He rubs the back of his neck. ‘But not with local knowledge.’
‘What about Steffi?’
‘Oh my God.’ He throws his arm up. ‘Do you want to hang out?’
I grin, I can’t help it. ‘Yes. But, um, I can’t this arvo.’
‘Oh.’ He’s disappointed and it makes me want to change my plans. ‘Okay, so another time?’
‘Yeah, yes,’ I try to pull my smile back, ‘definitely.’
‘Good,’ he says and walks away. Then walks back. ‘How about I drive you to school tomorrow? And, um, we could make that a recurring thing . . . if you want.’
‘Ah, sure. What about back home?’
‘Of course.’ He bows his head. ‘Full-service package, remember?’
After school I walk to Taylor’s Hardware. When we were kids, Dad took over the shop from his father. He expanded it and jacked up the prices. I’ve never seen my dad actually make anything—not like Granddad, who helped most of the town build tree houses and construct back sheds—but he can sell it.
It’s not Dad I want to see though. I want to find Ryan.
The air inside the store offers little relief from the heat outside. A pedestal fan sits at the doorway and I stand in front of it, letting the cool air blow through my shirt.
The front counter is empty, and behind it the door to Dad’s office is closed. I spot Ryan unpacking stock in the next aisle.
He’s bent over a box sorting through some stuff. Another worker walks up the aisle and leans against the racks. It’s a girl I don’t know. I’m behind him so he doesn’t see me. I pick up a pack of nails and sneak looks at them.
She says something, all smiles, that I can’t hear. Ryan’s shoulders tense, he stands and she touches his arm. His words are low, she laughs. I edge closer, hoping to catch some of their conversation.
The girl scans the aisle and spots me. She’s older, in her twenties maybe, brown hair tucked up in a bun. She whispers something else to Ryan and walks off.
Ryan rubs the back of his neck, looking off in the direction she went.
‘So if I’m like, building a shelf, would these nails work?’
He jumps slightly, his shoulder connecting with a rack.
‘Jesus,’ he says, righting himself. ‘Where’d you come from?’
I shrug. ‘See you’ve moved on,’ I say, then regret bringing up Riss.
Ryan frowns at me and I nod towards his co-worker, who’s now adjusting stock at the end of the aisle.
He looks as if he’s about to give me the rundown, talk to me like one of the guys, but instead he just shakes his head.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school or something?’ He grabs several packs of nails from the box at his feet and threads them onto the racks.
‘Finished for the day.’
‘Right. So, what kind of shelf are you building?’ he says, louder than he needs to.
I gawk at him. The girl walks past and Ryan continues to go on about bolts and brackets until she’s gone.
‘Sorry,’ he says, taking my pack of nails from me and nodding in her direction, ‘manager.’ ‘Your dad’s around somewhere, want me to get him?’
‘I . . . no, um. So, I wanted to ask you if . . . maybe . . . was Cam seeing anyone?’ I say to the row of hose fittings behind his head.
‘Hm?’ Ryan chucks the nails back where they belong.
‘Last year—did he have another girlfriend after Tara?’
Ryan frowns at me. ‘No.’ He presses his lips together. ‘Maybe. There was always a girl, right?’
‘But no one serious?’
‘Ah, no. I don’t think so. What’s going on, Lu?’
If Ryan doesn’t know then it mustn’t have been serious—maybe it’s all in this girl’s head.
I rub the edge of the phone through my skirt pocket. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to know is all.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Oh, I got something for ya.’ I follow him to the counter. Ryan hands me a blue flyer with the words Young Blood on it.
‘It’s that exhibition I was telling you about.’
I smile at it. ‘You know I’m really pumped for you, right?’
Dad’s voice calls from behind a rack at the back of the store. ‘Can you grab those last boxes off the dock?’ I freeze.
‘Be there in a sec,’ Ryan says, then turns back to me. ‘Opens next week if you’re keen.’
‘I, um, yeah of course.’ I glance back in the direction of my dad’s voice. ‘I gotta go.’
11
Next morning, I wait until I hear Dad leave for work before I get up. The house is quiet. I convinced Mum to have a shower last night which I’m calling a success.
I wash up Dad’s cup and bowl, still sitting on the bench from his breakfast. I get out the blender, aka Mum’s pride and joy, and make Mum her favourite smoothie bowl: banana—ew—strawberries, blueberries, flaxseeds, almond butter, almond milk and a squirt of honey. I top it with more flaxseeds and sultanas, make her a peppermint tea and bring it all in to her.
Mum’s short hair is mussed around her face and a line of drool dots onto her pillow. Her bedside table is cluttered with old photo albums and books like Man’s Search for Meaning, a far cry from her usual historical romance novels. I stack the books into a pile, largest at the bottom, and file the albums next to the table, so there’s space to put her breakfast down.
‘Mum?’ I whisper. She doesn’t move. I touch her shoulder. ‘I made you breakfast.’
She groans and burrows further into the covers.
I go back to the kitchen, wash up the blender, grab my school stuff and wait on the steps outside.
Talking to Ryan yesterday didn’t answer any of my questions. I don’t even know what I want to find out—about Cam, about the night he died—or what it would give me. Maybe I just want to know why—why did he go surfing that night?
I could try talking to Simmo. But all the statements from his mates that night were the same—nobody saw Cam, nobody knows why.
A few minutes later the red Sunbird pulls into my driveway. A warmth spreads through me and I have to stop myself from bouncing down the steps.
‘Morning,’ Evan says, when I open the passenger door. He chucks his school bag from the front seat into the back and shoves some tapes into the glovebox. His friend’s punk band are cranked on the stereo, all fast guitars and whiny Blink 182 vocals.
I climb in and push my backpack in front of my feet.
‘Been waiting long?’ Evan asks, reversing out of my driveway.
‘Nah,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Just gotta get Stef.’
‘Oh,’ I say, nodding and wondering where I should sit. Will Steffi want the front seat? Should I just get into the back so she doesn’t have to ask me to move? But I was here first—so, it makes sense that I’m in the front.
‘Did you guys use to hang out?’
I look up. ‘Huh?’
‘You and Stef. You’re pretty much neighbours.’
‘Oh. Yeah. In primary school.’ Evan honks the horn. ‘Swimming kind of took over my social life.’
He winds his window down. ‘You were pretty into it then?’
I glance at the clock on the dash. I’d just be finishing training now. ‘Yeah.’
Evan honks again and looks at me. ‘So, why’d you stop?’
‘I . . . I haven’t . . .’ Steffi slams her front door and walks towards us, swinging her tote bag. I get out and leave Evan’s question unanswered.
‘Morning,’ Steffi sings and pushes her way into the back seat.
At lunch Alix and I head over to the basketball courts.
‘So, what did Jeremy want yesterday?’
Alix studies her nails.
‘Al?’
‘You don’t have to ask me about him if you don’t want to.’
I stop walking and grab her by the wrist. ‘Hey. Whoa!’
‘I know you don’t like him.’
‘But that doesn’t matter,’ I say, remembering what Steffi said. ‘Do yo
u like him?’
She glances at me from beneath her lashes. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, okay then. I am on board with that.’
‘Really?’
I nod. ‘Really, really.’
She smiles and the iciness melts off her. ‘Okay.’ The smile widens to a grin. ‘He asked me out.’
Her excitement makes me grin back. ‘That’s great, Al.’
She squeals. ‘I know!’
‘What’s going on?’ Megan walks up to us.
I clear my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Where have you guys been? I can’t believe you wagged the carnival.’ She looks at Alix. ‘You really needed it.’
‘I know,’ Alix snaps. ‘You told me yesterday. Twice.’
Megan shrugs and turns to me. ‘So are you like, best friends with Steffi Greggson now or something?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I saw you get out of some guy’s car with her this morning.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ she folds her arms, ‘what’s going on? Are we still friends?’
I look at her—at her pointed face and slicked back ponytail—and try to find the thing that made us friends, but all I can come up with is swimming. Our whole friendship has been on her terms because she knew I wanted to be her and she let me think I could try.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
Megan flinches, a sudden pull of her head. Her eyes flick to Alix. ‘I’ll see you at training.’
Alix nods and Megan walks off.
‘Oh my God,’ Alix says. She grips my arm. ‘My heart is pounding.’
I pull my eyes away from Megan’s disappearing back. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Mine too.’
We join the others at the fence. They’re stretched out in a scrap of shade from an overhanging gum tree. Jeremy is resting on Steffi’s shoulder, his hair over his eyes, while Steffi scribbles on her shoe. Next to her, Evan is zoned out with his earbuds in.
The three of them look so complete I feel weird approaching them—as if they’re all in some bubble I’m about to pop.
Jeremy perks up as soon as we sit down. And by that I mean his sleepy head moves from Steffi’s shoulder to Alix’s.
‘You know what I don’t understand?’ Steffi says. ‘Spray tan.’ She gestures behind me. ‘Look at all these orange girls. It’s not like we have a shortage of actual sunshine.’
‘But what about skin cancer?’ I say.
She narrows her eyes. ‘I bet that gives you cancer too.’
‘You know what else gives you cancer?’ Evan opens his eyes. ‘Smoking.’
‘And where’d you hear that?’ Steffi says sweetly.
Evan pulls Steffi’s pack of smokes from her bag. ‘It’s on the box,’ he says, chucking it at her.
‘Yeah. Well, you can get cancer by just being alive these days.’
‘Can we stop talking about cancer now?’ I say.
Steffi’s mouth is open like she’s about to say something else, then she looks past my shoulder. ‘You look radioactive,’ she shouts at the girls behind me. I turn in time to see them call her a fugly skinhead and flounce off. ‘Mm,’ Steffi says, scratching at the shaved side of her head, ‘orange and classy.’
‘Why’d you do it?’ I ask, indicating her hair.
‘Oh, you know.’ She makes a backwards V sign. ‘Cos I’m punk rock.’
I grab my sandwich from my bag and shuffle over to Evan. ‘What are you listening to?’ He passes me an earbud. The music is instrumental, full of swelling guitars and layered with delicate notes. ‘Explosions in the Sky?’
‘Nah,’ he says picking up the pen Steffi was using on her shoe. On the white toe of one of her Converses she’s drawn a bunch of squiggly hearts and written blind, blind, blind over and over. ‘They’re a Sydney band—The Shiver and the Shake.’ He takes my hand, turning it palm up. My insides spark.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask as he leans forward.
‘Giving you a tattoo.’
‘Can it be a bird?’
He glances up at me. ‘It can.’
His eyes concentrate on my hand. He draws along the edge of my palm near my pinkie. I stay very still, my body feeling each movement the pen makes. Long, smooth strokes. My head feels thick and tingly, like when someone plays with my hair. He chews on his lip.
A breeze runs over my hot cheeks and the music transports me to another place.
The pen moves down my palm and onto my wrist. He leans his face closer in concentration. His breath is warm on my skin. I want him to draw over my whole body.
‘There,’ he says, giving me back my hand. A long feather starts at my wrist and arcs out onto my palm. Beautiful and delicate. ‘Now you’re a bird.’
I stare at my hand. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
He bites down on a smile and shrugs. His eyes drift to my knee. ‘Are you going to eat that?’
I frown at my sandwich. ‘You can have half,’ I say and pass it to him.
‘Cheers.’ He bites into it and I watch his jaw work.
‘What are we doing this arvo?’ Steffi asks.
‘Beach,’ Jeremy says.
‘I’m busy,’ Alix sighs.
‘Beach sounds all right,’ Evan says. ‘Lu?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ I wind the cling wrap from my sandwich around my finger. The water is everywhere I turn. The spit of land I’ve sentenced myself to is shrinking, and soon the tide will rise up and wash me away.
The bell rings and we struggle to our feet. Evan passes me my bag and I lean in towards him. ‘I could give you that sight-seeing tour, if you want.’
The tour consists of: there’s a beach, there’s another beach, there’s the beach where you get the best surf but you’ve gotta enter in off these rocks and you can get caned if you’re not careful.
Cam did a few years ago, surfacing with a broken arm and blood gushing from his head. I almost tell Evan this—how Mum completely lost it, crying everywhere and wanting to ban him from ever leaving the house. How Dad sat on the couch next to miserable, broken Cam, all bandaged up, and tried to assess what Cam could’ve done better.
But I keep the story to myself.
‘And there’s my primary school,’ I say, indicating the tiny yellow house with veggie gardens and a mural of the sea painted on the concrete.
‘Is that the whole thing?’
‘Yep. Oh, and that tree right there is where I had my first kiss.’
Evan leans over as if trying to get a better look of this significant tree. ‘Tour is getting better.’
‘I was six, you perv.’
He laughs. ‘You brought it up. Let me guess: Bobby Roberts and then he pulled your braids and ran away.’
‘No. It was Peter Chang. And he was quiet and shy and held my hand.’
The tape in the stereo finishes and the undercurrent of music dries up.
‘You can pick something.’ Evan indicates the glovebox.
I pop it open and find three cassette tapes. ‘Slim pickings.’
‘Yeah. I tried to make more but my record player kept eating them and now one’s stuck in there.’
‘What about the radio?’
‘Aerial’s busted. And I still gotta get one of those cigarette lighter and tape set-ups to hook up my phone.’
‘I like the tape deck,’ I tell him. ‘I like that you can’t skip songs and you can’t fit heaps on a tape. Makes you pay more attention to what you’re listening to.’
He smiles. ‘I like it too.’
I select a tape with #1 written on it in whiteout and stick it in. Out comes the driving bass line, clipped over-driven guitars and British vocals of Gang of Four.
‘Mm,’ I point at the tape deck, ‘good song.’
Evan drums on the steering wheel. I show him our strip of six shops and where to get the best burgers—spoiler: there’s only one place. Gang of Four calls out about feeling like a tourist and we nod along.
We wind up into the streets of the new housing developments, half-built McM
ansions crowding the hills. ‘Most of these will be holiday rentals,’ I tell him. ‘Not many people actually live here.’
He gives a flat laugh.
We do a lap of the Bay and end up at the lake. Water water everywhere.
Evan leans over the steering wheel and looks at me sideways. I pick at the edge of my seat. ‘There’s not that much to see.’
‘Where’s your favourite place?’
I think for a moment then direct him back up the hill towards his house and past that to the bluff.
Normally I’d take him to the baths—where the pool sits right up against the ocean and you can hear the crash of the waves. I love swimming there, so close to the wild water but still controlled. On the perfect blue days, cloudless and shimmering, I’d wear myself out with laps then float on my back and imagine the world was reversed and I was swimming in the sky. I’d take him there but I can’t face it.
We park at the top of the bluff, where you can see the long stretch of water and sky.
Evan turns the music down and leans back in his seat, his knees pressed against the steering wheel.
I’m vaguely aware I’ve brought him to the most cliched make-out spot we have. But I like it here, I like being up high, close to the clouds, and on certain days how the ocean and sky all bleeds together. And I like . . . ‘Look,’ I say to Evan and point to a hang glider.
I get out of the car, a small breeze sending goosebumps up my arms, and sit on a park bench closer to the edge. There are three of them up there, catching the drifts of the wind, soaring high, cutting low, and the other hanging still in the sky.
‘I’d like to do that,’ I say when Evan sits beside me.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, not really. I’d be way too scared.’ I point at a bunch of flowers taped to a tree by the edge of the bluff. ‘There was a guy who died hang gliding here a few years ago.’ I try to remember his name—it was a tragedy at the time, the town gathering to support his family—but I can’t remember a thing about him. I wonder how long until people can’t remember Cam’s name, those people who have the benefit of forgetting. Those lucky people.
I focus back on the gliders in the sky. ‘I like how it looks.’
Evan takes my hand and traces his thumb over the smudged feather on my palm. I try to pretend I don’t notice as he spreads his palm against mine and links our fingers together.
Pieces of Sky Page 9
