Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Not me,’ Tara says. ‘Any boy comes within a five-kilometre radius and I’m a nervous wreck.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘Last one to the ocean buys drinks all round! Come on!’

  I grab their hands, the way I used to years ago with my little sisters, dragging them out across the sand. We hurtle forward, schoolbags flapping, the three of us screeching, laughing, howling. The day’s rules and regulations peel away and I stop caring about whether I am a rebel, a rule-breaker, a no-hope girl … or a newly invented version of myself, someone with potential. None of that matters.

  I reach the water’s edge first, throwing down my bag, kicking off my shoes and socks. The next moment I am in the water, shrieking, splashing, kicking up long plumes of surf. It feels childish, exhilarating. ‘Now,’ I announce, knee-deep in the surf. ‘The important bit. When I was little, my sisters and I used to make wishes at the water’s edge, and they almost always came true. We’re going to make a wish too. For sunshine, for friendship, for cool boys and true love …’

  I take their hands in mine again, as if we are all five years old, pushing down towards the water.

  ‘Hope it works,’ Tara says. ‘I’m wishing for that first kiss …’

  Bennie laughs. ‘I’m wishing for a chocolate boy.’

  I scrunch my eyes closed and one thought flashes across my mind as my hands, twined with Tara and Bennie’s, dip into the ocean. I just want to be happy …

  A huge, icy wave breaks over us and we pull apart, screeching, clamouring for the shore. My face is sore from laughing so hard and my lips taste of saltwater.

  ‘Honey Tanberry,’ Bennie gasps, twirling round on the sand, ‘you are officially crazy! I haven’t laughed so much for ages!’

  ‘I am soaked,’ Tara groans. ‘I think I swallowed half the bay!’

  ‘You were the last in the water, Tara,’ I point out, grinning. ‘You get the drinks. That was the deal!’

  ‘No way!’ she argues. ‘I’m not going into the cafe looking like this!’

  I look at Bennie. ‘Don’t even ask,’ she protests. ‘Look at us, Honey! We’re like drowned rats!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Watch and learn …’

  I shake my hair and smooth down my dress, the hem still dripping, and stride across the hot sand to the cafe, my schoolbag swinging. Tara and Bennie follow, grabbing up stray shoes and socks, giggling.

  The beach cafe is deserted except for Ash, sitting on a bar stool reading a book. He looks up as I walk in, scanning my damp hair, my bare feet, the dark, wet patches on my dress. Tara and Bennie stumble to a halt behind me, pink-cheeked and dripping.

  ‘Honey Tanberry,’ he says, and I am secretly pleased that he remembers my name.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Been swimming?’

  ‘It’s a hot day,’ I quip. ‘Couldn’t resist.’

  ‘It might be different in Britain, but I have to tell you, most people here get changed first …’

  ‘We are not most people,’ I tell him. ‘We like to be different. These are my school friends, Tara and Bennie. Girls, this is Ash.’

  ‘Good to meet you,’ he says.

  ‘Hello,’ Bennie gabbles. ‘We weren’t actually swimming – it was just paddling really, and then we got soaked by this huge wave that came out of nowhere …’

  ‘I saw,’ Ash says. ‘Looked like fun!’

  ‘It was!’ Bennie agrees. I notice she is holding Tara firmly by the arm, as if she might wriggle free and make a run for it any minute.

  ‘You were going to order something, Tara,’ I remind her. ‘Right?’

  ‘Mnnnnfff,’ Tara says through gritted teeth, her face scarlet. ‘I mean … um … three Cokes, please.’

  Ash slides down from the bar stool and heads behind the counter, and I pick up the abandoned book, a dog-eared philosophy text. It’s a pity Ash has major geek-boy tendencies because he’s very good-looking, in a dark and smouldering kind of way.

  ‘Are you at uni?’ Bennie asks.

  ‘School,’ he says. ‘Got my Higher School Cert next year.’

  ‘Oh … Nietzsche,’ Tara says, picking up the book. ‘I’m quite interested in philosophy … I thought I might want to do it at uni.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Ash asks, pouring Coke into chilled glasses. ‘I have a couple of books you can try. Schopenhauer and Descartes, but fairly basic …’

  Tara’s boy phobia seems to have vanished – she and Ash are chatting happily about weird, long-dead boffins. It’s a little disconcerting.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘My philosophy is simple – live for the moment and make every second count. And have as much fun as you can, obviously.’

  ‘That’s definitely the impression I’m getting,’ Ash says, his attention back on me. ‘So … ice-cream floats in the Cokes then? On the house. One-time special offer for mermaids only?’

  ‘We’re not mermaids!’ Bennie giggles.

  ‘But we’ll take the free drinks,’ I cut in. ‘Thanks!’

  Tara and Bennie take their drinks and head outside into the sunshine. As I turn to follow, Ash touches my arm and I shiver a little.

  ‘You’re quite something, Honey Tanberry,’ he says. For about a millisecond I think that’s a compliment, and then I remember the wet hair hanging around my face in rat’s-tail ringlets, the sea-splashed school dress, the shallow puddle forming around my sand-crusted feet. If it is a compliment, it is the strangest one ever.

  I start to laugh, and Ash laughs too, and it feels like the start of a friendship.

  I don’t get home until after six. I forgot to call Emma to pass on Dad’s message, and she’s cooking something complicated and stressful involving several recipe books and most of the contents of the kitchen cupboards. Everything is strewn across the kitchen as if a small tornado has just passed through, and she looks a little overwhelmed.

  ‘Did you get your laptop?’ she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind one gold-hooped ear. ‘Is it nice? Where’s Greg?’

  ‘Change of plan,’ I explain. ‘Dad texted – he’ll sort the laptop at the weekend because something came up at work. He won’t be home for dinner … said he’d get a sandwich at his desk.’

  Emma’s face falls. ‘But … I’ve gone to all this trouble,’ she says helplessly.

  I bite my lip. ‘I was supposed to tell you, but I went to the beach with Tara and Bennie. I didn’t know you were making something special. I’m sorry!’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Emma says. ‘He should have called me himself. He promised he’d make an effort, spend more time at home.’

  I jump to defend Dad. ‘It was an emergency,’ I assure Emma. ‘He’d never have let us down if he could help it. He works so hard!’

  ‘Too hard sometimes,’ Emma sighs, but then she wipes the frown from her face and fixes on a smile. ‘You’re right, Honey, it’s a high-pressure job with a lot of responsibilities. It does mean late nights sometimes. Greg works hard so we get to enjoy a certain kind of lifestyle – a house with a pool, luxury holidays, meals out; of course, he has to support you and your sisters too …’

  It’s my turn to frown. Before Paddy was on the scene I remember times when we were scarily short of cash, and even now, it’s not like we could afford half the mod cons in this place.

  ‘Oh, well – we’ll make the best of it. Let’s have a girls’ night in!’ Emma says.

  We watch a DVD called 10 Things I Hate About You, a teen movie from Emma’s youth that is actually quite cute, curled up on the sofa, eating as we watch. The meat is charred on the outside and raw on the inside, and the carefully prepared sauce cold and lumpy, but neither of us comment, and the pudding, ice cream with chocolate sauce, is much better. We watch the screen and laugh and say ‘awww’ at the slushy bits.

  ‘Bring your new friends over any time,’ Emma says. ‘This is your home too – you could have a sleepover or a pool party or a movie night.’ She looks childishly excited at the idea, and it strikes me that for all her gorgeo
us house and privileged lifestyle, she is actually a little lonely.

  When the film is over I help to wash up and tidy the kitchen, then head to my room. When I go to check SpiderWeb, to my surprise there’s a message from Surfie16, posted just a few minutes ago.

  Hey, gorgeous … just wanted you to know you’re on my mind.

  I grin and a moment later another message flashes up.

  So, how’s school? Bet you’re popular with the boys!

  I laugh then type.

  It’s an all-girls’ school. Besides, I don’t have time for boys … I’m way too busy with my studies. I am a model pupil!

  xxx

  A reply pops up almost at once.

  Yeah, that’ll be right! I bet they don’t know what’s hit them!

  I frown. I was on my best behaviour that day at the beach, so why is it so hard for Riley to believe I could be a model pupil? Sometimes I think I may as well have bad girl tattooed across my forehead because no matter how hard I try, people label me that way. It’s kind of depressing. I type, a little huffily.

  It’s true. I’m fitting in just fine.

  There’s a pause, and then an answer appears.

  Just teasing, OK? Gotta go, but we’ll talk again. I’m always here.

  I click away from SpiderWeb, relieved that Riley didn’t mean anything by the comment – the fact is, he’s out there, and he’s thinking of me. I open up a school book and try to focus on homework, but my mind keeps drifting back to last Sunday at the beach. What if I’d said yes to Riley’s invitation? Would that have been so very bad?

  It’s late when I hear Dad come in. My homework is long finished and I’m curled up in bed in the dark, balanced on the edge of sleep. I hear Emma’s voice, a rising howl of anguish. ‘Can’t you at least tell me when you’re going to be this late? It’s past midnight, Greg. It’s not fair, you know it’s not!’

  ‘It was unavoidable, sweetheart,’ Dad says soothingly. ‘Shhh, now. We don’t want to wake Honey.’

  I let go, sliding helplessly into a world of dreams.

  Skye Tanberry

 

  to me

  Just to let you know we are wrapping up your Christmas prezzies today. Expect a box of goodies soon! And no peeking till Christmas! Only 22 sleeps to go!

  Skye

  xxx

  9

  I lie awake at four in the morning and stare at my bedroom ceiling. There is nothing much to look at; just plain white plaster, shadowy in the lamplight. At Tanglewood, my ceiling was a faded sky blue, collaged with little gold stars made out of sweet wrappers. The year I was nine, Mum spent a week painting the ceiling while I made the stars, folding, cutting, glueing. We stood on ladders to stick them up there and the end result was beautiful, a child’s picture of the sky, infinite blue.

  ‘If you ever feel fed up, you can wish on them,’ she’d said.

  I don’t believe that sweet-wrapper stars can chase away your troubles, of course, but I found them comforting. I wished on those stars the year Dad left, and again when Shay ditched me for my stepsister. They didn’t work, clearly, but still.

  My mobile says it’s 04.03 on Friday 8 December, and I am wide awake. Again.

  I don’t know if I can call it jet lag any more, not almost three weeks in, but who cares? Jet lag, insomnia, it all adds up to the same thing. At least for the last few days I’ve had more to distract me than maths homework and French translations.

  The middle of the night is when I talk to Riley.

  When I can’t face another equation and the sky outside my window is still ink-black, I click on to SpiderWeb and, almost always, Riley is there. I think he is nocturnal too. Sometimes he’s just home from a party, sometimes he’s been up all night writing a last-minute essay, another time he’d woken early to go for a run along the beach. Not Sunset Beach, sadly. He lives way out on the other side of Sydney, which is why I haven’t bumped into him again.

  A SpiderWeb romance has its limitations, though, and I’m the kind of girl who likes to keep her options open. If my early mornings are all about flirting with Riley, my afternoons are about chilling with Ash. I have taken to calling in at the beach cafe on my way home from school, and most afternoons he is there, reading or studying or serving customers. I buy a smoothie and sit up on one of the tall bar stools at the counter, and we talk and work and flirt a little.

  So yeah … life in Sydney is cool. I went shopping on Saturday with Tara and Bennie, admired the giant Christmas tree in Chiffley Plaza, the trees hung with fairy lights, the department stores piping Christmas carols into cool, air-conditioned interiors when outside the heat was stifling. It was weird to be Christmas shopping in shorts and a T-shirt, but I picked out the perfect presents for Mum, Skye, Summer and Coco. I even bought nail varnish in an especially nasty shade of mustard for Cherry and a packet of TimTam chocolate biscuits for Paddy, and the whole lot was wrapped and posted off days ago. I imagine that parcel, making its way round the world to Tanglewood.

  School is no picnic, of course. I have years of skiving to make up for, but at least now I have a shiny new laptop to help with the task. Dad brought it home last Saturday to make up for the mix-up and him having to work late.

  Tonight it is especially hard to make myself finish the maths study sheet I’m working on. Every question seems harder than the last, and although I keep plodding on, going through the steps Mr Piper showed me, I’m not sure my fragile pre-dawn brain can handle it all. Staying power is not a concept I have ever applied to schoolwork before, and by the time I finish, I feel like I’ve scaled the Blue Mountains in a pair of flip-flops and planted a flag of pride on the summit. What’s on the flag? A new leaf, obviously.

  I put the maths folder away, open up the laptop and click on to SpiderWeb. Sure enough, a message from Riley is waiting.

  You awake, beautiful?

  My lips twitch into a smile and I type back.

  Don’t you ever sleep? You party so hard it’s a miracle you ever make it into uni. What did you say you were studying again?

  xxx

  An answer bounces back almost at once.

  Wouldn’t you like to know? I take classes in surfing, drinking and sleeping till midday, but messaging beautiful girls in the middle of the night is my speciality.

  I’m still grinning at that when the next message comes through.

  So … how is my favourite insomniac today?

  I tap out a reply.

  I’m good, how about you? Did you just get in?

  xxx

  I click Send, and a minute later Riley’s answer appears.

  What can I say? Maybe I’ve started to set my alarm to 5 a.m. to chat online to my favourite English girl. Or maybe I’m a no-good party animal, destined to haunt the after-dark, cider-stained backyards of the Sydney suburbs, searching for true love night after night and finding nothing but heartache.

  My fingers fly over the keyboard.

  I think I can guess which. So … good party? Meet anyone cool?

  xxx

  A reply appears.

  Several dozen meat-headed bozo surf kids, a handful of clueless students, three girls who looked like extras from a Frankenstein movie and one scrounging mongrel who ran off with my burger. I’m not lucky in love.

  That makes me laugh out loud. I type back.

  I know the feeling. I have a knack of picking the worst boys ever. At least, I did … I have turned over a new leaf.

  xxx

  Riley’s reply appears.

  Snap. Only with girls, obviously. Hey, let’s liven this up. Truth or dare?

  I shake my head. There’s no way I am going to pick dare – I can just imagine Riley daring me to skinny dip in Dad’s pool or cycle along the street in my PJs singing Christmas carols. Not happening. I type a reply.

  Truth. Maybe!

  A minute later, my challenge arrives.

  So, tell me about the boys you’ve dated in the past. The good, the bad, the ugly …


  I bite my lip. This is not my idea of fun, but Riley is not to know that.

  Do I have to? Like I said, I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m off boys.

  A reply appears almost at once.

  Even me?

  I type back.

  You’re different. You’re one of the good guys, right?

  Even as I type, I’m not sure if that’s what Riley is. When I met him on the beach, he seemed like a surfer-boy version of Shay Fletcher, wholesome and sporty and cool. His messages are different, though, giving an impression of a hard-partying bad-boy.

  He answers quickly.

  You wouldn’t be interested if I was one of the good guys, admit it. Either way, here is my past history, so you know you’re not alone. The good: a girl from my old high school who had my heart for years, but didn’t even notice I was alive. The bad: too many to name. The ugly: see above. And then there’s you. Hoping you might fit into the ‘good’ category … a guy can dream! OK, your turn now!

  I blink. No wonder I can’t pigeon-hole Riley; he is a mixture of good and bad, exactly like me. Maybe we both just need the right person to break the old patterns and be the best we can be? I start to type; I’m not sure my message is the whole truth, but there’s enough there to let Riley know I’ve had a messed-up past. He likes trouble too, I am pretty sure of that.

  The good: a boy I dated back when I was thirteen or fourteen. He ditched me for my stepsister, so I’m guessing he didn’t feel the same way. The bad: hmmm, it’s a long list. Teen biker, Year 11 heart-throb, farmer’s son, film student, tattooed fairground boy … just a few of the edited highlights. The ugly: I don’t do ugly, unless you count the lovesick nobody who got me chucked out of school a while back, and … I don’t. So yeah … there’s a vacancy in the ‘good’ category right now if you want to apply? Just sayin’.

  xxx

  I wait for a response, but the minutes slide by and the fizz inside me goes flat, like Coke left out in the sun. I was trying to pick up on Riley’s flirty, teasing tone but it’s harder to get the pitch right in an online message than it is in real life. Have I said too much? The silence leaves me confused and embarrassed.