‘Help me with this tyre,’ she says after a few minutes, stubbing out her cigarette on the cracked bitumen.
She places one of the blankets beneath us, finds the jack, positions it under the car and we both push our weight into it to lift it. Cars are goddamn heavy.
‘What did your mum want?’ It’s sometimes uncanny how well Liz knows what’s going on.
‘Just wanted to know where I am. She’s not mad, though.’
She gives me an incredulous look, yanking the rim off her deflated tyre. ‘Seriously? I figured she’d be spewing.’
I shrug, taking the rim from her before she can throw it into the ocean. ‘She wants to talk about things when I get back.’
‘Like what?’ Liz grunts as she starts to unscrew the nuts from the wheel.
I hesitate. ‘Uni and stuff.’
‘Why?’
We’re both sweating. The wheel pops off and Liz rolls it to the side. For a second, I hope she’s too busy with the whole changing-the-tyre business to realise I’m having heart palpitations at the thought of telling her.
She finds the spare in the boot and pins me with a look that says, ‘You’re not getting out of this.’ Shit.
‘I just—it’s hard to explain,’ I mumble, reaching for the screws to help her place them on the spare.
‘Try.’
‘I—’ I pause, staring at the broken bitumen beneath me. Why is it so hard? ‘I’m not going back to uni.’
Liz stops twisting, a nut half screwed into the tyre. We’re beside each other, arms touching, faces damp, my heart in my throat. When I lift my head, Liz’s gaze is soft.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ She drops the wrench and motions for me to sit down against the rock face behind us. I follow. The asphalt digs into the backs of my thighs, the jagged edges of the rock finding the soft places along my spine.
Because you’re so much better than me. I fell asleep in all my classes. I couldn’t focus on lectures. I dropped subjects and couldn’t hand in assessments on time.
‘It’s not that big a deal.’
‘It is, Luce.’ Liz grabs my hand. ‘I know how much it sucked for you.’ She sighs, a long weary one that has me flicking my eyes to her. She’s looking at our hands, her brown skin against my olive. My nails are chewed, hers are manicured a pastel blue.
‘Does this mean you’re gonna do graphic design?’ There’s a spark of something in her voice. Hope? My stomach plummets at the thought of going back to study.
‘No.’ I pull my hand from her grip and cross my arms over my chest. ‘I wouldn’t be that good at it.’
As stubborn as ever, Liz grabs my arm and pulls me into an awkward one-sided hug. ‘Shut the hell up, Lien Tran. You’d be an amazing graphic designer.’
‘I make your YouTube thumbnails ’cause you’re useless with Photoshop. It’s just a hobby.’
‘Then what do you call your comic? Daydreaming? It’s talent. I know it when I see it. I’ve been telling you for years.’
I shrink away from her words, her confidence in me. It’s not true. Hurt passes over her face, so vulnerable for a split second before she’s back to Liz. Soft and firm and as weightless as air. You could breathe her in and feel like you’re on top of the world.
But all I feel right now is nothing.
‘I tried to tell them about it, you know. They just… didn’t get it.’
‘What did they say?’
I do the best impression of Dad I can, all stern and confused and dumbfounded that his only daughter wants to die most days of the week. ‘Lien, you’re making this up. Why are you sad? You have nothing to be sad for.’
We’re quiet for a longer moment, arms loosely wrapped around each other.
‘You didn’t bring anything with you, did you?’
‘I’ve been clean for three weeks.’
‘And I leave in a month,’ she whispers so softly it catches in the breeze.
The sun moves from behind the clouds, bathing us in a gentle touch of warmth. The space around us sighs just as I do.
‘I don’t want to leave if you’re like this,’ Liz says.
The words flood to my throat: then don’t. But they don’t break through. I smile and intertwine our fingers. ‘You’ve been dreaming of New York since you were ten, Liz.’
‘You should come with me. Name a more iconic duo, I’ll wait.’
It’s such a crazy suggestion, I choke out a laugh. ‘With what money?’
‘I can pay for some of it.’ She’s smiling at me now, her classic toothy grin that always makes me grin right back. I can feel my lips tugging upwards despite how goddamn shit I’m feeling. ‘It’ll be an adventure!’
‘You already paid for this trip.’ I kick myself every time I think about how useless I am. No job, no prospects, no anything.
‘You could just come with me. You could even audition with me.’ She nudges my arm.
‘You know I have stage fright. I’m not cut out for theatre.’
‘Don’t let your dreams be dreams.’
‘But they are dreams,’ I reply. ‘I want to be that girl who rocks up and magically lands her dream job, finds a down-to-earth boy who thinks I’m the world, and l live with our two cats in a cute apartment while struggling to pay rent.’
Liz sighs, shaking her head at me with a small smile.
The weight of dread in my body is dissolving like a bath bomb. Liz is now talking about what songs she should sing for her auditions (‘I could totally rap “Guns and Ships”, make Daveed Diggs proud.’) and what dance routine would be the one that shows off her best ‘assets’. We finish replacing the tyre while singing the opening song to The Greatest Showman. Our hands are streaked with grease and dirt, our shirts clinging to our backs, but I haven’t felt this happy in a long time. It hits me hard in the chest: this is how I am when I’m with Liz.
Happy.
But I know this will end, this moment of shared contentment. Because I can’t go with her. Not this time.
We’re good to get back on the road just after midday. We wash our hands with bottled water, and eat bruised apples and salted chips as Liz drives. The slopes of lush mountains crest the right side of us. The sun is high, warm on the tops of my bare thighs. Sitting here in our silence feels like it did at the beginning of the trip, smooth and carefree, like the last days of high school when all we did was drink, watch shows and sleep in the same bed. We play ‘I Spy’, scream the lyrics to the first act of the Hamilton soundtrack, and I sketch until we arrive at our destination: Loch Ard Gorge.
This place is definitely Instagram-worthy. Two rock formations have created a small alcove along the shore. The tips of the formations don’t meet; the horizon is just beyond, like a calling for me to get out of the damn car and go swimming.
And there’s nobody around. It’s like we’ve been blessed by the social media gods.
We snap our photos, apply appropriate filters, then we’re naked and in the water. It’s heavenly; warm enough to feel soft, like satin on our skin. Sea foam clings to our hair and maybe in another life we were mermaids. Liz’s GoPro is out and she’s hiding most of her body from the camera, but the hint of her bare shoulders is a clear indicator to her subs that she’s definitely not wearing a bikini.
‘Hi, fam! We’re at Loch Ard Gorge and look at this view!’ She does a pano with the camera and I duck as it passes me. When she’s done, we play ‘Marco Polo’, look for shells under the mounds of sand, and laugh so much my stomach starts to cramp. It feels so good to laugh with Liz, like champagne bubbles in my chest. I don’t know how long we’re there for, but eventually the sun turns the clouds purple and pink. The sea is chilling and we run out to dry off, put some clothes on our bodies, and sit on the sand to watch the sunset. I never see things like this at home, these natural wonders that happen every day. I’m usually twisted on my chair in front of my Wacom sketching or watching the smoke from nearby industrials fog up the sky. This air around us is clean and salted and tastes like fre
edom. We eat half-melted Red Skins and pass a bottle of ginger ale between us. This is how it should be between us always; I never want to be a step behind her. This is where I’m safe, where I’m home.
‘What are you thinking, Luce?’
I sigh, drinking the last of the ginger ale and frowning at the horizon. ‘That I want to stay here with you forever.’
Liz chuckles and reaches for another Red Skin. ‘I know. This is pretty awesome.’ She rips a chunk of red and slowly starts to chew the lolly. ‘So when are Kelsey and Jane getting updated?’
‘When I get home. I told everyone I was on a semi-hiatus. They’ll understand if it’s late.’
‘Your art style has really improved, though. I’m loving it right now.’
‘So have your dance moves.’
Liz playfully smacks my arm. ‘Those moves got me to New York.’
‘You mean your one viral dance routine to Camila’s “Havana” got you to New York.’
After our shared laughter comes a silence broken only by the crashing of waves and birds flying above us. The sun slides past the rock formations, the tips of the structures bathed in amber. I imagine standing on the edge of the rock, the water roaring below and the horizon under my fingertips. It’s terrifying, to be so high and unsure. What awaits me in the water?
I don’t want to know. Instead, I take the leap.
‘I think I’ll look up some graphic design courses when I get home,’ I tell Liz. She’s the only one I want to tell, the only one who understands. ‘I know Billy Blue offers some, and I saw an online one recently.’
Her response is what I expect: a lot of squealing, hugging and words of encouragement. ‘You got this.’ She’s determined to keep me on this course. ‘I believe in you.’
‘I won’t do it right away. I need time.’
‘I know.’
The fading light catches the beads of water on her face, like tiny crystals embedded in her skin. For a moment, everything feels smaller, warmer and firmer under the glow of the sun. Here we are, sitting side-by-side once again, and I want nothing more than to stay here. I want this moment to swallow me whole. And when she smiles at me, it splits her face open like the sun breaking the dawn.
‘What?’
‘You’re going to be okay, Lucy,’ she grabs my hand and threads our fingers together. ‘We’re going to be okay.’
And for once, I believe her.
When I wake up, I realise with absolute certainty that I am dead.
I feel nothing
nothing
nothing
not inside and not
around me.
It is a strange feeling. If I touch something, say the floor, it’s as if it’s not quite real. I can touch it but it does not exist, not anymore, not for me. I can feel it but it is not there. Or I am not there.
I look down at my watch and notice it’s stopped working. The second hand moves irregularly, jumping forwards and backwards by odd increments. The face is smashed. I shake my hand, and shattered glass drops to the floor. My skin is covered in small abrasions.
Perhaps I am some sort of ghost. I stand and look in the mirror. I am surprised that I can see myself in the mirror at all, but I suppose I am not a vampire, as they are undead. I am definitely dead. The side of my skull is somewhat crushed. My dark brown hair is matted and blood-soaked. I am very, very pale. Faint veins are visible through my skin. I am hollow.
I never meant to kill myself, it just happened… I think. Or I didn’t think. I am quite sure it was an accident though. I was despairing. I was out of my mind. Romy, my Romy, was lying on the floor. I can see him now, still lying there. Lying there and not breathing at all. Not now and not then.
As if possessed, I reach up to pat the bloody side of my head. I can faintly recall being weightless. I sway at the thought. I imagine my skull colliding with the corner of the table, slicing through until my brain tissue leaks out all over the floor and blood pools around my head.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I see that my brain is not exposed at all. Instead I see a section of my skull; there is a tiny spot of white bone amongst the black, sticky blood. I want to touch it and poke my finger through the gaping flesh and dig my way into the soft and squishy brain tissue.
I walk over to Romy, who is lying on the floor, and kneel beside him. I kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his dead lips. I am repulsed. I nestle myself in the crook of his armpit so it is like he is comforting me. I am also dead, I remember.
A spider crawls on his arm. Its black body is the size of my thumbnail and it has short legs.
‘Go away,’ I tell it.
Another joins and, together, they begin to walk across his chest. I shoo them. More spiders start crawling over his corpse. They cross his legs, his arms, his neck. Soon there are a dozen, then two.
I untangle myself from his body. I try to brush them off, flinching as their fragile legs scuttle over my fingers.
‘Leave him alone,’ I say. I grow frustrated. ‘Leave him alone.’ I blink rapidly to push back the tears. I use the base of my palms to dig into my eyes until the darkness forms strange patterns on my eyelids. If I pay more attention, I realise they are the patterns in the rug. An inhuman sound escapes my mouth.
It takes my eyes a moment to adjust and clear the patterns from my vision. Romy is no longer lying on the floor. He is sitting on the red velvet chair in my lounge room, staring at me. I want to scream but I’m scared spiders will crawl out of my mouth, because they’ve all disappeared, and my stomach is churning.
My head begins to throb. Pain explodes in my skull. I look at Romy in fear.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask. I fall to my knees, doubled over. My face is scrunched tight, my teeth are clenched. Hands grasp my wrists and pull them from my face. They’re gentle hands, have always been gentle hands, but they’re still not quite real. It’s not the same. They’re ghost hands. I’m pulled into him.
‘Are you here?’ I squeeze the words out through gritted teeth.
‘I’m right next to you, Hülya,’ he says.
‘You weren’t breathing,’ I say. ‘That’s all I remember.’
He pulls me closer, leaning his forehead against mine. He doesn’t seem to mind the gaping hole in my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, over and over and over and over. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ It becomes like an echo. I hear it all around me and I hear it outside this room, outside my mind. I don’t know what he’s sorry for.
I sit there for what could be all of eternity, or only a few minutes, hearing the words on repeat. Time is finite, time is endless. I am nowhere.
‘Romy.’ He stops talking and opens his eyes. They are magic, those eyes—a crystal blue, an open sky. I lose myself for a moment. I forget it all.
‘Where do you think we are?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know… Barzakh? Purgatory? Siberia?’
‘Siberia?’
‘A place of exile. Don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replies. ‘This is your death.’
‘It’s yours too!’ I release myself from his embrace and analyse my surroundings. The high ceilings, the familiar prints on the wall, the cabinet of expensive china that nobody can use, the mismatched furniture.
‘It’s a shame this is the first time I’ve ever been to your house,’ he says.
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Circumstances could’ve been better.’
He smiles back at me. He is still wearing his school uniform—a navy jumper and grey pants. His shoes are off. He is beautiful even now. I walk over to the door and try the knob.
‘It won’t open.’ I wrench the handle and push my weight against the door. ‘I don’t understand. It doesn’t even have a lock; how can it not open?’ I slam my body against it repeatedly but I feel nothing, and it still doesn’t give. It’s like an invisible force is pushing back. I run over to the window and try to pull it open. It doesn’t budge. I let out a growl as I exert a final show of force.
/> ‘Aren’t you going to help?’ I yell at Romy. I turn and see him standing alone in the centre of the room, impassive. A bruise starts blossoming over his left eye. There is a galaxy spreading under his skin. Gaseous clouds of navy and purple and yellow forming a stellar nursery more delicate than any in the universe. I forget about the door and the window. I run to him.
‘Who hurt you?’ I ask him gently.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘Well, what was the last thing you remember?’
‘Walking into the room and you were dead on the floor.’
‘What about before that?’
Nothing. There are gaps, I can see them, these empty black patches in my memory.
‘We were at school,’ I say. ‘Sitting in the library, in our corner.’
‘What else?’
I search my mind. I go deeper. I try to swim in the holes, but I can only dip my feet in.
‘You kissed me.’ I smile, I remember that. ‘At school. You said you couldn’t help it. We never did that before.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But there’s more.’
‘A bit more,’ he says, ‘but let’s not worry about it right now.’ He sits down on the rug and I lay my head in his lap, facing up towards the ceiling. I close my eyes while he brushes my hair behind my ears. He hums a song.
We are in his room. Music plays quietly in the background. I open my eyes and he bends down to kiss me. Everything smells like him and I’m home.
‘How long can you stay?’ he asks.
‘A little while. My parents think I’m studying at the library for the Bio exam.’
‘Should you be studying for the exam? I don’t want to be a distraction.’
‘Please, I spend every other waking moment of my life studying, I deserve a break.’
I’d be happy if I never had to pick up another textbook again. I hate that I’m good at everything my parents want me to be good at—everything that would get me into the right university degree.
‘I wish you never had to go,’ Romy says.
‘Me too. I feel like this is the one place I can actually be myself.’ I lift my hands up and intertwine them around his neck. I’m not usually so corny but I mean it. I’m tired of the rules I’m supposed to know, and the ways I’m supposed to act. I’m tired of working so hard in school but having my future decided for me. I’m tired of the pressure. Lately, the thing I’m tired of the most is pretending I barely know Romy when I know everything about him.
Underdog Page 16
