The Protected

by Claire Zorn

  ***

  The beach house wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Namely due to the glaring lack of beach. My mother had stood on the back veranda examining the view of trees and rooftops, her handbag still over her shoulder even though we’d been there half an hour. She was reluctant to commit, I guess.

  ‘It said “water views”,’ she said. ‘I double-checked, triple-checked.’

  Dad gently slipped the bag strap from her shoulder.

  ‘Well, I mean, it’s still a nice view. Lots of trees,’ he said.

  ‘We have a better view at home.’

  Dad walked the length of the veranda, craned his neck sideways. ‘There! I see it! The ocean! Through those trees, just next to that apartment block. Do you think it’s an apartment block? Could be offices, I suppose. Council offices, maybe.’

  Mum stood in front of him and he steered her shoulders in the right direction.

  ‘Do you see it? Do you?’

  ‘I see it.’ She took her bag from him and went inside.

  ‘Katie,’ Dad called. ‘I found the view! Come see.’

  ‘You found the view?’ Already in her bikini, Katie padded across the timber decking. ‘Doesn’t inspire confidence, Dad.’

  ‘Look.’ He pointed.

  Katie laughed. ‘Well, at least they made up for it with these very tasteful dolphin wind chimes. And so many. Just in case we forget we’re at the beach.’

  ‘Do not say that to your mother.’

  It turned out the phrase ‘walking distance to beach’ was also largely relative. It was walking distance to the beach in comparison to our house, for example. The walk looked as if it would take about twenty-five minutes, so when you finally made it home after a refreshing swim you’d need another one to cool off again.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Dad said. ‘We’ll just go to the beach as a family. That’s the point of a holiday.’

  Katie didn’t make an effort to hide her objections to all-in family beach time. It’s hard to flirt with lifeguards when your dad is right there in a pair of ill-fitting Speedos.

  So it was agreed that Katie and I would walk to the beach in the mornings. Mum and Dad would come and meet us in the afternoons for the quality family time Dad was so keen on.

  On the first morning, Katie emerged from her bedroom wearing her chosen beach attire: a pearlescent white bikini, which was basically just a collection of strategically placed triangles.

  ‘Interesting,’ my mother said. ‘And what are you going to cover up with?’

  ‘I have a towel,’ Katie replied, as if Mum was a little on the slow side.

  ‘Maybe a T-shirt and skirt would go nicely with the towel?’ Mum suggested.

  I, on the other hand, had the art of covering up down pat. A long tankini top and trusty boardshorts that almost reached my knees. There was zero chance of my attire becoming dislodged by a rogue wave.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ was Katie’s response to my ensemble.

  ‘It’s a tankini.’

  ‘Yeah, see, “tankini” is another word for middle-aged I’m-a-bit-dumpy-now swimsuit. Seriously, Hannah? Where did you get that? And are they men’s shorts? Oh my God. I’m not going to the beach with you looking like that.’

  ‘Katherine,’ Mum said. ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘I will. That is exactly what I will do.’

  ‘You’re only going if you go together.’

  Katie took my wrist and dragged me into her room.

  ‘Do you seriously have nothing else you can wear?’

  ‘Um. I have my racerback.’

  ‘This isn’t squad training, Hannah.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable just in, you know,’ I motion to her Sports Illustrated ensemble.

  ‘Why? You don’t wear frigging boardshorts at training. Oh. But you do cover your bum with your kickboard when you’re walking over to the pool, don’t you? Yeah, I’ve seen you doing that, not exactly subtle.’

  She began to rummage through her suitcase.

  ‘It’s lucky I have five bikinis.’ She tossed one in my direction. Blue polka dots.

  ‘Just put it on, Hannah. It’s cute. You’re cute. We’ll be cute together.’

  Katie chose a spot on the sand, spread out her towel and lay down on her stomach. (On top of the towel, rather than under it as Mum might have hoped.) I kept mine wrapped around me, like a thermal double-layer tube dress with extra padding – just what every girl needs on the beach.

  ‘Are you just gonna sit there like that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a really big hat, by the way.’

  ‘Well, it’s a really big sun. And it’s eating your skin while we speak.’

  ‘I’d rather take my chances with the sun than cover myself with carcinogenic chemicals.’

  ‘Convenient argument for someone so fond of tanning.’

  ‘I’ll make you give me my swimsuit back. Now.’

  And then, five, four, three, two, one.

  ‘Have I seen you here before?’ Wetsuit rolled down to the waist, board under the arm, sun-bleached hair. Big smile. They were always so friendly. And inventive with their opening lines.

  ‘Oh, hey.’ She sat up, shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand and removed her sunglasses with the other. She wasn’t a Sports Illustrated model. She was Elizabeth Taylor.

  ‘Maybe. How’s the swell?’ Did she research the stuff beforehand? Get the right lingo?

  ‘Stuffed. Choppy as.’ He dropped the board and sat on the sand.

  ‘I’m Campbell.’ (Like the soup.) He offered his hand, she shook it.

  ‘Kate.’

  He turned to me. I shook his hand.

  ‘H-Hannah.’

  ‘And here’s the dickhead who kept dropping in on me.’

  Another one now. Darker. Tattoo climbing his calf. He dropped his board and reached behind his back to unzip his wetsuit.

  ‘Ya had no chance, Campbo.’ He peeled the wetsuit from his shoulders, pulled each arm free. If these guys were our age, they were taking an awful lot of steroids. ‘Who’re your friends?’

  ‘Hannah and Kate.’

  ‘Heath. How’s it goin’?’

  ‘Good,’ replied Katie.

  ‘Youse aren’t from here, are you?’ he grinned.

  Katie laughed. Not too much. She measured it perfectly. ‘Yeah, we’re on holidays.’

  ‘Sisters?’

  ‘Hmm. Cold in?’

  ‘Oh no. Campbo, whada ya reckon? Twenty-five, twenty-six?’

  ‘Twenty-eight for sure. You gotta get in there.’

  ‘Hmm. Yeah right.’ She stood up, adjusted a strategically placed triangle. ‘Let me guess, there’s dolphins too, yeah?’

  ‘Heaps of them.’ Campbell got to his feet. The expression ‘kid in a candy store’ wouldn’t go astray.

  ‘Mind our stuff, Han?’ Katie tossed her sunglasses to me.

  ‘No way,’ Heath said and it occurred to me he was looking at me. ‘You’re not piking.’ He held out his hand to help me up. (I obviously needed it, what with my beach-towel cocoon and all.)

  ‘No, no. I’ll just stay here.’

  ‘Na-ah. Can you swim?’

  ‘She can swim.’ Katie fixed me in her gaze, raised an eyebrow, seeing if I would accept the challenge.

  I took his hand and allowed myself to be pulled up, whilst keeping a firm grip on the towel. Maybe I could shout ‘look over there!’ and run into the water while they were distracted. Very sophisticated.

  Campbell and Katie were already heading to the water. Heath was waiting for me. This was definitely the closest I had ever been to a half-naked male. I swallowed. Removed my hat. And unwrapped the towel. Just my fluorescent skin and a few polka dots. Excellent. He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the water.
<
br />   Heath asked a lot of questions. What was surprising was that he addressed them toward me. He also offered to put sunscreen on my back, I responded by opening my mouth in an effort to speak. And failing. When I think back to that day on the beach I can barely believe I was even there. It feels like the chunk of a film that never makes the final cut. Arrangements were made. They would be back at the beach at six-thirty, would pick us up, we would go to a pub, have drinks.

  Katie told Mum and Dad that the two of us were going to walk into the town to catch a movie (not about to engage in some sort of drug-fuelled orgy as Cosmo would have them believe). If they were suspicious about the amount of preparation time that we put in, they didn’t let on. I was, after all, the perfect accomplice for Katie.

  The dress was blood-orange, a fingertip hem. Strapless. Tiny blue buttons in the shape of sparrows ran down the front of the bodice to the waist. It wasn’t mine, of course. She said the colour went with my dark hair. Complemented.

  We stood in the tiny strip of space between the two single beds. Starfish-patterned curtains drawn, a pastel painting of a little girl with a basket of seashells looking over us. Katie was twisting her curls into a side knot below her left ear. She took a bobby pin from the selection she held between her lips and pushed it into the coil of hair.

  ‘You want earrings?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have pierced ears, remember.’

  She took the last bobby pins from her mouth and slid them into her hair. ‘Holy shit, Hannah. What century do you live in? It’s not illegal, you know. You have shaved your legs, haven’t you? Show me. You did behind the knees, yeah? Oh God, Hannah. Here’s a razor – can you hurry?’

  ‘Is he really going to be looking at the back of my knees?’

  ‘He’s a guy. He’s going to be looking everywhere. You look pale. Are you going to pass out? You need to look at this as an opportunity, yeah? This is experience. You need experience. You might even enjoy yourself.’

  She sounded like our mother.

  The twilight air crawled over my bare shoulders. We walked the edge of the road, sandals scattering the gravel. The girl who was playing me was trying to look confident.

  ‘How old are they, Katie?’

  ‘You don’t want to be with guys your age. Trust me. We mature earlier, anyway. Heath’s gorgeous. Like it matters how old he is.’

  ‘Is he driving? Do you think that’s because he’s older?’

  She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Are you peaking out on me? I can’t go unless you do. You know that. You look pretty. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘What about Jensen?’

  ‘Fuck, Hannah. We’re not going to marry these guys. Look,’ she stopped walking, stood in front of me. ‘This is practice. You have to take every opportunity you can to get practice. These guys are a rehearsal, someone like Jensen …’ she sighed. ‘Jensen is … he’s a whole other level. If I get it wrong with Jensen, I’m not going to get another chance. This is as close as I get to sisterly advice, Span. Take it. Experience is everything.’

  You could feel the air thickening with salt as we neared the beach. The grumble and sigh of waves pounding soft sand. I felt as though my heart and lungs had packed it in and left me. Given up already. The girl who was playing me was losing her place. And then she turned and then she was running. There was someone calling after her. But she didn’t stop.

  Furious doesn’t quite cover it. She was so pissed off she didn’t talk to me until the next day – the beach again, no sign of Heath and Campbell.

  ‘I do not understand you. What the hell was that about? Shit. No wonder, Hannah. No wonder you cop so much crap at school.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I thought you liked them. Seriously, what’s not to like? Are you gay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just, I just freaked out.’

  ‘Yeah, you did. What? You think you were going to get raped or something?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why do you have to take everything so fucking seriously?’

  ‘I just didn’t want to have to …’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘I’m not you.’

  ‘You’re not me? What the fuck does that mean, Hannah? You mean you’re not a slut, like me? That what you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ I was crying. Sitting on the beach in a polka dot bikini crying.

  ‘Don’t you dare judge me. What? So if you’re the smart one, does that make me the bimbo slut, does it? You think I’m so stupid all that’s left for me is to screw around?’

  ‘No. Katie, I don’t think that. Please. I’m sorry about last night. I was … I don’t know.’

  ‘You ask me what you should do, you’re always like, “Katie, how do I get them to stop picking on me.” Well, I don’t know, Hannah, maybe stop acting like you’ve got such a big stick up your arse. You are so unbelievably stuck up.’

  ‘I’m not stuck up. How does being scared make me stuck up?’

  ‘What are you scared of? Why do you have to take everything so fucking seriously?’

  ***

  I am in my room when the taxi pulls into the drive-way. I can see it from the desk by my bedroom window. The passenger-side door swings open. My father. One leg and then the other. Hands brace, one on the door, the other on the roof of the car. He slams the door shut behind him, limps down the path to the letterbox. He takes from it one single letter, stands gazing at it in his hand. In the kitchen I hear my mother turn on the radio and turn it off again. She opens and closes cupboards, a tap runs. My father stands there looking at the letter in his hands, turns it over and I can see that it’s a postcard, not a letter. We don’t know anyone who might be in the kind of place you send a postcard from. A place where we are missed. He puts the postcard in his pocket.

  After dinner I take our plates into the kitchen and open the dishwasher. I hold the first plate, my mother’s – laden with uneaten food – and push the pedal on the bin with my foot. On top of a mound of potato peelings is a postcard, or rather, two halves of a postcard. I set the plate down on the bench and extract both pieces, hold them together. The picture is of snow-capped mountains and a blue sky. Greetings from Zurich!

  Dear Katie and Hannah,

  How are you both? I am good. The conference is going well. I’ve met some amazing people. Zurich is a really nice place, lots of good chocolate! Next time I will bring you guys and your mum along. Look after her for me. I miss you.

  Lots of love, Dad

  He was overseas about a month before the accident. He had got the postcode wrong. The postcard has been floating in the great land of undelivered mail all this time. Finally found its way home, a year too late.

  I take the postcard into my room and stick it together with sticky tape. Then I go into Katie’s room, open her desk drawer and put the postcard inside.

  FOURTEEN

  Life advice Katie gave me:

  *Ignore the health warnings, smoking is hot.

  *If you see something in a store, but it’s too expensive, take a red pen, cross out the price and write next to it what you want to pay. The sales assistant will think it’s on sale. (Don’t make it too low, though. They get suspicious.)

  *Breakfast is the easiest meal of the day to cut out.

  *Don’t drink pre-mixed drinks. It’s the sugar in them that makes you feel worse the next day. They also make you fat.

  Josh is in my Maths class. He sits opposite me with two other Reacher Street High kids. The desks are arranged in a horseshoe shape, probably to encourage dynamic class discussions or something. Mrs Rourke, my Maths teacher, clearly despises the arrangement. She doesn’t really encourage any interaction between class members. She also doesn’t respond well to questions, you get the feeling she’d prefer if there were no actual
students there so she could get through the lesson without interruption.

  Katie would say it’s stuck up to say this, but none of the other kids in the class are what you would call especially academic. It’s the second lowest Maths class. Pretty much everyone else here is in detention at least once a week for various violations of school rules. Then there’s me. I’m just crap with numbers. Most of my other classes I get HDs. Mrs Rourke has sensed that I hate Maths, or maybe less sensed and more noticed from my endlessly incorrect answers. She doesn’t offer any smiling encouragement, but instead treats me like a disease she can’t cure.

  Today, she writes a series of algebra exercises on the whiteboard. She begins to explain – for about the five-hundredth time – how to find ‘x’. Josh, of course, puts his hand up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I found “x”, miss. It’s up the top there, next to the six.’

  She lets out a long breath. ‘Do I have to ask you to leave, Mr Chamberlain?’

  ‘Miss, I’m just trying to help out.’

  ‘Shut up and listen.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She continues with her droning, monotone explanation. It takes me a moment to realise that Josh is staring directly at me. I look over to him and he crosses his eyes. I look away, but when I glance back he is still doing it: sitting there looking directly at me with his eyes crossed. As directly as it is possible to look with your eyes crossed, I suppose. Mrs Rourke notices him. Her eyes dart from Josh to me. She is confused. Post Katie, I am off limits to any sort of harassment by other students. Everyone knows it. But it is clearly inconceivable that anyone would be socialising, no matter how subliminally, with me. She ignores the incident like she is sure she is seeing things and moves on to the next problem. I glance at Josh, he crosses his eyes again.

  Mrs Rourke folds her arms.

  ‘Mr Chamberlain, do you have a problem?’

  ‘Yeah, miss. Thanks for asking, I have a lot of problems and I just don’t know where to turn anymore.’

  She purses her lips and narrows her eyes. ‘One more interruption and you can leave.’