by Elle Croft
‘It’s like a furnace out here,’ Linda says, sipping a glass of wine and holding out another towards me.
‘Tell me about it. I wish we’d cancelled, but Dylan insisted this heatwave would have ended by now,’ I say, placing the potato salad on the picnic table I set up earlier, which now displays an assortment of random salads, breads, dressings and sliced veggies: offerings from our guests.
I bend down and put the rapidly warming bottle of wine into the Esky, the ice now little more than a cold pool of water, a few stubborn cubes floating at the top. I keep my hand submerged for a second longer than necessary, savouring the sharp contrast from the midday air, then replace the lid and take the extra glass from Linda’s hand gratefully. It’s already tepid. I grimace as the liquid hits the back of my throat.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s impossible to keep anything cold out here. Ridiculous. Trick is just to down it while it’s still lukewarm instead of boiling.’
I laugh and take another gulp.
‘I reckon we should go for a dip in a bit,’ she suggests.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Although the sea’s probably like bathwater by now, I doubt it’ll be very refreshing.’
‘Mum,’ calls a high-pitched voice from behind us.
Linda and I both turn around. It’s Kailah, her eldest. She’s twelve: the same age as Jemima, although their age is where their similarities end. My daughter is confident and extroverted, more likely to be leading than trailing along behind. Kailah is timid and easily influenced. Still, somehow, they get along in spite of – or perhaps because of – their differences, just like their mothers. I’ve often wondered if our friendships can simply be chalked up to physical proximity: Linda and her kids live three doors down from us, and we’re at each other’s houses as much as we are our own.
‘What is it, love?’ Linda asks.
‘It’s too hot, can I go home?’
Linda grimaces at me.
I smile at Kailah. ‘How about you go inside and keep Jemima company? She’s hiding out in her room, but maybe you can convince her to come out and enjoy herself.’
Kailah hesitates, looking at Linda for approval. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
‘The air conditioning is on full blast in there,’ I add, hoping to tempt her into making a decision for herself. ‘And there are some Magnums in the freezer. Just don’t tell anyone.’ I wink at her and she looks at Linda again, who nods encouragingly.
Kailah looks like she might say something, but then her shoulders drop and she slowly turns around, dragging her feet as she shuffles towards the sliding doors.
Linda laughs and takes another sip.
‘She must get that from my ex,’ she says, ‘because I’m certainly not indecisive.’
Someone calls my name from across the backyard.
‘Back in a sec,’ I say to Linda, walking over to the barbecue, where the voice came from. When I emerge on the other side of the cloud of beefy smoke, Dylan’s brandishing a sausage with a pair of tongs.
‘Kat, where are the trays for the meat?’
I walk two steps back to the salads table, rolling my eyes at Linda, and fetch one of the trays I left there earlier. I hand it to my husband with a raised eyebrow.
‘Probably could have got that one myself, hey?’
‘I’d say you could have managed.’
‘Sorry. Thanks, darl.’
Relief washes over me, cool and refreshing. His smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the sides, they mean that we’re OK. They mean that the walls we’ve had up since Thursday, when I called him from the school car park, are coming down. They’re not falling, though; I’ve been disassembling them, brick by brick. I’m not finished yet, I know that, but Dylan can see that I’m working on trusting my daughter, the way he does. The way every parent should.
And maybe it’s just the wine and the sunshine and the laughter, but today I feel like maybe he’s right. Maybe I was just overreacting, letting old paranoia surface when it should stay buried, hidden. Forgotten.
Maybe everything is going to be OK.
Chapter 5
IMOGEN
The girl standing in the small scrap of shade under the blue gum tree was so still that no one in the crowd around her even noticed her presence. The only sign of her existence was the occasional stirring of a wisp of fine blonde hair as she exhaled shallowly.
Her stillness concealed the frenetic bubbling of emotion that was building beneath her skin. Ignoring the laughter and squeals of the small children running around the garden, she focused all of her energy on remaining statue-like, and waiting for the anger to subside. She knew it would, eventually. It always did.
She didn’t notice Tyson, one of the neighbours’ kids, until he ran right into her, forcing a soft oof from her lungs.
He looked up at her in shock, the appearance of a girl seemingly out of thin air at first confusing and then delighting him. He grinned, the gaps between his teeth making him look crazed, unhinged. He pointed his water gun right at her expressionless face.
‘Stick ’em up, Immy,’ he shrieked, laughing maniacally, and before she had a chance to react, he’d sprayed tepid water all over her.
She gasped in shock, mentally hovering between outrage and laughter, but before she could decide which of these emotions to cling to, Tyson had run off to find another victim. She laughed, then; anger evaporating as quickly as the water on her skin.
It was too hot to bother being upset, she decided. She plucked her phone from the back pocket of her shorts and pressed her thumb onto the home button, hoping that when it lit up she’d see a reply from Paige.
There was nothing. She knew her best friend was at work, a weekend job at a chicken shop near her house. But her shift would be finished soon, and then she could come over and rescue Imogen from this awful barbie. She wasn’t allowed to leave – her mum had made that clear – but there was no rule against inviting her friends around.
‘Imogen,’ a voice called from across the garden.
‘Yeah,’ she yelled back, making no move to walk over. She waited, motionless once again, forcing her mum to cross the space between them, over the parched grass that was now littered with plastic toys and paper plates, the debris of a successful barbecue.
‘Ready to go to the beach? Got your towel? And sunscreen?’
Imogen let out a small sigh, rolling her eyes in frustration. She’d been so careful to stay within the tiny scribble of shade that the tired leaves of the gum tree had created, and the SPF fifty sunscreen she’d slathered over every inch of her skin earlier was now sliding, along with rivulets of sweat, into her eyes. She blinked away the burning sensation, knowing that wiping her face would only make it worse.
‘Immy!’
‘Yes,’ Imogen snapped, seething. ‘I have my sunscreen and towel, OK? God, I’m sixteen, I know how to go to the beach.’
Her mum blinked and jerked her head back as though she’d been slapped. Her words had stung, Imogen realised with a mean spark of satisfaction.
‘OK. Good,’ her mum said tersely. ‘Please can you look after your sister until we get down there?’
‘Why should I have to look—’
‘Immy, does everything have to be an argument?’
She looked down at the parched grass, but said nothing.
‘You’ll all be in the water before we’re halfway down the street,’ her mum said. ‘I’m not asking you to hold her hand, but I need you to keep an eye on her. Just make sure she’s safe, OK? Please?’
Imogen nodded in resignation.
Her mum squeezed her shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ she said, walking off towards the cluster of adults.
Imogen silently counted to ten, then scooped up an old volleyball and her beach bag from the deckchair beside her.
‘Hurry up, Paige,’ she muttered to the sky, hoping her best friend would somehow hear her from the chicken shop.
She found Jemima doing a handstand against the side of the house,
Kailah watching nervously from a distance.
‘Come on, Jems, Kailah,’ Imogen called out. ‘We’re going to the beach. Last one there’s a rotten egg.’
Before they could respond, Imogen took off, running through the side gate, the younger girls’ laughs and shouts chasing her through the front garden, along their street and down the small road that led directly to the beach. Imogen relished the sensation of her muscles working hard, the strain providing a release from her turmoil. She increased her pace, the fire in her lungs soothing her, only slowing when she reached the main road that separated them from the water.
She waited for the younger girls, and the three of them stood together, watching for a gap in the traffic, Jemima panting like she had just run a marathon rather than a few hundred metres. When it was safe to cross, they ran down the soft sand path lined with spindly seagrass, ditching their belongings as soon as they reached the wide expanse of beach, dodging other beachgoers and flicking sand up into the air as they ran. Imogen held back to let the other two reach the water first. Everything in her wanted to win, but she knew better.
Splashing awkwardly, Imogen kept her knees high as she leapt over the small waves until the water was deep enough to dive in. Her head plunged under the bath-like water and, when she surfaced, her arms sliced powerfully, propelling her away from the beach, away from her home, away from her family.
When her lungs screamed, she stopped and turned around, treading water to survey the beach from a distance. She watched as Kailah and Jemima took turns doing somersaults underwater, whooping as they surfaced, then splashing one another with squeals of delight. Imogen felt the tight ball of emotion that had been building up behind her ribs slowly unfurling, giving way to a sort of calm she rarely experienced.
A small plane puttered overhead, a sobering reminder that sharks were close enough to require monitoring. Spooked by her own imagination, Imogen headed for shore, scaring Kailah on her way back by diving underwater behind her and grabbing her ankle. Laughing along with Jemima as she left the shaken girl behind, Imogen stopped a short distance from the adults, who had now arrived, armed with umbrellas and Eskies.
‘Mum,’ she shouted.
Multiple women turned around, including her own mum.
‘I’m just going to lie down over here, so I won’t have my eye on Jems.’
‘That’s OK,’ her mum called back. ‘I’ve got it from here, thanks.’
Imogen retrieved her bag from the scalding sand and spread her towel out a safe distance from everyone else. She watched them laughing and drinking for a few minutes before the heat overwhelmed her, and she dozed lazily, her hat shielding her face from the baking sunshine.
A scream pulled her from her drowsy reverie and she scrambled to sit upright, her heart in her throat. There was a commotion down by the water. Imogen stood and ran towards the shouting, her mind only on one thing: Jemima.
As she got closer, she could see her little sister standing on the wet sand with Kailah by her side. She felt a rush of relief, until she noticed that the neighbour’s girl was crying.
‘She held me underwater,’ she gasped, pointing her finger at Jemima. ‘She wouldn’t let me come up for air.’ She coughed and spluttered, and Linda pulled her daughter close to her body, looking at Jemima for an explanation.
‘We were just playing,’ Jemima whined. ‘She’s such a baby; I can’t help it if she can’t take a joke.’
‘Jemima,’ Kat said sternly. ‘Apologise to Kailah right now.’
‘But I didn’t do—’
‘Now, please, young lady.’
‘Fine,’ Jemima said reluctantly. ‘Sorry.’
She turned away and stormed off, heading straight towards Imogen and leaving her mum, who seemed satisfied enough with the insincere apology, to placate the neighbours.
Typical, Imogen thought bitterly. If it had been her, her mum wouldn’t have settled for anything less than a gushing, sugary-sweet, down-on-her-knees plea for forgiveness. But, of course, it must have all been a misunderstanding with Jemima. It was true that Kailah was a sensitive kid, prone to crying and finger-pointing and sitting out any kind of fun activity for fear of being hurt. But still.
‘Jems,’ she called out as her sister stomped past.
The younger girl looked at Imogen, who raised an eyebrow in question.
Jemima held her gaze for a few seconds, something unspoken passing between the two of them. Then she nodded.
Imogen relaxed. ‘Good. OK. Well, I need someone to reapply the sunscreen on my back. Think you could help?’
They walked back to Imogen’s spot further up the beach, and Jemima flopped down on the towel, spraying Imogen with sand.
‘Ugh, Jemima!’
‘What? Do you want me to help you or not?’
Imogen sighed and handed her sister the bottle, crying out with the shock of the cool cream hitting her scalding-hot back. Jemima giggled.
‘You have to be careful,’ she warned. ‘Kailah’s sensitive. You know she gets upset easily.’
‘She’s a wuss,’ Jemima said matter-of-factly.
‘Well, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you can do what you want.’
She turned around to face her sister.
‘I mean it, Jems.’
The younger girl flapped her hand, dismissing her concern.
‘Yeah. OK.’ She handed the bottle back to Imogen and stood up. ‘Awesome, Dad’s got the cricket bat out! Come and play!’
Imogen glanced at the phone lying on top of her bag. There was still no word from Paige.
‘How about some volleyball?’ Imogen asked, already knowing what her sister’s answer would be, but hoping for the unexpected.
‘No way,’ Jemima said, screwing up her face. ‘Volleyball’s boring. Come on.’
Jemima tugged her hand until she stood up, and dragged her over to where their dad was sorting people into teams.
‘Awesome, my girls are playing. OK, Jems, Kailah and me against Tyson, Immy and Linda.’
Kailah pouted and refused to look at Jemima, but she didn’t complain. She was too passive to say that she didn’t want to play with the girl who had just made her cry, who had deprived her of a proper apology.
Jemima was right, Imogen thought meanly. Kailah was weak.
They arranged themselves into their respective positions along an empty stretch of beach. Imogen lost the hasty rock-paper-scissors tournament and dutifully took her place in front of the wicket, bat in hand, patience already wearing thin. She wanted this day to be over.
She struck the end of the bat into the sand once, twice, keeping her eyes on the tennis ball that Kailah was ineptly hurling towards her from beyond the other wicket. The ball went wide. Her dad, who was crouched behind Imogen, taking his wicketkeeping duties seriously, called out for her to try again. Imogen made a tsk noise, already regretting her decision to play.
‘Try to remember this is just a game of beach cricket, OK, love?’ her dad said from over her shoulder.
She looked at him, pursing her lips.
‘That doesn’t mean I have to suck, does it?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Immy, and you know it,’ he said, stepping back behind the wicket.
The ball sailed towards her, and Imogen reached over to smack it with the bat, but it was wide again and the plastic bat caught the very edge, sending it glancing behind her. She knew the instant it connected that she’d made a mistake. Her dad reached out and caught the ball easily with one hand, his team members whooping in jubilation at their early success.
‘Come on!’ Imogen yelled, throwing the bat into the sand in frustration.
‘You’re out, you’re out,’ Jemima chanted in a sing-song voice. Kailah joined in the taunting, and tears sprung to Imogen’s eyes.
‘Whatever,’ she snapped, spinning on her heel in the sand. If she didn’t get away, she’d do something stupid, something rash. She couldn’t risk it. ‘I didn’t want to play this dumb game anyway.’
&
nbsp; ‘Imogen!’
She tried to get away, but her mum, who had been standing nearby watching the game, caught her arm, halting her flight.
‘Imogen, what’s going on?’
‘Nothing, I just don’t want to play any more. I hate cricket.’
‘Don’t be a bad sport, Immy. The younger kids are just trying to have some fun. You should be setting an example …’
As her mum launched into a lecture about her attitude, Imogen clamped her jaw closed so firmly that she was sure a molar would crack. She couldn’t concentrate on her mum’s words; her focus was on the flames of fury that licked at her chest, her tightening muscles and the clenching of her stomach. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t a big deal, that soon her mum would run out of steam and let her walk away. When she was alone, she could vent her frustrations on someone who wouldn’t tell her she was blowing things out of proportion.
But as she stood in the sand, being berated in front of everyone, Imogen couldn’t stop the vision that formed in
her imagination, taking shape and looming brighter and larger until it was all she could see. She pictured herself launching herself at her mum, resorting to the kind of bad behaviour – the violence – that was so clearly expected from her. It would feel so good to release the rage that was building up; a pressure she knew she couldn’t keep locked away forever. She allowed herself to indulge the fantasy, her heartbeat quickening and her breath becoming shallower as she imagined the satisfaction of shutting her mum up.
And then, slowly, she let out a long breath and released her fists so her hands hung loosely by her side. She didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. That wasn’t who she was. She just wanted some peace and quiet. She just wanted to be left alone.