by Tara Marlow
Brushing the memories off, she lowered her top back down and headed back to her room. She rummaged to the bottom of her backpack to find the ibuprofen she kept there. It would help with the inflammation and hopefully, her raging headache. She popped a few tablets into her mouth and swallowed them dry.
Within twenty minutes, dressed in her school uniform, backpack hanging precariously over her shoulder, she locked the front door behind her. When she got to the front of the building, the bus stop only metres away, a car dared to drive in the bus lane to beat peak hour traffic. But her bus was right on its bumper, laying on its horn, forcing the car back into the traffic.
Shit, she was later than she thought. She ran to flag the bus down, ignoring the fire in her mid-section. Halfway there, the tip of her black boot caught on a crack in the footpath, sending her sprawling. Her knee slammed into the pavement. She screamed in pain, then looked up. Shit. Shit. Shit. She saw the contents of her backpack splayed around her. She whipped her head around to the front door behind her. She couldn’t let her father see what was in her backpack. Relieved to find the doorframe empty, she looked back and quickly retrieved the only things she cared about. The silver bracelet her mother gave her when she was born. A heart, a flower and a book charm, all dangling from it. A birthday card, with Snoopy smiling boldly on the cover, given to her by her mother for her fifth birthday, the last birthday she remembered with her. And a hand stitched bookmark, a tortoise and a hare, her favourite movie when she was young, from her grandmother. She carried these things with her always. They were sacred. She called them her ‘absolutes’. She didn’t care about anything else they left behind. But these things? They were forbidden. They were things from the past. Things she was supposed to have gotten rid of years ago. But they were hers. Treasures. Connections. So, she’d hidden them. And she knew if her father ever found them, found out she kept them… She shook her head. She didn’t want to consider that.
In front of her, the bus squealing brakes signalled its arrival. Ignoring the pain, Grace gathered everything up as fast as she could and, remembering the reason for the beating the night before, ran her hand down to the bottom of her backpack. The five hundred dollars she stashed in a hidden pocket was still in its place. She’d never tell her father about that money. It wasn’t a lot, but it was her escape money, in case she needed to get out fast. And things were looking more and more like that time was approaching.
3
Later that afternoon, Grace sat at her usual table in the Daisy Café at Macquarie Centre, located just down the street from her apartment. At this time of day, the café was busy with local university students, as well as professionals from the surrounding business parks. The only thing that differentiated the students from the professionals were the heels and polished shoes. The students didn’t care; the professionals did, but they still ordered the same drinks.
Come five o’clock, the centre would be packed with families. When Grace was new to Sydney, she was shocked to see Macquarie Centre always bustling, no matter when she visited. But late-night shopping on Thursdays brought in the families in droves. Not surprising. The place was a major shopping hub for the north west and north shore areas.
Now, almost every table in the café was taken, many with books splayed across tables or shopping bags at people’s feet. And almost all had winter coats thrown over the back of their chair. There was a line of people waiting to order, and an equal number waiting on their orders, all with their heads down, their eyes glued to their iPhones.
Grace looked around. For three days in a row, she felt like someone was watching her. She hated the feeling, but it was one she’d lived with for years. Being on the run, she was always looking over her shoulder. But now, it felt different, more like stalking, and she didn’t like it.
Movement caught her eye. Shit. A tanned guy, with dirty blonde hair and keen brown eyes approached her table. Maybe he’d been the one watching her? Dismissing him, she returned to her books and focused on her English assignment.
“Hey,” Keen Guy said.
Silently, Grace groaned. The guy stood at the edge of her table, and out of the corner of her eye, saw his ripped blue jeans, sparkling new Converse and a coffee in his left hand, his right one shoved into the pocket of his jeans.
She looked up and smiled briefly, noticing his university hoodie before returning to her papers. He was good looking in a grungy way, but he gave her the vibe that he knew he was. Sorry, dude. Not interested. Grace kept her ear buds firmly in, happy she’d found the cheap pair in a local thrift shop.
“What are you working on there?” He persisted, ignoring her dismissal. He slurped his coffee, looking down at her expectantly. When she didn’t respond, he snapped his fingers in front of her. Great. He was that kind of guy. She pulled one earbud slowly from her ear and looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked.
“What are you working on?” he asked and stuck his snapping fingers back into his jeans pocket and slurped again.
“Homework. Which I need to finish.” She moved to return the ear bud, but she wasn’t fast enough. He reached down and leaned on the chair across from her.
“Homework? Like, a uni assignment? What’s your degree?” God, she hated the dumb ones. They took extra effort. She held his eyes with hers.
“No. I’m writing an essay for my high school English class,” she said, emphasising the words high school. She should have left her school uniform on. That usually deterred the fray, but she started work in an hour.
“Ah, sure. Well. Good luck with that,” he said, his hand releasing the chair quickly as if scorched, before he scuttled away. Yep. See ya. She replaced the earbud. Tell them you’re still in high school and they run for the hills. Besides, these guys had a university campus full of young women across the road, ripe for the picking.
Despite the guys constantly hitting on her, she was thankful for the café. Normally, being on the ground floor of the centre, tucked into a corner, the café was quiet. She couldn’t study at home, especially when she didn’t know if her dad would be there, and it was definitely better than the library. The local library was a joke. Between the noisy young kids sitting through tutoring lessons and screaming toddlers, it was enough to do her head in. Plus, the cafe was convenient since she worked part-time upstairs. She could easily deal with the unwanted attention, and considered wearing her school uniform to help with that, but she only owned one. The coffee spills she constantly inflicted upon herself were problematic, and her work outfit was way easier to clean than her school uniform.
By the time Keen Guy left the café, Grace was lost again in her creative writing assignment. She was working on her major assessment for her Extended English class. The teacher gave them the freedom to write in whatever format they wished. It was one reason she’d chosen the elective. Grace decided on a comparative piece about women’s rights between first and third world countries. Her dream was to be a human rights journalist, so this was a task she was eager to delve into. It was certainly a stretch from her classmates‘ topics. One of her classmates chose to write a fictional romance, another a comparative piece between football players and fanaticism. Her teacher expressed astonishment at Grace’s topic because it was far more complex than most of her classmates’ choices. When the teacher asked why, Grace explained it was because of a book she read, written by a young Pakistani woman who had overcome seemingly insurmountable challenges. It inspired Grace to set a goal for herself. And to set her mantra.
A short time later, the chair across from her was pulled out. She snapped her head up, expecting to see another young hopeful taking a seat. Instead, her friend Lowell placed his bag down.
“Easy Jelly.” Lowell grinned down at her. “I’m not the predator you were expecting.”
“Thank God for that,” she said, removing her earbuds. She smiled openly at her English friend. Her cheeks flaming red despite herself. She still got embarrassed when he called her Jelly. “Just fought another one off.”
; “It’s what you get for being so gorgeous, love.” Lowell said, standing behind the same chair Keen Guy had been leaning against moments earlier.
“Ha. Gorgeous in my stained work shirt, wrinkled black pants that are desperate for a wash, and dirty hair?” Lowell chuckled at her joke, although it was close to the truth. It reminded her to buy shampoo. And do her laundry soon.
“I didn’t think you were working today?” Lowell said, flipping his messenger bag open to fish out his phone.
“Yeah, I am. Since my boss loves me, she called me in. She said she’s happy to throw me any spare shifts,” she said, glancing down at the time on her phone. “I have twenty minutes before I have to go.”
“Good thing you work upstairs! You won’t be late,” he teased. She was notorious for being late with him. “I’m grabbing some tea. Need a coffee?” She opened her mouth to answer, but Lowell quickly held up his hand.
“Wait. How much have you had today?” he asked, his right eyebrow raised.
“Only four. I’m okay for now. Thanks though,” she said, giving him a sassy smile, knowing he hated her coffee habit.
“Geezus, Jelly. You need to cut down. Four at your age is about three too many.” She smiled. She loved Lowell. He was like a protective older brother. She shrugged and quickly winced, the pain reminding her she couldn’t do that today. She tried to hide it from Lowell, but he caught her distress.
“Jelly?”
“I’m okay. Go, get your tea.” He looked at her worryingly, shook his head, then walked to the counter to order. He looked very… what was the word he liked to use? Dashing. That was it. Yes, he looked dashing today in his dark grey dress pants, paired with a pressed white shirt under a black button-down vest. She watched him greet the barista. The woman beamed her radiant smile in return. Everyone who met Lowell loved him.
They’d met eight months earlier. Lowell had come into the Daisy Café for the same reason she did, the quiet. On the day they met, Lowell literally caught her at the same counter where he currently stood. She’d passed out at the café’s pickup counter. She was mortified, but she hadn’t eaten in days and admitted she had gone all ‘jelly-legged’ right before. From that day on, the nickname and their friendship stuck.
After that, they began to share a table, especially during busy times. Lowell was initially working on a business plan for the yoga studio he’d just opened. At the time, he was working three jobs just to save enough to rent a space and buy equipment. Three jobs! She could barely keep up with her part-time one. But he was the most determined person she’d ever met. Not that she’d met that many. Now that the studio was up and running, he was refocused on his business degree.
They caught weird looks from other people, once they started hanging out together. She could understand why. She was a lanky and uncoordinated seventeen-year-old high school student, with her hair usually in a very untidy top knot, always carrying a worn out thrift store backpack. In contrast, Lowell was a good looking, very well put together, twenty-three-year-old black man from England, who always carried an expensive leather messenger bag. They knew they made an odd pair but they didn’t care what other people thought. They were close friends now, with more in common than any observer would believe.
Her father’s words rushed into her head: Blend in. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Hanging out with Lowell was the opposite of that. But her father suspected nothing of her friendship with Lowell. She made sure of that.
“So, what’s going on with you?” asked Lowell, when he returned with a ladened tray holding a white teapot, a cup in its saucer, and two muffins sitting precariously on matching white plates. He unloaded his tray and pushed the blueberry muffin toward Grace. He knew it was her favourite, and she had finally given up asking him to stop buying them for her. She was grateful. She’d eaten only a banana and a piece of toast over the last two days, but she would not admit that to Lowell. There were some things she needed to keep to herself.
“John up to his usual tricks?” he asked. He waited for her answer before diving into his messenger bag. Grace tried to avoid his gaze, but he knew the signs from personal experience.
“Jelly, are you okay? Did your father use you as a punching bag again?”
“Wasn’t bad. I’m fine,” she answered and picked up the fork to take a bite of the muffin. “Thanks for the muffin.”
“Hmm,” he said, frowning. “I worry, you know.”
“Yep, I know. Seriously, I’m okay. It wasn’t too bad this time. Nothing that I haven’t dealt with before. But come on, tell me how your class was this afternoon?” she asked. She loved hearing his stories, and she needed to change the subject. Lowell worried, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She was sick of talking about it, thinking about it. She would rather live vicariously through someone who’d faced the same music and was now dancing to his own tune.
“Jelly. This… whatever is going on with John, it’s becoming more frequent. And you’re good at hiding it, but this is me.”
“I’m okay, Lowell. I wouldn’t lie to you,” she said, taking a bite of the muffin, crumbs falling into her lap.
“Yes, you would. About this, I know you would,” he said, and she grimaced.
“Want to know how I know?” he asked. She nodded, reluctantly.
“Your cuticles are torn to shreds. Ravaged. You pick at them when you’re anxious and, I daresay, when you’re scared.” She looked down at her nails and then shoved them under her legs to hide them. “Why do you stay with him, Grace? I don’t get it. I mean, he’s your father. But…?”
“I can handle it. He wasn’t always this way. I was thinking this morning about the garden he promised me. Maybe I’ll suggest a few plants for our balcony. That might bring him around.” Lowell shook his head, but Grace felt in her heart that her dad wasn’t a lost cause.
“You know that’s probably not the case, Grace. I mean, last week he had your head in the toilet. This week, well, it looks like you’re barely moving.”
“He isn’t as bad as you make it. He taught me how to play the guitar, remember? And he asks about school, reminds me how important it is…” although she didn’t want to admit it had been at least six months since he’d asked.
“Those are all traits of control, Grace. He wants you to know how to play the guitar, so you can support yourself in a pinch. And the grades? He’s probably making sure you leave home. It’s about ego and control. I know what it’s like Grace. My father is the master of it.”
“I know you worry, and I’ve promised you, I’ll call you if it gets bad or if I need an out. For now, I have a plan and I’m focused on that. Turn eighteen…”
“… Finish high school. Freedom. Yes, I know your plan. You’ve told me many times. Seriously, Jelly, move in with me. If you don’t want to do it now, at least plan on it when you turn eighteen. Just be vigilant, Jelly. Seriously. I don’t think it’s as safe as you think.” He leaned over to the chair next to him and pulled his laptop from his bag, placing it on the table.
“I promise I’ll be careful. Now, tell me about your class?” she pushed. Lowell’s eyes were cast with doubt. She smiled. Lowell shook his head, then took a sip of his milky tea, a gesture that always settled him. Finally, he took the hint.
“It was good, but you’ll be sorry you missed it. We’ve been rockin’ with the oldies this week,” he said, smiling, then picked up his fork to take a bite of his own muffin.
“Has Annie been up to her old tricks again?” asked Grace, drinking the last of her lukewarm coffee, thinking of one of Lowell’s favourite clients. She loved the Annie stories. It was like listening to a funny children’s book. Annie stood just under five feet. Her hair was bright pink, and she always wore bold red lipstick. She was like the crazy grandmother everyone wanted. Grace certainly did. Most of Lowell’s clientele were senior citizens. He was smart to advertise at the nearby independent living centre, to get his studio going. Grace loved to tease him that these women, some in their eighties, only joine
d to gawk at Lowell. When Grace joined one of his classes, Annie shared that Lowell was a hot commodity at their centre, being the sexy young yoga teacher from England with the delicious accent. He drew quite the crowd.
“No, Annie’s fine. She’s what makes the class fun. She brought in a feather boa today and you’d think she was reliving her twenties. Or she secretly wants to be a stripper. I’m not sure which. Oh, speaking of feather boas, I have that book I was telling you about.” He reached in and pulled a paperback from his bag. “This, Jelly, was a fabulous read. The main character? Incredible.” She thanked him for it and tucked the book into her backpack.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m really sorry I haven’t been around all week. Been crazy with classes, and I’ve finally unpacked my boxes at home. God, I’m so glad I moved. The place is minuscule, but it’s mine. I’m so happy to be out of the clubhouse. Being the only gay man in a house full of rugby boys, it’s not as exciting as you’d imagine. I’m glad to be rid of the locker room smell!”