Can't Say it Went to Plan

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘By guilting me into a beach holiday with you two?’ Dahlia jokes, flashing a weak smile. ‘She knows my skin burns under a desk lamp.’

  The girls smile, relief on their faces.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend the past year hasn’t been a horror show,’ Kiko says. ‘But you know you can talk to us about anything, right?’

  Dahlia nods. She does, but she rarely knows how to voice what’s burning inside her, even to her friends. The mental gymnastics are exhausting, and her emotions feel so swollen with pain that she worries she’ll drown the girls in a wave of darkness if she dares to speak the truth.

  Florence applies tomato-red lipstick, then pecks Dahlia on the cheek.

  ‘Come on,’ Kiko says. ‘We’ll work something out if we stay together. It’s what we do.’

  Back at reception, there’s still no-one behind the desk.

  Dahlia peers out through the large flyscreen sliding door. ‘Did you see the pool out there? The sun’s still out, and there are lounges and umbrellas too.’

  Kiko smiles. ‘That’s more like it.’

  Florence slides open the door and charges ahead, bumping into a group of boys in board shorts. The footpath in front of them is littered with surfboards and backpacks. With a quick wink at Dahlia and Kiko, Florence confirms it’s fine for them to go on without her.

  Dahlia and Kiko dawdle towards the pool, which is surrounded by faded blue and white striped umbrellas.

  ‘I might call the airline again,’ Dahlia says, leaning against the pool fence. ‘Maybe they’ve heard something.’

  ‘It’s only been an hour,’ Kiko says. ‘And everything you need is right here.’

  ‘A new toothbrush?’

  ‘There’s a supermarket down the road.’

  ‘And clothes.’

  ‘My suitcase is your suitcase, remember? Same with Florence’s.’ Kiko sighs. ‘I wish you didn’t only look for the bad signs.’

  Dahlia clenches her fists, nails digging into the skin. ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Maybe. But your blinkers are on. You’re shutting everything good out.’ She pauses. ‘Shit. I’m making this worse and that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I might give you some space.’

  Heart racing, Dahlia grabs at Kiko’s arm. ‘No. Wait.’

  Kiko’s face softens. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I know I’m cloudy right now. But when I saw that empty seat on the plane . . .’ Her fingers find the delicate gold chain at her neck.

  ‘I know,’ Kiko says, pulling her in for a hug. ‘Me too. It was another reminder Stevie isn’t here, and we get enough of those every day. But we’re doing this for her.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Dahlia smiles. ‘I hate that.’

  ‘It’s tough always being right, but it’s a burden I have to live with,’ Kiko teases. ‘Hey, you know what else I saw on that plane?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘I saw you,’ Kiko admits. ‘Facing your fears, stepping outside your comfort zone. It’s amazing.’ She pauses, then stammers in a rush, ‘And . . . and I saw Florence of course.’

  Dahlia is too stunned to speak. Their gazes lock for a moment and she notices that Kiko’s chocolate-brown eyes are dusted with flecks of green.

  ‘Thanks,’ she manages, looking away. ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘Stevie wants us to look for the good stuff too, that’s all I’m saying,’ Kiko tells her. ‘Anyway, there’s a spare hat in my bag if you want it.’

  Before Dahlia can stitch together a reply, Kiko is marching over to Florence, who’s now sprawled on a lounge in her bikini bottoms and a faded T-shirt, the fine golden hairs on her thighs twinkling in the sunshine. The boys she was talking with have dumped their belongings on nearby lounges.

  ‘Dahlia, water looks good!’ Florence calls out. ‘You joining us?’

  The sun kisses Dahlia’s shoulders as she watches Kiko strip down to her vintage polkadot swimsuit. Kiko catches her looking and a small smile slips out of the corner of her mouth.

  Samira

  Day 1: 7.01pm

  Mathieu and Zain barrel into the beach house behind Samira, hurling their backpacks down in the spacious living room that opens up onto a huge balcony overlooking the water. Everything in the house is white or cream, from the pristine carpet to the shaggy rug beneath the coffee table and the accent chairs scattered with cushions.

  Samira cringes as the boys stomp through the carpeted hallway and up the staircase to shotgun bedrooms on the second level.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling,’ she mutters, scoping out the white walls and glass ornaments on the hallway table. ‘Everything looks so . . .’

  ‘Beautiful?’ Rashida offers, handbag swinging dangerously close to a crystal vase.

  Samira winces, remembering the damage at the smash room. ‘Breakable.’

  ‘Hope they have insurance,’ Anoush says as she charges past with her suitcase to race up the stairs. ‘Oi, Mathieu!’ Her voice echoes through the house. ‘Samira booked this trip so the master bedroom is ours.’

  Samira smiles, grateful to have Anoush on her side. She potters at the island bench in the kitchen while the others argue and sort out sleeping arrangements.

  Her phone buzzes with a message from her mum.

  Darling, just checking you’re alive and got in safely? Hope you’re having the best time. Love you xxx

  It buzzes again.

  PS: Teta says hi and don’t forget to take photos.

  Samira stares at her phone, unsure how to reply. She wants to tell her mum everything and craves hearing her voice, but she’s so far from home and doesn’t want her mum to worry, not when she’s already been through so much.

  Her dad and mum began dating in high school and broke up when Samira was two years old. They managed to stay close, despite extended family and mutual friends in their close-knit community believing it to be impossible. They’d simply fallen out of love at the same time, as people sometimes do. When Samira’s dad packed up his clothes and moved out of the house, Teta settled into their spare bedroom and that’s the way it stayed. It was the new normal.

  Samira loves her dad, and now that they’ve moved for her mother’s work, he comes to visit her on weekends. Sometimes he even stays the night on their couch to maximise their hours together. She feels her parents’ mutual respect for each other every time they speak about her; she’s the link that holds them together. But day to day, Samira is in a jigsaw puzzle of three: Teta, Mum, Samira. They fit together perfectly.

  Before she’s worked out what to type, raucous laughter fills the house and the others jostle down the staircase.

  ‘This place is stunning,’ announces Claire, squealing as the boys thunder past her. She pauses on a step to check out her reflection in an enormous ornate mirror and smooth her hair. ‘I’m never leaving.’

  The guys cheer in agreement and line up tequila glasses on the countertop.

  Samira shrugs away the praise for the beach house like she hasn’t spent every spare second in recent months getting the trip organised. She rifles through her handbag looking for the itinerary and her fingertips graze the unopened packet of condoms she’d thrown in at the last minute. She shoves the packet deeper down into the bag before anyone notices.

  Blushing, she pulls out the itinerary and places it front and centre on the fridge.

  ‘What’s the plan tonight?’ asks Anoush, pouring herself and the girls glasses of pink sparkling wine.

  Samira takes a small sip of hers, trying to hide her disgust at the dry taste. ‘We can head to the beach party near Saldana Strip,’ she says, setting the drink aside.

  Rashida screws up her nose. ‘The all-ages one? But aren’t they, like, every night?’

  ‘The boys want to check out the clubs,’ says Claire, slurping her drink.

  Anoush tops up their glasses. ‘You’ve still got your cousin’s ID, right, Samira?’

  She nods, struggling to remember the details: her cousin Mary’s middle name, date of birth,
star sign. It’s all a blank. Cheeks reddening, she fishes the ID out of her wallet.

  Rashida snatches it from her and looks it over. ‘That’ll work,’ she says.

  ‘Maybe,’ Claire says. ‘Samira’s eyebrows aren’t as defined as hers, but . . . they’re passable.’

  Samira takes another sip of her drink, feeling the burn down the back of her throat.

  ‘You have to come, Samira,’ Anoush says, gulping down the rest of her wine and topping it up again. ‘Think of all the new boys we’ll meet. We’ll all be there.’

  * * *

  By nine o’clock, Anoush is slumped asleep on the couch. Legs splayed, eyelashes meshed together, one heel on, one heel off. Drool clings to her lower lip.

  ‘Oi,’ Claire says, tickling the skin behind Anoush’s knee. ‘Get up, Anoush.’

  Anoush lets out a short, sharp snort that rolls into a rumbling snore.

  Mathieu recoils. ‘She sounds like a bear in hibernation.’

  ‘She sounds like you, man, with that snoring,’ Zain adds.

  ‘Messy,’ Rashida says, stroking Anoush’s cheek. ‘What a little lightweight. What do we do?’

  ‘She’s out of it,’ Samira says. ‘We can’t leave her alone.’

  Claire purses her lips. ‘But it’s night one! I’m not missing tonight.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Samira volunteers. ‘You all go and I’ll make up for it tomorrow at the foam party.’

  No-one resists the idea and a mistimed rallying cheer ripples through the group as Claire and Rashida tussle for mirror space, and Mathieu rushes around trying to find his wallet. In the disorganised chaos, Samira and Zain end up in the kitchen together.

  Her palms sweat as Zain forces an awkward smile, mumbles, ‘Okay, then,’ and adds something about needing to get his phone. Neither of them mention he’s holding it before he disappears down the hallway.

  Eventually, the group barrel out of the house in a cloud of perfume and cologne, leaving Samira and Anoush alone in the lounge room. Samira drags a blanket over Anoush’s body and gently tucks it in around her. She sits a mixing bowl from the kitchen beside the couch and dims the lights in the lounge room. Anoush lets out another snuffle, before nestling deeper into the couch.

  Yawning, Samira heads out onto the balcony and curls up on a sunlounge, admiring the twinkling fairylights and buzz of cicadas in the air. Lively laughter from the house next door punctures the night, followed by the opening bars of a blaring pop song.

  I nearly ran away

  To start things over

  Instead I’m gonna

  Take what’s mine

  Live your way

  Live your way

  Live your way, sweet baby

  Live your way

  Live your way

  Oh, oh, live your way, baby

  Samira recognises it as Alotta Peach: a flamboyant singer with two tracks in the charts, enough wigs to fill a semitrailer and a large birthmark under her right eye. Alotta Peach even has the headliner spot at the end-of-week stadium spectacular, a much-hyped event that Samira organised tickets for months earlier.

  She strains to see into next door’s backyard, but can only make out three figures in costumes dancing and singing around a fire pit. They move fast around the flames but from what she can tell, there’s a pirate, a queen and a robot. Mouth ajar, Samira watches as the Pirate climbs onto the Robot’s shoulders while the Queen twirls and cheers them on.

  There’s a fire

  Inside my soul

  Getting up, getting out

  Like I want

  Live your way

  Live your way

  Live your way, sweet baby

  Live your way

  Live your way

  Oh, oh, live your way, baby

  Samira edges closer to the railing for a better look. The Queen sports a high red ponytail and a flowery tattoo that runs from thigh to knee. The Pirate’s face is caked in thick make-up. The Robot wears heavy purple boots. Their playlist ticks over to another Alotta Peach track, which sends them into a fresh round of rapturous dancing.

  Swallowing hard, Samira glances behind her to the quiet, darkened house. Alone on the balcony, her fingers trace the corners of the VIP party pass around her neck as the sound of her neighbours’ unrestrained joy washes over her.

  Day 2

  Dahlia

  Day 2: 8.13am

  The sun beats against the blinds of the musty hostel room. Dahlia, in the top bunk, traces the cracked ceiling with her finger then rolls to face the wall, shielding herself from the light piercing the sheer fabric. Her head pounds from lack of sleep and the slippery anxious thoughts that come and go. She shakes off macabre improbable possibilities, draws in a deep breath and exhales, bringing herself back to the moment like her psychologist has helped her to do many times.

  A bright white sneaker sails through the air, strikes the wall and lands on the floorboards, snapping her to attention. She curls onto her side to see Florence grinning from her top bunk on the other side of the cramped room.

  ‘Wakey wakey, everyone. Ready to go to this theme park or what?’ Florence asks.

  Kiko groans from the bunk below Dahlia. ‘Slow down! WonderWorld is open until ten tonight.’

  Dahlia’s stomach churns at the sound of Kiko’s voice. Her memories from yesterday are blurred and messy, like they’ve been swirled around on a paint palette. Kiko’s delicate fingers laced through hers on the plane. The unwavering, caring look that felt strong enough to split Dahlia in two. A knowing smile by the pool as Kiko stripped down to her swimsuit. Some fragments have faded to soft watercolours, but others remain bold and vivid. Biting her bottom lip, Dahlia pulls the sheet tight around her body and wonders if Kiko felt it too.

  ‘Think of the fairy floss,’ Florence says, waving another shoe in their direction. ‘Those sausages on sticks. Chucking up on the rollercoasters. Let’s get moving.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Kiko replies, before breaking into a grin. ‘Oh, don’t tell me . . .’

  Florence pulls on her denim shorts and a crop top. ‘What?’ she asks with a playful wink.

  ‘Those boys from the pool yesterday,’ Kiko says. ‘Any chance they’re in attendance today?’

  Dahlia gasps. ‘What did I miss? What happened?’

  Florence laughs. ‘Nothing . . . yet. But Seiji said he and Mitch will meet us there.’

  ‘Oh great, randoms tagging along,’ Kiko teases her. ‘Your pick-up skills are next level.’

  ‘It’s nothing, we’re just hanging.’

  ‘With you, nothing is always something.’

  Florence throws the other sneaker and Kiko lets out a squeal.

  ‘They leave tomorrow anyway,’ Florence adds. ‘Seiji’s chin dimple is hot though, huh?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Kiko says.

  Florence walks over to Dahlia’s bunk and tweaks her nose. ‘Hey sleepyhead, you coming with us?’ She opens the blinds and sunlight streams into the room. ‘I’m heading down for bacon and eggs now.’

  ‘Just waking up,’ Dahlia says.

  ‘Excellent.’ Florence claps her hands. ‘Okay, WonderWorld! WonderWorld! WonderWorld!’ She drags back Dahlia’s sheet, then takes Kiko by the hands and pulls her out of the bunk. ‘Let’s get maximum rides in before the boys show up.’

  ‘I need a shower first,’ Kiko says, pulling out a towel from her bag. ‘Dahlia, help yourself to my clothes and I’ll meet you both at breakfast.’

  The girls leave the room and Dahlia climbs down the ladder, wincing as her feet push against the hard wood. She takes a deep breath as she crouches down at Kiko’s open bag, feeling as though she’s prying. She unzips the bag a little wider, hands accidentally fumbling over a lacy black bra. Blushing, she shoves it deep beneath a pile of sundresses and bikinis.

  She selects a pair of ripped cut-off shorts and holds them up to her waist. As she gets to her feet to slip them on, a folded piece of paper falls out onto the floorboards. It’s torn in hal
f but held together with sticky tape that’s brown at the edges. She plucks it up off the ground then freezes when she recognises the messy handwriting. Dahlia has letters written in the same script, marked D & S only! Private! Read at your own risk! She’s seen it on school assignments. On forged notes to get out of athletics carnivals. On the pages she tore from their notebook and stuffed in her bottom desk drawer before turning the book into her journal.

  Dahlia sinks onto the floorboards, back pressed against the hard brick wall. She hasn’t dared look at Stevie’s handwriting for so long she thought she’d forgotten it, just like she worries about forgetting the sound of Stevie’s voice, but every scribble feels like home again. She tries to smooth out the creases in the paper, taking in the familiar loopy swirls and jagged angles of the lettering.

  The Too Late List.

  Dahlia didn’t know this list still existed. She’d assumed it had been thrown away or shelved like the rest of Stevie’s personal belongings her family couldn’t bear to keep in the house any more. She definitely didn’t know Kiko had it.

  In another lifetime, Stevie would be the pressure valve on this holiday. The rock, the cheerleader, the one cracking everyone up with hilarious stories about when she caught her parents having sex in the home gym, or the time she wet herself at school camp from drinking too much hot chocolate. But, like every other day this year, she’s not here. The tumour dragged at her and drained her, transforming the girl Dahlia grew up with into a skeletal form of herself. But her spirit never diminished. Stevie was always the loudest in the room in life, and she was determined to be the same in death. Even at the awful end, she found ways to tease and boss the girls around, to enchant them with her every word.

  ‘I’m over having relatives I barely know talking to me in whispers,’ she’d once groaned to Dahlia. ‘Are they afraid of blurting out the wrong thing? What could they possibly say that’s worse than the fact I’m dying? I’m over it! It’s not up to me to help them accept the fact it’s the last Christmas lunch where I’ll be stealing the pork crackling, you know?’ Stevie laughed because she always laughed, but Dahlia knew she wasn’t joking. ‘If this is all I get in life, then I want my time here to be real. I don’t want to waste any of my final seconds.’