Remind Me How This Ends

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘Owned again, huh?’

  ‘Can’t get past this freakin’ level.’ He glares at the screen. ‘Not all of us can be gamer geeks like you, bro.’

  I snort. ‘It’s a blessing and a curse bestowed on a special few.’

  I draw a line down the middle of the page with two clear headings at the top of each column: Text her again and Don’t do it, dickhead.

  My mind runs over what I could write in the first column.

  Because the last time I saw her, she was upset — and with Lay there’ll be a reason why she’s blowing me off.

  She’s my mate and that’s what mates do.

  The car was where I asked her to meet me — but she wasn’t there.

  I’m worried something’s happened to her.

  A solid list.

  I look at the next column. All I can think about is one big fat reason why I shouldn’t.

  Because she clearly doesn’t want to see me again. If she did, she would’ve texted back days ago, loser.

  I stare at the empty columns, then scrunch up the paper and toss it at the bin by my desk.

  I miss. Of course.

  ‘Wanna game?’ Trent asks.

  ‘Nah, man.’

  ‘Whatcha doing over there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I walk over to pick up the crumpled paper and aim for the bin again, but it flies past and bounces off the bed. Trent leans down and snatches it up. He goes to throw it, then catches the look of urgency on my face. I’m primed, on the balls of my feet, ready to pounce. I’ve given away that I care what’s on the page and he knows it.

  ‘What is this?’ he asks, uncurling it.

  ‘Give it here.’

  He’s taller and wider and manages to hold it above my head. ‘Montgomery again? Nah, enough! Can’t let you do it.’ He scrunches up the page and lobs it at the bin. It strikes the inside before hitting the bottom.

  ‘She’s disappeared,’ I tell him. ‘I reckon it’s our fault — that video tipped her over.’

  ‘Righto, Sherlock.’ He snatches my phone from the bedside table. ‘It’s just Monty Burns. Text her.’

  I stand up. ‘I have. I’m leaving it for a bit.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll do it then. Hey, let’s just call. She’s probably had her phone on silent or something.’ Trent punches a few numbers into the phone to try to crack the password.

  ‘Give it back.’

  But he keeps fiddling with it, swearing to himself as he stabs for the magic number. Still wrong. Then he snorts with laughter. He’s in.

  ‘Mum’s birth year? Bro, cut the cord.’

  I lurch at him, trying to snatch the phone out of his fingers, but he’s too fast. He leaps onto the bed, bouncing up and down as he scrolls.

  ‘I’m dialling, mate, I’m dialling!’ He laughs. ‘Whatcha gonna do?’

  ‘Shit, Trent!’ I swat at him. ‘Man, I’m not messing around. Give it here.’

  He throws himself into a sloppy star jump, then lands on his back. He passes me the phone, triumphant. ‘It’s ringing.’

  I snatch it from him and slam the ‘end’ button. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Chill,’ he says, sitting up so he’s perched on the edge of the mattress. ‘There’s no need to cry about it. It’s just Lay — sheesh. You can go back to sitting home alone with the little general … or we can try again!’ he adds with a laugh, snatching the phone back.

  I grab for it and my hands shove his chest, knocking him back onto the bed.

  ‘What the … can’t ya take a joke, bro?’

  He leaps up, nostrils flaring, and pushes my chest, sending me arse-first onto the carpet.

  I struggle to my feet. ‘You’re pathetic.’

  ‘You pushed me first.’

  ‘It’s like you’re proud of being a prick. I’m done. It’s pathetic, all this.’

  Trent puffs his chest out a little more. ‘Say it again.’

  ‘What?’ I say, adrenaline surging through my body. ‘You didn’t understand me the first two times? I said path-et-ic.’

  ‘Me?’ Trent fakes a laugh. ‘Ever think maybe Montgomery’s bailed ’cos she doesn’t like you. Get a life, ’cos you’re the pathetic one.’

  I swing my right fist, not sure what I’m even aiming for, but he swerves out of the way and I strike his collarbone. My knuckles sting. Not surprising considering I’ve never thrown a punch in my life.

  I haven’t thought this through.

  Trent hurls himself at me, slamming us both onto the carpet. We’re a flurry of fists as we pant and grunt and wrestle on the floor. My wrists are flimsy as I try to push him off me. His body feels as hard as concrete.

  ‘Just … relax,’ he huffs out while struggling to pin my arms down next to my sides. ‘What … are you … doing? Stop … shit, bro … stop being … a cockhead.’

  ‘Get … off … me, man.’

  Eyes half-shut, I shove upwards but hit nothing. I try again with everything I have. Crack.

  Trent yells out in pain, grabbing at his nose. Even through the blurriness I can see red.

  Red smeared down his chin.

  Red on my palms.

  * * *

  Layla: Hey, MD, so I’ve been MIA. I’m so, so sorry. Things have been weird … too hard to explain on texts. If I’m not already phased, wanna catch up tomoz? The river? 1 pm? (Yeah, I’m copying.) Lemme know, Chicken Girl

  Layla

  Painting the bedroom walls isn’t distracting me from the fact Milo hasn’t texted me back. It’s been hours. I shouldn’t be surprised — I was the one who stood him up.

  Taking a deep breath, I dip my brush in the paint can and wipe off the edges, sending yellow droplets spilling onto a crumpled old sheet of Shirin’s. I move the paintbrush down the wall and back to the top again, trying not to wobble on my toes too much. But I reach too high and the brush slips from my hand and sprays my feet with sunshine.

  My phone buzzes.

  Milo is calling me.

  Wait. Milo is calling me?

  I wipe my hands down my shirt and lunge for the phone, sucking in a sharp breath before I answer. But I should’ve sucked in two ’cos it’s not even Milo on the other end.

  ‘Hi, Layla. Jen Dark here.’

  Perfect. He’s roped in his mum.

  ‘Er, hey, Jen … um, what’s going on? Everything okay?’

  My attempt to stay light and breezy is a flop.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m minding Milo’s phone and your text came through and I couldn’t bear to leave you hanging so …’ Her voice cracks. ‘The boys have, ah, got themselves in trouble. We’re at emergency.’

  ‘Where?’ I say, before realising she means the hospital. Oh God. That emergency. The place where they took Mum after the accident. The place just behind Butcher Street.

  I haven’t been there since she died.

  I’m immediately hit with an image of Milo lying on the side of the road. A millisecond later I’m carrying a coffin, preparing a eulogy, escorting Jen to her spot in the front row of the church, and pouring tea at the wake for all the elderly relatives that the Dark family haven’t seen in years. Somehow even an imaginary world without Milo becomes full of him.

  My voice sounds strangled as I ask for more details, pulling and twisting at my hair, fingers smearing yellow through the strands. I’m straining to listen to Jen’s reply, but everything is buzzing, like there’s a swarm of bees between my ears. I catch a few words — ‘fight’, ‘Trent’, ‘still waiting for the doctor’ — but can’t piece together what’s happened or how badly hurt they are.

  I hang up, mind racing, and rush into the living room to tell Shirin I need to go to the hospital.

  She holds my hand as I rush her through the muddled story, at least the parts I know, before announcing she’s getting her car keys and driving me there.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the car park if you want, but you’re not doing this alone.’
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  She says it with such insistence that I only manage to whisper, ‘Thank you’.

  ‘Now, who is this boy again?’ she asks, pulling on her coat. ‘Have I met him?’

  ‘No. He’s just a boy I know.’

  Defining what we are right now is an impossible request, but what I’ve said isn’t enough — not even close — so I correct myself.

  ‘He’s just a boy I know, but he’s a boy I’ve known forever and I need to see him right now.’

  * * *

  Shirin and I stride towards the hospital entrance, my breath catching as we pass the oversized red and white emergency sign. I’m on alert; I can feel it in my guts and in the amount of saliva building up in my mouth. The familiar pungent smell inside the hospital stings my nostrils.

  We reach the waiting room and I search for Milo in the sea of people — some grimacing in pain, others slouched in their chairs, red-eyed, blotchy-skinned, their discomfort dulled by their tiny screens. I can’t see the Darks.

  ‘Maybe they’re in with the nurses,’ Shirin says, giving my hand a squeeze.

  Doctors stroll past, clipboards in hand, not hurrying and barking orders like you see on medical dramas. It’s nothing like TV, where problems are resolved in forty-five minutes. In real life, time stands still in hospitals; there’s more waiting than anything else. And all the waiting gives your mind way too many hours to wander and worry. And ask why. Why him? Why her? Why me?

  Once again I battle an image of Milo twisted at a strange angle, his blood drenching the road. I remind myself this has nothing to do with a car — nothing to do with Mum — but my brain doesn’t want to cooperate.

  ‘I’m just gonna grab a water,’ I mumble to Shirin.

  I hurry down the hallway, avoiding eye contact with anyone who walks past. The emergency department seems like the one place in Durnan where I’ll be let off the hook if I don’t say hello as I pass someone. I keep my head down to avoid staring into patients’ rooms. The people with no visitors by their bedside are the hardest to walk past. Eventually I find a quiet corner by the bathrooms and hang there, wondering how long I can stay before Shirin comes looking.

  I hear rattling, whimpering. It’s getting louder.

  Two nurses are wheeling a patient wrapped in head bandages on a trolley towards me. I press myself against a cork noticeboard littered with flyers to get out of the way. They hurry past, consoling the crying man, and disappear around the corner. I can’t help wondering if he has a family on their way, or if his story will have a happy ending.

  A woman with weathered rosy skin and silver hair peeking out from beneath a broad-brim hat — a farmer, has to be — sips from a foam coffee cup as she strides past, her Blundstones muddying the tiles. I turn away, pretending to read something on the noticeboard behind me. A purple brochure in the centre of the board catches my eye. I lean in for a better look: it’s for the Durnan Counselling Centre — DCC. I glance around to make sure no-one’s watching me. The farmer has rounded the corner and I can hear her chortling to someone, but I’m alone again.

  I inhale and steal another look.

  The logo has a rainbow butterfly design woven into it, so of course I think of Mum. Well, think of Mum again. Since stepping into the hospital, I’ve struggled to stop thinking of her. Standard really, only multiplied.

  According to the brochure, the DCC is just off the main street. I figure it mustn’t be far from Joe’s. Guess it’s the kind of place you don’t notice if you’re not looking for it.

  I look to make sure Shirin isn’t approaching. I don’t have a good reason to explain why I’m hovering in this hallway. With no-one in sight, I pry open the glossy purple paper with my thumb. I see more butterflies flitting in the corner of the page. More rainbows sweeping across the top of the brochure.

  I skim the paragraphs, lingering over certain words.

  Committed to quality counselling and care.

  Experienced professionals.

  Consultations in strictest confidence.

  Assistance with issues including anxiety, body image and grief.

  * * *

  I crouch on the tiles back in the waiting room, flipping through a box of magazines creased and ripped over the years by patients and their families. The same ones I remember from five years ago are stuffed way down at the bottom. Typical Durnan.

  ‘Lay? Holy crap.’

  Milo’s T-shirt is smeared with red, like someone has swiped a bloody hand across his chest. He’s alone, no sign of his family.

  ‘Hi.’ I spring to my feet and throw my arms around him. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m okay.’ His arms slide around my waist and he lifts me up, just a little. I feel tiny, light, in his arms as the tips of my boots kiss the floor. ‘What are you doing here? Where have you been?’

  ‘Your mum called … and we’ll get to the other thing later.’

  I bury my nose into his neck, soaking in the smell of his cologne, until I remember Shirin can probably see us from the other side of the waiting room. I pull away from him and glance over in her direction. She hurries to pretend to check her phone and knocks over her coffee cup.

  ‘But you’re okay?’ he tries again.

  I smile. ‘I’m fine. Now shut up and tell me why we’re at the hospital.’

  Milo laughs, then winces and his hand races to his bottom lip. When I raise an eyebrow, he shakes his head. ‘Maybe don’t ask.’

  I inspect his chin closer and see the beginnings of a bruise. ‘Oh, I’m asking. Don’t make me interrogate you. Did Trent hit you?’

  He groans. ‘Come in a bit closer. I don’t want all of Durnan hearing about the dysfunctional Darks.’

  His face flushes as he talks me through it, especially the bit about hearing Trent’s nose crack.

  I swear out loud. Milo fighting? This has to be a parallel universe. ‘You hulked out? You?’

  ‘Sorta, but it was an accident. Trent wouldn’t shut up about … well, some stuff and then he kept pushing it and pushing it and …’ He swears, gesturing to the blood on his T-shirt. ‘One minute we were sorta joking, the next there were fists and knees and freakin’ elbows and … I was just trying to get him off me. I didn’t know what I was doing!’

  ‘I believe that, Rocky.’ I bump my hip against his. ‘So where’s Trenticles? Is he mad?’

  ‘Surprisingly, no. He’s in with Mum and Dad and a nurse down the hall. I mean, his nose is busted a bit — but he gets that we both stuffed up. Everything went wrong fast, it was stupid. It’s more Mum and Dad …’

  I lean in closer.

  ‘If I was on the crap heap before, now I’m an insect suffocating in the crap heap. Running away to Timbuktu’s sounding damn good right now.’ He sighs. ‘Wanna come with?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Smuggle me into your suitcase.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling we’d be on Interpol’s watch list within twenty-four hours?’

  ‘Because.’ I fold my hand around his. He winces a little. ‘Sorry.’ I let go. ‘Timbuktu, huh? Better get packing.’

  ‘I’ve heard the weather in Timbuktu is brilliant this time of year.’

  ‘Then I’ll race you to the airport tomorrow.’

  ‘Holding you to that. Hey, there’s yellow on your cheek.’ His finger traces over the paint.

  My heart pounds a little faster. ‘Oh.’

  His eyes lock with mine. ‘Where have you been? One minute we were texting, the next … shit, it took Mum calling you from hospital behind my back to see you again. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So tell me one thing then. I’ll take just one. I’ve been going kinda crazy.’

  A laugh slips out. ‘I can see that.’

  Silence.

  I tell him one thing.

  Then his hand tightens around mine as I tell him everything.

  * * *

  Milo: Morning, didn’t see you at the airport …

  Layla: Haha! Guess I missed the flight. Next
time? PS: Rest that body of yours pls and tell Trenticles to do the same

  Milo: SO bored

  Milo: I could go some Joe’s wings …

  Layla: I’ve lost all Chicken Girl rights. (Fired, remember?) But yes to future lunches and second-lunches

  Milo: Cluck them for firing you

  Layla: I clucking stuffed it up. Not meant to be, I guess. Catch up tomoz?

  Milo: Sorry, busy

  Milo: WAIT. No, I’m NOT. I’m chained to bed and grounded again. Maybe YOU should smuggle ME into a suitcase and take me to the airport?

  Layla: Let’s start at your place and see where Sunday takes us

  Milo: I’ll be here

  Layla: Then I’ll be there

  Milo

  Play Again? flashes on the screen. Trent looks over at me. ‘Want in this time?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I take the spare controller. ‘How’s the nose?’

  ‘If my honker’s crooked under here, you’re buying me a new one, bro.’ He says it with a grin. ‘Anyway, I can smell your arse from here so I guess it’s on the mend.’

  The two of us have been bunkered down in my room playing video games, surfing the net and talking crap since we got home from the hospital. Any tension has evaporated.

  If only I could say the same about Dad. He can barely get through a sentence without looking like fire’s about to spark from every orifice. It’s going to take a diligent regimen of hard work, profuse apologies and sorcery to get him back on side. Although after the past few months, I’m not convinced I’ll ever win him over. I’m no match for Jermaine Wright’s son.

  ‘You know I’m sorry,’ I tell Trent. ‘Damn, I still can’t believe it even happened.’

  ‘You can’t?’ He hoots. ‘Bro, the boys reckon I’m lying — they’re convinced I got a nose job, for real.’

  I snort with laughter.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’

  We turn to see Mum in the doorway. Again. She’s been hovering since we left the emergency department, probably worried she’s going to find Trent and me brawling on the ground.

  ‘Not much,’ I say.

  ‘Not much what?’

  I shrug. ‘Just hanging.’