by Naomi Fraser
“What?”
“That you couldn’t swim like that before the fall.” She gets up on her knees, her eyes wide. “Right? Do you realise what you’re telling me?”
“Er . . .” I frown. “Maybe the others were bad. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I was with you. We were not bad. It just doesn’t make sense.” She takes another bite of her apple and rubs her forehead. She chews thoughtfully. “I’ve had swimming lessons since I was seven. What with being so close to the water and all. Not that I enjoyed it very much. What stroke were you using to get to the end so fast? Ashley’s spreading a rumour that Lakyn pulled you out of the pool and gave you his towel.”
“He helped me out.” I scrunch the plastic wrapper in my hand, pastry flakes falling all over my skirt, but I brush them away. “He didn’t give me his towel. I didn’t want to swim, you know, but he convinced Coach Williams to make me.” I smooth my fringe back from my face with my hand, because the wind is playing havoc with all my hard work after I left the pool.
I am determined to look normal on the outside, even if on the inside my body changes in ways I can’t imagine. I might have some weird bacteria from the cuts, but no one else is ever going to know. No one. A sudden idea occurs to me: change is something I cannot stop. It will affect me no matter what I do. I cannot control it.
My best option is to make the right choices while in the flow.
Bethany chuckles. “He’s the star swimmer. Coach has got his knickers in a twist about it. Lakyn and a few other guys are all lined up for the nationals. First time this school has competed in thirty years. You’ve seen him swim.”
I remember the carefree glide of water across his sleek muscles. The sun heats my back, and my skin prickles with discomfort. I’d love to go swimming right now. My skin feels too dry. I can imagine that silken glove upon me, the cocoon of water. “He’s fast.”
I loved my hips rolling and legs becoming liquid. Not like all the other times when I dunked my head underwater and held my breath to become a human balloon. Full of hot air, treading water and totally out of my element.
Instead, I feel happy at the idea. Powerful. “It’s a good pool,” I say, thinking Bethany’s expecting me to speak.
She finishes her apple and hooks it over her head to the bin, but the core smashes against the metal can with a wet thunk and then rolls away in the dirt. I laugh, and she grumbles before she stands, then wanders to the bin. Though she casts me a long look over her shoulder once she picks up the apple core. “There’s something different about you. I can’t figure out what it is. Why didn’t you swim like that when you fell off the cliff?”
Yeah, that is the million dollar question. The swaying branches and rustling leaves hold my attention as I think over Ashly’s gibes. I touch my hips and wince at the tenderness. “I can’t remember getting to the cliff, let alone falling. All I remember is a song. Maybe seeing my father’s face. And, I couldn’t swim like that before.” The confession feels silly coming out of my mouth, even if Bethany knows, because she saw me win the backstroke trial. I shake my head and glance away. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll meet you at the gate after school.”
Before Bethany can reply, I’m practically running away.
13
AT THE END of the school day, I catch the bus home. I still haven’t gotten around to fixing my shoe. I gaze out at the mismatched materials that form an endless line of old Queenslanders. It’s like the owners discover this bit and that, and then think, hey, this will fit. Rusted tin with blue walls, or tiny green cottages and waist-high, chain-link fences. Even the crumbling houses are worth a fortune in Wynnum. The bus revs to get up the hill, crests and then all I see is blue.
The bay seems deeper and bigger than the sky. Sparkling sapphire stretches at my feet across the horizon. I can’t take it all in at once, and my heart expands. I am higher than the clouds. At the bottom of the hill, the trimmed, green parklands come into view. Maybe I can visit the beach this afternoon and be amongst the beauty.
Just before I reach my stop, I press the signal button, and the bus pulls alongside the curb. Exiting the bus, my smartphone jingles in my shirt pocket. I quickly check the messages, turning my back on the sea breeze. Two unread, one from Mum and another from Bethany. The taste of metal coats my tongue at not talking to Beth before I left school.
The glass doors slap shut behind me, and the roar of the bus makes me look up to check I’m not about to be run over.
I trek down the street toward our house and open Mum’s text first: Can you cook dinner, pls? I’ll be working late.
I reply back: Ok
Then I swallow and check Bethany’s text: Sry if I upset u 2day. I didn’t mean 2
I sigh and answer back: That’s ok. Just had 2 think for a bit
She replies immediately: Sure. Can u hav a sleepover? Catch the bus home with me Fri, tomoz? We’ll go shopping Sat
I text back: I’ll c when mum gets home. Sounds g
She replies: Ok :)
I’m browsing music sites on my phone as I stroll through the front door to our house, but I drop my bag in the hallway and then start on dinner. Cut the potatoes; add sliced onions to the pot. Stir the gravy with a fork. Dad would give me jobs in the kitchen when I got home from school. He’d help me conjure spaghetti or crumbed steak. Big fat chips to dip into fried eggs and coleslaw swimming with delicious mayonnaise. I stop what I’m doing and smile at his memory. “Dad.” I am adept at doing the basics because of him.
While the steaks and vegetables cook, I undress and put on some R&B music and rummage through my closet, deciding what to wear to the shops with Bethany. It never crosses my mind Mum might say no to the trip. I need more swag, but a lot of my clothes already make me look too much like a boy.
Too many hoodies. I pull out my black Vans and black socks with the white Vans logo on the ankle and then pack them into my school bag. My favourite blue jeans, high-waisted short shorts, pyjamas, t-shirt and underwear. I get a purple hoody and jam it in. Maybe Mum might give me more money to buy some cute tops. My old clothes are perfect for the cold weather down south. Not so much here.
I don’t want to be the odd one out.
I eat dinner on the recliner in the lounge room and then switch on the TV. For having cable, it’s amazing how often I find absolutely nothing is on except ads. I flick through the channels, and a newsbreak comes in the ad of one of my favourite vampire shows. Curious, I leave it on and watch the footage.
A graphic warning appears on the screen.
A blonde reporter speaks loudly on a mangrove-ridden beach, a microphone snug in her hand. “Thirty-eight year old, Gregor Bane, is the suspect in the Anders Peterson murder case. Police arrested him this morning after investigators found human remains and Mr. Peterson’s personal items in the suspect’s home.” The image flashes to police walking a man alongside the local courthouse, his head pixelated. “Although authorities have yet to release a detailed statement, all evidence suggests Gregor Bane killed the young swim star, but his parents and friends are still under close police investigation.”
The next images and voice over reveal details about Anders. His smiling face while he’s wearing his uniform. A smattering of freckles, broad shoulders, brown eyes. His mum crying on his father’s shoulders while being interviewed and asking for help. His mum’s face is a mess. The way my mum’s looked when I woke up in hospital.
Back to the reporter, and her red coat flapping in the brisk wind.
“Again police are asking for information about that night and hope they can piece together what has become an absolute tragedy to young Anders Peterson and his family. Our sources say there have been similar accidents and one as close as a few weeks ago when another young teenager’s body was apparently found on a beach, although she survived. For now, this beach will be closed as police investigate the crime scene. Back to you, Sam.”
My iPhone jingles again. I grab my phone and tap the message icon.
I
t’s Bethany. R u watching news on 5?
I sit back down and speedily type: Y. Omg!
She replies: Do u remember this guy? Ur mum is gonna b happy they found him
I text back: I know. But I don’t remember him tho
Mum’s car pulls into the drive, bright headlights shining through the glass panels in the door. I text Bethany: Mum’s here, gotta go
Mum unlocks the front door and walks down the hall, her shoulders slumped, face tight. “Hey, sweetheart. Oh, you’re watching the news. Did you hear they caught a man who might have killed that poor boy?” She jostles through to the living room and sets her handbag at her feet. “I heard it on the radio on the way home.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, wondering if the taboo on the whole subject has now been broken. “I watched the news just then. Do you think he was the one—” I instantly close my mouth and guard what I say, but the need to tell her everything is a knife in my chest.
“Do I think he was the one who made you go over the cliff?” she asks gently in the silence.
I hesitate, and then say tensely, “Yes.”
“I don’t know, honey.” She nods. “We’ll wait and see. For now it’s enough knowing you’re safe. Does his face ring a bell?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. And you know how good I am with faces. There’s this new guy at school, and I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“Mm. Interesting. If he acts strange let me know.” She studies me. “No homework?”
“No, not today. We had sports and an exam. Hopefully, I did good.”
“You would have.” Mum moves back into the lounge room, collapses onto the sofa and groans. “I swear I had to show a buyer eight different houses today. My body is killing me. I need to get an early night. A bath, then bed. I might actually be able to sleep for once instead of staying up, worrying.”
I frown. “Why so many houses?”
Mum shakes her head, and her blonde chignon loosens, spilling out over her shoulders. “No idea.” She shrugs. “He had the money to spend though. Cash buyer. Oh, he kept us late.”
“Would you like a coffee? I made dinner.”
“I’d love one.” She smiles up at me as I walk into the kitchen. “Thank you, honey.”
“I’ll heat your dinner in the microwave for you. I’ve already eaten mine.”
“You are a lifesaver.”
When I get back to the lounge room with the plate of food and mug of coffee, Mum has spread out on the sofa and is lightly snoring. “Mum,” I call out. “Mum.” My heart races, and I think, I need her to protect me. I need my mum.
“Hmmm? Oh right.” She sits up, pushes away her hair and reaches for the coffee and then puts it on the floor. She pulls the plate of warm food into her lap. “Thanks, angel.”
“I’m going to bed now,” I say. “Goodnight.” I lean down to kiss her cheek.
“Sweet dreams,” she says with a little frown. “Thank goodness, I have a half day tomorrow. I love Fridays.”
I laugh, then remember Bethany’s request.
Mum’s eyes are stuck on mine, blue in white. “You know, you look different. Has your hair grown? It looks a lot longer than I remember.”
The smile on my face wants to surface, but cannot. “I don’t think so.”
“Mmm. But no, it’s not that. Did you hurt yourself at sports today? Your body looks a little out. You’re moving differently. Are you sore?”
“No,” I say, hoping she won’t go any further. “Don’t worry.”
“Oh.” Her gaze roams over my body before she meets my eyes again. “OK. Well, there’s muscle cream in the bathroom cabinet if you want some.”
Somehow, I don’t think that will cut it.
“There’s something about you that’s not quite the same,” she persists. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Stop worrying, Mum,” I say, trying to smile and wishing she’d drop it. “But Bethany wants to know if I can have a sleepover at her house tomorrow night. I’ll catch the bus home with her after school, and we’ll go shopping on Saturday morning. Then you can pick me up at five from her place.”
Mum’s brow knits. “All right, so long as you stick together, you should both be safe by now.”
“I’ll text Bethany.” I pull my phone out of my pyjama shorts and text Beth. She answers back: Awesome
Mum nods. “That’s sorted. Remember to take your phone. You probably need new clothes anyway.”
“I do.” Even if I want to deny what’s happening to me internally, the outside world rarely lets me forget.
“The strangest thing happened to me today,” Mum says and weakly smiles at me. “The man I showed around asked me out on a date.”
I almost drop my phone. “What did you say?”
“Well, you know, I can’t. It’s business. But . . . I never expected that.” Her gaze drops to her stockinged feet, and she pulls her arms close by her sides. “He did keep me late, but he seemed nice.”
14
“ELOISE! GET UP,” the voice of doom barks. “You have to wake up.”
It can’t be. It just can’t be morning. I roll onto my back and groan. Remnants of weird dreams push into my brain, festering, making reality seem so out of place. The blackness of water, deepening blankets of cold liquid closing in around me and then big, pale monsters chasing me. The type that eat people. Sickly, sallow teeth and a hunger for human flesh.
Breath shudders in my lungs.
“Eloise,” Mum calls out louder, no nonsense.
I crack open my eyelids. “Yes. OK. I’m up,” I croak.
“Good. Here’s a drink.” Mum walks to my dresser and sets down a glass of orange liquid. “I want you to have fun at Bethany’s. I have Carrie’s phone number, but make sure you keep your phone on you. And take your charger.”
“I will,” I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes to clear my blurry vision.
“Lock up before you leave. I’ve left some extra money on the table for your weekend or if you want to catch the bus to school this morning. Have fun. Bye, honey.” Mum comes back to me, kisses my cheek, and then leaves my room, her feet shod in elegant cream heels, legs scissoring beneath a blue pencil skirt. She seems more dressed up than usual.
I blink again and then look at the tall glass she left on the dresser. The vitamin fizzes in the water, a flat disc floating, reminding me to get up with purpose. Orange-coloured bubbles burst at the surface, releasing the scent of citrus and chemicals. I sit up and breathe in deeply, then smile. No pain. Yes! I look at the calendar. Science excursion. No! I flop back onto the pillow.
I can’t go back to sleep so I shove away the blue comforter, climb out of bed and then hurry through my shower. I haven’t hung up my school shirt. It’s still on my dresser. I wonder how Mum kept from fussing about the mess in my room. I pick up the glass, swirl the liquid around and then take a long, deep gulp. I figure it doesn’t matter that my shirt is creased, it’s Friday. The journal is in my top drawer, and I flip to the next blank page and write a few notes about my nightmare.
After I slide my arms into the sleeves, I discover the buttons don’t want to meet. “You’re kidding me.” I shrug the fabric closer, stretching it across my shoulders. The buttons strain. Not across my breasts, but my ribcage.
“. . . the hell?” I suck in a breath and do up the clear buttons one by one, pull down the hem and then adjust my shoulders. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see my bra as the shirt strains between my shoulders. The shirt’s too short.
Did I grow two sizes overnight? My watch reads 8.15 a.m. I don’t have time to spend looking for an alternative, but there’s no way I can wear this shirt. I yank open all my drawers to hunt for something else with the same white collar to hide beneath my school jumper. Where have I grown? Not my breasts . . . well it could be, but I’m not that lucky. It’s not my height, either. Maybe my stomach? I rub a hand over the flat plane of my abdomen, then across my hips to the sores that are healing. It’s tender, but ther
e’s no extra weight there. Yet, my bones feel a little different, as if they’re protruding. Strange. I’ll need a new skirt and shirt. And I’ll have to tell Mum about the outbreak on my hips.
Did all this happen because of how I died? The uncertainty of not knowing the truth and the formal investigation around other people dying in similar circumstances means I can’t forget. There’s the pain in my lungs and the visit to the psych ward. Speaking to Dr. Farrow and trying to gloss over the nightmares. I just need to get through today and then I’ll be at Bethany’s, having fun. Focus on the positive, Dad used to say.
My blonde, curly locks bounce around my elbows. Mum is right. My hair has grown. It’s never been this thick or luxuriant. So maybe it isn’t odd that other parts of me have grown, too? The school jumper is two sizes larger than my shirt and fits a lot better. I leave my hair loose, because I know from yesterday we are going to do a report on the life cycle of a butterfly. No flame from the Bunsen burners today.
We’re heading out to the breeders for research first thing.
I’m just in time for the bus to school with the heaviest backpack in the world, but thankful for the jumper. The overcast sky means the wind has teeth. I don’t see Bethany when I get to the school gates. The other year eleven students shiver, and my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
I palm my iPhone out of my skirt pocket and check the messages.
Cu @ lunch :) B
I smile and answer: Ok, and then wait at the front gate with the other students, but don’t talk to anyone. The 514 bus arrives for our form class, plus another form whose room is in the mathematics building.
Wacky gestures to the open door, and I follow the line of students who climb on board. As usual, there’s a rush to fill up the back seats, but I slide onto a bench somewhere in the middle, not wanting to get in anyone’s way.
My backpack bulges, zippers almost bursting. I shrug it off and rest it on the seat. I might have gone crazy with the overnight gear, hair straightener and shoes. Trying to stuff the bag away is similar to hiding an elephant between the cracks in the seats.
