by Melissa Keil
And stuck on a skewy angle on the side of his desk lamp is a giant pink post-it: a sketch of Grady with a chalk outline, and my all-caps comic-book lettering:
STRAWBERRY BIOHAZARD. HANDS OFF D.G.
And I realise that my tears are bordering on the hysterical, but I draw upon whatever fraction of control I still have left, and run out of his room again.
Main Street is chaos. I push through the crowds, past the Taco Truck, and Mrs Garabaldi’s homemade barricades that are now covered with multiple penises in assorted sizes. And then I skid to a dead stop, my pathway blocked, my blood throbbing so hard I swear I can see it burbling behind my eyes.
My nemesis, the penny-farthing, is wedged right in my path.
‘Get your stupid dumb-arse hipster poser bike out of my way, arsebag!’ I yell. Bike-man looks down at me blankly.
‘Chill out, little lady,’ he says. ‘You’re messing with the vibe.’
‘Feck. Off!’ I scream, except I don’t say feck, and I kick his stupid oversized tyre for emphasis as I hurl myself over the footpath barricades and tear past him. I think I detect some alarmed looks, but I don’t stop to think about them.
Because all I can think about is Grady.
Grady, who slept in my bed for weeks when his dad left, curled against me like a puppy, his face damp with tears. Grady, who camped in my room for months after my dad died, awkward and insomnia-plagued but right there beside me whenever I woke from a nightmare. Grady, who moved out of the house he was born in when me and Mum moved in, but who was only ever happy that I coopted the bedroom that was once his. Grady, who took me to South Pacific for my birthday in year eleven, even though he looked like he was being waterboarded for most of it, and who trekked with me to every comic store in every corner of the city, even though he’s never really been into comics. Grady, whose face gets all glimmery when he looks at my art and who waits for hours while I draw without getting antsy or bored. Grady, who would do anything not to see me cry.
Dr Lucas’s office appears before me. Across the road, the Corner Arms is spewing forth a mess of sweaty people in sparkly wigs and matching bathing suits. In a distant corner of my brain, I have this flash of them stranded in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, huddled together in a baffled mass with nothing but pints of cider and noisemakers in hand.
I barrel into the doctor’s building. Even though it’s way past office hours, the tiny waiting room is choked with sunburnt people. A St John’s Ambulance man is holding an ice pack over the head of a groaning guy who has an inflatable frog floatie clasped around his waist. I’m not even going to ask –
Cleo is behind the reception desk. She stands hurriedly when I push aside a woman in a kaftan and stumble towards her.
‘Where is he? Where’s Grady?’ I gasp. I can’t catch my breath.
Cleo’s eyes are wide. ‘He’s gone,’ she says quietly.
I close my eyes. In my head, I’m floating in a jumping castle. Maybe I am experiencing a dissociative episode or whatnot, but out of all the places I could check out to, I’m not sure why my subconscious has picked this one. Suddenly, I realise where I am. It’s Merindale show, and I’m six years old. It’s getting dark, and the show is closing, and I have no idea where my parents are, but I can’t seem to make myself care. I can hear Grady calling me; he’s stuck somewhere outside, and his voice is getting frantic, but I’m having way too much fun bouncing around in here. And anyway, I know he’ll wait as long as he needs to. I can take as much time as I like, cos even though he’s mad, there’s just no way he’d go anywhere without me.
The earth is shifting, the ground tumbling beneath me. So it takes me several moments to process that Cleo didn’t seem too fazed that her youngest son has passed into the great beyond. Cleo seemed to have been flipping through a copy of Craft Weekly, and eating a licorice whip.
I drift to the reception desk. ‘Cleo? Answer me carefully. Grady. Has. Gone. Where?’
She shakes her head. ‘Beats me. He took of like his bum was on fire about half an hour ago. My guess is he’s home, though judging by the mood he was in when he tore out of here, who knows?’
‘You mean he’s okay?’
Cleo snorts. ‘Well, he’s vying with Mrs Garabaldi for the title of craziest cranky pants in the Valley. But apart from a bruised ego and a sore head, he’s fine.’
‘Jesus Christ! Cleo! Be specific!’ I yell. And then I burst into tears.
Cleo hurries around the desk. ‘Alba, honey, what on earth is going on with you two? Domenic has been moping around the house like the world’s already ended, and tonight, my eldest son hauls my baby in here, apparently after dragging him out of an actual fight. In his entire life, Domenic has barely raised his voice. And now I find myself playing mother to a character from Sons of Anarchy. Help me out here?’
She rubs my back until my hitchy sobs peter out. I grab a handful of tissues from the counter and blow my nose. When my eyes clear enough for me to look at Cleo, she’s watching me with that mum-look of knowing sympathy, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need an answer.
‘Cleo, I have to go,’ I say through sniffles. ‘When you see my mum –’
‘I’ll tell her you’ve been waylaid. Vital End of Days stuff,’ she says with a grin. ‘Angie’ll understand. Hey, if we don’t make it to tomorrow, you’re probably safe from a bollocking anyway.’
I give her a hug. ‘Thanks, Second Mama. Sorry for the hysterics. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll kick arse in a dystopian future. Like Sarah Connor, or Tank Girl.’
‘Really? Always pictured myself more Tina Turner in Mad Max,’ Cleo says as she steers me gently out the door. ‘It’s the outfit,’ she yells as I scoot away into the glowstick-lit crowds. ‘I’d totally rock that chain-mail suit!’
•
I check his house, where the lights are still blazing, and Albany’s, where Mum is belting a cheery Smashing Pumpkins song in the bathroom. I stick my head in at the Junction, where a beaming Mr Grey is bustling at the door in a T-shirt that says Charlie Don’t Surf on it. The atmosphere is heavy with this frenzied eagerness as I hurry through my streets, like, everyone is determined to prove to everyone else that they are having a really really amazing time. But every now and then I pass some people – a couple, or a group of friends, or this dad with a gaggle of kids – who are huddled together in their own private bubbles, cocooned in their little worlds against the mess and madness. Every so often, I pass someone glancing surreptitiously up at the sky.
I suppose my friends will be somewhere in the middle of the Palmers’ farm by now. A part of my brain whispers at me that I should be down there with them, that without Tia and Caroline and Petey and Ed, I’m all unanchored and adrift.
I take the road past the garage, and I quicken my pace.
I turn around briefly to face the Valley. The view from the top of the hill is epic; so much light and colour, one rolling sea of people-energy. A laser clock is beaming numbers onto the screen behind the stage – a thirteen-minute-and-thirty-one-second countdown, visible even from way up here. The clock fizzles into a school of laser fish that shimmies into the darkness, before splashing back on the screen again. I think I saw something like that on the last Grammy Awards. At some point, Mr Palmer is really gonna have some explaining to do.
I keep moving. It’s quieter up here, and calmer. There are people chilling on picnic blankets, locals and strangers just taking in the view. A handful of kids are running around with sparklers, oblivious to the expectancy around them. I scan my eyes over them as I hustle past, but honestly? I think I know where I’m headed. The face I’m looking for might as well have a neon Bat Signal flashing right above it. Pretty sure I could find it anywhere in the dark.
He’s sitting beneath a tree in his grey jeans and flying squirrel T-shirt and worn Vans that really need to be replaced one of these days. He’s staring, unfocused, over the Valley, as he scuffs a stick absent-mindedly in the dirt. His curls seem to be more lifeless than normal. And on his
right cheek, the telltale bruisey sign of boy-stupidity.
He sees me as I step out of the shadows, and he stands up quickly. But he doesn’t meet my eye.
‘Well. There you are.’ I clear my throat. ‘Here I am, worried sick, while you’ve been gallivanting around town with your no-good pals, getting up to mischief …’ I take a deep breath. ‘Wanna tell me what happened?’
He’s looking somewhere to the left of my face. ‘Nothing happened,’ he says sullenly. ‘I went looking for Daniel. Obviously, my reflexes suck arse.’
I baulk. ‘Daniel hit you?’
Grady winces as he touches the raw spot on his cheekbone. ‘Naw. His manager did.’
‘His manager! Jesus –’
‘Yeah. He said, and I quote, “there’s no way some punk from the boondocks is messing up my star client’s money maker.” I think even Gordon seemed surprised at the dodge cliché. Not as surprised as me and my face, but –’
‘Grady, are you completely stupid! What the hell were you thinking?’
He finally snaps his eyes to me. ‘What was I thinking? I was thinking, Alba, that Daniel Gordon is a moronic butt-monkey who deserves several punches to the testicles. I was thinking that if I didn’t smack the smug right off his arsebag face, I was going to bust a blood vessel. He had no right to even dare give that book to you –’
I stamp my foot in the dirt. It’s juvenile, I know, but sue me, I’m pissed. ‘Domenic,’ I growl. ‘I’m fine. You really thought I was going to freak out and, like, develop an eating disorder or something? Have you met me?’
He runs his hand frantically across the back of his neck. ‘No. I guess not. You’re smarter than he is, though that’s not saying much. But Alba, you have to know, you are amazing and Daniel Gordon’s eyesight is worse than his shit acting if he can’t see that. You are perfect and beautiful and –’
‘You think I’m beautiful?’ I say. It’s possibly not the most important thing I should be focusing on, but a butterfly army is on manoeuvres in my belly, and my brain zooms in on that one thing cos it has no idea what else to say.
Grady’s cheeks flush. ‘You don’t know that?’
‘Well, yeah, but I didn’t think … you saw me that way. You never said you thought that about me?’
He looks at me for the longest time, as a guy wearing a novelty pirate hat yells something unintelligible in our direction before falling into the bushes.
‘Yes, I did,’ Grady says quietly. ‘So many times. When we were ten, at that stupid school barn dance … you were wearing a red dress and your first pair of heels … and when we were fourteen, and you dressed up as a pumpkin for Anthony’s Halloween party, and you got annoyed because the other girls were dressed as sexy cats and stuff but I told you that you made a really beautiful pumpkin … and last year, when we went to Comic Con and you wore that thing with the lace … but you were more interested in meeting the lady who writes Batgirl …’
‘I don’t remember,’ I whisper.
And Grady makes this sound, which is something like, gahrhaah!
‘Do you remember anything?’ he yelps. ‘Do you remember grade-five camp? You had chicken pox, and I ended up in hospital cos I ate a bunch of strawberries just so I could stay home too. Do you remember year-nine holidays? Dad wanted me with him, but I faked frigging appendicitis so I didn’t have to go. Do you remember this year, when I spent six frigging hours in one day on the train, when I should have just stayed the night in the city with Dad –’
‘Grady, I don’t understand –’
‘I know you don’t,’ he says helplessly. ‘You never have. You don’t understand why I haven’t been able to sleep properly in weeks – not since you told me you were thinking about staying here. You’ve never understood … that I can’t go anywhere where you aren’t, Alba. You’ve never understood that I can’t stand being away from you, even for a weekend. Not even for a day.’ He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘You just don’t get that I am so hopelessly in love with you that the thought of moving away, of not seeing you every day, makes me feel like someone is yanking out an arm, or – wait, let me put it in words you actually understand, Sarah … like I’m that X-Men chick, you know, the weather one with the hair, when that guy does that thing and zaps all her powers –’ ‘You first-named me,’ I whisper.
‘You first-named me now?’
He covers his face with his hands. And then he looks up at me, and his face is so sad that my stupid tears spill over again.
‘Alba … I have loved you for seventeen years. If it takes that long to get over you – do you know how old I’m gonna be? I’ll be living with a thousand dogs and collecting spoons or whatever guy losers do … because I’ve tried and tried to want someone else, but you are the only person in the whole world who I know I belong with. And I know you can’t care about any of that, because you’re too busy kissing Daniel cheese-head Gordon –’
‘Wait. Grady. You think I kissed Daniel?’
He shrugs, still refusing to look at me. ‘He pretty much said as much. He’s been needling me and hinting at … stuff with you, ever since he and his stupid abs came back to town. And I know how you two were when we were kids … I’m not an idiot …’ He kicks at a stray streamer floating past. ‘Why wouldn’t you kiss him?’
‘Why? Because, Domenic, you know I don’t kiss just anyone – despite plenty of offers over the years, and not just from Daniel fecking Gordon, either.’ Grady looks up with a start, cos I rarely swear, but whatever. I’m on a roll, my hands all shaky and energised.
‘I told you I was done with randoms – the only person I’m ever going to bother kissing is the person I am madly in love with. Sue me for being sentimental, but I’m still holding onto that. Even if the world is ending. Even if Daniel Gordon is the last guy in it. And even if he does have a spectacular six-pack.’
Grady scowls. ‘I’ve heard enough about his dumb-arse six-pack. Jesus, that guy is a moron, and a giant sleaze, and hello, one of your gnomes has more personality –’
‘God, why are you so obsessed with Daniel! It almost sounds like you wanna kiss him! And why would I kiss him if he’s such a moron?’
‘Why wouldn’t you!’ he yells back.
‘What possible reason would I have for kissing Daniel, when the person I love more than anybody else in the world is standing right in front of me?’
I take a step backwards. He’s still scowling at his feet, because my boy may be smart, and great at lots of things, but quick on the uptake he is not. I can practically see the moment my words sink into his stupid beautiful curly head.
He looks up slowly, and his eyes meet mine.
I take a deep breath, suddenly more nervous than I’ve been in my whole entire life. But I give him my best, most dazzling smile, cos despite everything, I know it works better than any words.
‘Hey, Grady?’
‘Yeah, Alba?’ he whispers.
‘If you don’t kiss me now, I might change my mind about smooching Daniel Gordon. Hell, leave me standing here for much longer, and Eddie’s gonna start looking like a viable alternative –’
He covers the space between us in one frantic bound, and he grabs my face in his hands. He stares down at me, his eyes travelling over mine – and then he freezes again. Funny thing is, I know exactly why. I know we are entering completely unchartered territory here, an alternate-universe, Infinite Crisis us. Ending one story and starting another that neither of us knows the rules for.
But still. Jeez. I have to do everything around here.
So I stand on my toes, and I kiss him.
If the universe worked the way it’s supposed to, then this is the moment fireworks should have exploded over the fields. At the very least, the song from the stage should have changed to something more romantic than ‘The Final Countdown’, which is a totally rubbish song that I only know cos it features on Cleo’s Zumba playlist.
But none of those things happen. Instead, the sounds in the gully seem to slowly disappear. The mu
sic, and voices, and pirate-hat-man’s puking, fade into the background.
Grady’s hands are immobile, his lips unresponsive for a few slow seconds. Then his entire body seems to just dissolve, with the teeniest of gasps against my lips. His arms wind around me, and my hands curve around him and our lips shyly find their way. His kiss is soft and strange and perfect; an undiscovered, full-colour volume of this person I’ve loved my whole life.
Eventually, somehow, I drag my lips away. His eyes in the darkness are all shiny and wide, and he’s looking at me with that dazed, adoring thing again, a brand-new look of his that turns my insides to moosh and jelly.
I giggle. ‘This is weird.’
Grady tucks my hair behind my ears, and he’s smiling like an idiot, but he shakes his head defiantly. ‘No. It isn’t,’ he murmurs as his lips softly brush the side of my neck.
‘No. It really isn’t,’ I manage to reply. My brain is occupied by his lips, and by my hands, which have found their way beneath his T-shirt to the warm skin on his stomach, and all my brain can process is ooh, boy-muscles! and that they’re another part of him I don’t know yet, but that they feel really nice under my hands. ‘You have abs. I didn’t know that,’ I say distractedly.
‘Sarah … do you have any idea what that feels like?’ he whispers.
I drag my hands away from his belly and loop them around him instead. ‘Don’t call me that, Grady. It isn’t my name. I mean, it is, but it’s not me. You know why everyone calls me Alba, right?’
He grins. ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was your fault, doofus! Like, hello, two-year-old Domenic, learn to pronounce Albany, it’s really not that hard –’
He leans towards me again. But through the haze, I realise that the music has stopped. The people around us are on their feet. The night sky is suddenly hushed and still.