Can't Say it Went to Plan

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘A sleepover! I’m there.’

  ‘There are only two rules: BYO PJs and no Zain talk. Like, zero.’

  ‘Zain who?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Samira’s phone buzzes. It’s a message from Zain. She groans.

  i miss you

  Another message comes through and her jaw tightens. She holds it out for Tilly to read.

  i miss us

  * * *

  Zain is sitting hunched on a low brick wall in front of the hotel. Samira recognises him from a block away. As she strides closer, she notices his hands are shaking.

  Behind her, Tilly calls out, ‘Stay strong, Sammy. You’re the Warrior. You’ve got this.’

  Samira’s stomach flutters with nerves. By the time she reaches him, she still hasn’t decided how she’ll cut through the silence.

  He gets to his feet when he sees her, and passes her a long thin red rose in a plastic sleeve. It still has the price tag on it.

  She mumbles thank you but wishes she’d said something stronger. Something true.

  She tries to pull herself into the moment, but seeing him away from the others whisks her back to how it used to be. Her visiting his house on a Saturday afternoon. Him sprawled on the bed. Sport blaring from the television. His phone would buzz with notifications from mates and he’d scroll through them, leaving her feeling like an afterthought.

  ‘Samira,’ he says, stepping in closer. ‘Hi.’

  She nods. ‘Hey.’

  ‘I . . . I had to see you.’

  Samira turns to Tilly, who’s glaring at Zain. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and chill out in the hotel lobby?’ Samira suggests.

  ‘I can stay,’ Tilly says, before leaning in to whisper, ‘I’ll take him out. Just say the word.’

  Samira laughs. ‘I’m good. Promise. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Call if you need reinforcements,’ Tilly says as she walks towards the hotel, glancing over her shoulder to shoot Zain dirty looks.

  ‘What’s her deal?’ Zain asks, his dark eyebrows narrowing with confusion. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A friend, it’s a long story.’ Samira shrugs. ‘I’m more interested in why you’re here.’

  ‘It’s your birthday,’ he attempts, gesturing to the rose. ‘I didn’t want you to spend it alone — although that’s clearly not a problem.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, we had a plan, right? It was on the itinerary.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘No-one’s been following the itinerary. And plans change. Look at this week.’

  ‘But everyone told me you were still coming to the hotel. Doesn’t that mean something?’

  Samira twirls the rose around. ‘It means I already paid for it and Anoush ran her mouth. Are you sick of hooking up with other girls already?’

  ‘No. Wait, I mean, yes! They don’t mean anything to me. And I know I stuffed up.’

  ‘So we agree on something.’

  ‘I thought you’d want this,’ he says.

  She stands taller, shrugs.

  ‘Or not,’ he flounders. ‘Samira, I—’

  ‘Zain, this is embarrassing for both of us. The awkward levels are, like, hazardous.’

  He clenches his jaw. ‘But you loved me.’

  ‘I also thought the girls were my friends. What did I know?’ She pauses, then admits, ‘I did care for you though. Maybe too much.’

  ‘Well, I still care,’ he says. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘You dumped me! And that was hard at first, but I realised something: we don’t make each other laugh. So what’s the point? Like, right now, there are zero feelgood vibes.’

  A small grin slips out as she pictures Tilly giggling and pep-talking her by the fire pit.

  Zain’s face crumples. ‘Huh? Good vibes?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Samira says, shrugging. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks for the rose, but you shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘We can take it slow. Talk all night.’

  ‘I paid for this,’ she says, gesturing at the hotel, ‘with extra shifts at Mum’s bakery. And it was for my birthday. So I’m staying here.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Man, this isn’t how I wanted it to end.’

  ‘How then?’ Samira can hear her voice getting stronger with every word. ‘Would you have ended it after we’d . . . you know? Or on the last day of the trip? Or before your apprenticeship starts? When?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He leans closer and tries to take her hand.

  She pulls back. ‘Stop. You’re lonely and that sucks, but it happens. Please go.’

  ‘Are you into those random guys from next door?’

  She pauses, remembering her kiss with Harry. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Babe, that’s not a no.’

  ‘We’re over. You said it. And, for the last time, don’t call me babe.’

  Zain swears. ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He lingers, arms open, waiting for Samira to envelop him in a hug. When she doesn’t, he glares at her and walks off without saying another word.

  She watches him until he’s a tiny figure in the distance.

  Exhaling, she takes out her phone and blocks his number, and deletes him from her social media.

  Zoë

  Day 5: 7.01pm

  Zoë pulls her hair into a tight bun and ties the shoelaces on her sneakers.

  ‘Tell me you’re joking with the activewear, Zo,’ Prakash says, sitting down on the bed beside her. ‘I ironed my shirt and everything. You’re coming out with us, right?’

  She shrugs. ‘I need a break.’

  ‘You do. A run can wait. Footy season’s over.’

  ‘No, a break from the others. Violet crossed a line with those photos and videos. She doesn’t get it.’

  Zoë’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. She lunges for it and gasps when she sees the email notification. It’s from Number One, her top preference. The news she’s been waiting on.

  ‘Is it your dad?’ Prakash asks in a worried tone.

  ‘No. It’s not him.’ Her grip tightens on the phone. ‘I’ll be back in a sec, P.’

  She slips out into the hallway, takes a deep breath and psyches herself up to click on the email. This time, there’s no portal or password needed.

  Dear Ms Russo,

  Thank you for your considered and impressive application for early acceptance at our institution. However, we received an unprecedented number of exceptional applicants this year and we regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful in this round.

  Zoë’s hand presses to her collarbone. ‘No,’ she murmurs. ‘No, no, no.’

  She’s fantasised about attending this university all year, even pinning photos of the campus to a vision board above her desk. It had been so clear in her mind that, until the biology exam, she hadn’t dared to think it might go another way.

  Her thoughts race as she replays the year, wondering what, apart from the exam, she could have done differently. She’d tried her best; she’d given it everything. She’d studied, she’d sacrificed, she’d pushed harder than she’d ever thought possible, yet it hadn’t been enough. Will she ever reach the insufferably high bar that Greta set?

  Her gaze returns to the email. Unsuccessful.

  As she blinks back tears, Prakash suddenly appears by her side.

  ‘Zo?’

  ‘I didn’t get in,’ she manages, her thoughts still spinning from the rejection email. ‘Number One doesn’t want me. It’s over.’

  ‘Shit. I’m sorry.’ He wraps his arms around her and she buries her face in his chest.

  They lock in together, Zoë sniffling into Prakash’s shirt, as the sound of the others laughing and getting ready to go out echoes through the suite.

  ‘I know this meant everything to you,’ he murmurs. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  She wipes at her wet cheeks and slowly pulls back, mouth widening in horror wh
en she notices the mascara stains on his crisp white shirt.

  ‘Oh, P,’ she cringes. ‘Take it off, I’ll soak it for you in the laundry.’

  ‘Any excuse to get my kit off,’ Prakash jokes. ‘It’s all good, wait here,’ he adds and dashes into his bedroom across the hall.

  When he returns, he’s in a pair of shorts, a loose singlet and running shoes. ‘Let’s go.’

  She breaks into a watery smile. ‘Now who’s the gym bunny? What happened to going out?’

  ‘Turns out I got a better offer.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me. Go have fun.’

  ‘Exercising after gorging on an enormous Italian feast isn’t fun? What could go wrong?’

  Zoë giggles. ‘Living on the edge, hey? I’ll race you to the beach.’

  ‘First one to get a stomach-ache loses,’ Prakash says with a grin before sprinting past her and disappearing out the front door.

  Samira

  Day 5: 7.17pm

  ‘You really know how to treat a gal,’ Tilly says as Samira leads them inside the hotel room. Rose petals are scattered over the bed and carpet. ‘Looks like the hotel staff have cranked the romance up to an eleven.’

  ‘Omigod, hilarious,’ Samira giggles, dropping her bags near the couches. ‘I may have requested this when I booked a few months ago.’

  ‘A brilliant decision,’ Tilly says. ‘Now, don’t leave me waiting. Did my exorcism work?’

  Samira smiles. ‘Yeah, looks like it. He’s gone for good this time.’

  ‘Yes! It was the burnt sock at midnight that did it.’

  ‘Not arguing with you,’ Samira says with a snort. ‘Thanks for everything, Tilly.’

  ‘It was all you,’ she says. ‘So you told him where to go?’

  ‘Pretty much. All these words were erupting out of my mouth! I couldn’t stop them. I actually said what I was feeling, like, in the actual moment. It’s happened a few times this week.’

  ‘That’s the best,’ Tilly says. ‘Now we can celebrate. Look at this place!’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ Samira murmurs, taking it all in. She looks around the living room, noting the sweeping city views, before disappearing into the bedroom. When she re-emerges, she’s holding plush white bathrobes and fluffy hotel slippers. ‘Look at these! We have to!’

  Tilly cheers. ‘If I have to pamper myself to ensure you receive maximum birthday pampering, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’

  Giggling, the girls put on the bathrobes and dance and strut around the hotel room like they’re on a catwalk.

  ‘Want to do a sheet mask?’ Samira asks breathlessly as she stops to pour strawberry milk into two champagne flutes. ‘There are heaps in the ensuite.’

  The girls hurry into the bathroom, alternating between strutting and sliding in their fluffy slippers. They remove the masks from the packaging and gently press them onto their faces, cackling at their reflections in the mirror.

  Afterwards, they flop onto the couch in their robes, masks and slippers. Tilly nibbles on a piece of chocolate while Samira turns on the TV. The news is showing a fast-paced montage of the events of the past few days. Blaring footage of sweaty, happy people on the beach. A pub brawl. A couple posing in front of a food truck. A jelly-wrestling competition between a girl with a fairy-floss-pink pixie cut and a girl in a chicken costume.

  ‘There are so many feathers, I can’t look away,’ Samira says.

  The montage cuts to footage of the jelly-covered pink-haired girl doing the sprinkler on a podium while the crowd roars, ‘Bubblegum!’

  ‘How hilarious. She’s, like, my inspiration for the week,’ Samira says, before gasping as the girl falls off the podium.

  Tilly’s jaw drops and her hands race to secure her mask. ‘You might need a new hero.’

  The girls stare at the TV, then leap onto the bed in celebration as the girl with pink hair is pulled onto the stage and declared the winner. Rose petals flutter everywhere as they jump up and down with glee.

  Suddenly, there’s a loud knock on the door.

  ‘Could it be Zain?’ Samira asks Tilly in horror. ‘I was clear it’s over.’

  Another knock. ‘Room service!’ a man’s voice calls out.

  ‘Is this a trap?’ Tilly whispers, tightening her bathrobe. ‘We haven’t ordered anything.’

  ‘I remember! I pre-paid for it months ago.’ Samira laughs, then winces as the sheet mask strains against her skin. ‘Let him in.’

  Tilly jumps from the bed and opens the door, beaming as the room service attendant wheels in a trolley. His mouth opens slightly when he sees their masks and fluffy robes.

  ‘Your three-course dinner for two,’ he manages, parking the trolley in the corner. ‘Garlic prawns, fettuccine carbonara and gelato to finish.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Samira says. ‘Hey Tilly, can you grab my wallet from my handbag so we can leave a tip?’

  When Tilly reaches into the bag, out spills the unopened packet of condoms. Her eyes widen. ‘Oh,’ she says, before finding the wallet and passing it to Samira.

  Blushing, Samira fishes out a few notes and passes them to the attendant. He wishes them a beautiful evening and excuses himself with a small nod.

  ‘So much for no Zain reminders tonight,’ Samira says, breaking into nervous laughter.

  Tilly nods. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Nah.’ She pauses. ‘But is it weird to be disappointed and relieved at the same time? He was going to be my first.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound weird to me,’ Tilly says, before breaking into a grin. ‘But not much sounds weird to me.’

  Samira smiles. ‘I love that.’

  ‘Now, did that waiter say three courses?’ Tilly asks, lacing her long red hair into a thick ponytail. ‘Sammy, this is luxury.’

  ‘Who’s living like a true Queen now?’

  Tilly groans with pleasure as she lifts the lid on each dish and steam spirals towards the ceiling.

  They peel off their sheet masks, gently massage the remaining serum into their skin, then each piles a plate high with carbonara and prawns. Strawberry milk in one hand, creamy pasta in the other, they curl up on the bed against a mountain of pillows.

  ‘Birthday talk,’ Tilly says through a mouthful of fettuccine. ‘I know it hasn’t been the easiest week and it’s not exactly what you planned, or even at all what you planned, but has it been a good one?’

  Samira smiles. ‘Yeah,’ she says, sipping her strawberry milk. ‘Incredible, really, thanks to the Peachies.’

  Tilly wrinkles her nose with joy. ‘I feel bad saying this week has been amazing for me — with a capital A. We got to meet you! But I have to confess: this is my first sleepover.’

  ‘No! Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve never been invited to one before. Well, except once and it turned out to be a prank. So, yeah, this is kinda special.’

  ‘Hey, any time. And people like that don’t deserve to have a spectacular human like you in their life anyway.’ Samira squeezes Tilly’s hand before squealing with laughter. ‘Your hands are coated in garlic sauce!’

  ‘Sorry! Those garlic prawns are so good they could solve the world’s problems,’ Tilly says with another cackle, wiggling her fingers before wiping them on a serviette. ‘Hey, we really blasted into each other’s lives and stirred them up, didn’t we?’

  ‘Good and proper.’

  Tilly sets aside her plate. ‘Hey, can I read your palm?’

  ‘You really know how?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Tilly extends her hand. ‘Are you in?’

  Samira grins. ‘Garlic sauce and all.’

  Tilly dims the lights to a soft glow, then takes Samira’s hand and peers closely at her palm. ‘I’ve never seen such perfectly created lines in my many, many years in this world,’ she gushes.

  Samira tries not to chuckle.

  ‘I’m picking up something now . . . oh yes, I see it. Things are changing for you,’ Tilly says, moving her finger over Samira’s palm.
‘And they’re changing fast, which can feel scary. But in the long run, all this change might turn out to be the most magnificent and beautiful thing.’

  ‘Which line on my hand reveals that?’ Samira asks.

  ‘Oh, all of them.’

  A laugh erupts before Samira can stop it. ‘I’m getting the gelato.’

  Dahlia

  Day 5: 9.09pm

  Dahlia stares at the newspaper clipping on the hostel corkboard. The pink hair, the denim shorts, the jelly-coated skin — there’s no denying it’s her in the photo pinning down the girl in the chicken suit in a pool of orange jelly. She remembers the roar of the crowd counting her down. Stevie’s voice cheering her on in her mind. The thrill of something taking over and pushing her to fight for herself.

  When she steps back, she notices the Hall of Fame sign pinned to the top of the corkboard.

  ‘Oh my . . .’ she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

  Florence rests her chin on Dahlia’s shoulder. ‘You’re famous, lady! That is one of the most hilarious things I’ve seen, probably ever.’

  ‘It’s like I’m someone else,’ Dahlia says, staring at the photo.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Florence says. ‘Kicking butt, super woman, strong as hell.’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe it happened if there wasn’t photo evidence.’

  ‘It happened.’ Florence grins. ‘You falling off the podium is burnt onto my retina for the rest of eternity. Hey, any word on your luggage?’

  ‘Nope, the airline are clueless and the hostel haven’t heard anything. My bag’s disappeared.’

  Florence furrows her brow, before perking up again. ‘Well, we’ve got the hostel mixer to take your mind off things. The pamphlet said it’s musical chairs meets speed-dating, but for friends.’

  Dahlia nibbles her fingernail. ‘Joy,’ she says, chest tight at the thought of making small talk with strangers.

  Florence’s face softens. ‘You were light years out of your comfort zone yesterday and survived,’ she says, pointing at the newspaper clipping. ‘But if you’re not up for it, we’ll stash some food for you.’

  Dahlia watches as a stream of people storm through the hostel towards the mixer. Stevie would have been the first one there, probably introducing herself to people before the music even started.