‘Well, dinner’s ready. I’ve made Nan’s famous potato bake.’
‘Hell, yeah,’ Trent says.
I walk to the door. ‘I’ll set the table.’
‘You rest,’ Mum says. ‘I mean it. You too, Trent.’ ‘I’m not in pain,’ I say. ‘I can do it.’
‘I mean it. And if you need me to type up your uni applications later, just ask.’
She hangs close behind as Trent and I head down the hallway towards the dining room.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks when I veer off to the bathroom.
‘The toilet?’
‘Oh, of course, that’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll be out here if you need anything.’
Jesus. I trudge off before she offers to wipe my bum.
* * *
‘Chops are getting cold,’ Dad says, pointing at my plate.
‘More beans, darling?’ Mum asks in a forced breezy voice.
‘Nah, I’m fine … thanks.’
I feel a nudge against my shin and look up to see Trent shaking his head and mouthing, ‘Nightmare’, before shovelling potato bake into his mouth.
I look at Mum and Dad. ‘Um, can we talk normally for like one second?’
Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Okay,’ I begin, ‘we all know what happened was stupid, but —’
Dad grunts. ‘It was stupid alright. Willie Diaz was at the hospital for his daughter’s bunged-up appendix. How do you think I felt trying to explain why we were there?’
I sigh. ‘I get that, Dad. That’s why I’m trying to say —’
‘No. You said you wanted us to talk, so I’m bloody talking. Do you have any idea what the town will be saying about the two of you? About me and your mother? I’ll tell you: They’ve raised idiots. Those Dark boys are idiots. That’s what they’ll be saying.’ Trent and I swap looks. ‘That’s why you’re both pulling your heads in, or the door’s that way. You hear me, Milo?’
I nod, jaw tightening.
‘I asked you if you heard me, Trent?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I know things are serious ’cos Trent hasn’t pissed himself laughing.
‘There are more chops if anyone wants them,’ Mum says in an anxious sing-song tone, a fruitless attempt to lighten the mood. ‘You know what, I’ll bring them out now just in case you want them. That way they’re here. You know. In case you want them.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘See, your mother, she gives and she gives and … Jesus Christ, boys, it’s like you don’t care about anyone but yourselves.’ He powers on. ‘Coward punches, they’re called. Coward punches. These sorts of fights can leave people with brain damage. Or dead.’
Trent clears his throat. ‘Nah, Dad, a coward’s punch is different. It’s when —’
‘I don’t want to bloody hear it.’ Dad slams his cutlery down. ‘I know what happened. And it’s a disgrace on this family.’
I sink back in my seat. I wasn’t expecting sympathy or even forgiveness, but I was hoping Mum and Dad would at least give us a chance to explain and set things right.
This is how I’m going to go.
Not caught in a current in the Durnan River.
Not hitting a kangaroo on the highway and narrowly missing a tree.
Like this. Whittled down bit by bit, little by little.
Vale Milo Dark: suffocated in a cocoon of his own creation.
Layla
‘Hi, is the manager here?’ I ask the girl behind the counter at Quiche.
‘Ah, she’s somewhere,’ she replies with a laugh. She’s about my age, wearing twice as much make-up, and doing that thing where someone looks you up and down, focusing on a detail — old shoes, a short skirt, a fresh pimple. It’s a habit that usually makes me feel smaller than small, but her mouth breaks into a big pearly beam at the sight of the colourful streaks through my hair and I can’t help but like her.
She presses a hand against the door into the back room, then pauses and says over her shoulder, ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying, but we were totally preschool buddies, right?’
I stand up straighter, draw my shoulders down and raise my chin. A glance at her nametag. Amvi. ‘Um, maybe.’ It’s slowly coming back. ‘Did your mum help out during storytime?’
‘Sure did. With your mum. They Meryl-Streeped the hell out of all the animal voices in every book, remember?’
I swallow. ‘Yeah.’
She grins. ‘Those were the days, huh?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Afternoon naps, no responsibility, someone to cut up our fruit.’
‘Oh, yeah. Totally.’ I smile, feeling silly for thinking she was alluding to anything else. ‘It’s Layla, by the way.’
‘I know. Hey.’ She points at her nametag. ‘Amvi, duh. I’ll try to find my boss for you.’ She turns with a flick of her hair and disappears through the door.
I pull up a seat at an empty table, my stomach churning twice as hard now. Knowing someone here wasn’t part of the plan. I rifle through my bag for my wallet, double-checking the money is still in there.
The manager barrels through the door and heads in my direction. I hurry to my feet, the chair scraping beneath me.
‘Yes?’ she says. The nametag hanging from her shirt says Gayle.
‘Er, hi,’ I mumble, trying to forget that Amvi is smiling at us from the counter as I empty the notes and loose coins onto the table. ‘This is for you.’
‘Great. Love money. But what’s it for, darl?’
I swallow. ‘Well, the other day I was here with my boyfriend and housemate — well, ex-boyfriend and ex-housemate — and they … ah, we, I guess, I was in the car — and we … we … forgot to pay.’
Her arms are crossed now. ‘And that’s the money?’
I scoop it off the table and into her hands. ‘Some of it. It’s all I have.’
‘Fair enough. Well, thanks for coming back. Accidents happen every day.’
‘They do. Except … well, what I said’s not true,’ I blurt out.
Gayle raises an eyebrow.
‘The boys bailed, but I let them, and they don’t care but I do and —’
‘Stop right there,’ she says, holding up her hand. ‘You’re telling me you did a runner? From my café?’
I hate that I’m lumped in with Kurt and Ryan, but I force myself to nod.
‘You from around here?’
I nod again, not daring to make eye contact with Amvi.
‘Parents too?’
‘Just Dad. Reg … Reg Montgomery.’
Gayle’s eyes widen. I can tell she’s heard of him, heard our family’s story. It’s probably Durnan folklore by now. ‘You’re … Layla? I mean, you don’t know me from a bar of soap … I didn’t know you were back in town.’
‘Guess I tried to keep a low profile.’ I clear my throat. ‘Well, tried and failed.’
Her mouth melts into a warm smile. ‘Yes, it seems that way, darl. I think my mum went to high school with your dad a long, long time ago, although I guess everyone crosses paths in Durnan one way or another. I wouldn’t have recognised you, not from the photos in the paper. I mean, with the spunky ’do and all.’
‘Isn’t it cool?’ Amvi chimes in, before rushing to wipe down the counter to hide her obvious eavesdropping.
I run my hand through my hair self-consciously, twirling the strands between my fingers. ‘Um, thanks … anyway, I better let you get back to work. Sorry again about the money.’
I push my chair under the table and head for the front door, which is when I notice the sign: Waitress wanted. Experience necessary.
I glance back at Gayle, who’s now behind the counter showing Amvi how to use the coffee machine. She likes my hair, knows Dad and hasn’t kicked me out of the shop for telling the truth. Maybe she won’t have a laughing attack in my face.
Just ask.
Do this one hard thing.
Just ask.
I take a breath and walk over to Gayle, who’s now rea
rranging the salt and pepper shakers on the tables. ‘Um, hi.’
‘Hi again.’
‘I know my timing is terrible, but I saw the sign for a waitress and … and I was wondering if I could maybe hand in my CV?’
‘Ah, Layla, we filled it a few days ago,’ Gayle says, gesturing to Amvi, who mouths ‘Sorry’ to me. ‘We were supposed to take the sign down.’ Now it’s her turn to eye me up and down. ‘You got any experience?’
‘As what? Oh, as a waitress?’
‘No. As a train conductor.’ She tries not to chuckle. ‘Yes, as a waitress.’
‘No. None.’ It sounds bad, so I try to remember everything on my CV. ‘But I’ve worked in a bakery, and at a supermarket, and at a chicken shop and with a pet shelter — but that one was too sad, I couldn’t bear it when they weren’t re-homed.’
She nods. ‘Tough job.’
‘It was! Did you know hundreds of thousands of animals are put down every year? It’s the worst.’ I pause. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’
‘You like animals, huh?’
‘Sometimes more than humans.’ I hear Amvi snort with laughter from behind the counter. ‘I don’t know why I said that either. I’m bad at this.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gayle says. ‘Humans test my patience too, especially when my girlfriend burps after dinner. You know, a customer once told me their toasted cheese sandwich was too cheesy.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Exactly,’ she says with a smile. ‘Layla, we don’t have anything going here, not yet anyway, but … if you’re free for a couple of hours tomorrow and want to make a few dollars, I can introduce you to my friend Max. He’s a bit lonely.’
‘Max?’
‘Oh yes. Amvi knows all about Max, don’t you, darl?’
‘We go way back,’ she says, then points at my scuffed boots. ‘My tip? Wear runners.’
Milo
My hopes of fleeing the cocoon are foiled again: Layla and I only make it as far as the overgrown grass in front of Dad’s vegie patch. Sticking her tongue out at me, Layla drags two beanbags from our rumpus room, tussles them into shape, then waves me over. It’s quiet in this corner of the yard. Just us two.
Just us two and Max, a half-blind chocolate-brown Labrador digging a hole next to the clothesline.
‘I thought you took him for a run?’ I say.
Layla’s flopped on her beanbag like a rag doll. ‘He’s a machine. He just goes and goes. If I don’t stuff this job up, he’ll have me running marathons by the end of the year.’
She fidgets around until she finds the perfect position, then pulls her hat down low. I look over at Max, who’s nose-deep into Dad’s carrots, then follow Layla’s lead, letting my body sink down into my beanbag.
‘This is a real job? You’re getting paid to babysit it?’
‘Yes, Mr Judgmental, and it’s called puppy-sitting — and I can now add dog-walker and dog-sitter to my CV. Who knew this job even existed? There have to be hundreds of pooches in Durnan needing extra cuddles and love. It’s perfect!’
She flings her arms wide in excitement and our palms brush for a second. We snap our hands back as a jolt of static electricity crackles between us.
‘That was you,’ I laugh, shaking my hand.
‘Yeah, it was.’
Even she knows she has electricity running through her veins.
I stare up at the sky, kicking at the dirt with my sneaker. ‘You know what I told you at the hospital? About leaving for Timbuktu?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a bit. Leaving, I mean.’
Tilting her hat back, Layla swivels to face me, her beanbag crunching and shifting beneath her. ‘You’ve had a bad few days. Okay, a bad year. But it doesn’t mean you have to leave town and … everything. Right?’
‘I guess.’
‘So it’s decided: the Durnan dream lives on.’ Layla pushes her hat down again so her face is covered. ‘Phew, Max, that was a close call, wasn’t it? We nearly lost him,’ she says in a muffled voice. ‘Timbuktu … you crazy monkey. No more scaring me like that, Milo D — I hate you.’
‘Hate you the most, Layla M.’
Layla
‘Let’s go somewhere, do something,’ he says, repositioning himself in his beanbag.
I squash another spoonful of gelato into my mouth. ‘Nah, you’re grounded. Besides going places and doing stuff is overrated.’
‘Since when?’ he asks, wrestling the tub back from me.
Max barks, nudging Milo in the side.
‘Since … I dunno. Since I said so.’ I shoo Max away with a laugh and he bounds off in the direction of another dog barking. ‘Hear me out on why you can’t leave. When you run away, everyone misses you … at first. And it feels good in the new place, like you’ve discovered this portal to a secret universe — but you haven’t … and suddenly you’re in the loneliest place in the world. After a while, you sorta can’t even remember why you thought it was a good idea to leave in the first place.’ I glance back at the house, where Milo’s parents are sniping over how best to prune the vines on the pergola, and laugh again. ‘But I can see how it might hold some appeal for you.’
‘Dad’s gone from pushing me to do something I don’t want to do to thinking I’m an oaf who’s incapable of anything. Trent’s the only person in that house who even comes close to getting it. Bizzare.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. And Mum’s always around, nagging, waiting to swoop in. It’s like the umbilical cord has grown back.’
I screw up my nose.
‘Seriously. If she could chew my food for me, she would.’
‘Oh God.’
‘So … let’s run away.’ He gulps down another spoonful of gelato. ‘England, France, the Caribbean — you pick. Anywhere you want.’
‘New joke, please,’ I say, taking the tub back for more. ‘You’re making me wanna go on a holiday.’
‘I … I don’t think I’m joking.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Come on.’
‘I mean it,’ he says, his voice strong. ‘This can’t be “it” … Durnan. I can’t be Trent, just staying here doing nothing ’cos I’m too lazy to work out what I want. Or Dad, who’s this big annoying fish in a small pond, and Mum who puts up with it. I don’t know what I wanna do, but I know I haven’t found it here. I wish I had.’
I’m sitting up straight now, trying to process it all. ‘You’re serious.’
‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘And … and maybe you could come with me.’
‘What? Dude. We can’t. I have a job now. You have a job. A family.’
‘No, listen. We can. Think about it. If we go to London, we can travel for six months without a visa — six freakin’ months. Do you get how much of the world we’d see in that time? Or … we can apply for visas and … well …’ His voice trails off.
‘And what?’
‘Stay for two years.’
‘Two … no way. I mean … live in London? Stop it.’
‘Lay, we’d be together so we’d never be lonely or bored or have to share a hostel room with some creeper who brushes his teeth without his boxers on.’
‘Ew!’ I shove him.
Milo grins. ‘Hear me out — we’d see the world. Jesus, I haven’t even left the state in years. But if we’re there … in London … we can go anywhere. Like, Paris — for a weekend. For a day trip. It’s amazing. It’s the kinda stuff you can look back on and be proud of when you’re a hundred.’
‘Yeah, it is … but I can’t imagine doing it. Not really doing it.’ I pause. ‘You, um, seem to know a lot about this.’
He nods, flicking his plastic spoon against his hand. ‘Just try to imagine it, Lay. We could get lost for a while.’
He’s been looking into this for longer than he’s letting on. I can tell.
Max barks and bounds towards us. He jumps onto my beanbag, squashing us down together. I pull him onto my lap, sucking in a breath at the we
ight of him.
‘What do you think?’ Milo asks, reaching out to pat Max, who’s panting in my face, all hot stinky puppy breath.
‘Aw, look at him,’ I coo. ‘He’s smiling. I think he loves me. I think he loves me more than he loves Gayle and Amvi.’
‘Amvi?’
‘This girl I met. Well, met again. She’s rad. Kinda long story.’ I cock my head to one side. ‘Sorry, what did you ask me?’
‘London. Thoughts? Comments?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t … I mean, it’s huge. Bigger than huge. And you’re asking me like you’re asking me to go eat sushi. I don’t even have a passport … or money!’
‘I’ll wait. We can keep saving. It can work.’
I’ve never heard him fight for something like this before.
‘Look, I know what you mean about this town. I’m staying with Shirin and it’s kinda routine and quiet … but I like it.’ I heave Max off me and drag out my phone. ‘Here: I painted my room yellow. See? Shirin had to fix it up ’cos I stuffed the edges, but I did that. Me.’ I pause. ‘I just heard myself. Don’t tell anyone. Especially not Max. He still thinks I’m sorta cool, and I’m already pushing my luck now that we’re running pals.’
‘That’s a no to London, then?’
‘I think so, yeah. I’m sorry.’
‘What if I buy you a croissant in Paris?’ He flashes a cheeky smile. ‘What if I buy you fifty croissants? Two hundred? Three hundred?’
I pause. ‘I’m so sorry, MD.’
He nods, plucking a blade of grass from the lawn. ‘Nah, it’s alright.’ He sighs and flops deeper into his beanbag. ‘Okay, so London’s out. What can I do in this stupid town then? Computer science or buying that damn house across the road aren’t happening, I’ll tell you that.’
I swallow. I almost don’t want to point it out. ‘You just said it. And I think you’ve been saying it a million different ways for a while — I just never heard it until now.’
He locks eyes with me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘MD, you don’t want to work at your parents’ shop or follow their path. You don’t want to study what they want you to study, or do what they would’ve done when they were your age.’
Remind Me How This Ends Page 20
