by Sean Kennedy
“Just forget it,” Kyle sighed.
Not bloody likely. Obviously it wasn’t Kyle she was going to get information from. Emma would have to harangue Micah until his ears bled.
But it turned out it was weighing upon Kyle enough to break just a tiny bit more. “Last time I saw him, a few months ago back in Melbourne, he was so drunk he could barely even stand. I called him a taxi and was going to put him in it to make sure he was okay, but when I turned around he was gone.”
Emma didn’t like the sound of that. “Did you go after him?”
He looked at her as if she was stupid. “Of course I did! But I couldn’t find him anywhere. It was like he had vanished.”
“Well, he’s obviously okay now. I saw him this morning.”
“Did he drink at the launch?”
“He had a couple of beers, but that was all. He was sober otherwise.”
Kyle nodded. “Good. Then maybe whatever was going on, he’s sorted it all out.”
Emma thought back to how Micah had seemed to mature more over the past few months. She had put it down to him finally growing up like he was meant to. “Maybe it was just the change of settling in somewhere new. I mean, I could tell a few stories about myself too.”
He laughed, his features lighting up and probably blinding any gay boy or unsuspecting straight girl within a square kilometre with pure charm. “You’ll have to tell me some.”
“Only when I have a few drinks in me.” Which probably wasn’t the best thing to say about her brief journey into teenage alcoholism. (She probably shouldn’t joke too much about alcoholism either. But Emma had done the whole stupid binge-drinking thing a few too many times to try to forget how homesick she was when she first arrived in Canberra. Luckily when you’re trying to make it at the AIS you can’t hide it that much, and Emma was quickly pulled into line.)
They were waved over to a taxi when they reached the front of the queue, and chucked their bags in its boot. They both took the back seat so they could continue talking with ease, which miffed the driver a little. Leaving the front passenger seat empty in Australia was such a no-no. He probably assumed they were rude or unaware tourists until they gave him their addresses.
“Didn’t you go a little crazy when you moved away from home?” Emma asked Kyle as the taxi moved off and she fell into his shoulder.
“Sure,” he said as she picked herself back off him apologetically. “So much responsibility, but also nobody hovering over me telling me what or how to do it. Usually that just meant partying with the boys.”
“Sure it did.” Emma thought it probably looked something like a Raging Stallion video. Being friends with gay boys often meant inadvertently stumbling across their not-so-well-hidden porn files on their laptop.
He read her mind. “Don’t be cheeky. Unfortunately there are far too many straight boys in the squad.”
“Same here. Well, straight women.”
“In a hockey team?” Kyle asked, bemused.
“Stereotype!” Emma accused him.
He laughed.
“But y’know, the ratio is probably much higher than it is for any other sport,” she admitted.
“Women’s tennis,” Emma said at the same time Kyle said, “Men’s diving.”
Giggling, they both fell forward as the taxi braked suddenly.
“Sorry,” said the driver. “Some dickhead in front of me changed lanes.”
They sat up properly again as the taxi picked up speed. The small lights of Canberra receded as they headed out north towards Bruce, which was perhaps the most Australian name anybody could ever give a suburb. Was there a Sheila to match? Emma probably should have googled that before she moved here.
When Kyle was dropped off at his house, Emma admired it covetously. Really, it wasn’t that much to look at, but it was so normal and unlike the dorm she was currently living in.
Kyle leaned back in the window and kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s catch up soon.”
She could tell he really meant it and waved at him as the taxi drove off.
“Was that your boyfriend?” the driver asked.
Emma snorted. “Nope.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t kiss you like a boyfriend.”
She grinned. “I guess he probably saves that for his boyfriend.”
To his credit, the driver didn’t even skip a beat. “Most likely.”
As the taxi pulled up outside the dormitories of the AIS, Emma handed him some cash and told him to keep the change.
“Thanks.” He reset the meter. “Have a good night. Kiss your boyfriend.” He looked down at the hockey stick in her hand. “Or girlfriend. Maybe both? Who knows? Kids these days.”
He was actually endearing, rather than insulting.
“I know,” Emma said, laughing. “Kids these days.”
She hopped up the stairs, two at a time, getting in a practice swing at the bushes on the right.
Kids these days.
HARDLY ANYBODY else was still up at this hour, so Emma managed to get into bed without having to endure questions about the launch of the documentary and how everything had gone. She was exhausted, and Kyle had already worn her out, so conversation was the last thing she wanted. But as she lay there in the dark, Emma was distracted by the shadows caused by the light outside her window and the way they danced across the ceiling. “Under the sea,” she sang quietly to herself, a lullaby to fall asleep to.
But then she crossed Emma’s mind again.
Malcolm.
Of course, that wasn’t her real name. Emma had shortened it to Mal, which could stand for a multitude of girls’ names. Mallory, Malala, Malika, Malinda… the list could go on. In the end, she could be named anything.
The thing was, Mal wouldn’t even know what Emma looked like, except the flaming red of her hair, and she could have even written that off as a wig. Emma was also drunk enough that she could remember very little specific detail about the girl underneath the guise of Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of the Serenity. Emma would have been screwed if Mal was a career criminal and she had to pick her out of a police lineup.
The reason the whole meet-cute story sounded so crazy was because they met at a Halloween party, despite Will’s guesses at some kind of pop culture convention before Emma eventually told him the story. She had finalised her plans for a costume while talking to Micah on the phone. It was perfect, especially because, with her titian locks, she wouldn’t have to find a wig but just somehow get her hair to go a little wavy. Emma was going to be Kate Kane, a.k.a. Batwoman, one of the original out and proud lesbian superheroes. She had even been driven out of the military by Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. She was a trailblazer, and Emma loved her. But where was her bloody movie, damn it? Even Ant-Man had his own movie! Ant. Man. Then again, the art of making movies was an industry where even Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, couldn’t get a green light for her own story. At least Wonder Woman was apparently coming.
Emma really wasn’t looking forward to the party. At the time, she was still settling in with her teammates. There had been some departures and new arrivals midyear, and everyone felt a bit shaky having to adjust to it all. Two of the girls she was friendlier with had gotten scholarships to the UK, and she was on the lookout for a new bestie when Alya took her under her wing. Hoping she hadn’t taken her on as some feel-good project, Emma was standoffish at first, but Alya was as ruthless with her social life as she was with her hockey stick. Emma feared if she let her down off the field she would probably take it out on the field. Probably on Emma herself.
She wouldn’t let Emma miss the party. When Emma told her—admittedly, halfheartedly—that she had come up with a costume idea, Alya almost wept with happiness. It turned out she was also pretty talented with a sewing machine.
“It’s my backup whenever I have to retire from sport,” she told Emma one night while taking her measurements. Emma hadn’t had someone so near her Bonds underwea
r in so long she felt they were now practically engaged. “You don’t really want this skintight, do you?”
“No!” Emma was horrified.
“It’ll be sexy,” Alya singsonged.
“I want to be able to go to the toilet during the party. It won’t be so sexy if I piss myself trying to get the costume off.”
“Your call.” Disappointed, Alya snapped her measuring tape up with a decided click. “But it’s not going to be a tent, either.”
So the costume hadn’t been skintight, but Alya definitely had a backup career in the making. She had managed to make a pair of yoga pants and long-sleeved top from Big W look close to a black catsuit. Stiff black curtains stolen from one of the gyms had made an excellent cape, and theatre glue made the mask affix to Emma’s face without the need for elastic. Her red hair gleamed against the black, just like Kate Kane’s did. Emma hugged Alya with true joy, who screamed out, “Don’t pop the stitches!”
“What, I can’t dance in this?” Emma asked.
“I didn’t know you liked to dance.” Alya looked at her suspiciously.
“Of course I love to dance. Who doesn’t?”
“You just don’t seem like somebody who dances.” She shrugged. “Okay, dance your little booty off, but try not to sweat too much. It will make the mask fall off. You’ll lose your mystique.”
That put a dangerous thought in Emma’s head. “Hey, maybe next year I can dress as Mystique!”
Alya snorted, tidying up the tools of her trade. “You wouldn’t even wear a tight set of pants. I don’t think you’re going to go naked except for blue body paint and some carefully placed sequins.”
She had a point. But Emma was pleased. “Thank you.”
“I’m getting you out of the dorms for a night. Finally. That’s thanks enough.”
Emma didn’t disappoint her by dropping out at the last minute like her usual MO.
For someone who had dreams of clothes design, Alya’s basic costume on Halloween night of a black cloak and the mask from Scream was disappointing to say the least. As if reading Emma’s mind when Alya first came to her door, she shrugged it off. “It’s like baking. By the time you’re finished, you can’t be bothered eating it.”
“If it’s a cake, nothing will stop me from eating it.”
“Don’t let the coach hear you say that.”
“What Danni doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Such a lie. Emma was terrified of Danni.
“Yeah, well if she finds out, you’ll be the one who’s hurt!”
All Emma could think of now was cake. Some really old-fashioned one, like a Queen Victoria Sponge with lots of cream and jam. Her stomach rumbled in agony. “Are you saying you don’t want some cake if I make it?”
“Fuck yes, of course I do!”
Cake would probably be more accepted by their coach than the empty calories that would be wasted that night on alcohol.
They met up with Alya’s girlfriend, Kerri, at a café near the party. Emma desperately wanted a coffee, but the others were ready to dance. Emma’s costume had already drawn some appreciative whistles—unfortunately, from boys. They probably didn’t even know who Kate Kane was—if they had any kind of comic knowledge, they would probably just have thought she was Barbara Gordon’s Batgirl. But Barbara Gordon’s default sexual setting was Dick Grayson, and Emma wasn’t even trying to make a pun with that.
The party was buzzing. There were a lot of familiar faces from the AIS in attendance. Kyle definitely wasn’t there. But there weren’t many boys, if you got the drift.
It was hard for Emma, walking in and pretending to be all sparkly and vivacious when all she wanted to do was go home and watch Jessica Jones on Netflix. Maybe next year she could come as Jessica Jones—all she needed was black hair, a black wardrobe, and a snarl. Or would that mean she was actually going as Simon Murray? Maybe not. He actually didn’t snarl much, although he liked to think he did. Snarling was more of a Micah thing. And Simon didn’t have dark hair either.
But there she was thinking about the boys in her life, when there were such beautiful girls present. Emma had to remedy that immediately.
The problem with people her age was that you never knew whether they were doing things ironically or nonironically. Emma had decided to give a group of slutty mouses a miss because she didn’t think they would be on her level—then she heard one of them starting to talk about her paper on the homoeroticism in religious-themed Renaissance art and realised she was way over her head. So she gave them the miss anyway. Alya and Kerri had already disappeared on her, probably to make out in a darkened corner or get their rocks off in a stranger’s bedroom and tick “doing it in public” off their list. (Yes, they had a list. Emma once stumbled across it when trying to borrow a pencil. She never asked Alya for stationery supplies again.)
Jason Voorhees was casually feeling up Michael Myers by the fridge as Emma tried to put her six-pack of Cascade away. She almost knocked into Michael’s sumptuous rack as she stood back up.
“I think I saw a porn like this once,” Emma said to break the ice.
Michael lifted his knife, and Emma fled before she could get fake-stabbed. Five minutes into the party and she was already not winning friends and influencing people.
Another room, another hallway. And there she was.
A gender-bent Captain Malcolm Reynolds, casually leaning against the wall with one hand on her holster and the other holding her beer. Her hat was tipped low, so Emma couldn’t see her eyes. She was stunningly androgynous, her long brown coat covering the feminine assets that could have given the game away, unlike the Michael Myers who had just threatened to fillet Emma. Her hair was short and brown, but it could have been a wig for all Emma knew because the hat was hiding most of it.
Emma had to remember to breathe.
Mal gave a sly grin as she noticed her. “I hope you’re not here to cause trouble, Kate Kane.”
Man, she even had Nathan Fillion’s distinctive drawl down.
“I don’t cause trouble,” Emma managed to squeak. Batwoman would never squeak. She cleared her throat. “Trouble just always seems to find me.”
“Shiny,” Malcolm said. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart. Shall I get you a drink?”
“Sure.”
If Emma was a manga character, steam would have been coming out of her ears and her arms would have been cartwheeling at a hundred miles an hour. But she kept her cool. Maybe she really was Batwoman.
When Mal returned with a beer that was obviously from her own stash, Emma finally got to see her eyes. They were a piercing blue, the kind of blue that oceans aspired to be in Greece.
“Are you wearing contacts?” Emma blurted out before she could stop herself.
Luckily, Mal was amused. “No.”
“I mean, it’s just, holy shit, they’re blue.”
“Gives me astounding night vision. Like a cat.”
“Really?”
“No.” Mal laughed and took a swig of her beer. “Are you really a bat?”
“Yes, I am, actually. It’s like a werewolf thing. By the light of the moon I change form.”
“I thought werewolves only did that once a month.” The small curl of her mouth as she smirked made Emma want to kiss it right off. She couldn’t believe the effect Mal was having on her. The last time she’d felt that way she was nine years old and Jodi Gordon was starring as Martha on Home and Away. Her first inklings that she may have been a baby dyke were captivated by Gordon’s wide mouth, dark hair, and tanned skin.
“Yeah, well, I’m a bat. Not your period.”
Emma was rewarded with a snort of beer from Mal’s nose that sprayed across her cape.
She was mortified. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’ve got a cute face. I’ll forgive you.”
“That’s not exactly fair.” Mal pulled her coat sleeve over her hand and tried her best to wipe away the beer droplets that hadn’t yet soaked into the fabric.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t see yours.”
Just like that, Emma got frightened. She knew she wasn’t hideously ugly. In fact, she was cute. But she had been functioning so well behind Batwoman’s mask that she was scared to remove it. It would be like Cinderella losing her glass slipper and all the magic draining away to leave her with the facade beneath it. Without the mask, she would be plain old Emma Goldsworthy again, the girl who had been so cool and collected only a year before but had become indecisive and plagued by doubt when she had to move away from mummy and daddy.
So Emma channelled Kate Kane again, practically purring and putting on quite the show. “But I believe we haven’t been properly introduced yet. A lady cannot present herself in society without a formal introduction.”
Mal laughed and stuck out her hand. “I’m—”
“There you are!” Alya screeched from behind Emma.
She turned and was confronted by a sobbing mess.
“What the hell happened?” Emma asked, immediately taking Alya into her arms. Mal watched with some bemusement.
“I really need to talk to you!”
Emma gave Mal an apologetic look. “Be right with you.”
“I’ll be here,” Mal said, tipping her hat at Emma.
But that was the last time Emma saw her.
Chapter 2
IT TURNED out Alya had just been dumped by Kerri.
They hadn’t even been at the party for twenty minutes. But that was all it had taken for Kerri’s fuck buddy to come out of the shadows and stake her claim. Alya, who of course wasn’t even aware of her existence, took it badly. Especially when Kerri stayed to calm down the fuck buddy after Alya ran off.
Alya, as to be expected, was in pieces. Emma was trying her very best to support her friend, but her thoughts kept turning to Mal. It was hard to be objective when somebody else’s soap opera puts a halt to your own chance of happiness.
