by Naomi Fraser
“Really?” I claw the fence in disbelief. “Lakyn.” Tears fill my eyes. I wipe them away. “Wait, please.”
He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “What?” he asks, voice stiff.
I try to control my emotions so my voice stays steady. “When’s the funeral? Ralph was my friend, too.”
Lakyn sighs. “Twelve-thirty at Mount Gravatt Crematorium, room fourteen, Friday. I’d prefer it if you didn’t show up.” Then he stalks away, out of sight and seemingly out of my life.
I trudge the rest of the way home, fighting back tears, though I give Mum a quick call to let her know I’m on my way. I enter through the front door, hood up to hide my face and catch her hurriedly sliding a drawer closed in the kitchen and locking it with a key.
“Mum?”
She jumps. “Oh hi, honey. Back so soon?” She tucks the key in her pocket, turns, and grips the bench behind her, leaning back to cover my sight of the drawer. Her gaze sweeps over me. “Looks like you’ve worked hard. You’re very red in the face.”
I stride to the fridge to grab some cold water. She doesn’t leave, just hangs around and the silence becomes awkward. I rest the cold glass against my face, wondering why she’s acting so odd and then my gaze flicks to the edge of the drawer.
She’s not going anywhere.
“I’m off to have a shower.”
“Fine.” Her smile is a little too bright. She rinses off dishes at the sink that are already clean, but whatever.
I want to drown my sorrows under some hot water and then memorise the transformation sequence. I’ll also record the steps on my phone and listen to them over and over as I fall asleep. The affirmations can wait.
35
I SPEND THE next two days in a miserable funk. But I study the books Ralph gave me, listening to the playback in my earphones and learn more about finfolk magic. My study of the transformation sequence led me into the most awesome detailed magic sections in both the Guardian Training Manual and Finfolk Lore & Transformations. I’ve been eagerly practicing spells every spare moment when I’m alone. Lakyn’s notes make it clear how imperative sorcery is for the change to be successful.
I can feel the spark of magic growing inside me, a tentative power at first, but one that is increasing in strength. Energy pulses through my veins during my practice, yet since I need to be in mermaid form for the full power of my magic to take effect, I don’t let the lack of truly amazing results bother me. It’s enough that the waves follow my orders. I can make water into a wall and force the tides to recede when I walk to the bus stop.
I normally sleep with a playback of spells and techniques on my phone, until I wake up, able to recall things more easily. Practicing magic and studying the books also helps get my mind off Lakyn’s dismissal, and the power whets my appetite to study finfolk magic until I memorise everything I can.
I’m still furious Lakyn doesn’t want me to go to the funeral. Though I understand he’s hurting about Ralph, it’s little consolation that he found it so easy to get rid of me. It hurts. But if he thinks I’m going to sit around and twiddle my thumbs all day, he has another think coming.
Bethany and I traipse through the Capalaba Central shopping centre on Thursday afternoon until my feet are one giant ache.
My new black Converse are giving me blisters. Band-Aids are my friend. I buy a packet and layer two across my peeling heel in the bathroom. Mum gave me some early birthday money at the last second—two hundred dollars—although I did protest, saying it’s too much, she refused to take it back with the order to buy something nice for myself.
No need to tell me twice. After combing through the information Ralph gave me, I have a better idea of what I need to buy, but I have to get the items without Bethany growing too suspicious. If I tell her what I’m planning, she might try to stop me, or even worse, place herself in more danger. I mentally check off my list. I need a shockproof and waterproof case for my phone, plus some Velcro and straps because I have an idea of how to help Lakyn if anymore sirens venture toward the hostel. I also need an outfit for the funeral tomorrow, which makes me feel even more depressed. Not the buying part. The saying goodbye part.
I look through the pharmacies, digging into the discount bins of lipsticks, hair sprays and eyeliners, finally buying some more foundation. I don’t have anything worthy of Ralph’s funeral in my closet. I do have black . . . but in general I prefer colour in my wardrobe, and I’ll have to dig into the dregs at the bottom of my drawers to scrounge up a decent outfit.
I will not embarrass anyone by showing up in a small black skirt that I haven’t worn in five years.
“I need a new cover for my phone, some Velcro, and I’ve got to stop at the hardware store. Plus, I have to find something in black. Understated,” I say to Bethany after we finish up with our shredded salad plates and collect our frozen Cokes. I push the straw around in my mouth, hoping the action forestalls the questions I see in her eyes.
“Well, OK. I saw some cute black dresses at one of clothes shops—they had them for sale last week on the Internet. One of my friends posted a pic of her wearing it on Instagram. They should be in stock by now,” she says quietly. “The bottom of the dress looks like those handkerchief shorts. They look like those jumpsuits, but they’re not.”
I nod my approval and we head off, dodging mothers with trolleys and laughing teenagers to get to the wide walkway.
The shop displays try to be appealing, but I look at them with barely-there interest. We stroll past a cheap shoe store, a Rastafarian clothes shop and then continue on to the shiny, silver mannequins out the front of a trendy clothes store. They’re dressed in high-waisted denim shorts and multi-coloured bandeaus.
“In here.” Bethany ditches her plastic take-away container in the bin, then rubs her hands, a mischievous grin turning her eyes intensely green. “Let’s go.”
I laugh and glance back to the brightly lit interior, scanning the store for something black and appropriate. I hope I have enough money to buy new clothes and everything else. I try to summon the enthusiasm this trip should be giving me, but I feel somewhat numb, as though I’m coming from a great distance.
“Not there.” She hooks her hand around my elbow and leads me around the many clothes racks to the rear of the store. She knows exactly what to do, and slides the hangars over, then pulls out a black dress. “Size eight, right?”
At my nod, she pulls it out completely and holds up the dress, muttering, “They haven’t put them on display yet. It’s new stock. They might have them out Saturday. What do you think?” She holds it against me, tilting her head. “Oh, that looks great with your blonde hair.”
“You don’t think it makes me look too pale?” I flick back tendrils of hair at my nape and catch a side view of my reflection in a mirror.
Her gaze rakes me up and down. “Na.” She sucks in her bottom lip, pondering. “Your skin looks good, the co—”
“Can I help you?” a friendly voice asks.
We both turn, startled at the question, and I smile at the young sales assistant. “We’re fine,” I say immediately.
Her smile widens, and her thick, black lashes with eight coats of mascara flutter like crow’s wings. I wonder if they annoy the heck out of her. They’re annoying me and they’re not even on my face. “Are you looking for something in black?” Even though I haven’t given her an answer, she forges ahead. “We have some new stock in over the other side—pants, tops.”
“Thanks,” I say, unmoving.
She tries again. “Is it for a special occasion?”
I freeze and Bethany looks at me from the corner of her eyes. My mouth opens, but I can’t seem to say the word funeral. That will bring too many questions. For Bethany and Cal’s safety, I can’t tell them anymore.
Bethany steps forward, shifting her body in front of mine, one hand on her hip. “It’s her birthday tomorrow. She’s just having a look.”
Did I mention how much Bethany rocks in general? And she’s right. My
birthday is this Friday. The same day as Ralph’s funeral. I look at my feet and suck in a mouthful of frozen Coke.
“Well,” the sales assistant—I glance up and read her name tag “Melanie”—grins at me. “Happy birthday. If you need any help, just let me know.” She turns around and winds her way toward another couple of girls entering the store.
My exhale precedes Bethany’s chuckle. If I didn’t need something in black, that performance will have forced me to walk out.
“Pushy sales people.” She picks up on my thoughts. “If only they knew how many sales they lose every time they did that. Try on the dress.”
I grasp the hangar, look at the outfit, and take the closest change room, locking the door behind me. I swiftly undress, pulling down my high-waisted jean shorts and off-white top and then slide into the black dress. It’s short and feels cool and soft against my skin, reaching high mid-thigh, but I can pull that off. The front hemline folds into what looks like a slight handkerchief design and a thin gold belt emphasizes the waist. It’s classy. The top has spaghetti straps in a singlet style, which will be nice and cool to wear. I wonder if it’ll be too stylish for a funeral. The low neckline is the main thing to worry me, but it scoops high enough to cover my breasts. Honestly, the dress makes me look amazing.
“I’ll take it,” I say to Beth from the dressing room.
≈≈≈
THE SUN SHINES on the day of Ralph’s funeral. Far too brightly.
I travel by bus, skipping out of school for the day. It’s my birthday, so I don’t feel too guilty. My phone is off, just in case Mum’s tracking me through an app, but I miss having my music to listen to—it helps me escape the crushing pain in my chest—too close to my heart. My research last night on the Internet gave me the bus timetable, but I still needed to leave early to get to the Mount Gravatt Crematorium on time.
I don’t have a private invitation, and I sincerely hope I won’t be asked for one at the door. I arrive with forty minutes to spare and walk into a graveyard, my footsteps steady past hundreds of grey stones that mark people who have gone from this world.
I immediately tear up, thinking of Ralph, but stroll around until I find room number fourteen, though it’s not hard once I catch sight of people standing around the grounds—and a sudden nervousness grips me. I use the skills I’ve learnt from Dr. Farrow to combat nerves skittering along my spine. I only know a few people here and one told me not to come.
I’m here for Ralph.
My face crumples and tears prick my eyes. I wipe them away, trying to catch my breath and suppress my emotions, but my arms shake. The tears won’t stop. I turn from the crowd; at least I’m far enough away so no one catches sight of me yet. I pull tissues from my bra and wipe my eyes, breathing, taking my time. I don’t want to get there and immediately be a total mess of tears.
Oh, Ralph.
The thought pushes something up from my chest—all the emotions I’ve kept locked away, believing in the most pathetic way that I can keep them hidden forever. I let them all out. My nose blocks and tears stream unchecked down my face. I hold my hands over my face, sobbing my heart out. I can’t breathe and the salty tears sting my nose.
After five minutes, I manage to wipe my face, blow my nose and breathe out slowly. The grassy area shines greener than before, the sky a ribbon of perfect blue, trees even more beautiful. I sniff, turn back to the room, clench my jaw and stalk up to a long table at the front of the room.
A friendly man dressed in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt greets me, hands over a folded card with a smiling picture of Ralph on the front and then asks me to sign the register in his memory.
I pick up the pen. My hand shakes, and single fat tear rolls down my cheek, splashing onto the page. The droplet moistens the white paper. I smear it off with my thumb.
Rest in Peace, Ralph. You’ve given me a great gift, and I’ll miss your friendship, love forever, Ellie.
I drop the pen and the cylinder clatters on the table. A stack of tissues rests on the table, and I grab a small packet, then glance around, but don’t notice Lakyn anywhere. Maybe he’s inside the room, organising things? I stride over to stand beneath the shade of a paper bark tree, listening to the birds singing and enjoying the soft breeze on my hot cheeks. The perfect time to go through my relaxation techniques again.
A man moves in to my line of vision and steadily makes his way toward me. I look up from contemplating the grass and his legs. His eyes make my heart stutter.
They’re deep brown, but the colour shifts incredibly fast, going from burnt coffee to amber brown, then yellow. I press back against the tree, fingers on the soft, peeling bark. A shadow moves over us, a cloud, but he looks up with a grimace and then swings his gaze back to me.
I swallow at the single-minded determination on his face.
“It looks like it might rain. You’re Eloise, aren’t you?” He holds out his hand suddenly. “Richard. I saw you sign in at the register.”
I look at his hand and then lift mine slowly. His grip is warm and firm. Non-personal and he doesn’t hold me longer than is necessary. I breathe a little easier. “Nice to meet you.”
He smiles and steps closer until he’s beside me. I shift a little to the left, escaping the brush of his business shirt against my bare shoulder.
“Um.” I cough, my voice croaky. “How did you know Ralph?”
Richard casts me a sidelong grin. “You know.”
“Oh.” That shuts me up.
He gives me another appraising glance, though it’s not in any way sexual. More like he’s measuring me up, wondering if he can broach a certain subject. He adjusts his tie and then clears his throat. “You know you’ve achieved what all of us have dreamed of doing. No one else has done it in a thousand years.”
I look at him with horror. That’s why he’s approached me? My head starts shaking out a negative automatically.
“No, listen. Have you thought about letting others—I mean,” he smiles, then continues: “giving others some of your blood to see why . . .”
My stomach churns violently and a metallic flavour soaks into my mouth. A strange trembling overwhelms my jaw, and I begin to walk away, afraid I’m about to be sick all over his polishe shoes. He grabs me in a fierce hold, and I jerk to a standstill, then look at his hand on my upper arm.
I tug and his grip tightens.
I glare at him, fighting down nausea. “If you don’t want me to vomit all over your pretty shoes, I suggest you remove your hand.” My voice is louder than I like.
His fingers drop slowly, though he doesn’t move away. “Don’t run away like a frightened rabbit.”
“A rab—bit.” My mouth twists, emphasising the syllables in the word, and I tilt my head up to look at him in distaste. My hair tumbles over one side of my face, offering a curtain from onlookers.
His gaze runs over my face, his eyes shifting colour again, turning whiskey-orange with a dark brown ring. His lashes are midnight black and too long. Around twenty-six or thereabouts, but I may be wrong, seeing how he’s finfolk. He’s incredibly handsome and grins suddenly as though realising I’ve just noticed. He shifts his compelling gaze to the crowd behind me.
“Yes, a rabbit. White hair, small, vulnerable, apt to be frightened—everyone here will soon figure out who you are. Think about what I’ve said. You could hold answers for all of us. If the sirens get to you before we can—”
I do the unthinkable. I jab my finger into his chest. Hard. “You’re mistaken. I’m going to be sick. Don’t talk about taking my blood. I’m not scared of you. What you see is plain ol’ disgust. I-I have to get through today,” my voice breaks and tears brim in my eyes again, but I raise my chin defiantly, “and that’s what I’m going to do. I can’t think about anything else right now.”
He nods, but his lips press together in disapproval. I must have surprised him into silence. An amicable smile forms across his lips, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.
I walk
back to the crowd near the building.
“So, that’s a no?”
I close my eyes, halt two paces away and clench my fists, nails sharp in my palms. “Don’t give up do you?” I snap and open my eyes.
Dry leaves crunch at his approach. “Not when it’s something this important,” he whispers in my ear and then his gaze meets mine before he passes by in a waft of scent that’s heart-breaking familiar. Slightly salty and fresh. My shoulders droop. That scent reminds me of Lakyn.
For a moment, who I am separates into two different personalities. One who lives on land, dresses like a teenager, has legs, while the other . . . is from another realm altogether. Bigger and more than I ever dared to dream I could be.
Five or so other people stare at me, but at my dismissive wave, they look away. I suppress a sigh and follow in Richard’s footsteps to the now open door. A huge plasma screen dominates the far right side of the wall, and the funeral director stands at the podium dressed in smart casual attire. Low, soothing classical music pipes in the background, and people talk, then shake hands. I can’t see Lakyn anywhere, so I sit down at the back, trying to avoid people who might have more questions.
I open the little booklet and read through the messages. Once everyone takes a seat, the director begins the service by reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
Lakyn waits at the wings. My heart leaps into life, and I can’t help the way my knees tremble at the sight of him. As if he knows I’m looking directly at him, his gaze catches mine, and even across the distance, he stiffens.
I don’t look away. Everything else seems to fade away as I study the gelled perfection of his dirty blonde hair, the black suit, his hands clenching. He suddenly jerks at the collar, running his fingers under the fabric to give his throat some space. I look at his shoes. Vans.
