‘You good?’ she asks.
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Dahlia looks down. Their fingers are still laced together.
‘Keep it if you want to,’ Kiko tells Dahlia with a wink.
Dahlia blushes and looks away. They unfold hands. Neither mentions the sweatiness of her palm. ‘That was . . .’ Once again, the words are missing.
‘Intense, right?’ Florence blurts from the row in front of them. She has no problem summoning the words she needs — and often some she doesn’t. ‘I thought we were going to have to land on some tiny island, then we’d be stranded there for weeks. And it would start off being kind of brilliant, but then we’d all have to eat each other to survive and . . . well, that wouldn’t be brilliant.’
Kiko shakes her head. ‘Can you not?’
‘Right?’ Dahlia adds. ‘My stomach is churning enough.’
‘I wouldn’t have eaten either of you,’ Florence says, twisting around to grin at them through the gap in the seat. Red sauce is spattered over her fine butterscotch hair. ‘But can you hear those guys behind us talking about how they’ll use this experience to pick up girls? If we end up trapped on a deserted island then I’m turning them into juicy steaks, no worries.’
Samira
Day 1: 4.09pm
Graffiti covers the walls of the darkened smash room. An old dented washing machine lies on its side on the concrete. Beside it there’s a crate of plates, bowls, mugs, teapots, vases, ceramic statues and wine bottles.
Samira’s goggles dig into the side of her face but she’s too fired up to care. ‘Pass me the baseball bat,’ she calls out over the thrashing rock music. ‘Anoush, you better move out of the way.’
Anoush grimaces instead of handing her the bat. ‘Maybe this isn’t a good idea.’
‘It’s a great idea,’ Samira says, adjusting her gloves and coveralls. ‘I’m going to smash the mugs first. Zain’s mum has a set just like them.’
‘Are you sure this is what you want? It’s been a big day.’
The train trip had dragged so much that Samira had wondered if they were travelling back in time. She’d spent hours slouched in her seat, wondering how she’d ever thought she was ready to lose her virginity this week to a boy who almost put his neck out looking in the opposite direction whenever he walked past. The others were oblivious as she blinked back tears and wished she could disappear beneath her seat. She might have done if it weren’t for the unknown sticky substance coating the floor.
Anoush purses her plump lips. She looks over her shoulder through the small glass window cut into the heavy bolted door. Rashida and Claire watch on, trading disapproving glances.
‘Maybe you should call your mum first?’ Anoush suggests. ‘Talk things out?’
‘Later. This first.’ Samira stretches her arms above her head and clicks her neck to each side. She fishes her phone out of her pocket and holds it out to Anoush. ‘He’s already changed his status to “Single”.’
‘That blows. It does. But it’s accurate. And, on the plus side, you’re single too. We can meet hot boys together.’
‘I can’t even think straight,’ Samira says, tightening the straps on her hard construction hat. It pushes against her throat, making it hard to breathe. ‘Bat, please.’
Anoush passes it to her then steps out of the way. Samira lines up six mugs on top of the washing machine and takes a few practice swings.
The sound of shattering glass erupts from the room next door. Despite her clunky helmet, goggles and safety gear, Samira can’t tune out Zain’s and Mathieu’s euphoric cheers. Her grip tightens on the bat and, despite the heat in the smash room, goosebumps erupt on her body. She reminds herself that it’s over, that she can’t walk into the next room and lace her fingers through his like she has hundreds of times before. The bat swings loosely from her hand as her goggles fog up. She takes them off and wipes them out.
‘What’s up?’ Anoush asks, coming closer. ‘Are you crying?’
Samira gestures to the laughter next door. ‘Listen.’
‘I know it’s rough, but, like, try to ignore it.’
‘How? We’ll be underneath the same roof for a week.’
‘I . . . I have no idea. I guess it’s just something people say.’
‘Did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That he wanted to break up.’
Anoush stiffens. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Mathieu said something about none of you believing it and I . . . Sorry, I’m being paranoid now.’
‘It’s okay.’
They don’t speak for a few moments as the boys’ cheering echoes through the walls.
‘You know what, smash the life out of those ugly mugs,’ says Anoush. ‘You need this.’
‘Thanks,’ Samira says, sniffling. ‘No-one else has said much to me since it happened.’
‘Forget about them, they’re in their own party bubble.’ She leans over to help Samira grip the bat a little higher. ‘Now, bend those knees and give it everything. I’ll line up the dinner plates next.’
Zoë
Day 1: 4.39pm
Zoë’s phone finally gets reception. Instantly, it floods with notifications. Eleven text messages from Dad. Three text messages from Mum. Seven missed calls from Dad. Another two text messages from Mum. Three voicemails from Dad. One voicemail from Mum. Zero emails about early acceptance.
Her face crumples.
‘Thoughts and prayers for your inbox, Tiny Sloth,’ Luca says as he drives them along the highway to the coast. It’s been Luca’s nickname for Zoë since she was fourteen and fell asleep at eight thirty at a sleepover while everyone else partied and talked until the sun rose. He’s never let her forget it and has teased her affectionately ever since.
‘About time we got reception,’ Violet mutters, scrolling through her messages and feed. She smooths down her heavy fringe, then takes a selfie and plays around with the filters.
Zoë cringes as more notifications come through. ‘Is this the worst thing I’ve ever done? Don’t answer that.’
‘I feel like we’re your kidnappers,’ Luca says with a nervous laugh.
‘Maybe we should take you home,’ Violet says. ‘We can use Mum as a human shield.’
‘Aunty Caro would make it a thousand times worse,’ Luca says. ‘Can you imagine the drama? Besides we’re nearly there.’
‘Well, Aunty Rosette and Uncle Gian are probably about one minute away from turning this into a full missing persons investigation,’ adds Violet, not looking up from her phone. ‘Just saying.’
Zoë groans. ‘Or sending a bounty hunter out after me.’
‘That’s more likely,’ Luca says with a smirk. ‘A quick request from your handsome driver: can someone put chocolate in my mouth?’
‘I can’t go home,’ Zoë says, glaring at her phone. ‘I can’t.’
‘Well, you could,’ Violet says, ‘but Aunty Rosette will kill you on arrival.’
‘Chocolate!’ Luca repeats, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
Zoë snaps off two cubes and pops them into his mouth. ‘They promised me this. They said I could go. It’s not my fault they’re scared I’m going to go wild. As if I even would or could!’
‘You said it.’ Luca gives her a grin.
‘Fact.’ Violet nods. ‘You’ll be tucked up in bed at sunset every night.’
‘The shade,’ Luca laughs. ‘But that is how you roll, Zo.’
Zoë shrugs. ‘I’m not arguing! I do the right thing. I always have.’
Her phone buzzes. Dad again.
Chickpea, where are you? Contact me NOW or you’re grounded for a month.
‘Grounded? Has he forgotten I won’t even be living at home soon?’ Zoë asks.
‘It’s not only you. Our whole family’s obsessed with all of us leaving,’ Violet says. ‘Mum said she sometimes sneaks into my room to watch me sleep. Stalker alert!’
‘I busted Mum looking at old baby photos of me the other day,’ Luca
adds, pushing a curl back from his forehead. ‘Get a hobby, Elena! Start knitting.’
They crack up so loudly Zoë almost doesn’t hear her phone buzz again.
I’m not joking. Call me. NOW!!!
Zoë gulps. She pictures her dad pacing the house, his heavy work boots pounding on the floorboards. Her fingers hover over the phone but nothing helpful comes to mind. Nothing seems like enough.
Call me right NOW.
Then another message immediately after.
NOW, ZOË!!
Zoë looks out the window. The evening drags darkness across the sky.
‘What’s up, Zo?’ Violet asks. ‘Is it Uncle Gian again?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Need me to call my mum?’ Luca chimes in. ‘She can run interference.’
‘I’m handling it,’ Zoë says. She types out a text.
I love you both. I’m safe. I’ll see you next week, Zxx
Luca shoots her a look. ‘You are staying with us, right?’
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘Are we nearly there?’ Violet asks with a yawn. ‘I’m convinced you’ve been driving the wrong way for hours.’
‘Happy for you to take over,’ Luca snaps. ‘Oh wait, that’s right, you don’t have your licence yet and Zoë is terrible with directions.’
Zoë sniggers. ‘Remember when you took the wrong turn driving us to Aunty Caro’s and we got stuck in traffic on the bridge for over an hour?’
‘I’m about to toss you both from the car,’ Luca says. ‘But first, check this out.’
He winds down his window as he turns into the wide sweeping driveway of the resort. Thousands of fairylights twinkle in the trees lining either side of the road.
They all scream with excitement as they get deeper into the property and see the lush green gardens. A hint of an aquamarine infinity pool that seems to go on forever. The swim-up bar with thumping music. The packs of young people filling the walkways, getting ferried with overstuffed luggage in golf carts, hanging by ping-pong tables and playing with the giant outdoor chess and checkers sets.
Zoë’s phone vibrates. Her dad is calling.
She stares at the screen, fingers frozen above the ‘accept’ button. Before she answers, it’s rung out. She glances out her window, jaw dropping at the grand white pillars at the entrance to the main building.
She opens up her messages and sends one more.
PS: I’m sorry x
Then she turns off her phone. ‘I’m so dead.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing left to lose,’ Luca says with a devilish grin.
‘I hope it’s worth it.’ Zoë slides down in her seat. ‘It’ll be worth it, right? This is the week.’
The car pulls into a space in front of the large marble lobby.
‘We’ll be living like royalty,’ Violet murmurs, nose pressed up against the window. ‘Prakash and Akito have dropped us a ton of messages about how it’s incredible inside, like something from a movie set.’
An attendant rushes to their car and opens a door. ‘Welcome to the Grand Southwell on Saldana Strip,’ he says with a sharp nod. ‘Please allow me to help you with your bags.’
‘Sweet,’ Luca says. ‘I mean, thank you, good sir.’
The girls fight back laughter.
‘Your suites are ready,’ the attendant continues. ‘As a special welcome, I trust you will enjoy the complimentary chocolates.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Violet says.
Zoë’s skin tingles as she stares at the colossal lobby. ‘This is . . .’
‘One thousand per cent going to be worth it,’ Luca declares, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
Dahlia
Day 1: 5.04pm
There are only three items left on the baggage carousel. A large grey bag with a plastic lily hanging off the handle. A faded backpack. A small black suitcase. Kiko collects the bag with the flower and checks the padlocks, while Florence pulls on her backpack.
‘Yours, Dahlia?’ Florence points at the suitcase.
‘Mine’s a red backpack. Mum’s old one.’
‘It’s probably getting unloaded,’ Kiko says with a hopeful tone. ‘I bet they’re behind after all the delays. I lost track of how long we were stuck on the runway.’
Dahlia looks around, gnawing on her thumbnail. Her stomach still churns after the shaky flight. The crowd has thinned out and the carousel has stopped moving.
There’s a stinging at the corner of her thumb. She glances down to see broken skin. A tinge of blood stains the creases of her knuckles.
5 Failed Attempts To Quit Nailbiting
An expensive manicure
Practising mindfulness
Wearing Mum’s foul-tasting nail polish
Snapping an elastic band on my wrist to replace the habit
Grossing myself out at the thought of germs (worked temporarily)
‘Hey, I checked and no more bags are coming from that flight,’ Kiko pipes up. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Shit.’ Dahlia’s luggage holds some of her most meaningful possessions — things that can’t be replaced; things she couldn’t bear to leave behind.
She feels cracked open without all the things that usually help when her mind is on fire. Her bedroom, oils and affirmation cards. Her mum, who is pulling double shifts as a nurse at the hospital all week. Her dad, even though his girlfriend’s laugh sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. Her psychologist, who she’s booked in to see after the trip but right now feels so far away she might as well be in an alternate timeline. And an old notebook that she and Stevie filled with letters to each other, which she’s been using to journal her thoughts for the past year.
‘The airline has your number and the hostel’s,’ Kiko says. ‘We’ll keep calling to check on your luggage too.’
Dahlia feels trapped within a swirling chaos. It makes it almost impossible to think clearly. She hates that Stevie would’ve known what to do but Dahlia can’t ask for her advice.
‘Maybe go to the hostel without me and I’ll sort something out,’ she says. ‘I need my bag.’
‘We’re not leaving without you,’ Florence says, readjusting her backpack.
Kiko nods. ‘I’ve got our emergency credit card if you want to buy supplies, and you can borrow our clothes and make-up.’
‘What’s mine is yours,’ Florence adds.
‘Thanks,’ Dahlia murmurs.
Kiko squeezes her hand, only for a second but enough for Dahlia to feel the warmth of her fingers. ‘I know this is a tough week. We’ve got you, lady.’
‘And your luggage will be here before you know it,’ chimes in Florence. ‘This happened to my neighbour a few years ago and it worked out fine.’ She pauses. ‘Actually no, that’s wrong, it never showed up. Ignore me.’
‘Moving on,’ Kiko says with a groan. ‘I vote we go to the hostel.’ She waves a printout of their confirmation in Florence’s face. ‘Room 22, let’s do it.’
Florence yawns. ‘Great plan. I need a nap.’
‘You slept half the flight!’ Dahlia says.
‘It’s the last day of my period and I had big sleep plans for that flight but the turbulence crashed my style. Nap. Now.’
The girls find a shuttle to their hostel — a white van that reeks of cigarettes and stale fried food — and spend the drive trying not to vomit on the cracked vinyl seats.
When they spill onto the sidewalk in front of their hostel, Florence gags. ‘That was foul.’
Dahlia, also close to throwing up, looks away. Her gaze locks on Florence’s satchel. The brooch is missing.
‘The lightning bolt! Where is it?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Kiko asks.
Florence tugs at her T-shirt. ‘It’s here.’ The brooch is pinned high on the left side. ‘I moved it.’
‘Oh.’ Dahlia blushes. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s alright,’ Florence says, shooting Kiko a look that Dahlia isn’t supposed to see.
Kiko screws up her nos
e. ‘Okay, you two . . . on a scale of one to ten, how much red sauce from the plane do I still have on me? You’re both pushing a twenty,’ she says, trying to soften the mood.
It works. They talk and laugh as they drag their gear through a gate and down a thin concrete path to the hostel reception. Old-school hip-hop blasts from a speaker but there’s no-one behind the front counter.
Kiko and Florence head for the bathroom, while Dahlia takes in the overlapping flyers, postcards and photos on a corkboard in the common room. A group of backpackers lounge in discoloured beanbags in the corner.
One of them, a guy about their age with thin-framed glasses, calls over the music. ‘You wanna check in? The clowns here are way behind. We’ve been waiting for hours. Dorms are still being cleaned.’
‘What about the private rooms?’ Dahlia asks. ‘Room 22?’
He shrugs. ‘Same deal, I guess.’
Dahlia’s right hand grazes the crown of her head. She wonders again when she’ll be reunited with her luggage, then catches herself holding a torn-out strand of pastel pink hair.
Swallowing hard, she storms into the bathroom and talks to Kiko and Florence through the cubicle doors. ‘Our room isn’t ready, and I can’t even find someone who works here to ask for help. First the flight is a disaster, then my luggage goes missing, and now we don’t even have a room. I’m starting to feel like it’s all a bad omen! Maybe we shouldn’t have come. This is the anniversary — and I feel like I’m spiralling, I really do. Maybe I’ll get a bus back or something, because I can’t afford a flight. Or maybe I should try to—’
The sound of the toilets flushing drowns out her outburst. The girls step out of their respective cubicles and lather up their hands with soap.
‘Lady, we love you,’ Kiko says. ‘And you can do whatever you want. Sure, Stevie wanted you to have a good time — and we want you here too. But if it’s too hard and too much, then we get it. We have your back.’
‘We do,’ Florence adds. ‘It’s a lot.’
There’s a heavy silence for a few beats.
‘Did Stevie want me to have a good time?’ Dahlia asks.
Kiko tilts her head in confusion. ‘Of course.’
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