Malaise

by Max Henry

  Two discarded beers later and I’m about ready to tear the grass from the ground beneath my head to pile it up in a makeshift pillow. Why bother trying anymore? I’m eight parts drunk out of my mind and it’s miles back to town. My limbs are weak, my head swimming; I’d struggle to get to the main road without falling over and passing out in the roadside scrub along the way. I open my eyes a final time to search out where Jasper parked and spot the blue sedan peeking out from behind a beaten up old Toyota ute on the far side of the bonfire.

  I can do it. I have to give it one last shot and check if that’s where he is.

  The ground is spongy from the midnight dew that’s begun to settle on the grass. Thank fuck for Jasper’s hoodie, otherwise I’d be a frozen mess by now. It has to be all of six degrees out and dropping rapidly. My hands are covered in blades of grass and mud as I stand on shaky legs and start the short but troublesome journey to where Jasper’s car is parked. My feet follow each other blindly over the sodden ground, beelining straight past the searing heat of the glowing bonfire. Lord knows my brain isn’t telling them where to go—it’s still cycling on a sadistic loop of Den’s death, my parents’ reactions, Jasper’s false offer to help if I wanted to leave, and the troublemaking drinking buddy I made back at the log.

  A high-pitched giggle crashes into my left shoulder, sending me spinning around like a tenpin unsure if it wants to fall or not. I slam my feet down on the grass, looking for traction, and slide into an ungainly split as I lose my balance and tumble onto my side… right into the edge of the fire.

  Shrieks pierce the air around me, and after a while I realise one of the high-pitched wails is mine. The synthetic fabric of Jasper’s hoodie melts onto my blistering skin as I look down and realise that I’ve placed my hand squarely in the burning chunks of wood to break my fall. A glowing log has rolled over the back of my hand, and even after I realise what I’ve done, it takes me precious seconds to connect the dots in my brain and yank my hand free of the restriction. Flesh tears, blistered and raw, burning even when I’ve brought my hand free of the flames.

  “Meg!” Jasper breaks through the crowd of stunned and useless onlookers. “Fuck, what did you do?”

  What did I do? Does he think I did this on purpose? “I fellovah,” I slur.

  He reaches out toward my melted and seared forearm, and then recoils. “Is anyone sober enough to drive?” he shouts into the crowd.

  A murmur spreads through the onlookers. Everyone’s as toasted as I am, although I am in more ways than one, now. Yeah, I giggle at my own joke.

  “Shit.” He runs a ragged hand through his matted hair as Amelia emerges from the crowd, panting.

  “Why did you—?” Her question breaks off as she lays eyes on me sucking in staggered breaths while I try to peel some of the burnt polyester off my wrist. “Oh my God.” Her hands fly to her over-glossed lips.

  I squint at Jasper as it dawns on me his lips are just as shiny. Motherfucker….

  “Are you going to fucking help her, or just stand there?”

  Great—now my drinking buddy’s here, too. At least I’ve given them all a tale to tell for years to come. Silver linings, right? I’ll be immortal amongst the greater district’s senior years after this, an anecdote at graduations for years to come.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you arseholes?” Carver drops to his knees beside me. “Has anyone got water?”

  Two bottles get heaved in from the crowd. They bounce and roll at his feet as somebody snaps a picture with his or her phone. Hopefully the bonfire fucks with the lighting enough that I’m not recognisable. I’ll check Facebook in the morning.

  Carver unscrews the cap and douses my arm with the first bottle. I hiss as the change in temperature sends needles piercing through the injured skin. My head feels as though a sparkler is alight inside, and the pinging sparks are ricocheting off the confines of my skull. Still, the heat radiating off me is unbearable. I clutch my elbow, as close as I dare touch to my wrist without brushing on the burnt skin, and squeeze hard while I will the pain to ease.

  “Nobody can drive, Meg.” Or nobody wants to. Jasper sidesteps closer to screw his face up at the sight of my arm. “You need to call your parents or something.”

  Fuck. No. They don’t need more worry. Another phone call about an injured child—even if I am still alive—and Dad’s likely to have a heart attack. “I’ll sawt it,” I grind out, irritated my words aren’t as clear as I’d like.

  “Like fuck you will,” Carver murmurs.

  He rips his T-shirt off over his head and drenches it with the second bottle before laying the wet fabric ever so gently over my arm. I register the cut and inked torso before me, but I’m way too preoccupied with the searing pain pulsing throughout me to care.

  “But I need tago to Aftah Hours.” I shoot what I hope is a venomous stare Jasper’s way, trying to convey that this is in most part his fault for being AWOL. In my current state it probably comes off as more of a crazy cat lady hiss.

  “I know you do,” Carver says while placing a hand under each elbow. “Up we go.”

  I let him help me to stand as Jasper takes a step closer to announce, “I can take it from here.”

  Satisfied I’m not about to fall flat on my arse, Carver lets go of my arm and whirls on Jasper, shunting him in the chest with both hands. “Really?” He shoves a stunned Jasper again as onlookers clear a space for a fight.

  “Back off, arsehole.” Jasper steadies himself and steps into Carver’s space, chest to chest, his fiery stare locked on to an undeniably murderous one.

  “Only letting this go so I can get her treated.” Carver jabs an angry hand in my direction, still staring Jasper down and staging for a brawl. “You’re fucking lucky, kid.”

  “What the hell, man?” Jasper throws both hands in the air as Carver backs up a step. “Why are you being such a douche? It’s not as though I pushed her in.”

  “You wanna know why I’m being such a jerk?” He laughs bitterly. “Because if you were a true friend, you’d be busting your arse to get her to an A and E. Not telling a girl who clearly has at least second-degree burns that she needs to sort her own shit out.”

  Carver has no option but to follow me as I start away from the group, fed up with being the centre of attention. He catches up and grabs the end of his T-shirt together over my burnt arm so the excess water runs down the loose fabric to soak the rest. “You got a phone on you?”

  “Yeah.” I fix my gaze on the dirt road that leads into the grove. “But I’m not calling anyone.” The crisp night air sobers me somewhat the second we step away from the heat of the fire.

  Carver opens his mouth to protest, but before I can even blink, an airborne Jasper latching on to his back drives him into the ground.

  “Hey!” I cry out as Carver rolls Jasper off him, flipping their positions.

  Several partygoers come in for a closer look as Jasper thrashes like a rugby league player under Carver, managing to at least roll onto his back. Carver straddles his hips, fist reared back and ready to strike.

  “Stop it!” I yell, squinting my eyes at the pain that sears through my skull from the effort.

  One of Jasper’s buddies shunts Carver to tip him off balance, preventing the strike. My drinking buddy plants one strong hand on Jasper’s shoulder to pin him to the ground and looks around for who shoved him. I grab the chance to get in his line of sight and urge him to let it go. This shit is the last thing I need following me around: Meg Andrews—the girl who ruined the end of year party.

  “Come on,” I damn near beg. “I need to get my arm looked at, right?”

  Carver’s wild eyes flick to where I stand between him and the guy who shoved him off Jasper. The unchecked rage eases, and he pushes to stand, but not without thrusting his hand into Jasper’s shoulder first, causing him to grunt in pain.

  “Meg,” Jasper pleads, changing tactics. “You can’t be seriously thinking about going with this weirdo? How do you know he’s even going
to take you to the ER?”

  Is he fucking serious? He honestly thinks that little of Carver that he assumes the guy is only out to take advantage of me? I glance over at Carver where he stands a few feet away and meet his intense gaze. A beat passes, the two of us simply staring at one another, and I see it: honesty.

  “I don’t know for sure,” I reply to Jasper, eyes still on Carver. “But I trust him.”

  Jasper shakes his head as one of his mates helps him to stand. “Whatever, Meg. I’m out. You’re on your own.”

  Good. I’m starting to think it’s the way to be, given the complications that seem to come with suddenly being in demand.

  Carver holds out his hand, urging me silently to join him. I step his way as Jasper heaves a laden breath and stomps off to join the dwindling crowd.

  Carver’s hands wrap around my “bandaged” arm when I reach him, and he frowns. “I’m sorry I lost my shit then.”

  “He wasn’t exactly helping the situation.”

  “Still, we need to get you to Emergency straight away, but I didn’t drive here. I’ve got no car.” Carver rests my arm in his upturned hand and guides us toward the exit of the clearing. “Do you have someone I can call who could come get you?”

  Fuck’s sake, we’re back to this again. “No. I already said I don’t.” I stop walking, making him stumble with me as he comes to an abrupt halt. The distant flames highlight every dip and hollow of his built frame, casting shadows that accentuate his abs and the V of his muscles where they dip into his waistline. Any other time I might find that distracting, but strangely enough the incessant throb of my arm coupled with the spinning gyroscope of my brain has me pretty well sorted when it comes to shit to think about. “My parents don’t need any more stress tonight. I got drunk and did something stupid, so I will sort it out myself.” At least my words are clearer now—yay for me.

  “You can’t even walk properly,” Carver helpfully points out. “Hold this.”

  I take the ends of his T-shirt from him. “Why?” My arm pulsates, fat and hot.

  “I’m calling someone.”

  “No.” I drop the shirt to place my hand over his and stop him from pulling his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. The T-shirt hits the ground with a heavy thwack.

  He stoops down and collects it, dusts the debris off, and rewraps my wound with a heavy sigh. “Yes, Meg.”

  I look up the dirt road and frown. The fence-lined access route stretches on almost as far as the eye can see, running along the top of the stopbank. It took us almost fifteen minutes to get here by car. It’ll take me over an hour to walk back to town.

  “Who do you have in mind?” I cede.

  “Does it matter?” Carver asks, lifting my free hand to place it over the tucked ends of his T-shirt.

  He has a point. If they have transportation and a way to get me to the hospital to have this burn treated, then what does it matter? The creepy gym teacher from school could ride in on a donkey and it’s still a better option than walking.

  “I guess not.” I glance back at the bonfire to find the crowd dispersed now that the entertainment’s over, and Jasper and Amelia nowhere to be seen. “Ring ’em up. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  FOUR

  We’ve been walking in silence for what feels like forever, only the dull crunch of the dry dirt under our boots breaking the still of the night. Carver, as I’ve dubbed him without an actual name, thought it would be best if we started toward the main road, said it would make us easier to find.

  I steal a glance over at him in the moonlight as he walks, hands in pockets and head hung. His jawbone is sharp and pronounced against the ink on his neck, devoid of any hair. For all his unconventional dress sense, his face is impeccably groomed.

  “Why do you dress like that?” I blurt out.

  He hazards a quick look my way before returning his focus to the road under our feet. “Odd question from somebody like you.”

  I glance down at my choice of clothing and smile. “I meant, when I’ve seen you at the mechanic’s, you don’t come off as somebody who has studs in their wardrobe.” A little bit rocker maybe, but not punk.

  He chuckles. “You think people would appreciate a few safety pins on the staff uniform?”

  “Maybe.”

  His lips curl up in a half smile as he looks over at me. “Well, I can tell you now that it’d never happen.” He runs a hand over his hair. “They already made me trim my Mohawk.”

  “But you never had it spiked.”

  He frowns a little as my cheeks heat. Way to give away your stalker status there, Meg.

  “No, but they still had problems with how long it was. Said it looked scruffy hanging in my face, and a whole heap of other bullshit like it was a hazard because it might get in the way and cause an injury.” He sighs and lifts his chin to look into the distance. “It’s only hair—it’ll grow back.”

  I squeeze my arm, the burn giving off random pangs of pain as we walk. “You didn’t exactly answer my question though.”

  “Why I dress like this?”

  I nod, bottom lip between my teeth.

  His eyes are drawn to the pinched flesh as he answers. “Why do you?”

  “Because I like to be left alone, and looking different kind of helps with that.”

  “Exactly.” He bumps a loose fist into my shoulder. “You’re onto it. We’ve all got our reasons for being who we are, Meg.”

  Ain’t that the truth. Once upon a time I wanted to be just like the other girls at school—pretty and wholesome. It took me years to realise that the look just wasn’t me, and as much as I tried to force it, studying the teen magazines for the latest trends, I would still be mocked for not getting it right. Cut-price brands and home-made accessories stood out like a sore thumb against their trendy surf shop labels and full-price jewellery. All it did was draw the vultures to me. I was an easy target; I would cry after the simplest insult, and like food-starved predators, they hunted me for their fix on a daily basis.

  So I embraced my “weirdness.” I used it against them. I dyed my hair black in a sea of bottle blondes, and I wore dark makeup in a room crowded with pink gloss and neutral eyeshadow. Their ballet flats were offset by my chunky boots, their stonewash jeans by my black, spiderweb-adorned leggings.

  They stopped mocking me and the rumours started: I was a witch; I sacrificed people’s pets to place curses on my peers; I had laughed at my grandparents’ funerals.

  My grandparents are all alive. I wouldn’t know the front end of a spell book from a dictionary. Lies. Conjured by the scared to justify their hate toward me.

  But the fear left me alone. The teasing lessened. The insults became weekly rather than daily. I could walk to class without being shoved and tripped.

  I love the solitude as well as loathe it. It’s a strange compromise.

  I look over at Carver again while we continue up the road—me lost in my head and him seeming a million miles away as well. He focuses ahead, shoulders stiff and hands in his pockets. But the gentle tic of his jaw every so often hints to darker thoughts. He huffs out a sigh and rubs a hand over his mouth.

  “Are you all right?”

  His eyes find mine, and he gives me a lame attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Just the night hasn’t ended up how I predicted.”

  “I can second that.”

  He frowns. “I wasn’t meaning with you. I meant….” Carver drops his head back and sighs. “I’ve got a bit on my mind, so I’d planned on having a few quiet ones and keeping myself entertained watching you lot make fools of yourselves.”

  “I guess I at least helped with the second part.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess you did.”

  “If you wanted to be alone, though, why did you talk to me at the log?”

  Carver shrugs, slowing his pace as headlights turn out from a side road.

  “You seemed familiar, like I know you from somewhere.”

  “But we’ve never really met before now.
”

  “I know.”

  He jogs ahead a few steps, waving his arms over his head as the car turns off down another road. Tyres squeal on the sealed intersection, and I watch the car reverse and straighten out while I ponder his words. Has he seen me before? Has he been watching me from afar the same as I have him?

  Get a grip, Meg. As though a seventeen-year-old outcast would be worth his time.

  An old, wide sedan rumbles toward Carver and me, the engine deep and throaty as it slows to a stop beside him. I freeze to the spot, hand on the drying T-shirt as I run my eye over the primer-grey-coloured Falcon. Fuck no. I’ve seen this car around before, and if I thought the rumours about Carver’s house were bad, the ones about this car are urban legend worthy.

  “Meg?” Carver holds the back door open, the side of his face lit by the dull yellow interior light. “You okay?”

  “Who is this?” I take a step back and feel grass underfoot. I could leap the fence; it’s only a three-wire.

  “A friend. Are you getting in?”

  I shake my head vehemently, backing toward the No. 8 wired farm fence. Should only be three or four paddocks max before I find the owner’s house.

  “Meg.”

  “It doesn’t hurt as bad now… I’ll just… um, thanks for your help.” The dirt scratches under the heel of my boot as I spin and hotfoot it back to the party. I can just hang around until someone sobers up. There’s bound to be more water that I can—

  “Meg!” The steady crunch of the dirt road grows louder with his approach.

  I duck and weave, trying to evade his grasp. He snags me by the hood of Jasper’s stupid fucking sweater as my bag slams against my legs.

  “What the hell?” His dark brows furrow as he looks me over with blatant confusion. “You need medical attention, and that”—he thrusts his hand at the purring Ford—“is our ride.”