Jordan is reverse-walking back to the kiosk, sliding his phone into the front pocket of his boardies. ‘Well, telling the truth is harder than telling lies, isn’t it?’
IMOGEN
CHAPTER 9
Layla looks nervous. As though she’s about to get on stage in front of the whole school or something. I highly doubt she’d ever voluntarily get on stage in front of the whole school. I feel nervous, too. I made sure Dad definitely wasn’t going to be home today.
‘Imogen!’ Mum is bellowing from somewhere down the hallway. When she gets to the doorway, she’s fiddling with one ear . . . I can see a shiny, expensive earring being forced into her lobe. Her face is twisted up in the ugliest way. I wish she could see it.
‘Oh, Layla, I didn’t realise anyone else was here,’ she says, despite the fact that she heard the doorbell go off five minutes ago and insisted I be the one to answer it.
Layla sits on the couch bearing one of her awkward smiles.
Mum practically ignores her now. ‘Imogen, I’ve got so much on today and I could really do with your help.’ She rattles off a list of chores to complete around the house – unstack the dishwasher, give Zoe her worming tablet, bring in the rubbish bins – and then come the campaign commitments. I’d rather bring in the bins for every house in the street than fold another campaign flyer. ‘It shouldn’t take you longer than an hour,’ she says. ‘And then you can do whatever you want.’
Layla feels sorry for me. I hate that look.
Mum doesn’t wait for a response, whether it be one of obedience or protest. She’s out the door, and then we’re back to being two nervous people sitting opposite each other in a living room that doesn’t look like anyone actually lives in it. Everything appears pretty and expensive, straight off a homewares site, but nothing gives off comfy vibes.
‘She has nice clothes. Your mum.’
I roll my eyes. I think I’m just doing it inside my head, but when I see Layla’s face twitch, I know I’ve accidentally rolled them for real. She always did have this weird obsession with my mum’s appearance.
‘Nice clothes don’t make nice people. Surely you know that by now.’
She opens her mouth to say something, when a sudden blare of music comes thumping down the hallway. ‘Triple J. Shontel’s obsessed with it now that she’s basically housebound for the rest of summer.’
‘Well, you’re doing this for her, remember.’
‘I know.’ But I also want to feel like I’m doing this for me, too.
I empty the dishwasher, squeeze a worming tablet down Zoe’s resistant throat and drag the bins around the side of the house. I take one look at the ready-to-be-folded printouts on the dining table and imagine how it would feel to put my hand on top of them and make them fly off onto the ground in one big, dramatic sweep. Instead, I feel for a folded-up piece of paper in the side pocket of my denim cut-offs and leave.
I keep my grip on it as I walk down the street, making a left, making a right, making a left again, and ending up on a corner that I haven’t been on in forever. Not since those birthday parties where we were forced to invite everyone from class, whether we were friends or not. I know she hated inviting me.
‘Hi, Madeline.’ I try to sound cheerful when she opens the door, but it’s not my favourite mood right now.
‘Imogen? You know you can call me Maddy.’ She’s wearing a sheer beach dress over a white crochet bikini. Guys have always gone crazy for her and I’ve never understood why. Maybe it’s the free-spirited hippie vibe. Or the free-spirited mouth that just says whatever it wants whenever it wants. ‘Um, well this is a bit random. I’m about to head down the river . . . uh, not sure why you’re here?’
Not entirely random, I want to say. ‘I need to give you something.’ The paper now feels warm between my thumb and forefinger.
‘Huh?’
Come on, Imogen, just get to the point. ‘It’s for Daniel’s dad.’ I pull it out of my pocket. It looks sweaty. ‘Telling him about what his son did that night at the party. Could you just leave it somewhere for him the next time you’re at Daniel’s? It’s anonymous so he wouldn’t —’
‘Are you crazy?’ Her head looks like it’s going to fall forward off her shoulders. Layla warned me that Maddy would get defensive. ‘Do you know what his dad will do if he finds out? There goes Daniel’s life.’
Maddy swiftly closes the door, and when she opens it again, she has a beach bag slung over one shoulder.
‘Get out of my way, Imogen. I have somewhere to be.’
I’ve given her a head start. There would be nothing more uncomfortable right now than walking just paces behind Maddy as she heads to the same bleak beach I’m going to. I’ve stood at the top of her driveway long enough to ensure she makes it there well ahead of me. And given how angry she is, I’m sure she’s double-pacing, anyway.
‘Immy!’ Carina is waving to me when I step onto the sandbank, as though I’ve somehow forgotten where our spot is. It’s the same spot we’ve been sitting in since we were first allowed to come here unsupervised four years ago. ‘What took you sooooo long?’
‘I stopped at Maddy Symons’ on the way.’ Why bother lying? Isn’t that what Layla and I agreed on – no more lies?
Carina narrows her eyes at me from underneath her visor.
‘I tried to give her a note, to tell Daniel’s dad —’
‘Ugh, not that again. I’m telling you, no one is going to do it, Imogen. I said no, so who would say yes? No one who wants an SRC nomination, that’s for sure.’
I asked Daniel’s own girlfriend to do it. Of course she said no. What was I thinking? I’m sick of thinking. That’s what got me into this position right now.
‘Look, I know this is about your sis, and I know what happened was crap.’ That is Carina’s best understatement yet. ‘But it would be so much worse if he meant to do it, you know, to Shontel. It was an accident. Wrong place, wrong time. And he got some kind of punishment, I guess.’
A raging, crochet-bikini-wearing figure catches my attention to our right. She’s waving her hands at Layla and Georgia Walker, telling them about an uninvited visitor to her doorstep today. Probably.
Carina, meanwhile, has eyes elsewhere on the beach. ‘Speaking of. I mean, look at them.’ Her face is motioning towards the towering red-gum tree on the edge of the sandbank. But more precisely, the people sitting under it. ‘Acting like they’re above the law. Like they can start fires – in bushfire season – and just get away with it.’
‘Actually, you’ll find they haven’t gotten away with it at all,’ I say, remembering what Layla told me about one of the Lebs – Nasser’s his name – getting hauled to the police station for what happened to Daniel’s car.
‘Whatever. I need a swim. I’ve got serious chest sweat happening, and Kyle will be here any second.’
Carina tiptoes across the hot sand, stopping to say hi to about five different groups of beachgoers along the way to the river. If she spent as much time being morally conscious as she did socialising, she wouldn’t need to beg for votes.
I’m waiting for Layla around the side of the kiosk, beside stacks of milk crates.
‘So, this has been a fun day,’ she whispers when she arrives.
‘She’s not impressed?’
‘Yeah, not impressed.’ Her big brown eyes peer into the side entrance of the kiosk. ‘Like, losing it. She’s officially forgotten that I’ve ever hated her boyfriend as you, Imogen, are her new favourite enemy.’
‘Great.’ So, nothing new for me, then.
Layla’s attention moves back to our secret liaison and away from whatever interesting transactions are taking place at the kiosk counter. ‘Sorry. You’re getting all the blame when . . . well, when I’m in this, too. And we’ve promised to kill the lies and here I am lying to my friends and —’
‘It’s not lying,’ I say, more abruptly than I’d intended. ‘It’s just keeping you out of it, and keeping the plan simple. Although I’m not really sure
what the plan is now . . .’
‘Yeah,’ is all she says, but I feel like her eyes are saying more.
There are footsteps in the kiosk doorway and Jordan Michael comes strolling out with a pile of flattened cardboard. ‘Sorry, ladies, don’t let me interrupt,’ he says, looking from Layla to me and back to Layla again, confusion on his face. Neither of us speaks as we watch him discard the pile in the recycling bin and wait for him to re-enter the kiosk. Layla flashes him a weak smile. Carina’s always going on about some summer fling that she thinks is happening between Layla and Jordan, but I couldn’t care less who Layla makes out with. Unless, he’s available for recruitment . . .
‘Would he . . .’ I’m pointing to the door.
‘No,’ Layla snaps. ‘I mean, he’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘Exactly. He doesn’t go to our school, literally doesn’t know anyone here except for you. He goes home at the end of the summer holidays, right? Nothing to lose. He’s perfect.’
She flinches at the word ‘perfect’. And she doesn’t look convinced by my argument. As much as I hate defeat, I know this is not a debate I’m going to win.
‘You’re lucky, Layla.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re lucky, because it’s not your family ruining lives here.’
She dwells in thought for a moment. ‘You know what, I don’t know if I believe in luck anymore, Imogen.’
I could do it myself, I think. I really could. I could just walk up to the reception desk at his office, ask for him and then hand it right over. Just let it slip from my fingertips to his. He knows my face, he knows my name, he knows my mother. But so what? Everyone knows more than just his son’s face and name, they know what he did that night. Isn’t that worse?
What might be worse is the thick maths textbook sitting in front of me right now. I haven’t opened it all holidays, even though I’ve been telling Mum the opposite. A lie for a lie. I flick the pages, over and over again, watching numbers and letters and formulas and equations shuffle like a tap dance beneath my desk lamp.
I’m backed into a corner. A corner I didn’t get to choose to be in, because it was decided for me. It’s a corner in which we are always right and they are always wrong, where it doesn’t matter who’s telling the truth. So long as we aren’t the ones getting beaten.
There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and I quickly land on a page titled ‘quadratic functions’ and slip on my glasses. They’re not supposed to be for long distance, but I can make out Carina’s face poking through the now ajar door and doorframe. ‘If it’s the section about finding intercepts, I’m going home!’
I take off my glasses and indicate she can come in. She’s intercepted my thoughts, but I was going around in circles, anyway.
‘So, I was thinking about what you were saying today.’ She slumps across my bed. ‘About your mission. Before you get the wrong idea, though, I am still definitely not your girl for the job. But . . .’
She draws out the wait after ‘but’ because her drama skills are always switched on.
I help her along. ‘But . . . you want to recommend someone else who would be great for it?’
‘Have you considered . . . asking one of the Lebbo girls?’ she replies, twisting onto her side and resting on her elbow. ‘Like, I don’t know, Layla’s cousin, Sufia?’
I stare at her blankly. She wants me to throw one of them into the ring. It’s hard to know right now if her motivations are supporting my cause or her own entertainment, like this is some kind of spectator sport.
‘She’s tough, she’s not scared of anyone’s dad. She won’t back down, we know that, too,’ she adds. Sufia once stared her down for an entire lunch break until Carina eventually handed over her new limited edition My Little Pony.
‘He won’t believe her,’ I say, because it’s true. If it came from one of us, then maybe. But one of the Cedars? No way Daniel’s dad would listen. ‘He’ll just reckon it’s a blame game to get themselves out of the spotlight.’
‘It might get him thinking . . .’
Will it? Or will he just slam a door in Sufia’s face? And will it just make them look worse?
‘Anyway, why do you care so much about exposing Daniel’s guilt all of a sudden?’
Carina’s gaze darts around the room suspiciously. It’s a thing she does when she has something to share but has most likely sworn to someone that she’ll never tell.
‘Spill . . .’
‘Okay, you know I hate breaking promises and I totally promised Kyle I wouldn’t say anything . . . but . . . Daniel’s kind of cheating on Maddy . . .’
Why did I ask? I hate it when Carina tells me stuff like this.
‘He’s been taking an unidentified girl down to the river at night in his new car . . .’
I put my hand up to signal she needs to stop talking. ‘I’d rather find quadratic intercepts now.’
‘Are you sure, because —’
‘Yep.’
One of Carina’s greatest talents, I think as I watch her face turn glum at the rejection, is that she’s pretty good at throwing fuel on other people’s blazing fires. She’ll make a great politician one day.
How much fight do I have in me today? That’s what I ask myself as I do some head-above-water breaststrokes. I’m trying to keep my head afloat so I don’t end up with gross hair from the river water, but it’s full of splashing swimmers in here today. I watch faces dunking in and out, feet flexing into the air, palms connecting with the ripples. I hear voices, but no words. I see faces stung by the sun, and I scan the faces of one particular group of beachgoers who never seem to get involved in the frivolity down here.
Sufia and another girl are dancing around a Bluetooth speaker that sits on the grass, laughing, while the others watch on, clapping. Arabic music reminds me of cheering, like everyone’s got something to yell about or march about (cue the drums). And I guess you could say they do.
I wait for a break in the beat, for the jangling to stop in between songs, then I leave the water and move across the sand. There’s so much humidity in the air that I’m no longer dripping with river water when I get there. Sufia’s friend spies me first and gives her a swift nudge in the ribs. Sufia abandons the next song and moves out of the circle, hands on hips. If Wonder Woman hadn’t already trademarked the pose, Sufia could.
‘How’s your sister?’ Not the interrogation I thought I was in for.
‘Getting better,’ I say. Despite her chosen posture and the harshness in her voice, I can tell the interest is sincere.
She drops her arms and shakes her head, looking out to the river. I’ve never stood at this spot before. It’s a good view, I realise, following Sufia’s eyes. They’re the matching set to Layla’s.
‘Far out,’ she says, looking back at me. ‘None of us wanted this shit, you know.’
I know. Because none of us wanted it, either.
‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’ She suddenly remembers I’ve crossed frenemy lines. And there’s the attitude I was expecting.
‘I want to try to end this.’
‘Pfft, and you don’t think I do?’
‘I know you do, that’s exactly why I’m here.’
Sufia looks at me curiously. ‘Yeah, alright, go on . . .’
I tell her about the note I tried to give Carina, tried to give Maddy. I leave out the bit about Carina suggesting Sufia be the one to deliver it instead. I ask her if it’s a good plan. Could it be the answer if we have the right person despatching?
She scoffs. ‘Babe, come back when you’ve got a better idea.’
Her boyfriend arrives behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. His hair is so slick it looks like it hasn’t been shampooed since last summer. ‘Want a snack pack for lunch? I’m doing a run.’
He nuzzles his face into her shoulder and she squeals. It’s like I’m not even standing here. I take it as a signal to not be standing here anymore and turn my back on them. Did anyone on the beach no
tice I was over here? Just one person. Layla watches every sandy step I take.
CHAPTER 10
I know I’m not supposed to be on the river at night. There was a random shark attack once, in 1935, but that’s not why. It’s because Mum says I’m not the greatest swimmer. Shontel, however, is a top swimmer. Regional 100-metre champ, in fact. But I don’t care about that anymore.
Kayaking is like a meditation, as eerie as it is being out here in the ink black. Each turn of the paddle always makes me feel as though I’m flicking away a teeny bit of the problem. Then more and more bits get flicked into the river. And usually, by the time I’ve paddled from home to the beach, there’s nothing left. Well, for the rest of the day, anyway. But it’s going to take more than this short kayak ride to flick away today’s problem.
The shed beside the boat ramp unexpectedly has its light on, and the guy from the kiosk – Jordan – is loading small white boxes into it. He peers around when he hears my paddle smack against the wooden legs of the jetty.
‘You right?’ he calls, while I’m dragging my kayak up the ramp. He abandons the box in his arms and makes his way over when I don’t respond. ‘Bit late to be kayaking, isn’t it?’
I wonder if maybe he’s trying to be funny, like a dad-type larrikin. My dad thinks he’s funny, mostly when he’s saying things like, ‘Have a go at this tea-towel head’s driving.’ Mum never tells him things like that aren’t funny.
Jordan grabs the kayak, taking the weight off my arms, and sits it at the top of the ramp.
‘Thanks.’ I’ve not paid that much attention to him before, mainly just handed over the money for my juice or salad with my head still inside my wallet. Now that I’m face to face with him, albeit in dodgy light, he looks . . . well, he looks friendly. ‘I guess chivalry isn’t totally dead.’
‘Yeah, the guys around here don’t get a good rap from what I’m told. Poor dudes.’
‘They’re all useless,’ I say.
‘All of them?’
Half My Luck Page 8