by Melissa Keil
‘Naw, but it is his fault he’s a shithouse actor,’ Eddie says. ‘And did anyone read that interview in Woman’s Day? Apparently his favourite hobbies when he was a kid were running and surfing. Did anyone ever see that kid run? Except maybe for ice-cream. And where the feck did he learn to surf? Merindale pool?’
Pete grins. ‘Dude. What are you doing reading Woman’s Day?’
Eddie’s neck flushes. ‘Feck off, butt-face,’ he mumbles.
‘And there ends another Monday that I will never have back again,’ Caroline says as the theme music twangs. ‘You realise I had better offers for my last weeks here, right?’ She catches my eye, her expression sobering. And then she gives me a wry grin. ‘I mean, Jason Dylan and those guys were planning on a drive-by egging of Merindale High – so there’s those intellectual hijinks I’m missing out on.’ She stretches with a yawn, though her eyes are kind of energy-drink buggy.
I stretch out on my couch with my bare feet in Grady’s lap. Through the window I can see a tiny pinpoint of light from the Palmers’ north paddock, a teeny dot of yellow in a cicada-chorus-filled black. Even with the aircon cranked, the night heat radiates through the window.
‘Guess those guys found your place, Ed,’ I say. ‘Your folks okay with stragglers hanging around?’
Eddie shrugs. ‘Any extra cash is good, I s’pose. Dad’ll have loved scaring the shit outta them with the full total-fire-ban rant, though. And he’ll be deadbolting the tool shed.’
Grady swivels his head and peers through the dark as well. The outline of the Kombi materialises in the shadows as my eyes adjust. ‘Wonder where they’re heading?’ he murmurs.
I nudge his belly with my foot. ‘Patchouli and weed, remember? Didn’t think that was your thing, Domenic?’
He drags his eyes back to mine. ‘Don’t first-name me, Sarah. I didn’t say I was ashram-bound just yet.’ I can tell he’s trying for casual, but there’s something tense going on in his face. I swing my legs off him, just as Mum pushes through Albany’s kitchen door. She’s all sweaty hair and tired eyes, but since my mum is ace, she still gives us a bright smile.
‘Hey, kids,’ she says, as she pulls up a seat at our little dining table. Her eyes are on her mobile, her fingers scrolling across the screen.
I skip over and perch on the edge of the table. ‘How’s it going, Mama? Busy day?’
‘We ran out of cheese muffins, again. Should probably double the batch tomorrow.’ She sucks distractedly at the tiny piercing in her bottom lip. ‘Good day, just a little … odd. You know, Patrick dropped by earlier. He said the Junction’s just booked out. Apparently they had a run on room requests.’ Mum looks down at her phone again. ‘Is that strange?’
‘The Junction only has, like, ten rooms, Mrs A,’ Pete says. ‘It’s not that weird it’d fill over the holidays. Is it?’
Mum shrugs. ‘Maybe more people are coming back for Christmas than other years, but – whoa.’ Mum sits up straight, eyes suddenly alert. ‘Domenic – have you looked at Twitter today?’
Grady bounces to Mum’s other side. ‘No, reception’s been buggy. Why?’ he says, peering at Mum’s phone.
I don’t really get the Twitter thing. I have enough trouble keeping my stories succinct in real life, but Mum and Grady are both obsessed with it, having long conversations about what’s ‘trending’ – though mostly, from what I can tell, what’s ‘trending’ is usually, like, photos of singers without knickers and stuff.
‘Mum? Which celeb’s done a drunk rant this time?’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s … well, look.’
Mum turns her phone around. Grady sucks in a sharp breath, but it takes me a moment longer to figure out what I’m looking at. It’s a list of trending hashtags:
#EVendoftheworld
#Edenvalleyrapture
#hicktownsurvival
#ApocalypseAustralia
Grady catches my eye, his mouth opening.
I leap down from the table. ‘No way. It can’t be. Original Ned …?’
‘Original who now?’ Pete says, stumbling out of the chair.
Grady dives for his messenger bag and pulls out his iPad. ‘I forgot all about this. I mean, I thought it was a bit of a joke, but –’ He taps frantically at the screen, and then holds the iPad a foot away from his face. ‘Jesus,’ he whispers.
Caroline pushes herself to her feet. ‘What? What is going on?’
Grady turns the screen around to face us.
Original Ned’s YouTube clip has eighteen thousand, four hundred and ninety-seven views.
‘I don’t get it,’ Caroline says. ‘Why are we freaking out over YouTube –’
Tia and Eddie are suddenly crowded around us as well. ‘Play it! Play it!’ Tia squeals.
Six people cram their heads around Grady as Original Ned’s voice wheezes through the speakers, while my brain tries – unsuccessfully – to play catch-up.
Tia’s phone pings as Ned’s first caller rings in and my friends start talking all at the same time. Her bewildered face peers down at her phone. ‘Guys – I just got a message from Brihannah. Check this out!’
Tia turns her phone around, six sets of eyes glued to the tiny screen it like it’s a first-issue Action Comic.
On her screen is a page from that free newspaper they hand out in the city. Half the page has a story about a footballer who was busted peeing in an ATM vestibule on Saturday night. The other half has a photo that I recognise, cos it hangs right near the entrance of the post office. It’s this panoramic shot of Eden Valley taken from the top of Eden Hill. The headline above the photo reads:
APOCALYPSE NOW? DOOMSDAY HOAX OR SMALL-TOWN SALVATION?
‘You don’t think it’s true, do you?’ Tia whispers. ‘The end of the world? Who are those bad guys with all the nukes? The Mongolians or whoever?’
Caroline blinks at her. ‘Tiahnah, dude, you really need to watch the news –’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ Grady says. ‘If that guy is a psychic or prophet or whatever, then I am training to be a sumo wrestler. But it doesn’t stop … people talking about it. And people being interested in it. In us, I mean.’
‘But it’s just a dumb story, right?’ Pete says excitedly. ‘People will forget about it as soon as the next stupid thing pops up on the internet –’
‘Right,’ Caroline says as she frowns at Tia’s phone. ‘It’s this, or a new Kardashian sex tape. Are we really surprised that the human race is doomed –’
Eddie laughs. ‘How fecking cool is this – sorry, Angie – but man, Eden Valley was never gonna make it onto anyone’s radar. Unless one of the Albert boys did turn out to be a serial killer after all –’
Mum grabs her keys from the sideboard. ‘You know, I think I might head to Cleo’s for a bit. I’m sure it’s … nothing,’ she says uncertainly. ‘Right. Be back soon, bub.’ She kisses me on the head and hurries through the back door.
Grady plonks himself on a dining chair, still looking a little dazed.
‘Well,’ Pete says, ‘if I’ve only got two weeks left, I am so going to start doing stuff. Bugger working at the fish-and-chip shop.’ He settles into the armchair and flicks open one of Dad’s Legend of Wonder Woman comics I’ve left on the side table.
‘I’m gonna take off,’ Eddie says, grabbing the last slice of pizza. ‘Think I need to have a conversation with our visitors right about now. Catch ya,’ he says with a wave as he disappears into the darkness.
Tia pockets her phone, her face icing-sugar white.
‘Tia? Relax,’ Caroline says, moving so they’re shoulder to shoulder. ‘It’s not like you and Dina are going to be protecting your house from the ravenous hordes. Pretty sure no-one’s gonna want your collection of My Little Ponys and your mum’s souvenir shot glasses.’
I take Tia’s other side and give her arm a squeeze. ‘Besides – we’re the ones who are supposed to survive, remember? Don’t worry. If Eden Valley does descend into tribal anarchy, at least you’ve got a big str
ong man defending your honour.’
Pete flexes his arms with a grin, his non-existent biceps not doing much of anything, but I still give him a cheery thumbs-up.
Tia looks somewhat unconvinced. ‘Sure. Okay. Petey, can you give me a ride home?’
Caroline sighs. ‘I’ll come too. I’m working tomorrow morning. Might be an interesting shift if people are stocking up on provisions for Armageddon.’
In a flurry of hand slaps and cheek pecks, Tia, Caroline and Pete disappear as well.
I stare through the window, that single point of brightness glinting at me in the dark. I can see shadows of rolling hills swooping over the horizon, and those few red gums in the Palmers’ field that stand like ghostly Sentinels. In my whole life, the dark and quiet has always been comforting; but for some reason, it suddenly feels just a wee bit too oppressive, a little more empty emptiness than normal.
I drop into the chair beside Grady. ‘Crashing here tonight?’
He nods distractedly as he taps at his iPad. ‘Kay, sure.’ His gaze flickers up to me. ‘Wild, huh? Out of all the towns in all the world?’
‘Yeah, well, don’t get too excited,’ I say, swallowing down a knot of nerviness. ‘I’m sure the next famous baby named after a fruit will push us right off the radar again.’
•
Later, after showering and digging Grady’s jammies out of the laundry, I’m stretched in bed in my purple Peter Alexander nightie, and Grady is splayed on the couch in his T-shirt and boxers. His feet are tucked under a blanket, his face gleaming in the light of his iPad. I make a mental note to draw him like that tomorrow; the light on his smooth face is awesome, though I’m not sure it’ll really be capturable.
‘Not sleepy?’ I say.
‘Nah. Gonna read for a bit.’
I curl up on my side and adjust the sleep mask over my forehead. ‘Hey, Grady?’
He looks up at me. ‘Yeah, Alba?’
‘Is everything okay? You’ve been looking sort of tired since we got our results. But you kicked arse, you know you’re gonna breeze into law … there’s, like, no chance you won’t …’ I swallow a couple of times. ‘So why the sleeplessness?’
He shoves a hand behind his neck, and stares out at the night sky through my window. ‘Yeah, I did okay. But it’s still no guarantee … and also … well, Dad’s been getting on my case. He’s got this bright idea I should move early and stay at his till I find a place to live. He’s having some New Year’s Eve thing he wants me at – I think it’s his half-arsed idea of bonding or something –’
I sit up quickly. ‘Grady, are you serious? That’s only a couple of weeks –’
‘– I know, and no, I’m not thinking about it. I can’t be bothered, and Anthony’s refusing to help me move if I even contemplate bunking with Dad …’ He glances sideways at me. And then he grins. ‘The end of the world is also a bit distracting. Apart from that? Everything’s cool.’
I sink back into my bed. The artwork I’ve stuck to my ceiling is starting to come loose in spots, the edges curling in the heat. The Kingdom Come print flapping lightly in the aircon makes me feel inexplicably panicked, like I’m gonna wake up one of these nights with it over my face, being suffocated to death by Power Woman’s giant boobs.
I roll onto my side again. I know when Grady is dodging a question. My best friend is a hopeless liar. ‘Domenic –’
‘Ugh, don’t first-name me. Everything’s fine.’ He turns away from me. ‘Night, Alba.’
I consider calling him on his BS, until I settle on my pillow and my eyes involuntarily drift shut. Needless to say, insomnia and I have yet to become acquainted.
Normally I sleep like the dead. But tonight sleep feels fuzzy, like I’m drifting in that half-awake middle world, with vague dreams of Kombi vans, and a restless Cinnamon Girl staring anxiously through her warehouse windows, and mash-ups of every post-apocalyptic comic that I know.
And I can’t be sure, but in between I think I dream about Grady’s wide-awake brown eyes peering forlornly at me through the dark.
The cars start arriving the next morning.
Gosh, that sounds dramatic. Like, it should be accompanied by crisis-music or something. But really, at first – despite Twitter and trending and thousands of people on YouTube – Tuesday morning begins no differently from any other.
As usual I’m wide awake and out of bed before six, leaving Grady face-planted on my green couch, one long leg dangling over the floorboards. I skip into the bakery in my jammies and kimono, my hair held back by my sleep mask.
The morning crew is already bustling as trays are piled in and out of ovens. Cleo is perched on a bench, eating cookie dough straight out of a bowl.
‘Hey, Second Mama,’ I say, giving her a cuddle.
‘Hey, miss,’ she says, hugging me back. ‘My son still sleeping?’
‘Uh-huh. He really is a lazy no-good layabout. I blame the parents.’
Cleo swats me with her spoon. ‘So I have Angie to blame for your mouth?’
Mum flings a wad of gingerbread dough onto the counter. ‘Not my fault. God only knows where she learnt the sarcasm.’
Cleo laughs. ‘It’s a mystery. And our Modern Art tutor suffered a breakdown cos some other blue-haired chick kept hassling him about the lack of female artists on the syllabus?’
Mum narrows her eyes as Cleo serenely shoves more cookie dough into her mouth.
If I’ve inherited all my genes from my dad, then Grady is like a boy-clone of his mother. He has her chaotic dark curls and mischievous eyes, though Cleo is a head and shoulders shorter than both her sons. Today she’s wearing the sensible slacks and soft grey shirt she’s adopted for work at Doctor Lucas’s office, with colourful strings of that chunky wooden jewellery she was all into making a few months back.
‘Where’d you disappear to last night, Mum?’ I say as I nudge her out of the way and bury my hands in the dough. ‘Busy digging a fallout shelter?’
Mum catches Cleo’s eye. ‘I wanted to debrief … Hey, I’ve seen Armageddon. Just checking that Mrs Garabaldi wasn’t bunked on her roof with a shotgun.’
Cleo pauses, mid-chew. ‘Bruce Willis was yummy in that movie,’ she says dreamily.
I work my fingers into the dough. ‘Please. Isn’t he, like, seventy?’
Cleo bumps Mum with her foot. ‘And bald. Still though. Wouldn’t say no.’
‘I doubt you’d say no to a ficus at this point,’ Mum mutters.
‘Gah! No old-man sex talk! Go away, both of you, before I yak into this perfectly delicious gingerbread dough.’
Mum drags a giggling Cleo away by the arm as Mrs Doyle shoots me a disapproving glare, her papery hands swirling icing onto a tray of cupcakes.
As stories go, I’m fully aware that my world is probably not the most riveting of narratives. I could yammer for ages about the routine in the bakery, cos it’s the story I’ve known for most of my life: the morning light that hits the pots hanging above the centre counter, the particular blend of smells and sounds I’ve loved ever since I was big enough to hold a spoon. When I’m sifting and stirring, my hands can be on autopilot and my brain in whatever world I want to be. It’s the only time – apart from when I’m drawing – that I can be right here, and a thousand other places all at once. It’s the only place in the universe that’s ever felt one hundred per cent like me.
Still. Comic-book worthy, Albany’s is not. And besides, as I may have mentioned – there are far more interesting things afoot today than cupcakes.
So I help out, then skip back to the house. At some point Grady has crawled from the couch and into my bed, so I tiptoe around the lightly snoring Grady-mound as I throw on a tartan skirt and one of Dad’s faded Bonds T-shirts. I twist my hair up in an animal-print scarf, chuck on boots and my favourite red lipstick, and skip back to the diner.
The first thing that catches my eye is beardy-man and bikini-girl, inhabitants of the mysterious Kombi. They’re huddled in a booth, lips smooshed together like they’r
e studying the terrain of each other’s tonsils. At the counter, Tommy Ridley is gaping at them like they’re one of those Amsterdam porn shows he insists he’s going to see one day. I think PDAs are sweet, but still, it’s disconcerting seeing strangers here, weird little cracks on the edge of my known universe.
The second thing that catches my eye is this: through the French windows, some unfamiliar cars are parked along Main Street. There’s a battered Corolla, and a sedan I’ve never seen before. Across the road, the pump at the Wasileskis’ service station has two cars backing up to it – a girl is leaning through a window to snap pictures of the ‘Eden Valley General Store’ sign. The Wasileskis’ shack is cute as, but I can’t remember it seeing this much action since that time Merindale’s truck stop shut for a week after poisoning people with dodgy sausage rolls.
Paulette hurries over just as Mum bustles in from the verandah. ‘Alba, have you seen what’s going on outside?’ Paulette says breathlessly. ‘There’s, like, a dozen crazy hippies wandering around Main Street – some guy’s even pitched a telescope in front of the Eversons’ store.’ She tugs at her pigtails. ‘How stupid are people? What are they expecting is gonna happen here of all places?’
Mum glances through the window. ‘I’m not sure that’s the point. People want to be where things are happening. Suppose it doesn’t matter what’s happening, does it? Or where …’ Outside, Julian Ridley, our lone police officer, is scratching his head as he peers at the Corolla.
‘Excuse me, kids,’ Mum murmurs, hurrying out the door again.
I haul myself on a stool. ‘Suppose some people just gravitate towards weirdness?’ I say vaguely. ‘And a handful of tourists is no big deal. Didn’t Merindale get a bunch of visitors when that stoner-guy said he saw a panther on the football field?’
Paulette laughs. ‘Yeah. Same guy who swears he saw the face of Jesus in a meat pie. Like I said, people are idiots. Look at them, Alba.’ I follow the direction of her hands. Some guy is posing for a selfie in front of our mailbox. ‘They look so cheerful,’ Paulette says with another laugh. ‘Like, hello, people? You’re preparing for Judgement Day. Least you could do is be a bit sedate.’