The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl

by Melissa Keil

  Mum’s added something extra to her present this year. As she whips cream in a bowl, I tear the paper off a small PVC folder. It’s about the size of a paperback, with a very cool reproduction of Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans printed under the plastic. I flip it over in my hands before it dawns on me that it is a passport holder.

  ‘I don’t even own a passport,’ I mutter.

  Mum adjusts the Christmas cracker hat on her head. ‘Cleo found it on Etsy. You know how I feel about Warhol, but you dig his stuff. Hey, use it for storing recipes,’ she says casually. ‘Or whatever.’

  I slip the wallet into the pocket of my kimono, wondering vaguely whether there is such a thing as a PVC pop-art signal from the universe. ‘Thanks, Mama. I’m just grateful that you didn’t go all survivalist-themed for your presents this year.’

  Mum grins. ‘Your chemical toilet might be in the mail.’ She glances at her phone. ‘Domenic still sleeping? You should give him a nudge before the scones get cold.’

  I gulp a mouthful of tea. ‘Nah. Grady’s not here.’

  Mum frowns. ‘I thought Cleo’s cook-fest would have kept him holed up in your room. Aren’t you two supposed to be watching something black-and-white right about now?’

  I shrug. ‘I think Grady wanted to check on Clouseau or something. You know, after what happened to poor Mr Frankenstein.’

  Mum grimaces. ‘Who would’ve thought Rosie and I would ever have to google “how do you remove blue hair-dye from a poodle”? Is it really six whole days till New Year’s? This whole bizzo can’t be over quick enough for me.’

  I hoist my butt onto the counter, running my fingers over the familiar pattern of burns on the green laminate. And I can’t help but laugh. ‘Mum, honestly, did you ever expect this kind of crazy in Eden Valley? I know you guys moved here for the fresh air and weed-growing potential, but this has got to be way beyond what you signed up for?’

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘The weed-growing was strictly Grady’s dad’s vision. And Adam couldn’t grow mould on bread –’ She gives me a faux stern look. ‘Anyway, there was no weed involved, Sarah Jane. It wasn’t exactly a hippy fantasy that brought us here. More like … well, in my case, the need to avoid getting a job,’ she says with a laugh.

  ‘Uh-huh. And that’s how you sold the idea to everyone else?’

  Mum settles into a chair. ‘It wasn’t entirely my idea. But you know that. Your dad and I both wanted to try the small-town thing after uni –’

  Mum’s breath catches. And her eyes do that thing they still sometimes do when his name is mentioned: pinched at the edges like the world is just a bit too bright.

  The ceiling fan bounces the pots suspended in the centre of the room. For a moment, the only sounds in the kitchen are pans against pots, like sad, ghostly windchimes.

  ‘Hey, Mama? What do you think Dad would have thought about all this?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘Best guess? He would’ve vanished into the fields the second that first van showed up. We’d have found him in a tent somewhere making friends with a bunch of old guys with beards. And our car would have been given away to the first person he met with sad eyes and a sob story.’

  I shovel in some jammy scone, and blink until my eyes don’t feel so blurry. ‘Yeah. I reckon he’d totally be partying like it’s 1999.’ I take a ginormous swig of cold tea. Then I give Mum a cheery smile. ‘So I sort of get why you and Dad schlepped out here, but what about Cleo? How did you talk your bestie into trading twenty-four-hour bars for, well – a bazillion cows and the Junction?’

  Mum grins and surreptitiously swipes her eyes. ‘I didn’t need to talk her into anything. Cleo would’ve moved to a yurt in Kathmandu if someone suggested it. And Adam and Cleo were joined at the hip … but you know, none of us were thinking too far ahead. I mean, Cleo had a baby – trust me, Anthony wasn’t in anyone’s plan. But then Domenic and you came along …’ She frowns. ‘Bub, what are you asking?’

  I leap down from the counter. ‘Nothing. Just idle Christmas chitchat, Mother. Aren’t parents supposed to want to melt their kids’ faces off with stories of their glory days?’

  ‘Face-melting aside – you sure there isn’t something in particular you’re getting at?’

  I toss my cup into the sink. Outside, morning sounds filter into the kitchen. There is a distinct cheerfulness to the gabble; the kind of optimism of people waking up in the summer sunshine and, I suppose, realising they’re not dead just yet.

  Mum hugs her knees into her chest. With her hair hanging around her shoulders in blonde waves, and her faded Pearl Jam T-shirt and red pyjama pants, I can just see her looking right at home among the masses; shoeless and happy.

  I sit down beside her. ‘Mum … what was the deal with Grady’s dad? The few times Grady and I’ve visited, it’s like, small-talk fest-o-rama, but Grady doesn’t really know him. Anthony won’t talk to him, and Cleo won’t talk about him. I don’t remember much, but … was Adam always miserable here?’

  Mum looks up. ‘Wow. Sarah, remind me to give you a lesson sometime on the rules of idle chitchat.’ She picks up a plastic Christmas cracker whistle and fiddles with it absently. ‘The answer is no. He wasn’t always an arse. Not even Cleo would hold him to that. I’m not even sure he was all that miserable when he left.’

  ‘So then what was he?’

  Mum is silent as she ponders her cup. ‘Restless,’ she says eventually. ‘Like Domenic.’ She takes another long sip of tea. ‘Like you.’

  I baulk. ‘Angie – I am so not restless. I’m, like, as unrestless as they come.’

  Mum shakes her head. She stands and brushes my fringe out of my eyes. ‘You’d better get dressed and rescue that boy of yours before Cleo puts him to work as her taste-tester. Last I heard, she was planning on a Christmas surf-and-turf.’ Mum giggles. ‘Christmas at Merindale Nursing Home is bad enough, but at least the food’ll be erased from Aunt Molly’s memory by tomorrow. Poor Domenic. No-one should have to endure oysters on lamb.’

  I snap a couple of sweaty Christmas selfies of Mum and me, and then I wander back into the house. I get dressed slowly, twisting up my hair into a fancy knot and layering on some mascara. I gather up the Christmas paper and dirty clothes from my floor, and straighten the stacks of comics on my desk. I doodle a couple of pencil sketches on my pads of pink post-its, faint outlines of Cinnamon Girl with her floating face all disgruntled and testy. And then I check my phone.

  I have a message from Grady. It reads:

  Mrry xmas 2 u 2. Mum is alrdy in the kitchen. If I dnt make it out, tell my friends I’ll miss em. Got lots on tday. Spk l8r?

  I stare at my phone. Grady has an old-man disdain for text shorthand, and he never sends me anything less than a couple of rambling, but grammatically correct paragraphs.

  I think about tracking him down. And then I think about him training his baby-lawyer face on me; his stubborn certainty that he knows what’s best for me, cos clearly, I’m not capable of making a call myself –

  I grab my sketchpad and I stomp outside into the blazing early morning sun instead.

  •

  Daniel throws open his door about eight seconds after I text him from his porch. He’s all sleepy-eyed, his hair cutely skew-whiff. His face brightens when he sees me. At least, that’s what it does in my head. My eyes are locked on his naked chest, solid and buff and a handspan in front of my face. He’s a bit less tanned than he seems on telly, but still, he’s just so … and really, just … with those V-shaped boy-muscles trailing down his sides and disappearing beneath the band of his boxers –

  ‘Morning, Alba,’ he croaks. ‘Forgot you were always up with the birds.’ I tear my eyes upward. Daniel envelops me in a hug. ‘Merry Christmas. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.’

  ‘You’re not gonna ask what I’m doing here at eight in the morning?’ I mumble as I hug him back. Funny thing is, when Indigo’s biceps aren’t staring me in the face, it’s easy to remember that he’s just Daniel. Still overly huggy, just
like he was all those years ago.

  ‘Let me guess. The only times you ever showed up at my house this early is when you ran out of Coco Pops, or when the post office got your dad’s Fables comics in …’ He steps backwards, sobering. ‘I haven’t had Coco Pops in years though.’

  I wave my sketchpad. ‘Was just looking for some quiet. Thought I’d see what you were up to.’

  ‘I was up to dreaming of beaches and girls in bikinis.’ He steps inside with a grin. ‘There may have been some stuff about trains and tunnels and launching rocket ships in there too. You coming in?’

  I follow him into the quiet house. It’s one of those awful rentals that was decorated in, like, 1985, where everything is beige and brown and blah. On the walls are generic paintings of sunflowers, so lifeless they make me want to cry.

  Daniel leads me into the kitchen. He throws on a thin grey hoodie that’s draped over a chair and then yanks open the fridge. ‘So where’s Grady?’ he says as he rifles inside. ‘Thought an invisible umbilical cord kept you guys attached at the navel?’

  I grab a bottle of diet juice from his hand and take a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘Grady’s family do lunch with Cleo’s great aunt, remember? And I have my own life. And don’t get pissy, Daniel. It wasn’t so long ago that you were showing up at Grady’s ten times a week to play basketball and watch Inspector Gadget. Don’t pretend you’re too cool to remember that you two were joined at the hip as well, once upon a time.’

  He sits down next to me and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. ‘Maybe,’ he says with a yawn. ‘But I’m getting the impression that Domenic and I may have grown apart since we were ten. He’s kinda serious these days, isn’t he?’

  Despite the fact that I’m still pissed with Grady, my best friend is not up for dissection. ‘Grady isn’t “serious”. He’s just focused. Determined. He’s worked his arse off this year, so this waiting limbo is stressing him out –’

  Daniel laughs. ‘You say focused. I say veering a bit close to self-important. And what’s with the hair? Has the guy not heard of product –’

  I slam the juice onto the counter. ‘Gah, Daniel – what’s the matter with you? I refuse to believe you’ve turned into this mean-spirited doofus. Don’t talk about Grady like that!’

  His eyebrows shoot skyward. ‘I was just teasing, Sarah. You know I think Grady’s cool. All I’m saying is, I don’t know many guys our age who are so sure of what they want. He’s been the same since we were kids. He’s wanted the exact same thing since we were five years old.’ He looks at me impassively as he takes a sip of juice. ‘At the very least, you gotta admit that’s rare. Right?’

  I fish my pencil from my boot, and grab a blue pen from the counter. My brain is starting to hurt, like there’s something it should be processing that I’m missing.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Grady. What I want is to pretend for a moment that you haven’t spent the last seven years morphing into a giant douchnozzle. Just talk to me. Like you. Like my Daniel.’

  He leans forward suddenly and clasps his hands over mine. ‘I’m sorry, Alba. Being back here, finishing school … it’s all kind of messing with my head. Like, yesterday, I’m walking past the grocery store, and all of a sudden I’m remembering that holiday when you and I made the bet that I could eat their whole stash of frozen donuts. Do you remember? I’m standing on the side of the road, and all of a sudden your voice is in my head … those pep talks you gave me … do you remember?’

  Do I remember? I haven’t been able to eat a jam donut since without invoking that memory of Daniel at Anzac Park in the thick winter fog, his head shoved under his green Muppet Babies beanie, giggly face crammed to bursting with sugary goodness.

  ‘No-one ever made it into the Guinness Book of Records by wussing out on a challenge,’ I say with a smile. ‘Still think I was right. Despite your projectile jammy vomit. I don’t think your mum was impressed with me.’

  He laughs. ‘Especially since I couldn’t fit into my school pants first day back.’ He gives my hands a squeeze. ‘Alba, I think I might be having a bit of … nostalgia overload or something. But I’m still me. Just new and improved. Okay?’

  I squeeze his hand back. ‘Okay, Daniel. So, just talk to me.’ I grab my sketchpad. ‘Tell me something normal. Tell me about home.’

  He swings on the back legs of his stool. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I dunno. Anything. Where do you live? Do you still have that Princess Peach poster hanging above your bed?’

  He laughs. ‘Not quite. Okay, let’s see. Our house looks out over Queenscliff Beach. I can see the ocean from my bathroom. Not a bad view when you’re having a pee …’

  I grab the pen and pencil in my right hand like chopsticks so I can flip between them. When I touch the tip of my 2B to the paper, the lines begin to flow. ‘What else can you see from your window?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘A coastal road. A carpark. A tonne of Norfolk Island pines. There’s an old Russian lady who lives next door. She’s up at the same time every morning to water the flowers on her balcony. No matter how grey the street is, there’s always splashy colour outside her window.’

  ‘Gosh. How poetic.’

  He grins. ‘Ah, but you forget – I’m an artist too, Sarah. Well, kind of. And for now, anyways.’

  My hand pauses on the page. ‘What do you mean?’

  He reaches for an apple from the counter. ‘The acting thing is fun, for now. But who knows if I’ll be doing it forever. I even briefly contemplated uni, but you know – a classroom was never my thing. Maybe I’m waiting for the universe to give me a sign. Like, a divine nudge as to what my next move should be.’

  I snort. ‘I hear you. Signals from the universe seem to be in short supply these days.’

  He looks at me curiously as he chews on his apple. ‘But if I had your skills … it’s not like you don’t know what you want. You’ve always wanted to draw. You know that’s what you’ll end up doing. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I dunno, Daniel,’ I say, somewhat testily. ‘Just because I’m good at something, doesn’t mean it’s the thing I’m supposed to do. And I want …’

  ‘You want what?’

  I glance down at the page. The sketchy outline of my character is taking shape, her familiar hair, streaked with blue biro, snaking up from the margins as if blown by an off-page wind machine. Through her windows are shadowy outlines of trees and streets; pieces of Daniel’s life, at least, as best as I can picture them.

  What do I want? I want to wrap everyone I love in one teeny bundle, and I want to build a wall around my Valley and keep it the same way it’s been for the last seventeen years, and I want to wake up every morning in a fog of cinnamon and vanilla, and I want to stop everything from moving until I’m ready for it to move –

  ‘I like my life,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Everything changes,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It’s just supposed to.’

  I look up at him. He’s twirling his half-eaten apple around in his fingers, his eyes on me. Maybe it’s the sleep-haze, but I realise I was wrong about Daniel’s eyes. They’re not the same as they were when we were little. Somehow, they’re less open than they used to be, and now that I look closely, a few shades darker, too.

  He nods his head at my sketchpad. ‘Can I see?’

  I turn the book around. Daniel shakes his head with a crooked smile. ‘Jesus. A little bit Hopeless Savages? Very nice, Alba.’

  My phone buzzes in the pocket of my skirt. When I fish it out, the close-up of Grady’s giant eyeball is flashing on my screen.

  Mum just melted a serving spoon onto her best wok. She may have permanently given up on this cooking caper. Think this deserves a celebratory milkshake before we take off. Where are you?

  I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what’s circling through my bestie’s brain. He’s annoyed with me, but not annoyed enough to ignore me for more than a few hours. I send him a text back:

  Hanging with Daniel
. At his place. Give me a min.

  I stand up. ‘I should go. Thanks for the juice. Sorry for waking you. And, you know, for calling you a douchnozzle.’

  Daniel leaps up. ‘You’re forgiven. So what are you doing today?’

  I grab my sketchpad. ‘Dunno. Everyone else has scarpered, of course. Apparently there’s a Christmas Day dance party at the farm. I mean, as opposed to the Christmas Eve dance party, and the random Monday-afternoon dance party.’

  He laughs. ‘I guess people are trying to cram in as much as they can before the world bites the dust. But, you know, church was packed last night, too.’

  I’m in the process of shoving my pencil back into my boot, and I almost jab it right through my ankle. ‘You went to church?’

  He leans against the counter. ‘Sure. Midnight Mass. My folks wanted to see the old place again. And I figured it probably couldn’t hurt to repent for my sins and all that.’

  I hug my sketchpad to my chest. ‘Daniel, you don’t believe any of this, do you? That bozo Ned Zebidiah and his predictions …’

  He shrugs. ‘Do I think the world is going to vanish in a puff of smoke? How should I know? But Alba, there’s always a chance that you could walk out of your house tomorrow and be crushed by falling space debris. Why wouldn’t you live every day as if it were your last?’

  I swallow. ‘Gah. You sound like a motivational poster.’

  He laughs. ‘Well, I suppose people feel they’d look pretty stupid if they didn’t at least hedge their bets. And speaking of bets and hedging – I can’t escape tonight. My folks are insisting on a family Christmas dinner. Roast potatoes and tedious conversation, the whole bit. Are you going to this party thing? When can we catch up again?’

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  Actually, something’s come up. Need to track down my brother. Aunt Molly’s denture kisses may’ve sent Anthony into hiding. Either that or he’s founded his own bordello in a tent. Talk l8r.