’ Evan leans on his door. ‘You getting in?’
‘I just . . .’ I edge towards it. ‘Is it safe?’ The car looks like it wouldn’t make it out of the car park, let alone to the Bay. Maybe I should call Deb.
‘Well, it’s not what killed Nan,’ Steffi says. ‘Come on if you’re coming.’
But anything is better than driving home with Deb. I climb into the cramped back seat. The interior is wood-panell
ed and everything has a solid clunky feel. My seatbelt is a weird lap one, like the ones you wear on an airplane.
Steffi pushes her seat back and my knees press up against it. Evan starts the engine. ‘All good?’ he asks over his shoulder but the crackly music eats up my reply. He pulls out of the car park. The music is a fast punk song I don’t recognise. I lean forward to hear better—the car only has front speakers and . . . ‘Is that a tape deck?’
Evan laughs. ‘Yep.’
‘I hope stereo is high on your list of upgrades,’ Steffi says.
‘No way,’ I say, ‘that is actually cool. You need to keep that.’
Evan points back at me but keeps his eyes on the road. ‘See, she gets it.’
I bite down on my smile. ‘Who is it?’ I ask about the music.
‘My mate Cook’s band,’ he says, ‘Wrench Monkeys.’
‘What? Like from Foo Fighters?’
‘Exactly,’ he says.
Steffi humphs and turns the music down. ‘Did you see Jeremy after school? Did he give you anything for me?’
‘Barely seen him all day.’
Steffi mutters something under her breath. She rummages through her bag and Evan holds up his hand.
‘If you smoke in my car I will kill you.’ His words are loud and pointed.
‘Then go faster,’ she bites back. ‘This whole day has been one long shitfest.’
‘I don’t know what’s eating you and I don’t care,’ he changes gears, ‘so either shut up or you can angst on the bus tomorrow.’
Steffi pushes back in her seat, jamming it further into my knees.
Evan grips the steering wheel and leans forward. ‘This car is a positive smoke free zone!’
Steffi laughs. ‘God you’re a dork. I mean awesome,’ she adds when he puts up a finger, ‘an awesome dork.’
I pull my knees up and lean into the corner. I take out Cam’s phone, hiding it in my lap. There are only two other texts—both from the surf trip. Was this person there? Were they watching him then? The self portrait Cam drew with his hands covering his face flashes in my mind. He should have way more text messages than two . . . why did he delete them all? The badge on his email app displays 342 unread emails, which makes me jittery just looking at it. I scroll through the first twenty but it’s nothing but spam.
Pieces of Sky Page 5
