Breathing Under Water

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Breathing Under Water Page 14

by Sophie Hardcastle


  ‘Morning.’ Jake grins at the ranger and sits up.

  ‘Actually, it’s midday.’ The ranger wipes sweat from his forehead.

  Jake glances across at me, snickers.

  ‘Here,’ the ranger says, stretching out his arm, two tickets in his hand.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Fines.’ The ranger shakes his hand, encouraging Jake to take them.

  ‘Oh, no thanks.’

  ‘They’re yours,’ he says through clenched teeth.

  ‘But I don’t want them. Honestly, you keep them.’

  I laugh as Jake pats the ranger’s hand and says, with a warm smile, ‘Thank you for being so thoughtful, but I’d like you to have them.’

  The ranger slams the tickets down on the tray. ‘Look, buddy, you’re sleeping in a beachfront car park, you’re parked across two bays, and you’ve been parked here for almost five hours in a two-hour car park without buying a ticket.’

  ‘Okay, buddy.’ Jake snatches the tickets.

  ‘You’re lucky I only fined you for two offences.’

  Jake sighs, his smile falling off his face. ‘Yeah … the luckiest.’

  Twenty-Two

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS

  I’m at my locker with Jake when Mia comes striding down the corridor toward us, Toby in tow, clutching his schoolbooks to his chest. The only time I’ve seen Toby outside of class in the last few weeks has been in the library when I returned textbooks for one of my teachers.

  ‘So we went round to your place Friday night, Jake,’ Mia says, arms crossed. ‘And yours.’ She glances at me. ‘Strange, you weren’t at either.’

  ‘Stalking us?’ Jake smirks, his eyes still black from the blow on the weekend.

  The crease in Mia’s brow doesn’t soften. ‘I’m serious – I don’t know what you’re doing, but you both look sick.’ Her eyes blur with tears. ‘Have you been reading any of my messages? The hearing is tomorrow.’

  I begin to wilt. Jake slings his arm around my waist, holding me upright.

  Mia’s face twists with the sour taste of silence. ‘And what is this,’ she snaps, grabbing my scarf. ‘It looks ridiculous.’ Mia yanks it off, revealing the dark lovebites Aiden gave me that stain my flesh. Jaw dropping, she looks to Jake, to his hand on my hip, and then to me.

  She leans in close, so close I can almost taste the vanilla bean perfume on her collar. My face scrunches.

  ‘Who are you?’

  I shrug. She shakes her head, tears dripping from tired eyes, and grabs Toby. They leave us floating in their wake, Jake and me not knowing whether we will sink or swim.

  ‘You okay?’ Jake says, brushing my hair off my face.

  When I don’t answer, he looks over his shoulder to see what I’m staring at. Harley stands in the middle of the hall, students moving around him like water around a stone in a river. He looks at my neck, at Jake’s hand. His gaze drops and, just like that, the stone comes loose from the riverbed and is carried off by the rapids.

  ‘You’re better than him,’ Jake says but I can see his smile is forced.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Jake wraps one arm around my shoulder as we walk out of the school building. He begins telling me how a girl from the warehouse party won’t stop messaging him but as the deep blue in Harley’s eyes crosses my mind, I interrupt Jake mid-sentence. ‘Can you please stay with me tonight?’

  ‘Are you asking me on a date, Grace Walker?’ he jokes.

  When I don’t laugh, Jake sighs and holds my body tight against his.

  ‘It’s okay! Grace, you’re okay.’ I’m in Jake’s arms, panting, covered in sweat. ‘It was just a nightmare.’

  I bury my face in his chest, sobbing, unsure what is more terrifying – the nightmare I just woke up from, or the nightmare I’ve woken up to.

  Mum, having heard the commotion, comes rushing in from the kitchen. The sea and sky outside are still ashen, waiting for the sun to rise, yet she is already dressed for the hearing in her finest clothes, make-up done, hair blown dry, combed into a neat ponytail, loose strands pinned back. Mum seems relieved that both Jake and I are wearing pyjamas, choosing to ignore the bruises on my neck. She doesn’t tell me off for having him in my bed on a school night, or for having him in my bed at all. Maybe she finds comfort in knowing someone is lying with me in the abyss.

  I look at her closely now and can see, beneath the make-up and hair spray, her eyelids sagging, her strands of grey hair and the deep creases in her forehead. I look at my mum who has aged ten years in eight weeks and suppose she is simply too tired to fight.

  She half-smiles. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  Jake and I follow her into the kitchen. There is a cake with raspberry jam and whipped cream spread between the sponge layers and a tray of blueberry muffins. She pushes them aside, making room so she can start breakfast. I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not hungry.

  ‘Could I please have some cake?’ Jake says.

  Mum stares blankly.

  ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Mel,’ he says, forcing a smile. ‘You taught me that. I think cake’s worth getting up for.’

  Tears run down her cheeks leaving black trails of mascara as she rounds the breakfast bar to embrace him.

  I cut three pieces from the cake, ice Jake’s with chocolate butter and sprinkles and serve them on colourful plastic plates I find at the back of the cupboard. We take them out onto the verandah and sit down, the three of us, on the day bed, pulling the rug over our legs. Monty wanders out and lies beneath us. I drop crumbs down the side for him to munch on as we watch the sun creep into the day.

  Mum swallows her last mouthful. ‘Please, Grace,’ she says. ‘Please come with me today.’

  I imagine the woman and my cake sticks in my throat. Tears well as I shake my head.

  ‘I can’t do it on my own,’ Mum sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say, my body aching, bones brittle, cheeks wet. ‘But I can’t. I just can’t.’

  I take the plates and carry them inside, then hover at the door. Jake tries to get Mum up but she brushes him off. Monty climbs onto the day bed and she sits there with him, stroking his head, gazing out at the horizon, until the sun has risen well above the sea and a car pulls into the driveway.

  Mia’s parents climb out and make their way to the verandah. Mum doesn’t look at them, keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon. Louise places her hand on Mum’s shoulder. ‘Mel, it’s time to go. We have to be early so we can avoid the press.’

  Mum nods slowly. William and Louise help her off the day bed, down the steps and across the grass to their car. I walk out onto the verandah to stand beside Jake, watching William open the front passenger door for Mum.

  In the back, I spot Mia, her door closed, window up, arms crossed. Her eyes are like pink glass.

  William walks round to the driver’s door. Lingering a moment, he tells me it’s not too late for me to change my mind, there’s still room in the car. I grab Jake and walk back inside the house.

  I was ten years old the first time I really felt it; anger.

  We’d been to our first interstate surfing competition. When I won in a pool of three girls in my division, Mia said it was the lucky origami frog she had made for me to take away that had brought good fortune. Rummaging through my show bag, a sunburnt smile stretched from ear to ear. I had blocks of bubblegum-scented surfboard wax, a shell necklace, a key chain in the shape of a kombi van and a packet of lollies. When Ben collected his first-place prizes, he sat next to me on the grass and pulled out, among other things, a set of headphones and a limited edition pro surfer MP3 player. I didn’t mind – he promised we would share them and it was a promise he upheld. On the way home, we took turns listening to the songs preloaded on the MP3 player through the headphones, each hugging our trophies on our laps.

  A week later we arrived home from school to find a huge cardboard box on the verandah. Sprinting across the
yard, we bounded up the steps toward it. Monty, then energetic and agile, nipped at our heels. The box was as high as my ribs and wider than my arms could reach. On the top, it read: Mr B. Walker, 11 Walker Street, Marlow.

  Neither of us had ever received a package before, so this was surprising. We didn’t know whether to open it. I wanted to, but Ben was cautious. ‘What if it’s actually for Dad?’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s just a mistake. I think we should wait till he gets home.’

  Arriving back from work, Dad sat us down and explained that a big surfing label had decided to sponsor Ben. He encouraged Ben to have a look in the box.

  ‘No.’

  Dad stepped back. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘Does Grace have one?’

  ‘I’m sure she will sooner or later.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Dad tore open the box. Smells of synthetic rubber and wax flooded the room. Suddenly, Ben jumped up, pulling out a wetsuit, T-shirts in individual plastic packaging, a pair of sunnies, skating shoes, tie-dyed socks … It was more than anything we’d ever received for birthdays and Christmases combined!

  My cheeks flushed crimson. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t not watch. My eyes felt watery and I retreated into our bedroom before anyone saw my tears fall.

  It is only now, years later, that I realise anger is nothing. Anger is hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but rage, true rage, chokes.

  Mia lifts the roller door with such force I feel the walls of the shed shake. ‘She admitted it! Admitted she was texting!’ she screams.

  I am in the shed with Jake. We’ve been there all day, ever since Mum left.

  ‘You know what she got?’ Mia cries, flailing her arms. ‘A fine and eighteen months!’

  Acid bubbles in my stomach, stings the back of my throat.

  ‘And where were you? Not supporting your mum, or me!’ She notices the bowl of chop, red film over our eyes and a dozen half-eaten blueberry muffins between us on the couch. ‘Just sitting in the shed, high as fucking kites!’

  There’s quite a lot you can do in eighteen months. You could do half a university degree, fall in love, fall out of love, travel the world, have a child, have your heart broken, witness something majestic, realise your passion.

  I wonder what she will miss out on – birthdays, Christmases, holidays. I wonder who will abandon her, who will stick by her.

  But then I think of Ben, and the years she stole from him. Eighteen months is less than a heartbeat.

  I lean over the couch, emptying my insides onto the floor until there is nothing left.

  Twenty-Three

  TEA AND TIM TAMS

  I’m a twin. It has always inspired jealousy. The fact I was related to Ben Walker came second to the fact that I was a twin.

  It’s not until a crowd from Port Lawnam turn up that Nick Fisher starts to think that throwing a house party while his parents are away was possibly not the best idea. He tries to turn them away at the front gate, but they outnumber him ten to one, pushing past and marching up the driveway. Sitting on the front verandah, smoking a cigarette with Jake, I catch one guy’s eye as he walks past and smiles with closed lips. He winks and follows his friends around the side of the house to the party.

  I swallow the last of my drink, stub out my cigarette and throw the butt on the lawn, turning to Jake. ‘I feel like dancing.’

  He shrugs and jumps up. ‘I should warn you, though, you dance like a clown.’

  I punch his arm. ‘Speak for yourself.’

  In the backyard, a DJ has set himself up on the patio, the garden having been transformed into a dance floor. Jake takes my hand, lifts my arm and spins me underneath. We giggle at our clumsy rendition of the tango.

  A girl who was in the year above us at school grinds against him from behind. She is blonde and wearing clothes that are far too small for winter – Jake’s type down to a T. I motion for him to seize the opportunity. Turning, his hands drift around her waist, over her hips, groping her arse as she shakes it in her absurdly short denim skirt. In mere seconds he has gone in for the kill and is kissing her.

  I move into the middle of the crowd, most of the kids too drunk to tiptoe around me as they would in the corridor at school. Closing my eyes, I surrender to the music, letting it beat my body, rattle my bones, until a hand touches my hip. I spin to greet the Port Lawnam gatecrasher from the front yard. Someone knocks me, I stumble, and the gatecrasher catches my fall. Grabbing his shirt by the collar, I draw him from the crowd, down toward a couch by the back fence. As we sit down he slips an arm around my waist.

  He introduces himself as Dave and I tell him my name’s Grace.

  ‘Gracie?’ he says with a grin.

  ‘No, just Grace.’

  ‘Well, just Grace, tell me something about yourself.’

  ‘What is this? Speed dating?’

  He laughs, offers me a sip of his drink, and says, ‘I’m serious – it’s always funny to hear what the first thing someone reveals to a stranger is.’

  I shrug. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘One thing,’ he persists. ‘Like, what’s your favourite colour? Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Blue, and yes, I’m a twin.’

  He runs his hand through sun-bleached hair. ‘Epic, I’ve always wanted to be a twin. Do you look the same?’

  I trip over my tongue. ‘Kind of, wait, no … I don’t have … I dunno.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No, I mean we did, sort of. I guess.’

  ‘But not now?’

  I shake my head, throat swelling. ‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ I say.

  ‘You’re a wigger.’ He laughs. ‘How many drinks have you had?’

  I hear Mia’s voice, shrill. ‘Grace?’

  I look up at her, a white strobe light cutting her face. She wears dark jeans, an overcoat, her Docs and a black beanie.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, surveying this stranger’s hands snug around my waist. ‘What are you doing? You know Harley is here.’

  Dave smirks. ‘Who is Harley?’

  Ignoring him, I face Mia and force the words out. ‘So? We were never together.’

  She looks back toward the house and I see him, standing with a group only a few metres away. He is looking right at us, but when he catches my eye he turns away.

  ‘It says here you’ve missed almost forty per cent of winter term.’

  Arms crossed, I shrug.

  ‘Given the circumstances, there will be some leeway, but if you continue at this rate, you’ll be lucky to pass.’

  I look down at the packet of Tim Tams on the table. ‘You’ve upgraded.’

  He chuckles. ‘The school buys the home brand assortment I had last time. They taste like cardboard.’

  ‘Do you have any milk?’

  Mr Mitchell rocks back in his chair. ‘Not up here, but there’s probably some in the staffroom. Want me to pop down?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He ducks out of the room and returns a minute later with a carton of milk.

  I pour myself a mug. ‘Have you done this before?’ I ask, biting both ends off a Tim Tam, using the chocolaty biscuit as a straw to slurp up the milk.

  ‘Of course I have. That trick’s a classic,’ he teases. ‘My grandfather taught me when I was younger than you!’

  For the first time, I giggle in this shoebox of a room. ‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘No, not really. My grandfather drank scotch, not milk.’

  I reach for another Tim Tam, kick my feet up on the coffee table. ‘So is this all we do in these sessions? Eat biscuits?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘I should be a counsellor.’

  Mr Mitchell slurps milk through another Tim Tam like a five-year-old. ‘You can make these sessions into whatever you want.’

  ‘I’m happy to stick with Tim Tams for now,’ I say, speaking through a mouthful of chocolate mush. ‘You know they make ones with white chocolate in the
middle now? You should definitely get those next time.’

  ‘You have good taste.’ He notes my request on a pink post-it.

  I inhale deep, sinking into the couch. ‘Are my friends okay?’

  Mr Mitchell’s forehead creases.

  ‘I know you’ve been seeing them too, Mia and Toby. Grief counselling or whatever you’re calling it.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them yourself?’

  In the quadrangle, the bell rings for recess. I sit up straight and sling my bag over my shoulder. ‘Can I take one with me?’

  Mr Mitchell picks up the Tim Tams, offering the packet. ‘Have as many as you want.’

  I slip one into my pocket and take another two in my hand. ‘Thanks.’

  Walking out, I leave behind a mug of milk, soggy crumbs floating on the surface.

  ‘She has a kid.’ Mia leans against her locker beside me as I pile my books onto the shelf.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman. The woman.’

  I shut my locker door. ‘How do you even know that?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘Does it matter?’

  A girl shrieks, just down the hall. It’s Maddie, a pretty, popular girl two years below us. As she crouches to pick up the books she’s dropped all over the floor, three boys kneel to help her. One of them is Harley. I take a swig from my water bottle, pretending not to notice.

  Books collected, the boys stand. Two go their separate ways, but Harley lingers. Maddie brushes her hand along his forearm, and although I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, I watch his lips move as he makes conversation, laughing and smiling.

  As they walk away together, I cough on water in my throat, spraying it all over my school shirt.

  Mia slaps me on the back a few times. ‘You all right?’

  I splutter, finally nodding as I catch my breath.

  ‘I thought you didn’t care.’

  ‘What?’ I say, my nostrils stinging, wiping the water that drips from them on my sleeve.

 

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