Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  Someone started screaming. It took a long time before I realized it was me.

  So what if Pippa didn’t actually die that day? It’s the moment her life ended, trying to cover for me while I obsessed about a stupid straightener.

  Mom is right. She only voiced what I’d locked in my chest of repressed fear, that my crazy did, in fact, kill Pippa.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Talia

  During the tram ride from Mom’s hotel back to the Foreign Student Hall, inner-city suburbs pass in a blur. I let my vision drift out of focus, thoughts on lockdown. Instead I count, let the numbers comfort me. Two hundred and forty-two doesn’t judge. Three hundred and ten doesn’t blame. Five hundred and seventy-nine doesn’t resent. The numbers represent a temporary shelter, a lean-to in the dark woods while outside a storm screams through the treetops.

  I arrive at my building but decide not to enter at the last second. Alone, there is too much risk my mental hurricane’s mounting fury will break through my flimsy defenses. Instead, I put my head down and follow the familiar route to Bran’s place, ignoring the quizzical stares from fellow pedestrians. I wear glasses but doubt the frames help camouflage the mascara streaks raccooning my eyes. His front door is cracked, which is weird but a relief. I don’t want to knock and risk Bella answering. The idea of facing that girl with all her jealousy and judgment is more than I can handle.

  I duck into the dim corridor, shut the door behind me, and pause. There’s a charge in the air—the kind of atmosphere that prickles neck hair and induces goose bumps. The house is quiet, but I can sense it’s not empty. I take a hesitant step toward Bran’s room. A floorboard creaks and I jump.

  Settle down.

  Why do I feel so sneaky? We’re together now, right? This trepidation is ridiculous. I’m being oversensitive and paranoid. All I need to do is get over myself and find Bran. Everything will be better when we’re together.

  I push open his bedroom door and my storm upgrades to a category-five hurricane.

  There’s another girl in here.

  I can’t see what she looks like because her face is pressed into my boyfriend’s shirt while his is buried in her hair. The room snaps with electricity. My belly stings like it’s under assault from mutant wasps. What if I scuttle back the way I came, like a total creeper? But then what? There is zero chance I can pretend I don’t have a clue that this is going on—whatever this is.

  What the fuck is this?

  Bran raises his head and our eyes deadlock.

  My expression must be murderous because he steps in front of the other girl as if to shield her. Whoever she is turns around and, holy crap, she’s gorgeous. A living, breathing Disney princess with those slanted eyes and masses of spun-gold hair spilling down the center of her back. Her pert, upturned nose is pink, as if she’s been crying, but that only adds to her air of delicate vulnerability. Under her micro wool skirt, her black over-the-knee boots scream sexy.

  No one can compete with a girl of this caliber. Especially not when you’re me in a saggy knit beanie, tear stains, and scuffed-knee jeans.

  “Talia…” Bran’s voice is tight, like he’s controlling something. Fantastic. Time to play “Guess that Cryptic Emotion.” What are the choices? Annoyance that I interrupted him? Embarrassment for getting busted? His face reveals nothing.

  Here we go, yet another fucking mask.

  The girl peeks around his shoulder. Her wide eyes assess me with open curiosity. I’d like to grab those impossibly long eyelashes, whip her around my head, and hurl her out the door.

  “Talia?” Bran begins to thaw, regards me like I’m human, not an unwelcome insect who scuttled into the room. “Hey, shit, what happened? You look awful.”

  Because when I cry that’s what happens. I look like crap. Normal people don’t cry like whoever this Little Miss Perfect is and walk away with two glistening tears on their cheeks. Crying is raw, aching and real.

  My nose threatens to run. I sniffle, hating to expose myself as a regular person. For once, can’t I be someone perfect? In fact, right now I’d settle for being anyone. Anyone at all. Just so long as they aren’t me.

  “Talia? That’s her?” The girl looks at me with new awareness.

  He talked about me with this girl? Who has a vaguely Scandinavian accent? A dawning realization shines into my fractured brain.

  No way.

  “Yeah, I’m Talia.” I want my voice to sound controlled, but instead I seem high-strung, petulant. Cracks start to fang in jagged bolts beneath my skin. I wrap my arms around my waist to hold myself together. Don’t go to pieces, not here, not in front of…her.

  “Brannie told me all about you.” The platinum-haired goddess moves around Bran and edges closer. “I’m Adie.”

  What’s she doing here? I can’t compete with this girl and win. The memory of Tanner inside me, while his gaze pretended I was Pippa, is branded in my brain. I won’t vie against another first love. That’s a hell I’m unable to revisit.

  Adie keeps coming until she’s right up in my personal space.

  Kill me now.

  Her arms rise. Maybe she’s ready for the task. Nope, this is going from bad to worse. She hugs my wooden body. Her hair is soft against my cheek and smells like meadow flowers. I want to vomit.

  “It is so nice to meet you.” Her false smile could win an award.

  I pat her back awkwardly, not daring to look at Bran. Terrified what I’ll see if I do. “Okay, well, this is a…something. You guys must have loads of catching up. Look, I just stopped by to say I…” Stop talking. Shut up and get the hell away. “Yeah, so I’m gonna go. I can show myself out.”

  “Oh no. That’s fine. I was just leaving,” Adie replied, stepping away, plucking a purse from the futon.

  “No! Stay. Please, stay.” Is Bran talking to me, to Adie, or both of us? I don’t know what to do. If it’s not me, I’ll fall apart in so many pieces no one will ever put me back together. “I have to go,” I repeat, backpedaling from the room. “Right now.”

  I stumble down the corridor and pause on Bran’s front step. This is his big chance to chase after me, call my name, something, anything. If there’s ever a moment to buck up and show me how he really feels, this is the moment.

  Don’t look back. Don’t you dare look back.

  I turn around. The hall is empty.

  I hurl myself forward and rip open the front gate. Going to my packed-up room isn’t an option; being alone will only allow my crazy time to sink fingers into my brain. There’s no way in hell I’m retreating back to Mom’s hotel. I’ve got literally nowhere to go. It’s impossible to swallow. I take a hard left down a street that I don’t recognize. And take a quick right. Walk at nearly a jog for a few blocks and veer left again. Lost. I want to get well and truly lost. I’d like to outrun my own name if the option is at all possible.

  A plop of water splatters on the tip of my nose. I gasp and glance toward the roiling, dark clouds. A rumble menaces overhead and sprinkles start to dot the pavement. If this were a movie, here’s the part where the music becomes dramatic and soul-searching.

  A flash of lightning, and it’s like a faucet turns on from the heavens. Is this a cosmic joke?

  I wipe my face with the back of my hand. If my life were cinematic, I’d gasp, my hair attractively framing my face, and Bran would appear at the end of the street—panting—in a tight white T-shirt that’s soaked through to reveal taut biceps.

  Don’t think about Bran’s muscles.

  He’s not coming. I’m alone—in the rain. And it’s cold, uncomfortable, and decidedly unromantic.

  High-rise buildings grow taller. In my aimless meanderings, I’ve headed south and entered the city’s heart. Along Elizabeth Street, a woman in an elegant suit and frightening stilettos skitters around me. Her umbrella flips inside out as wind buffets the street. A wet newspaper blows from the sidewalk and smothers my face. I rip the paper off and my frantic walk turns into a full-tilt run.

  A
nother thunder bang crashes overhead.

  I want to scream—I’m sorry. To Bran. To Mom. To Pippa. I’m sorry for not being enough for anyone.

  But apologies mean nothing. They don’t have the power to change a single thing. Flinders Street train station is ahead. There’s an idea. I could catch a train and leave the city. I’ve never visited the Dandenong Ranges—the low hills rising to the city’s east. I read in one of my guidebooks that the Dandenongs were full of eclectic villages and misty fern glades.

  That’s what I need—a fast train out of this broken-dream city.

  I’ll roam used bookstores, sip hot chocolate in a quiet café, go for a long walk through the rain forest, and pretend I’m not someone whose life is one roaring clusterfuck.

  I hug my saturated jacket. Great. My clothes are soaked. Maybe the train isn’t a well-thought out plan. Correction—this is an epically stupid idea. But I’m going for it anyway because I’ve already made every conceivable mistake. If all else fails, maybe I’ll catch pneumonia and die and won’t everyone be sorry?

  I cross Flinders Street and duck into the station. The yellow-bricked building is massive, hulking over two city blocks. I search my bag for my public transit card. Crap—my wallet’s AWOL. I shove through pens, ChapStick, a loose stick of gum, and a few coins. Damn, I must have forgotten it at Mom’s hotel.

  I cannot face her in this state.

  My life is unraveling faster than I can knot it back together—loose filaments slip between my clumsy fingers. I make my eyes smaller than peas and count to ten again and again until I’m able to wrangle the change from my purse bottom into my hand. I’ve got three gold coins, worth two dollars each, and another seventy cents: $6.70. That’s not much, definitely won’t whisk me to the mountains.

  My head throbs. What if this is it? I’m going to die of a brain hemorrhage here in the city with no identifying documents. My unclaimed body will be donated for medical experiments.

  A beautifully restored classic pub is on the corner across the street—Young and Jackson. I fist my $6.70 and feel the weight. There’s enough coins for a cheap beer and at this moment that’s my only brilliant idea. I jaywalk, ignoring the blaring horns, and burst into the bar.

  The main pub floor is packed on account of the weather, so I wander upstairs. Here the room is quieter.

  At the bar, a few men in rumpled suits blearily stare into their pints. I order a Victoria Bitter. On the opposite end of the bar is an oil painting of a naked woman, the brass plaque beside it reading CHLOE. I receive my drink and toast her.

  This Chloe’s a good-looking girl. Did she ever have guy problems? Drop her defenses, open her heart, allow him to enter and run roughshod before returning to his ex?

  I sniffle and take a few deep sips. Why did Adie have to come back? She arrives in town and shatters my turn for a fairy tale. Except in my twisted version the handsome prince didn’t believe in love. That reason should have been enough to give me pause. But I held on, believed that despite the evidence, Bran and I had a chance.

  Now I’m kicked out of the story, the anonymous ugly stepsister.

  My beer’s almost empty when I set it down. Good thing I’m currently penniless; otherwise this situation might take me on an alcohol-fueled trip to the danger zone.

  “No shit, California? Is that really you?”

  I turn, dazed, to find Jazza at the top of the stairs.

  “I don’t believe it. What’s going on, girl? Give me some sugar.” He saunters over and engulfs me in a bear hug. I squeeze back, suddenly grateful for human contact.

  Jazza takes notice of my empty glass and single state. I swear his nostrils twitch. “What’re you doing all by yourself?”

  “I fly home tomorrow.” I can’t hold back a sniffle. “Bran and I…well, I don’t even really know if there is a Bran and I. Things are all messed up.”

  There’s a strange flash in Jazza’s eyes. I don’t know what to make of it because in another blink he’s back to his friendly yet dopey self. Turns out Jazza missed his train. He didn’t say where he was going and I don’t really care. All I know is that right now he’s content to fetch drinks for my broke ass. He buys me another round before pulling out his phone.

  “You are addicted to that device,” I say, crunching on two complimentary peanuts.

  “Probably.” Jazza nods, thumbs flying over the screen. At last, he sets the phone down, drumming his fingers over the case.

  “What are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, I’m—”

  His phone buzzes. He checks the screen and smiles.

  “All good?”

  “Yeah, never better.” He shoots me another odd look, one that’s a trifle smug, like a cat who caught a canary, but the bird is still twitching inside his mouth.

  Another beer later and we graduate to liquor: rum and Coke for him and vodka tonic for me. He doesn’t ask what I’m doing sitting in a bar looking like the world’s loneliest raccoon, sodden clothes plastered to my body. Nor does he fire off a single question about Bran.

  That’s fine by me because right now I don’t want to think about any of that. I’m happy to listen to Jazza drone through some random story that involves a bunch of people I never met, a party down the coast, and a blind ferret.

  “It was hilarious.” Jazza guffaws at the end.

  “Sounds like it.” I smile weakly and subtly swing my eyes toward the wall clock.

  “I’m glad I ran into you, California. What are the chances, huh?”

  The knot lodged in the back of my throat since seeing Bran’s arms wrapped around Adie pulls tight. California sounds an awful lot like Captain to my intoxicated mind.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m—” A sob hiccups from me. “No, I’m not okay. Not really. I had such a stupid fight with Bran.”

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me all about it.”

  I love his concern right now.

  In halting steps, I give a 30,000-foot overview of what happened.

  “Aw, sounds rough.” Jazza pats me on the head before pulling out his phone to check another text. “What do you say, time for shots?”

  I want to go home and pass out among my half-packed belongings. I’ve drunk enough that my cramped studio apartment won’t be my personal torture chamber. I move to stand.

  “Hey, what’s the rush? Hold on, girlie.” Jazza’s hand is on my elbow.

  For a few seconds I thought he wanted to steady me, but he’s not letting go. In fact, he’s closer. A little too close. I try to move away.

  “I think it’s best if I just go pass out.”

  “Come on, one more drink.” He one-thumb texts.

  I fight the impulse to grab his phone and throw it to the hardwood floor. Crack the screen under my heel. Whoa. Need to chill out. I’m a bit of a violent drunk.

  The rain pours harder outside the window, a gray unbroken sheet. “Oh no.”

  “C’mon, California, stick around. My company doesn’t suck that bad, does it?”

  There’s weirdness in Jazza’s voice again. Or maybe I’m drunkenly hallucinating drama everywhere I look. I cannot believe what a fool I made of myself back at Bran’s. Did he know Adie was coming? Doubtful. Still, that didn’t stop him from taking her back with open arms. God, I’m such a stupid masochist. One who can’t stop falling for guys who are still caught up with other girls. Who’d Bran prefer? Cinderella or the quirky OCD stepsister? There’s no contest.

  “All right. One more drink.” Maybe that will be enough to erase the memory of the protective way Bran shielded Adie, the way his eyes narrowed, the lean set of his shoulders as he turned away.

  Jazza presses another drink into my hand and I take a sip, sputtering. “Oh God, what is this?”

  “Ouzo,” he says. “It’s Greek. You like?”

  “It tastes like liquid black licorice.” And I hate anise, I want to add. Instead, I say, “Thank you.” Because I need to remember to fake it. Life doesn’t hurt so much when you stop being real
.

  I swear Chloe, the giant naked woman hanging on the opposite wall, gives me a pitying look. “You ever have these kinds of problems?” I mumble, taking a big sip of the revolting drink.

  “What’s that?” Jazza invades my personal space. His tone is casual, like we’re friends, nothing more. But I’m vaguely aware that his body language is starting to say something else. Something that I really don’t want to be happening.

  His phone buzzes again.

  “Dude, you’re on that thing more than a teenage girl.”

  A fast-beat pop song comes on. “Dance with me.” He takes my drink and sets it down.

  “Negative.” I recoil from his wandering hands. “Dancing and I, we’re not really a thing.”

  “But I love this song.” If I lit a match to his breath, it would burst into flame.

  “I’m serious, Jazza. I do not want to dance.” I clench the barstool, wishing I could curl under a table in the back of the bar.

  Jazza tugs hard, harder than he should, to be honest, and I tip from my seat, landing straight into his chest, where I choke on his heavy cologne. His pectorals are way bigger than Bran’s, but they’re meaty and exaggerated. He must lift a lot—too much. I don’t like when guys work their body for show. His spicy scent dredges up the memories of our few hookups. I remember his wet lips and roving hands.

  Ew, ew, ew.

  “Serious, Jazza, I don’t want to—”

  His thick tongue pushes into my mouth and I gag. He tastes sickeningly sweet, like caramel and Coca-Cola.

  I try to shove him off, but it’s like he mistakes my hands on his body for assent. The way he sucks my face makes breathing difficult. Dimly, I wonder if I should knee him in the junk or bite down. The upstairs bar’s not overly crowded and it’s not like he can do much. All I have to do is break free of his gobbling mouth and—

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” That familiar voice slices through my alcohol-soaked mind with the precision of a meat cleaver.

  Jazza springs back a good three feet and I’m left by myself, turning to slowly face Bran.