by Melissa Keil
I focus on the scuffed toe of his Vans. ‘Domenic. Way to sound dramatic. You know, it’s not like you’ll be moving to Mars. You’ll still visit. You’ll text.’ My throat feels thick, like the words burbling out of it aren’t the ones I want or mean. I swallow down a rising panic, but I can’t seem to make these impostor words stop. I nudge his shoulder with mine. ‘I’ll see you in the society pages or whatnot, and I’ll be all, like, there’s the boy I knew from way back when. It’s not the end of the world.’ And then I cover my face with my hands as hysterical laughter bubbles out of my mouth. I stand up quickly. ‘Look, I need to get back to the bakery. It’s all totally fine. I gotta go.’
But he grabs my hand before I can move. He looks at it with surprise, like he’s not entirely sure how my hand found its way into his. ‘Alba, I would stay,’ he says quickly. ‘I would change everything if you asked –’
I clutch his hand between both of mine, and I hold on as tightly as I can. ‘No. Grady … you have always been like every secret superhero I know. Just busting to rip off the dork suit and glasses.’ I take a deep breath, and I smile at him as best as I can. ‘You weren’t meant to stand still. I’ve always known that.’
‘But what about you?’ he whispers.
‘Me? I have no idea what powers I’ve got hiding underneath. Maybe something cool, like optic-blast eyeballs. Maybe something lame, like fish telepathy or whatever. But I need to find out. On my own. I think it’s … necessary.’
Grady is focusing on my hands. The bench is too low for his long legs, but he swivels one knee sideways and pulls me in just a bit closer. ‘Alba, you know it doesn’t matter where you end up. You are going to be brilliant. You’re gonna be, like, the next Ramona Fradon or something.’
‘Hey. You remember who she is? I’m impressed.’
‘I’ve learnt heaps from you, Sarah Jane Albany.’ He stares at my hands for a moment longer. And then he turns my palm over, and he kisses me gently on the inside of my wrist. ‘I’m going to hang around here for a bit. I’ll see you later, okay?’
‘Sure. Later, Grady.’
I walk home, my feet bouncing in time to the heavy bass beat that thuds down the road as I near town. I feel kind of blank. Except, when I pull open my bedroom door, there’s that thick, lumpish thing in my throat making it really hard to swallow or breathe.
I know I should use everything that’s churning through my head as fodder for my Cinnamon Girl. I should be able to haul out my pencils and translate all my messiness into brilliance on a page.
I bury my face in my green couch, and I bawl my eyes out instead.
I am not a moper. I’ve never seen much point in sulking. So – after allowing myself the rest of Boxing Day to wallow in a funk of angst and woe – I leap out of bed at five the next morning, determined to embrace life with new-found optimism. Task one? Drawing my curtains tight against the outside world, and drowning out the noise with the Wicked soundtrack cranking through my earbuds.
My phone buzzes with a bazillion messages from my friends – including a handful of missed calls that flash with Daniel’s clear blue eyes – but I just don’t have time for their nonsense today. I’m occupied with the much more vital tasks of painting my toenails in Wonder Woman cobalt, with red tips and perfectly spaced white stars, and then cataloguing my longboxes of comics into a colour-coded Excel spreadsheet.
In the afternoon, after using up an entire sketchpad moving the furniture in Cinnamon Girl’s warehouse, I bolt out of my chair with this sudden desire to bake. I install myself in a corner of Albany’s kitchen and churn out batch after batch of lemon-meringue cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and hand-painted fondant daisies. Angie hovers in my vicinity, though she doesn’t really say much. She does periodically check in with cups of iced tea. For some reason, she also moves all the knives to the other side of the kitchen.
That night, after battling my crappy internet trying to upload angry sketches to the Hawkeye Initiative, I can’t get to sleep. I flip my pillow over and over, trying to keep my face on the cool side, before deciding it’s just way too hot to stay in bed. I slip into the bakery and snaffle a glass of icy milk and a leftover slice of apple strudel. Then I pass out on the cool tiles.
When Mum finds me the next morning, I am splayed on my sleeping bag beneath the shelves we use for growing yeast. She stares at me with her vigilant-face on, before making this exasperated sound effect like argamagah! And then I am banned from the kitchen for the rest of the day.
The sky is not blue. A blanket hangs over the Valley, and everything is steamy and rank. The news on the telly describes it as an ‘unexpected subtropical front’. But the weather is nutsy all over the place. There are floods in places that should be dry, and cold snaps in places that should be warm. Apparently, somewhere in Asia, there was a dust storm in a place that normally has snow. I watch the news from Dad’s saggy armchair while eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight out of the box. When the reporter cuts away from the weather report and shuffles his papers nervously in front of him, my chocolate breakfast sort of lodges in my throat. I can’t help but notice, before I hastily turn off the TV, that the morning hosts discuss the impending apocalypse with slightly less perkiness than they did a week ago.
I think my room is starting to smell weird. And for some reason, I keep losing my pencils. I’m onto my second pack of 2Bs, and have half-filled a sketchpad with Cinnamon Girl in various Nicola Scott Wonder Woman poses, when a couple of sharp raps rattle my verandah door. It’s kind of an impressive feat that they manage to sound both pissy and impatient.
I drag my feet over the detritus on my floor and crack open my curtains.
Caroline’s disgruntled face peers through the glass. ‘Oi! Open up! We have three days left on the planet, and unless you have a naked Superman in there, you need to get your arse out here.’
Reluctantly, I unlock my door. Caroline thrusts a sloshy box of peach wine and a jam-jar glass into my hands.
‘Drink,’ she barks. ‘Outside your door, there’s a van full of Irish boys with really cute accents and super-fine pecs. You should see these pecs, Alba.’
I take a sip of wine, wincing as the sickly sweetness hits the back of my throat. ‘Ugh. This tastes like the drink elves would use to torture Satan.’
Caroline sits beside me on my bed. ‘Yeah, well, my parents are rationing their booze. This was all Tia could pinch from her mum’s stash.’ She scoots behind me and tugs pencils out of my bun, one by one. ‘It was either this or a bottle of Advocaat that expired in 2004.’
She hands me a handful of Derwents, and half a pretzel stick that has also found its way into my hair. The she sits back and fidgets with her T-shirt, her favourite green one that says Graduate of the Thelma & Louise Finishing School on it. ‘Alba, okay, I promised Tia I wasn’t gonna say anything until she got here, but seriously? This is ridiculous. I never pegged you for one of those losers who finds out they’re dying and, like, just decides to keep showing up for work at the salami factory or whatever –’
‘Caroline, what the hell are you babbling about?’
Caroline takes a mouthful of wine straight from the cask, and she waves a hand in my direction. ‘You. This whole tortured artist thing you’ve got going on. Not answering your phone, ignoring your friends – even Mrs Garabaldi’s shown up at the Junction for a ginger wine. Three days left, Alba! You don’t have time to sulk!’
I thrust my sketchpad at her face. ‘I am not sulking! I’m working – not that you’d know it by this. Look at it, Caroline. Why can’t I get it right? The composition sucks. Her proportions are all wrong. It’s way too static, and the panels have no flow … Gah! Look at this one – she looks like her arm is growing out of her boob. And even when I do manage to get her looking okay, no scene I place her in is working –’
Caroline glances at the page. ‘It looks fine to me –’
‘Fine. See? Fine is not good enough!’ I collapse backwards onto my bed. ‘She should be brilliant. All my c
omics so far have been brilliant. Cinnamon Girl is the biggest thing I’ve ever tried. And she is turning out to be totally rubbish.’
Caroline twirls a purple strand of ponytail around her fingers. She kicks off her Havaianas and pull her legs up beneath her. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about what you do. I think all your stuff is awesome, but, really, what does it matter? It’s going to be irrelevant if the rest of the planet’s nuked into oblivion. And if it’s not – well, it’s not like you’re planning on doing much with your art anyway. Right?’
I sit up and glance at my scribbly page. ‘That’s not the point.’
Caroline snorts. ‘Isn’t it?’
She holds my glass between her knees and tops it up with wine. In my sketchpad, Cinnamon Girl is standing alone on the domed roof of the Opera House, hands planted on her hips as she stares out over a watery sunset. I’ve always loved the angles and lines of the Opera House. But I’ve never been to Sydney. I can only replicate it from what I’ve seen in pictures.
I take a giant swig of nasty jam-jar wine just as Tia pushes through my verandah door. Even in the dark, she looks sort of flustered.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Caroline barks. ‘We said we were going to stick together?’
Tia looks sheepishly at her feet. ‘Yeah, well, I made plans. I was with Peter. Pete’s parents decided to keep the fish-and-chip shop open all night, and his house was empty, so … you know.’
‘We. Know. What?’ Caroline says slowly.
Tia sits at my desk and stares at my stacks of half-catalogued comics. Her face turns red. ‘You know.’
Caroline leaps off my bed. She looks at Tia with saucer-eyes. ‘You cannot be for real.’
‘Are you serious?’ I squeal. ‘You and Petey …?’
Tia shrugs. ‘The world might end. I didn’t want to die a virgin.’
Caroline stares at her, open-mouthed, as I choke back admittedly hysterical giggles. I suppose if I stopped to think about it, nothing about our current situation would be funny, and yet the thought of Petey and Tia …
‘So?’ Caroline says eventually. ‘How did it go?’
Tia grimaces. ‘Okay. Weird. Kind of … bumpy. He accidentally elbowed me in the face, which sort of sucked.’ She shrugs. ‘I lost a sock.’
‘Jesus Christ, Tiahnah!’ Caroline bellows, as I lose my battle with laughing. ‘With Peter? There’s literally thousands of guys here, and you pick the one kid who still wears South Park undies and practises ninja moves in his garage?’
‘Please tell me he did not try any ninja moves on you?’ I say through giggles.
Tia sighs. ‘I’m not sure Petey really has any moves. Not sure I do either. But it was fine. It was different to what I expected, but really, really … fine.’
Caroline kicks at a stray shoe on my floor. ‘Well … are you all right?’ she says sullenly.
Tia lopes across my room and gives her a fierce hug. Strangely, Caroline doesn’t attempt to squirm out of it. ‘Yeah, Caroline. I’m okay. I don’t know if Petey’s the guy I’m gonna marry or anything, but I like him a lot, and I know he likes me. He’s my friend, and hey, that counts for something. There are worse guys to choose than someone who’s still going to be your friend the next day.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Caroline mutters. Then her face scrunches into a mortified ball.
‘Um, excuse me?’ I say. ‘What?’
Tia stares at her. ‘Caroline Gresham. I am your bestest friend in the whole wide world. Is there something you’ve forgotten to tell me?’
Caroline scowls. ‘Not that it’s either of your businesses, but … maybe. A little bit. God, it happened, like, months ago. It’s completely ancient news, and anyway, excuse me for not sharing every detail of my life.’
‘With who?’ Tia bleats.
Caroline picks at a thread on her shorts. ‘Gareth Ridley?’
‘Tommy Ridley’s brother?’ I yell. ‘Isn’t he, like, twenty-two or something?’
Tia pokes her arm. ‘Isn’t he your second cousin?’
‘By marriage!’ Caroline snaps. ‘And neither of you can judge!’ She jabs a finger at Tia. ‘You, Miss I’m-gonna-jump-the-nearest-doofus-just-in-case-the-world-ends, and –’ She points at me, her face turning that special Caroline pissed-off red. ‘You, I’m-so-comfortable-living-in-la-la-happy-land-with-the-cartoon-birdies-that-I’m-gonna-ignore-the-obviousness-staring-me-right-in-the-face –’
‘No-one’s judging you, Caroline,’ Tia says quickly.
‘And what does that even mean?’ I add, my skin prickling.
‘Nothing at all,’ Tia says, shooting Caroline a death-stare.
Caroline throws her hands in the air. ‘Seriously, Alba? You seriously don’t know –’
Tia grabs her arm. ‘Caroline. Shut. Up,’ she says, her voice deathly quiet. I think even Caroline seems surprised by the steel in Tia’s voice. They stare at each other. And I start to cry. I manage to shake the tear-clouds away long enough to see Caroline and Tia exchange dismayed looks, before both their arms are around me.
‘Jesus, Alba. I’m sorry,’ Caroline mumbles. ‘Clearly I don’t know when to shut my mouth.’
‘What’s the matter with me?’ I say through sobs. ‘Am I, like, the last person on the planet who doesn’t know what they’re doing?’
Tia rubs my back in slow circles. ‘Alba – you know, there’s this bunch of guys in the post-office carpark who are trying to build an ark? Lucy Albington’s setting up a survivors’ centre at the church – she’s been on a mission collecting blankets and batteries and stuff all week.’
Caroline snorts. ‘Seriously. There’s a bidding war going on to rent out space in the Addlers’ feed shed. And I guarantee there isn’t a can of Spam left within three hundred kay.’ She gives my shoulder an awkward pat. ‘Alba, I know you’re a little bit … hazy about what comes next. But look outside. I think you’re in pretty good company.’
I sniffle. ‘Maybe. Though apparently I am the last virgin left in the Valley.’
Caroline snort-laughs. ‘Ah, I doubt it. You reckon Eddie’s got around to touching a girl yet? Somehow, I think the planet spontaneously combusting is more likely.’ She punches my arm with a wicked grin. ‘Hey, maybe that’s the spark that sets off the end? Eddie touches a boob, and bang! Universe implodes.’
Tia glares at her. ‘Alba, I think the point Caroline is trying to make is that it’s sucky and scary for everyone. But it’s all going to be fine. Apocalypse or not – if anyone is going to be okay, it’s you. We’re here.’ She smiles at me, and her grey eyes well up but don’t spill. ‘Whatever happens, wherever we are – we’ll always be here. And we’re not going anywhere just yet.’
I rescue an old T-shirt from my floor and wipe my face. ‘Don’t you want to hang out with Petey today? Considering you’re all, like, betrothed or whatever now?’
Tia glances fleetingly at Caroline. ‘Um … Pete’s with Grady. Grady’s basketball team is having a “last days” barbecue at Merindale pool, and, um … that new friend of his? She was going along too and we … thought Grady could use some company …’
‘Oh,’ I say. I stare at the shaft of light leaching from beneath my curtains. I look around at the bombshell that is my bedroom; my artwork-covered walls, and my floorboards that have disappeared beneath manky clothes and scrunched sketchpad pages. And all of a sudden, it’s like the walls are squishing in on me. All of a sudden, my comfy room is stale and stifling.
‘What do you want, Alba?’ Caroline says quietly.
I drag myself off my bed and pull aside the curtains. When my eyes adjust to the blinding daylight, I see that the piecemeal fabric Thunderdome is completely gone now, reduced to a carpet of dust-covered rags. In the distance beyond the tents and cars, people are moving like the cells of one uncoordinated organism. I can’t tell what song is playing. Yet under the weird pale sky, everyone seems to be dancing. I take a deep breath.
‘Right now? I think I want to go out there.’
Caroline l
eaps to her feet with a whoop. ‘About bloody time! Come on. If we hurry, we can catch the vegan truck before they run out of food. Who’d have thought quinoa burgers are actually sort of yum?’
Tia stands up as well. She holds me at arm’s length. ‘Alba, maybe you wanna think about changing first?’
I glance down at my outfit – Grady’s Bronies Before Honies pyjama T-shirt covered with splatters of yesterday’s cupcake mix, and purple velour shorts from our year-nine production of Labyrinth.
‘My bag lady look not working, Tiahnah?’ I say weakly.
Tia gives me a hug. ‘Alba, if anyone could pull that off, it’d be you. But I’m reading on the internet that shampoo and toothpaste are also really in this year.’
I polish off the rest of my wine in one grimacey gulp. ‘Righto. Give me a minute to get less … festy.’ I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And I give my friends a giant smile. ‘It might take a little bit more than a minute.’
Caroline grins. ‘The clock is ticking, Alba. Stop yammering and move.’
•
In the back of my yard, behind Dad’s plum trees, the barbed-wire farm fencing has been surreptitiously cut a little ways in from the corner post. It’s fastened with a hinge and clasp, not at all noticeable, unless you know what you’re looking for. Grady made the sneaky gate a couple of years ago, when breakfast at the bakery became routine and Eddie decided that he ‘couldn’t be fecked’ walking the long way to my house.
Most of the campsite is concentrated in the middle of the north paddock, but some scattered people have set up home between the hay bales near my fence. A tangled couple is snoozing in the shade of a nearby beach umbrella. In the distance past the camp, a haze of dancey-dust lingers in the air.
I walk out into the field with Tia and Caroline following close behind.
‘Watch where you step,’ Caroline says. She’s ditched her wine box and is now drinking straight from the silver baggy. ‘People have been pretty good with the portaloos … mostly …’