by Melissa Keil
I haul myself up and push through the gate, my friends and Clouseau trailing behind.
A few locals are dotted on Albany’s verandah, pots of tea and pastries in front of them. Mrs Garabaldi is hunched in her corner table with a slice of toast halfway to her mouth. Everyone seems to be peering suspiciously down at Main Street.
An orange-and-blue VW Kombi van is parked in front of our bluestone path. Its back windows are covered by fraying purple curtains, and a couple of surfboards are strapped to the roof.
The driver sticks his head through the window. He has one of those arrow bolts through the middle of his nose, and a bunch of neck tattoos that look pretty cool, though I can’t make out the art under the beard that’s covering half his face.
‘Hello?’ he calls out. ‘Can you tell us how to get to Eden Valley?’
‘Dude. You’re in it,’ Pete replies from behind me.
The guy leans out the window and squints down the empty road. ‘Really? This is it?’
Grady heads over, hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Yeah. I have that same reaction every morning. You looking for something in particular?’ he says shyly.
‘Think your GPS is off,’ Eddie mutters, his eyes on the surfboards. ‘Beach is about a thousand kilometres thataway –’
The curtains at the back of the van stir, and another sweaty face appears. A girl with a knot of ash-blonde dreads peers sleepily out at us. A long row of piercings line one ear. She’s also wearing the teeniest yellow bikini I think I’ve ever seen in real life.
Eddie’s face turns the colour of raspberry jam. He drops his eyes to his feet, his feet shuffling up clouds of dirt. He makes this sound effect that’s something like garmurwedgie, and I know that this is the last we will hear from Eddie Palmer for the foreseeable future.
‘Hey there,’ I say with a wave. ‘Can we help you?’
The girl waves back. ‘Heya. You guys know if there’s a campsite or something round here?’
Pete shoves past me, skinny arms gesturing to the paddocks behind the bakery. ‘That’s the Palmers’ farm. We don’t get many visitors, I mean, from outside the Shire, and you know, sometimes a few arsebags from Merindale – but the Palmers did let some backpackers hire a bit of field once before. Keep going straight, then take the road on the left, just past the post office – that’s the building with the red tin roof. You can’t miss it. The Palmers’ house looks like it’s been dropped out of a tornado.’
Tia, somewhat pointedly, grabs Pete’s hand. ‘So … you guys just passing through? Merindale’s about an hour away, and they have an actual campsite –’
Driver-guy snorts. ‘You’re kidding, right? No, man, we’re right where we want to be.’ And then he guns the ear-splitting engine again. ‘Thanks – catch ya!’
Caroline frowns at the retreating Kombi’s dust cloud. ‘That was weird?’
‘Naw,’ Grady says wistfully. ‘Hippies out to discover the “real Australia”. Guaranteed they’ve stocked that van with nothing but patchouli and a whole heap of weed.’
The six of us stare at the Kombi as it disappears in a bitumen-heat haze past the Garabaldis’ store. Caroline clears her throat. ‘Probably. Still weird though.’
Hindsight is a beautiful thing. It’s one of the things I love about comics; if you overlook something you should have noticed, you can always flip back and take a second look at the detail.
We head to my yard again, me prattling about this time when Mum and Cleo piled us into Mum’s car on a whim and drove for two days just to see the Big Banana, and pretty soon the mysterious Kombi is all but forgotten.
Right. The other boy. I’m getting there soon, I swear. Thing is, since the beginning of time, it’s always been Grady and me. But it wasn’t always just Grady and me. Seriously though – it really isn’t what you think.
If the heatwave sticks, summer will soon involve nothing more than crashing at someone’s house with a pile of DVDs; but for now we amble down Main Street, shuffling aside when Lucy Albington from the post office drives past with a wave. In the afternoon, Grady helps Mr Garabaldi install a plastic Santa on the hardware-store roof, while I hover nervously beneath the ladder. And then we amble up the hill to hang at Grady’s brother’s garage. Anthony and Eddie have been helping fix this rust-bucket ute, Caroline’s prized possession, though they still haven’t managed to get the thing to run. I watch from my perch on a workbench as Caroline runs a hand longingly over the cracked steering wheel. I think I might be the worst friend in the world, but as always, when the engine splutters and dies, I can’t help but be shamefully relieved. We stay till Grady can no longer take the ribbing from his brother, and then we shuffle into the sun again, leaving Ed and his giant freckly shoulders crammed beneath the ute and Clouseau snoring under a workbench.
Then Caroline heads to her shift at the grocery store, and Petey and Tia disappear, presumably for some awkward smooching, and Grady and I lumber back to my place.
‘Grab food if you’re hungry,’ I say as we push through the verandah door into the aircon coolness of my bedroom. I plop down at my desk. ‘You’re not going home, are you?’
Grady collapses onto my bed and pulls a new novel out of his messenger bag. It’s one of those classic detective things he loves, where the women are icy and evil, and the men wear fedoras and get shot at the end. ‘Nah. Will hang out here.’
I wrap my hair in one of my scarves. ‘Cool. Just wanna finish one bit. Won’t be long.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he says as he settles onto my pillow and cracks open his book.
My Mac springs to life with a chime. In front of it is my Wacom, a birthday present from Mum last year, completely amazing in its awesomeness. I still prefer drawing my lines in pencil, then scanning them and adding colour digitally. But it’s given me heaps of freedom to play with my comics, and it’s sort of revolutionised my art.
I open the piece I’ve been working on – three vertical panels with a background that links the segments of the scene. I’m calling it The Further Adventures of Cinnamon Girl, though I’m not really sure where this one is going. I’ve storyboarded her an apartment, a very cool warehouse with industrial furniture and ginormous arch windows. I have her outfits down, but I’m struggling a bit with her movement. It doesn’t help that I keep changing my mind about what sort of story I’m making. I mean, I’ve always planned on creating my own superhero, a kick-arse heroine in a multi-dimensional world and whatnot – but lately, I’ve really been getting into these indie comics that are pencilled and inked by the same person, and these online zines that are made up of simple monochromatic panels and – anyways. For now, Cinnamon Girl is just hanging in her apartment until I can come up with an adventure worthy of her.
I zoom in on the middle panel and focus on nailing the foreshortening in her legs …
•
I sit up with a start. The light has changed to watery orange, and my back is knotted in a giant cheese twist. I stretch my arms with a yawn and push away from my desk.
Grady is stomach-down on the old couch in front of my window. He’s flicking lazily through one of my new Captain Marvels, his novel on the floor beside him. ‘Welcome back,’ he says with a smile.
‘I zoned out,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Again. Sorry ’bout that.’
Grady swings himself up, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. ‘Your hands were moving and you were humming, so I figured I didn’t need to check you were still breathing. Really? South Pacific?’
I flick a pencil at him, which he catches midair. ‘Don’t knock the show tunes, man!’ I say with another yawn. ‘You know they help me focus.’
I hear the crack of bone as Grady rolls his neck. He leans over my shoulder. ‘Wow. That is … awesome. But it looks different to your other stuff. What are you doing with the background?’
I flex my fingers. ‘Dunno. I thought I’d experiment with muting the colour palette? Not sure all those shades of brown is really me though. You like?’
‘Very much,’ he says. ‘It
’s sort of, um, like that one you showed me online … Hinges? But, you know. More you.’
I spin my chair. Grady shoves Captain Marvel into the bookshelf behind my desk that’s bowing under the weight of my bazillion comics and graphic novels and longboxes that belonged to Dad. ‘I like this character a lot, Alba,’ he says as his eyes linger on my screen. ‘Not really a superhero, but not an ordinary girl either.’
‘Well, I’m just messing around with her style for now. I have a couple of ideas, but … I’m sort of stuck on her story.’
Grady leans down so we’re eye to eye, his stubborn baby browns peering into mine. ‘Either way, she deserves a life bigger than a bakery menu,’ he says firmly.
I resist the urge to stick out my tongue. ‘So what time is it?’
He glances at his watch with a sigh. ‘Nine-fifteen. Dunno where everyone else is –’
Right on cue, Ed’s voice booms from my lounge. ‘Put your clothes on, kids! G-man, I’m coming in, and I hope to Christ I’m not gonna catch you with your tackle out.’
‘God, Eddie, do you have to be so disgusting!’ I yell back, trying not to laugh at the very fetching Hellboy red that has flooded Grady’s face.
I skip into the lounge, where a grease-covered Eddie is grinning like an imbecile. He dumps an armful of pizza boxes onto the coffee table and blows a kiss at Grady.
‘You’re such a butt-monkey, Francis,’ Grady grumbles.
Caroline collapses in front of the sparkly Christmas tree, hands wrestling open a box of Cheezels. She’s changed out of her work uniform, and is back in denim shorts and her T-shirt that says Angry Fembot Army. ‘This is news to you?’ she says through a mouthful of Cheezel. ‘Grady, meet Eddie.’
Eddie sticks out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, dude.’
‘Shut up, arsebag,’ Grady mumbles as he flops onto the couch.
I take the seat next to him and give his hand a sympathy pat. Pete has squished into Dad’s lumpy armchair, while Tia dumps packs of Red Bulls and a bunch of shot glasses onto the table. She beams at me as I click on the TV.
Regardless of what is happening in our various lives, I have declared Monday nights for the past eight months to be a standing event that no-one is allowed to miss.
Okay. Deep breath. That other boy? He’s barging into my story right about now.
‘Kay, new rule,’ I say. ‘Apparently the guy who plays Dr Mac Macleod is in rehab. But they can’t kill him off, cos everyone knows he’s going to turn out to be Bianca’s dad. So anyone wanna guess how they’ll write him out? And remember, you guess right …’ Tia waves a jam jar in the air. ‘You get to scull the Cup-of-Death!’
Caroline wipes her Cheezel-y finger on her shorts and grabs a shot glass. ‘He’s visiting a sick friend in Sydney.’
I reach for a slice of Hawaiian. ‘He’s on a training course. In Darwin. If they need him to disappear for longer, they can just lose him in the desert.’
Eddie grabs a pizza box and throws himself into an armchair. ‘He’s walking the dog. Feck, they can keep that going for a year.’
Grady kicks his feet up on the coffee table, toppling one of our Santas in the process. ‘He’s performing experimental surgery,’ he says as he sets the Santa upright. ‘Gives them a chance to have people hanging in the waiting-room set.’
‘Yeah, they might as well use it before the show’s cancelled,’ Pete adds. ‘And –’
‘Okay, shush!’ Tia yelps. The twangy ukulele music kicks in, and the screen fades into a sunset beach under a shaky title. The six of us down a customary shot of Red Bull, for no reason other than the sucky theme song has always seemed to warrant it.
It’s this soap opera called A Home Among the Gum Trees, and, barring the episode of Embarrassing Bodies that Grady and I once watched, it is a candidate for the honour of being the worst TV show in the history of the universe. It’s set in a surf-beach hospital, where all the doctors are blond and look about eighteen. The storylines veer between car accidents, mysterious secret children showing up out of nowhere, and weddings that are interrupted by one of the above. Occasionally someone will fall down a mine shaft, though no-one is ever able to explain why there are so many abandoned mines on the outskirts of a surf town. It’s also just moved to 9.30 p.m. on a Monday, which guarantees it’s one step away from being canned.
Tia squishes in next to Pete, accidentally kneeing him in the nuts in the process. Pete makes what looks like a heroic effort not to react. Tia and Petey hooked up months ago, but they haven’t really figured out how they work as a pair yet. Their hand-holding is always self-conscious, and there’s typically much confusion over who puts whose limbs where.
‘Sorry,’ Tia mumbles. She clears her throat. ‘And remember everyone, basic rules – one drink every time Indigo’s shirtless with no proper plot reason.’
Pete drapes an arm around her shoulder. ‘One drink if his face freezes in that emo frown while the music plays into an ad break.’
Eddie reaches for a Red Bull. ‘Two drinks if he does that fecking expression like someone is waving off-cheese under his nose.’
I look sideways at Grady, who’s already laughing. ‘And two drinks if Indigo uses the phrase, “Damn it, Becky! I’m not a doctor yet!”’ I say, slapping my hand on Grady’s knee for emphasis.
Caroline groans as a nurse mumbles something about Dr Macleod visiting a sick friend, and Tia gleefully hands her the brim-full jam jar of Red Bull.
We have tried this with booze a couple of times, but that never ends well for any of us. Last time, Grady passed out in my bed after trying to draw a moustache on Clouseau and then asking me to marry him. Needless to say, no-one has questioned the Red Bull drinking game since.
‘Christ, does this fecking guy even own a shirt?’ Eddie says as the screen fills with the muscular, tanned torso of Indigo Lazorio walking languidly down his drive. The six of us down a shot. Indigo brushes shiny hair from his eyes and frowns into the distance, as the actress who plays his love interest bleats her lines in a faltering monotone.
‘But Indy, I thought we had something spe-cial,’ she whines, her glossy lips frozen in a pout. Then Indigo stares into the distance again, his blue eyes narrowed, lips pursed, nose scrunched –
‘Cheese-face! Feck yeah!’ Eddie yells, as the six of us down another two shots.
‘Ugh. If this is an Indigo episode, none of us are going to be sleeping,’ Grady says as I wipe a dribble of Red Bull from my chin.
I sigh. ‘Well, I just hope he gets to put his shirt back on. It’s totally unfair they’re exploiting the poor boy’s perfect pecs, and his yummy tanned abs, you know?’ Caroline winks at me.
Grady props one long leg up on the coffee table. ‘The abs, the abs, always with the abs.’ He grins. ‘You know they’re probably CGI, right? He’s swanning around on set in a unitard, meanwhile, some poor sucker in a computer lab has the job of painting on a six-pack, one pixel at a time.’
‘Gah, don’t shatter the dream!’ I close my eyes with another theatrical sigh. ‘Besides. In my head – those abs feel plent-y real enough.’
‘Amen,’ Caroline says, raising a shot glass at Grady. Tia dissolves into giggles.
Grady rolls his eyes. ‘Suppose I am the only one who remembers that he once used his own wee to make a moat in the sandpit?’ He thuds his knee into my leg with another smile. ‘But, you know, whatever does it for you …’
So, dodgy soap-opera drinking game is probably not the most constructive use of our time. Really, there is only one reason why we watch this crap.
Daniel Gordon.
I need to backtrack a little right about now.
My Last Will was written when I was nine years old. I remember I wrote it in magenta Derwent in the back of my maths book, which Grady assures me would hold up in no court of law. But at the time, it seemed vital that I divide my stuff equally between my two best friends. As I’ve mentioned, Grady and I have been besties since, like, before we were born. But Daniel was the first person ever who
broke through the me-and-Grady bubble, that day in kinder when he leapt into the sandpit where I was poring over a Fantastic Four comic and asked who I thought would win in a fight – Wolverine or Mister Fantastic.
We bonded over Smarties and Spider-man, and our shared honour of being the two chubbiest kids in class. Okay, my face has always been more round than cheekboney, and my height and width didn’t really balance out till puberty. But Daniel was – well, he was really large. But my Daniel was funny, and loud, and never got picked on cos his personality just didn’t leave room for it.
And then, about a month before my tenth birthday, Daniel’s mum got offered a job in the city and, just like that, he was gone.
We didn’t hear from him again. That is, until eight months ago, when he snaffled a minor role on A Home Among the Gum Trees, and appeared on my TV in all his shirtless, cheese-sniffing glory.
When we were kids, Daniel was always larger than life – no pun intended – but his personality was big and bright, and it filled any room. But maybe the years have changed more than his body, cos on the small screen he barely seems to register. He has great hair, killer cheekbones, and about six facial expressions that he rotates between episodes. Still, Daniel Gordon is the biggest thing Eden Valley has ever produced.
I hadn’t thought about him in a while. I do remember he gave me his prized Spider-man PEZ dispenser and a tearful hug on Albany’s verandah just before his parents drove out of town, and that I cried like a baby for weeks after. Though technically, he did leave around the time my dad died, so some of my hysterics were for that, too.
I know that Grady was just as sad when Daniel went away. I also know that he tried to friend him on Facebook once, but Daniel never responded.
Grady nudges my shoulder. ‘Earth to Alba. You missed one. Actually, you missed two – Indigo had another fight with his dad, and then they played that dramatic crisis-music while his abs scowled at a door.’
I choke down another couple of shots. ‘Guys, does anyone think we’re being a bit mean to poor Indigo? I mean, Daniel? It’s not his fault he gets a sucky script.’