I follow Evan inside. The gallery is big, white and bright. There are two levels: the main floor and a mezzanine. A red table, that looks like it could’ve been a door, is covered in cheeses and fruit. People are milling about, most hanging by the drinks table, and the free wine, others appraising the art on the walls.
‘Young Blood’ is stencilled near the door. I look around for Ryan but I can’t see him. Evan inspects the first piece: a black and white photo of two girls on a swing set that’s been photocopied, the blacks and whites blown out. The girls swing high and a giant rainbow spews from each of their mouths.
‘That’s cool,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ He reads the description and I bet he’s already formed a million thoughts about the work. I try to give it a more assessing eye. What’s the rainbow? Joy . . . maybe a violent joy?
I move to the next piece. I was always crap at this. Cam could look at art and pull out all kinds of meaningful stuff: the way the blue moves through the piece evoking sadness or something.
This one is a face bleeding a rainbow. A couple stands next to me talking about the artist’s intentions. I decide I might be more in my element by the cheese and leave Evan with the art.
A guy wearing a vintage suit grabs a microphone and thanks everyone for coming. People clap. I pop some more cheese in my mouth, wonder where Ryan is.
‘Lucy!’ I’m enveloped in a hug from behind and turn around to find Ryan. He squeezes me again but I’m on edge and can’t hug him back. Last time I saw him I tried to—God, what did I try to do? ‘Thanks so much for coming.’
‘Of course,’ I say. I wonder if he told any of the guys what I did. No, I remind myself, Ryan’s not like that. ‘So,’ I smile and punch him in the arm, ‘where’s your stuff?’
He grins. ‘This way.’ We wind through the gallery and come to a series of photos.
Most of them I’ve seen before, but not boarded by white mattes and behind glass.
‘They look so good. This is my favourite.’ I point to a black and white grainy photo of a surfer just cresting a large wave. Such a small dot in so much sea.
The water shots are interspersed with shots of the gang: Casey rolling cigarettes, Simmo driving the van . . . and my brother. The first shot of Cam is him smoking, his cheeks sucked in and a beer raised in his other hand. It’s shot from below and makes Cam look in charge and slightly menacing. Then he’s watching the surf, his eyes squinting and the freckles on his nose clear. In the last he’s on a bridge, the water far below, standing on the wrong side of the barrier.
I always thought my brother was a dumb boy who did stupid stuff, but what if it was something more? Mum has a history of depression, what if she passed that silent fight to him? If I hadn’t been so focused on the pool maybe I could’ve seen it.
Ryan nudges me. I take a shaky breath and smile at him.
‘There’s something else I want to show you,’ he says and leads me to three black ink drawings on another wall.
‘What the hell?’
It’s the girl from the drawing. She’s right there. But now she’s wearing Cam’s Dinosaur Jr shirt, the smoking girl hangs off her frame, and not much else. She took his shirt, the one he loved. I drag my eyes to the artist’s name: Cameron Taylor.
He took enough from her.
‘Surprise,’ Ryan says, with none of the word’s usual enthusiasm. ‘I was gonna tell you. But he was all weird about it when he got in—didn’t want people to know.’ He lets out a breath and smiles at me but the smile doesn’t hold for long. He finishes off the beer he’s holding and grabs another from a table near us.
‘It’s so different from his other stuff.’
The first drawing is similar to the one I found in his room: she’s leaning forward but even here her face isn’t showing, it’s obscured in the shadows of her hair. In the second her face is cut off, leaving only her mouth—her teeth bite her lip and her hands lift the T-shirt to show her stomach. In the third, the shirt is above her head.
‘Who is she?’
‘I have no idea,’ Ryan says, ‘Just some girl.’
But I know he’s wrong. She was important somehow.
The plaque next to the first picture reads:
We’re All Blind to Something
Sometimes skin touches skin and it means
nothing and sometimes it means more
than you want it to.
More details stand out from the drawings. Cam is there. They’re on his bed and she’s straddling his lap, his legs stretched out behind her—I’m thankful to see he’s still wearing pants. We’re getting Cam’s view. They’re in his room but it’s not his room—the walls are wrong. The posters he’s drawn are of the stuff he always draws: monsters. Grotesque creatures, things with too many eyes and too many teeth, leer out at them from the walls. And Cam sees them but the girl doesn’t, she only sees him.
I feel caught between them, in a place I shouldn’t be. I know too much. But I want to know more—I want to know who she is and why she’s a secret.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a photo of each drawing.
‘Hey. There you are.’ Evan stands next to me. ‘You all right?’
My dry mouth won’t speak so I point to Cam’s name on the wall. Evan doesn’t say anything but I feel his eyes on me and on my other side I feel Ryan.
Ryan clears his throat and sticks out his hand. ‘I’m Ryan.’
Evan shakes his hand. ‘Evan.’
‘I better go mingle,’ Ryan says then he leans into my ear. ‘Find me if you need to talk.’
I nod.
‘Are you okay?’ Evan asks when he’s gone.
I’m so sick of those words. I want to be far away from here—from these drawings and whatever thing was going on with my brother and this girl. ‘I’m ready to go.’
We walk back to the car in silence. I drag my feet and Evan keeps looking over his shoulder at me. I know I’m freaking him out but I can’t help it.
Why didn’t Ryan say something? Why did he just drop this on me?
Evan unlocks his door then reaches over to let me in. I buckle my seatbelt and stare straight ahead. Evan turns the key, then turns it again. The engine murmurs and dies.
The car won’t start.
16
‘Of course,’ I mutter.
Evan pulls the key out and looks at me. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ I glare at the wood-panelled dash.
‘Say it.’
‘Just, of course it breaks down now . . .’ When I just want to get away from the gallery—from the city. To be back where I at least have some idea of what’s going on.
‘Relax,’ Evan says, getting out and smacking his door shut. ‘I’ll fix it.’
I smack my own door shut. ‘Do you even know what’s wrong?’
He pulls the hood up, secures it and flicks on the torch on his phone. ‘Hold this.’ He hands me the phone without breaking eye contact with the engine.
‘Evan,’ I snap, wanting to tell him to just call the NRMA, but I point the light where he wants it.
‘I’m working on it.’ He pulls out some switch-looking things. ‘Haven’t blown a fuse,’ he says to himself. ‘Can you start the engine?’ He holds out his keys and I blink at them.
‘Um . . . how do I—’
‘You just turn the key.’ His voice is a flat line.
I open the driver’s side door and slide into his seat. My feet are nowhere near the pedals—but I don’t need the pedals. I turn the key and the engine sputters.
‘Kay.’ Evan puts his hand up and I turn it off. ‘Go once more,’ he calls and I do what he says.
‘Relay’s fine,’ he mutters, walking round to the boot and grabbing something. He leans into the window at me. ‘Just turn the key when I say, but not far enough that the engine starts.’
He goes back to the engine. ‘Wait. Lucy, can you hold the light again?’
After we’ve performed these different tests, and Evan’s hands are dark wi
th grease, he determines it’s the fuel pump.
‘I’ll need a mechanic for that,’ he says, sitting in the gutter next to me. He says mechanic like it’s a bad word.
I sigh. ‘So, how are we gonna get home?’
He shrugs.
‘God,’ I snap. ‘Why can’t you just have a normal car?’
He rubs his hands on a rag. ‘I happen to like my car. If you’re not happy then why don’t you see if that guy will take you home.’
There’s something about the way he says that guy when he knows Ryan’s name. ‘Maybe I will.’ I stand and grab my phone from the car. Evan watches me from the gutter. ‘What are you gonna do?’ I ask.
He blows out a breath. ‘I’m gonna call a tow-truck.’
It’s ages before Ryan answers and when he does my stupid heart does a stupid dance.
‘Hey! What’s going on? Where did you go?’ It sounds like the party’s kicked off at the gallery since we left—loud music thumps down the line.
‘I wanted to head back. But, um, our car broke down and I was hoping maybe you could give me a lift.’
‘What? Sorry, can’t hear.’
‘Our car broke down,’ I repeat. ‘Can you give me a lift?’
‘Oh, that sucks. Course I’ll take you back.’ The volume dies down. ‘But I’ve only got one spare seat. So, I can take you but not . . .’
‘Oh.’ I look back at Evan, who’s pacing the concrete and talking to the tow-truck driver.
‘Where are you now? I’ll come get you.’
Evan looks over at me and rolls his eyes, smiling like I’m in on some joke with him about the tow-truck driver, not all that concerned we were just snapping at each other.
And then there’s Ryan and a car full of boys.
‘Nah, it’s all right,’ I tell Ryan. ‘We’ll figure something out.’
‘What? Lucy, I’m not leaving you stranded in Sydney.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say and hang up.
‘How’d you go?’ Evan asks when I walk back to him.
‘No luck. He’s got a full car.’
‘Ah. That sucks. Tow-truck’ll be here in thirty.’
‘Could they take us home?’
‘Nah. If we’d broken down in the middle of nowhere then maybe, or if I wanted to pay ’em a butt-load of money, but since we’re surrounded by so many mechanics they’ll tow us to the closest one. Lucky my guys are close.’
‘What are we gonna do?’
Evan scrolls through his phone. ‘We could crash somewhere tonight and get the train back tomorrow.’
I push my hands through my hair. ‘But where would we stay?’
‘Leave that to me. Are you good with the plan?’
‘I guess.’
‘Did I mention the plan involves food?’
I smile despite myself. I text Deb that I’m staying at Megan’s and Evan makes another call. His face lights up when whoever it is answers.
‘Hey, man, how you doing? . . . Yeah? You gone on yet? . . . Sweet, you’re gonna kill it. Nah, I’m all right. Listen, I’m in town tonight, is it cool if I crash at yours?’ He laughs. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I will. Thanks, see ya.’ He looks at me. ‘We’re staying at Cook’s. What?’ He registers the look on my face.
‘You mean you’re staying at Cook’s.’
He takes a step towards me. ‘Cos I didn’t mention you?’
I lift my chin and he gives a sly smile.
‘If I had, then I would’ve had to listen to him be gross for a good twenty minutes and then he’d have wanted to talk to you and that would most likely be very embarrassing on my end. So. No. I just thought it’d be quicker not to mention you.’ He holds his phone up. ‘But I can call him back . . . if you want.’
He gives me a sincere straight-faced look and I try to hold onto my scowl but I can’t.
‘It’s fine.’ I look away, smiling. ‘So, you mentioned food?’
It’s after 9 by the time the tow-truck gets there and neither of us have eaten much since our seedy Maccas on the road. Evan has been going on about the deliciousness of something called pastizzi, driving us both crazy with the hunger, and when the truck leaves we race across Newtown.
Evan bounces through the door of the red and white tiled cafe and leans on the counter, scanning the menu board. When it’s our turn, he orders a handful of the tiny pies. A crowd of people starts pushing in behind me as Evan asks what I’d like and I shrug, so he picks some more and pays.
‘I’ll shout drinks,’ I say, needing to contribute something.
Evan ducks into the bathroom to attack his greaser hands with soap and we take our food and sit outside. The pastizzi smell amazing and I can’t stop a moan as I bite into the pastry.
The street around us is alive with people—some dressed up fancy and some like they’re going to a fancy-dress party. I try not to stare at two girls dressed to the nines as Little Bo Peep. Music from buskers drifts down amid laughter and some angry shouts, and cars honk their horns in a continuous stream of traffic.
‘Is it always like this?’ I ask.
Evan leans forward as his pastizzi falls apart on his plate. ‘It’s the city,’ he says. ‘Do you like it?’
I watch the chaotic parade. ‘I don’t think I could live here.’
He shrugs. ‘I miss this. There’s always something happening, somewhere to go, whatever food you wanna eat.’
‘You really don’t like the Bay, do you?’
He spears the fallen pastry flakes with his fork and looks up at me. ‘I like some parts of it.’
My cheeks heat up and I focus on my plate. Evan flicks through his phone. ‘Mm,’ he says, ‘speaking of stuff happening, I know where we’re going next. Eat up.’ He grins.
We catch a bus down Enmore Road, past theatres and packed restaurants, my eyes darting around the busy street. I’ve been to the city before, but it was always for swimming or a school excursion. This is different; this is the city without limits. In a few minutes we’re out of vibrant Newtown and into a quieter, uglier, industrial suburb. Evan presses the bell in the middle of nowhere and I follow him off the bus.
I rub my arms and glance around at the shuttered cafes and office buildings. Drunk-old-man laughter carries over from a pub on the corner. ‘Where are we?’
Evan checks his phone. ‘This way,’ he says and sets a steady pace through the quiet streets. Our footsteps sound out in the night and I mentally scroll through the self-defence class we did for P.E. last year: throat, stomach, groin; don’t yell rape, yell fire.
‘Wasn’t there something we could go to more in the city?’
‘Not much further,’ he says, cutting down an alleyway.
‘Hey.’ I jog to catch up to him and jam my foot down on the heel of his shoe, jerking his foot loose and stopping him in his tracks. ‘You can’t drop me in God knows where and not tell me where we’re going.’
He squats to fix up his shoe and smiles up at me.
I frown. ‘What?’
‘Hear that?’
Music floats down the lane and fills it up, crashing drums and guitars. We come out onto another street and across the road is a warehouse. People are bunched outside, sharing cigarettes and laughing. The music is loud in the night. I take hold of Evan’s hand as we cross the street and he links his fingers through mine.
‘Forgiven?’ he asks, leading me towards the entrance.
I give him the side eye. ‘We’ll see.’
If the music was loud outside, it’s deafening inside. Three guys and a girl, not much older than us, assault their instruments and shout into their microphones. The crowd is small but determined, losing themselves in kicking windmills. We hang at the back, my hand still gripping Evan’s.
‘This is the support band,’ Evan says, his voice hot in my ear.
A guy and a girl break free from the crowd. They laugh and shout at each other. The girl shakes out her pink hair and turns around. Her eyes widen when she sees us and she throws her hands up, delighted.
/> ‘Evan!’ She barrels into him, Evan laughs and bats her away. ‘What are you doing here?’ she shouts.
Evan grips the girl’s shoulders and nods at the guy behind her. ‘Where’s Morgs?’
The girl shrugs. ‘Broke up.’ The band stop and the crowd cheers. The girl whoops and punches her fist in the air, then grabs the guy and surges back into the fray.
‘Who was that?’ I ask but my words are swallowed up with the next song. Evan ducks down so he can hear me and I repeat the question. He just smiles and shakes his head.
The band blast through the rest of their set, the crowd thins, and I spot the girl from before making out with a different guy.
Somebody DJs sad songs from the eighties and the next band sets up. There’s four of them—a drummer, bass player, guitarist and . . . ‘Is that a cello?’
‘Yep,’ Evan says and moves us towards the front. The crowd has more than doubled now. It’s quiet too—everyone just waiting.
Apart from the bass player, the band is all girls; the only microphones are pointed at the instruments.
The guitarist—a girl with red hair and a half sleeve of vegetable tattoos—smiles at the crowd.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, ‘we’re The Shiver and the Shake.’
The crowd cheers but quietens as the guitarist winds up a music box. The simple tune tinks out. The band wait as the music box loops, then the cellist plays a sorrowful note and the drummer builds behind it, the guitar strengthens the cello’s notes and the sound rises. They build a wall then push it over and build it again; they pull back to reveal the tiny high notes of the music box then smother them.
I reach my hand back to find Evan and grab onto his shirt. He wraps his arms around me and I sink against him.
It’s midnight when Evan opens the back door of Cook’s house. He locks it behind him and leads me along a dark hallway and up the stairs. My ears ring in the quietness and I hold onto my breath.
Evan opens a door at the end of another hallway and closes it behind us. He leaves me in the dark by the door.
‘Hang on,’ he whispers—and there’s a comically loud crash, like cymbals. ‘Oh, shit.’ Evan switches on a lamp. A high-hat is lying on the carpet—clearly parted from the drum kit in the middle of the room. Evan fixes it up and shoots me an unsteady smile.
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