The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl

by Melissa Keil

  ‘Um, I’m not. It’s not mine. Well, it’s mine, but not really. Ah … Daniel gave it to me. I think it’s supposed to be inspirational,’ I say with a really crap attempt at lightness. ‘Hey, if Indigo’s pecs are anything to go by, I’d say it’s, like, the Green Lantern Power Ring of diet books.’

  I swallow, my hands suddenly tingly in a way that has nothing to do with the ominous grandfather-clock sound effect chiming through the PA, and everything to do with the fact that Grady’s face has morphed into this expression I’ve only seen once before, when Anthony backed Cleo’s car over the science project Grady had spent months working on. His pupils are so big they’re almost blacking out the brown of his eyes.

  ‘Daniel. Did. What?’ he says. His voice is scarily expressionless, like Dr Manhattan in Watchmen, just before he vaporises Rorschach.

  ‘Look, Grady, it’s just a book,’ I say hurriedly. ‘And we were talking about us –’

  ‘Yeah, except there is no us, is there, Alba.’

  He storms out of my room, slamming the verandah door so hard behind him that the frame of my house shudders.

  I consider running behind him. But my feet don’t want to move in that direction. My eyes linger on Dad’s comics, and the panel of Cinnamon Girl on my screen. She’s standing on the steps of Albany’s, staring down Main Street at an invisible point on the horizon. I’ve roughed out the buildings and the sinister penny-farthing in her distance; I realise that though my character is changing with every incarnation, I can draw my town flawlessly without ever needing to leave my room.

  I toss aside the pillow and hurry off my bed.

  •

  My house smells like fresh laundry and cinnamon sugar. I dig out Mum’s photo albums from the top of her wardrobe and carry them into the lounge, sweeping aside our Santas so I can place the albums on the coffee table. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I sit on the floor and flip open the first book. It’s one of Mum’s junky ones; a few pages are artfully arranged, until she lost interest and just jammed the rest in alongside receipts and takeaway menus.

  Mostly, they’re pics of Angie in her last bit of high school and her first bit of uni. Mum beams in her school uniform, a gaggle of girls crammed around her with matching high ponytails and cheesy smiles. I see the same faces in a dozen photos; but I know Mum struggles to remember all their names now. My favourite part of this album is the second half: the scattered shots of Mum at uni, when her hair becomes blue, and her lip becomes pierced, and the face alongside hers becomes Cleo’s. Sticky-taped inside are concert tickets and flyers to art shows, and in between Mum and Cleo and their bizarro friends, the face of my dad as he drifts into their story.

  I reach for a leather-bound green book in the middle of the pile. I haven’t looked at this one in ages. There’s no rhyme or reason to the order of the pics; there’s a scattering of photos of me and Grady, sometimes as awkward prepubescents, sometimes as gappy-toothed little kids. There’s an assortment of Eden Valley events, like that one time the Alberts organised a cook-off in Anzac Park, and ended up burning down the gazebo.

  And in between, everywhere, like the Where’s Wally? of Eden Valley, is my dad. A sneaky photo of him sleeping in front of the telly in his green chair with baby me in his arms, and mowing the lawn of the bungalow where we lived when I was a kid, and smooching Mum in front of the new neon sign he’d hung above Albany’s trellising. Photos of him and Mr Everson installing the bench in front of the fruit-and-veg, and of him fixing the farm fencing at Cleo’s yellow house, and covered in soot and cinders as he helps the Ridleys rebuild their goat shed. There are pages of him with Grady at Merindale basketball courts, and Grady with our family in the Fantastic Four costumes Dad insisted we wear for Halloween that one year. And there is that single photo of him atop his stupid ginormous Kawasaki Vulcan, the motorbike blindingly shiny, probably cos it’d been subjected to its bazillionth polish that day.

  I drag my eyes up. Dad’s favourite green armchair, saggy and faded, still has pride of place in our living room. His law books are still scattered through our shelves. The Cecily Brown print he bought for Mum still hangs over the water stain on the wall, and his face beams down from everywhere, his photos and stuff and spirit as ever-present as if he had never gone anywhere.

  My dad, tall and broad and solid, his hair the exact same shade as mine, his dark eyes almost the same shape as mine. Always smiley, and goofy and way too loud.

  I close the photo album and place it carefully on top of the pile. If my dad were watching me now, I reckon he’d be rolling his eyes at my mushy mawkishness. He’d swat me over the backside with whichever random comic he had in his hand. If he knew the mess that was in my head, he’d probably give me one of his giant, smothery bear hugs, and his favourite piece of faux-dad advice:

  Sulking is for sidekicks, Sarah Janey. What would Wonder Woman do?

  I brush away my tears and grab my mobile. The networks have already started jamming, and it takes me three fumbly, panicked tries before I finally get a call to go through. A sonorous voice rumbles through the line.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous. What’s up?’

  I shoot a glance at the flip clock on the side table. ‘Heya, Eddie. You busy?’

  There is muffled silence, and the purr of what sounds like a tractor being turned off. ‘Nah. Just trying to move some feed. My old man’s busy practising the Harlem Shake in the tool shed with, like, a hundred losers who are filming it for YouTube. Dad looks like he’s got his nutsacks caught in a milking machine, and I think he’s forgotten we actually run a fecking farm. Anyway. What’s going on?’

  I refuse to be waylaid, not even by the disquieting mental flash of Mr Palmer and his nether-sacks. ‘Eddie, I need your help. Can I come round?’

  There is a hesitant pause before Eddie replies. ‘Um, sure? Just you, but?’

  ‘Yeah, Ed. Just me. I think you might be able to help me with something. I think maybe … you might be the only one who can.’

  There is conspicuous silence on Ed’s end of the line, interrupted by some distant, depressed mooing. ‘Jesus,’ Eddie replies. ‘Alba, has anyone ever told you that you have a … what do they call it? A flair for the fecking dramatic?’

  ‘Eddie – I think that might be a ginormous part of my problem. I’m coming around now. I’ll see you in a few, okay?’

  I hang up before I have a chance to change my mind. I swap my dress for black jeans and my lucky red gingham shirt, and I tie my damp hair in a knot underneath a red scarf. I look at my face in my mirror, and try to corral my thoughts into a less swoony sort of state. I’m not sure how successful I am, since I can’t really feel my hands.

  I head shakily towards the door. But at the last moment I spin around, and I grab a random pink post-it sketch of Cinnamon Girl from the top of my archive box. I fold it in half and stick her in the back pocket of my jeans.

  If she’s gonna be so goddamned difficult, she can suffer right along with me.

  •

  I take the road to Eddie’s, hoping to speed past the worst of the throngs. But avoiding the masses seems nigh on impossible, cos even the potholed back roads are swirling with bodies. I walk past people dancing in the shade of the gum trees, and people in line to buy corn on the cob from a three-wheeled cart, which might pass the food hygiene standards in medieval Uzbekistan, if the medieval Uzbekistanian food-tester was blind, and tanked. I suppose not everyone interprets the whole you-only-live-once thing with quite the same level of momentousness.

  I weave through the sea of bronzed people, past the plethora of exposed side-boob, through the sunscreen tang and sweat and dust. If I could see the mood in the atmosphere, I’m pretty sure it would look like cobalt bolts of lightning, tinged with veins of incandescent ectoplasm, à la the cosmic charge from any comic superhero unleashing her powers. The air is literally vibrating with expectation.

  I hurry to the fence that leads to the front yard of the Palmers’ house. Eddie is scowling when he unlocks the gate and
drags me inside by the hand. He’s wearing his battered work jeans and a streaky white singlet, his arms covered with grass and sweat. I grab hold of his slick, freckly forearm, and I cling to it for dear life.

  ‘You came the back way?’ Eddie says as he steadies me with his hands. ‘D’you know some sci-fi fan club took it upon themselves to deck out the driveway with solar lights? One of ’em told Dad that they’re building a landing strip, just in case. Shit, I think he was only half-joking, too. Alba, I’m telling you, when the Rapture comes, fecking Trekkies are gonna be seriously disappointed.’

  I untangle myself from his grasp. ‘Ed – dunno if you’ve noticed, but the party’s started early out there. Are you actually still working?’

  Eddie grunts. ‘The cows aren’t waiting for Jesus. Nothing stops here. Even if my old man thinks that getting the sound system sorted is the most important goddamned job in the universe.’

  Summer sun does interesting things to Ed’s skin; his freckles have become so dense in places that they’ve joined together in orangey splotches, like islands on the map of one pale, muscly landscape. On his right forearm, there’s an artful freckle-splodge that, if I squint, looks a bit like the Bat symbol. My eyes zoom in on it; but when I can tell Eddie is getting extra-impatient, I take a deep breath.

  ‘Okay, Eddie. Here it is. I’m going to ask you to do something, and I need you not to freak out, cos I’m very close to freaking out myself, and I need you to tell me that it’s all going to be fine –’

  ‘Alba – babble much?’ Eddie growls. ‘Get to the point.’

  I drag my eyes away from his mammoth arms, and I stare up at his face.

  ‘Ed – I need to borrow one of your bikes. No, actually … I need you to take me for a ride. On a motorbike. And I need you to do it now, before I change my mind.’

  Eddie blinks at me. I stare back at him; my carefree giant of a friend, with his moon-face and man-voice and body like the side of a barn. His pale green eyes are unreadable. But beneath his freckles, Eddie’s face has drained of colour.

  ‘Alba,’ he says. ‘You really wanna do this with me? I mean, hell. You know … I’d do anything for you. But I don’t think I’m the person you want holding your hand while you have a last-day-on-earth epiphany or some shit –’

  I stamp my boot. ‘Come on, Eddie! You still have those dirt bikes, right?’

  ‘Yeah, we do … but … feck. Alba. Are you sure? I mean – you know there’s a reason why we tried to keep ’em out of sight, right?’

  I swallow a sudden grapefruit-sized lump in my throat. Part of me just wants to throw myself onto Eddie’s broad chest and bawl. ‘Ed, I know. I understand what you guys have done for me. And you have no idea how much I love you all for that, but –’ I take another deep breath, and hold it for a few seconds before I exhale. ‘That’s why I’m asking you for help. I’m not sure, but – I need to do this. It’s … necessary. Will you help me, Ed? Please?’

  Eddie stares at me. He dusts his hands on his jeans. ‘Course,’ he says quietly. ‘Just promise you’re not having a breakdown or something. My dad and his midlife crisis is more than I can handle at this point. One fecking mental situation at a time.’

  ‘Ed, honestly? I think I am having the giant mother of all mental situations. But … I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. I may change my mind if I end up as a bloodied smear on the underside of a cow though.’

  Eddie drapes an arm around my shoulder, and I make a valiant effort not to stumble under his weight. ‘Alba, these last few days I thought I’d seen every goddamned weirdness in the universe. But this? I reckon if the mer-people from Uranus do blast us off the planet tonight, I’m only gonna be a little bit surprised.’

  He steers me towards the pebbly path at the back of his house. For once in my life I have zero desire to yammer incessantly. We walk together in nervous silence, towards the tin shack in the shadows of the Palmers’ milking shed.

  •

  Eddie flicks on the naked globe as my eyes adjust to the dark. It’s strangely cool inside, and the shoutyness from the north paddock seems muffled too. Shelves of tools and paint tins line the cobwebby walls, but my eyes are drawn instinctively to the three covered silhouettes in the middle of the concrete floor.

  Ed brushes aside the spider webs, and he yanks the tarp off a familiar shape.

  It’s the red Honda that I haven’t seen in years. Small, sleek, and less powerful than anything Dad would have really been interested in, but nevertheless – there it is. Two wheels, one seat, keychain of a mini can of Heineken dangling from the ignition, and an aura of smugness that makes me want to kick it right in its stupid steel sprockets.

  Eddie wheels the bike to the mouth of the shed, and he swings one leg effortlessly over it. ‘Howie’ll kill me if we take the Bushlander. This one’ll have to do.’

  I know enough about motorbikes to recognise that this seat is in no way built for two people. Eddie scoots his butt backwards as far as he can go, his feet braced on the ground at either side. He looks at me uncertainly.

  ‘Alba, maybe you wanna, I dunno – take it slow? Sit for a bit, get a feel for the seat again –’

  ‘Ed, I don’t have time to mess around!’ I adjust my headscarf and wince at the pitch that my voice has adopted. I remember the advice of Miss Oxenbury, my kindergarten teacher, and I take it down a couple of octaves. ‘I figure, it’s gotta be like ripping off a bandaid, right? One quick move and all that.’

  I march towards the bike and swing my leg over in front of Eddie’s. I settle into the seat with my back straight and my head held high.

  And then I climb off again, and I huddle on the concrete slab with my head on my knees till my breathing doesn’t resemble an asthmatic warthog in need of a lung transplant. Eventually, somehow, I push myself upright. Through tear-blurred eyes I see Eddie looking down at me apprehensively. And then, suddenly, the hesitation in his face vanishes.

  ‘Alba, here’s the thing. I dunno what you reckon this is going to achieve. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for getting back on the horse, but –’ He pats the seat. ‘But this? You’re not gonna be unlocking the secrets of the universe or some shit on here. We’ll drive around the south paddock. You might pass out. You might not. But if you’re gonna do it – just fecking do it already! Stop thinking so hard and … go with your gut!’ He throws his arms up helplessly. And then he holds a hand out to me.

  I stand up again, and I take Ed’s hand. This time, when I swing my leg over, I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the handlebars as if somehow I can will my hands into staying put when my body seems determined to escape. I focus on the seat beneath me, and on the brick-wall bulk of Eddie behind me, and his familiar smell of hay and sweat and sugar soap.

  Ed leans forward and places his hands over mine, his shoulders all but caging me in. I allow myself a tiny, shameful sliver of consolation that, if we do crash, Eddie’s mass should at least help cushion my fall.

  ‘Alba, you just say the word and I’ll pull over. Come to think of it, maybe we should have a signal? Like, if you want me to stop –’

  ‘You mean a safe word? Ed, I love you, but I’m just not ready to explore those kind of farm-boy fantasies.’

  I don’t need to turn around to know that Eddie is blushing, right up to the hairline of his shaved head. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbles. ‘You really don’t want to put those pictures in my head before we do this thing, Alba.’

  I still my shaky, sweaty hands and squeeze my eyes closed again. ‘Sorry, Ed. You know I babble when I’m nervy. I’m ready. I’m warning you though, I might yak.’

  Behind me, I feel the rumble of his laughter. ‘Kay. Puke I can deal with. Here we go.’

  Eddie’s fingers tighten gently around my hand. Together, we squeeze the clutch, kick the starter, and with a spluttery cough the motorbike rumbles to life.

  I breathe. And I let myself evoke the memory of that very last time I was on a bike, with the icy winter wind burning my cheeks, and the leather-clad arms of my
dad around me. The weirdest thing? It doesn’t reduce me to a puddle of moosh and tears, as I sort of expected it would.

  Not even the rattling of the engine that shakes my bones, or the sound that turns my insides to jelly, ever since the day Dad’s bike rumbled out of the driveway and never rumbled back.

  With a jolt, the ground whips away. Sudden yellow dances behind my eyes as we pull out of the dark. And then there’s that whooshy, familiar feeling of abandon and speed.

  I guess what I was looking for was that moment of unquestionable rightness. In my head, I pictured me standing upright, tall and unwavering, like a burly, less green She-Hulk. I was kinda planning on whooping into the sunset as the wind whipped my hair, a triumphant yell that would send the birds scattering from the trees. Seriously, if I ever do draw Cinnamon Girl on the back of a motorcycle, her scarlet hair is gonna be doing all sorts of artful billowing in the breeze.

  In reality? I cling to the handlebars, huddled backwards against Eddie, who keeps a tight hold till we hit a smoother surface. Then he loosens his grip and gives me more control of the ride. I lean when he leans, just like I was taught, back when I would have happily spent all my waking hours on the seat of a motorcycle with my dad. My breath comes in sharp gasps, but I don’t pass out or puke, which, I have to say, I am mildly proud of.

  At some point I manage to talk one eye into opening. We’re somewhere on the trail at the back of the Palmers’ property, where the thick bushland meets the open pasture. A few cows glance in our direction, but mostly their black-and-white faces seem wholly disinterested in our shenanigans. With my eye open, I realise that we’re not exactly fanging it; at the rate Eddie is going, Rosie Addler and Lucy Albington on one of their power walks could probably outpace us.

  I force open my other eye. And as Eddie circles past the tree line, I elbow him lightly in the ribs, and I nudge his hands. Eddie seems to understand, cos he pulls his hands away completely and lets me steer us home.

  I accelerate. The fading sunlight glints off the Honda, making my vision hazy, and the warm breeze flaps my scarf against my ears. But there is no whooping involved. No screaming into the sunset, or jeez, not even a chorus of exultant music in my head, cos the only song I can hear as we head back towards the shed is a sing-along of ‘Love Shack’ coming from the north paddock.