by Olivia Levez
I blink –
make it come back –
and it is our raft again.
But if I squeeze my eyes tight I can see our story. I can replay it over and over again.
Rufus and me: spinning for ever on the scribbled sand; in this spinning sea.
A voice, posh as plums and husky from disuse.
‘Do you want me to scrape the dirt off you?’ Rufus standing under the waterfall, a clam shell in his hand.
Rufus taking my hands and swinging me round and round on our beautiful, patterned beach. The sunlight is spinning and our smiles are flying and just at this minute, this moment, this exact moment, nownownow –
And Monkey…
I close my eyes, smiling, soaking up every millionth of the moment of memory.
Then I kiss Rufus’s poor, burning lips and reach for his machete.
Brighter
The peepa tastes good.
I drink, deep and full, and the liquid fizzes sweet against my tongue.
I chew shark meat slowly and feel strength come back.
I take the pole and measure my rowing, pulling twice, slow and steady, before swapping to the other side.
After ten pulls I rest. I cover my head with my T-shirt and try not to squint. I set up my solar still.
‘Getting better at this,’ I tell Rufus.
He’s lying beside me, leg outstretched and red-throbbing. His freckles have finally won the takeover bid for his skin. He’s Robinson Crusoe, a hobo, a wolf-boy. His face is fever-flushed but smiling.
And I am strong.
And I am rock.
And I will not stop till I’ve saved him.
Faces shimmer in the burning sun.
Rufus becomes Cassie, soft and plump and sleepy, careworn eyes bright with booze, bright with love.
Monkey’s cheeks burning, flushed as he races to escape zombies, as his breath catches, as he’s caught and his eyes flit past me, to his friends, and he’s happy.
And I did that.
I think what Rufus would say; what he’d tell me to do.
He’d say: go to see your brother, Cow-bag. Be the best sister you can be.
He’d say: look how he’s growing up, look how he’s happy. You did that, Fran. You did that.
If I get out of here, I will:
Be nice to Cassie.
Buy a lock for my door and practise my angry yowl.
Ask to take Monkey out for the biggest pizza and make him wide-eyed with my adventures.
Visit Miss and say that I am sorry. Write her a story to try to explain.
Night comes and the sky’s stabbed with stars now, moon-cooled.
I lie back, reach for my bow.
You can always shoot the stars. There’s always the stars, Fran.
One star is brighter. It hovers just above the water, bigger than the rest.
‘Shall we?’ I say to him. ‘My turn first?’
This star winks as it burns and grows.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.
‘Do stars blink?’ I turn to ask Rufus.
Do stars grow bigger and bigger? Do shooting stars do that?
And Rufus’s hot hand squeezes mine.
So, I draw back my hand, steady now; lick my parched lips; grip the arrow more firmly. It’s a good, straight arrow and I’ve made it with pelican and gull feathers, exactly like Rufus’s headdress. Closing one eye, I gaze at the approaching star, take a deep breath and aim.
And then.
And then.
And then.
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