Everyone thought that.
We never imagined what else might be going down.
Jesus. We had no idea.
I heard Mum and Dad whispering in the dark of the kitchen one night — quiet enough that I couldn’t hear all the details, but loud enough to know something big was up. While their voices rose and fell — Mum’s shook the louder she spoke — I snuck out through the laundry door to check for myself.
My hand pressed against the splintery wood of the fence that separated our backyards as I strained to look through one of the holes. The grass was clipped. The garden was tidy. The treehouse loomed large. There was nothing out of place — a few teachers from Durnan High had been cleaning up the backyard once a week.
I tiptoed along the fence, swearing as my arm scraped against the wood, then eased open the side gate. I sprinted up the steps to Layla’s veranda and, sucking in a breath, peered through the window into their kitchen. It looked normal to me, other than a few cupboard doors were open and there were bowls and plates stacked on the sink.
I didn’t know that it meant something.
When I woke up the next day, Mum and Dad called Trent and me to sit down and they told us: the Montgomerys had left town. They didn’t know why. They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know if they were coming back.
They were just gone.
But now, with Layla’s head resting on my shoulder again, I don’t tell her any of that. She’s already carrying scars that sit just below the surface.
I stretch out on the back seat and try to ignore the touch of her fingertips on the back of my hand as she whispers that she hasn’t let herself think of all that for years.
Layla
Bright light rips through the window. I rub at my eyes, which have shrivelled to slits, and wince at the thumping cacophony in my head. Morning has caught up to me. I have to suck it up and drive home whether I’m up for it or not — and I’m definitely not up for it.
There’s no sign of Milo. Propping myself up on one elbow, I cringe at the cracked windscreen and dented bonnet. I’d almost blocked out that part. I strain to see him lying on the grass in the shade, arms crossed over his face. My boots crunch down on a half-eaten packet of chips, which have spilled across the car floor. I fiddle with the handle until the door struggles open.
‘Hey,’ I croak, peering down at him. ‘You alive?’
‘Maybe,’ his muffled voice replies. ‘Unless this is hell?’
‘Possibly. Why does it feel like I haven’t slept?’
‘No idea. Especially ’cos you snored for like an hour.’
‘Damn Veronica, this is all her fault.’ I pull at the nametag still pinned to my T-shirt. ‘Tell everybody: Veronica made us do it.’
Milo groans. He still hasn’t removed his arms from his face.
‘MD, I want eight thousand McMuffins.’
‘You’re a McMuffin.’
‘I wish. Hey, what time are we leaving again?’
‘Nine fifteen. Why? What time is it?’
‘No idea. I’m outta battery. Reckon I can go back to sleep for a bit?’
‘Probably.’ Without getting up, he turns on his phone.
When he springs to his feet, I know we’re screwed. And boy, are we.
Because it’s 12.23 pm, and it takes about two hours to get back to Durnan. My training at Joe’s Charcoal Chicken Shop starts at 2 pm, I stink like someone on day five of schoolies’ week, and I feel like I’ve spent ten hours trapped in a tumble dryer. I’d be furious at my terrible life choices, but I’m too busy wondering whether I can curl up under the nearest tree and wait for a truck driver to throw me a double cheeseburger.
With bacon.
And maybe large fries.
Definitely large fries.
Milo passes me his phone, which beeps in my hand. The battery is close to quitting. I dial the chicken shop’s number while Milo watches on, his hand buried in a packet of pretzels. It rings out, then the phone beeps again.
‘Just say you’re sick,’ Milo says. ‘It’s kind of true. Like a half-lie.’
‘It’s not enough. Joe’s a tough old dude from the city. Like, if I actually was sick, I’d have to show up and prove it by, I don’t know, coughing up a lung or bleeding from my nose, then hang on until he sent me home. He might be new around town but I know his deal. If I say I’m sick, he’s either going to think I’m a wimp or I’m lying.’
‘Which you are.’
I scrunch up my nose at him — not helping — and try again.
This time Joe grunts hello down the line after two rings. I’m on.
I’m on and I’m not ready.
Joe puts me on hold while he swaps to the phone in his back office. My mind kicks into overdrive. Panic at the thought of losing this job rattles my brain. I need to be able to pay my way. I need to prove to Kurt that he doesn’t have to get messed up in whatever he’s getting messed up in. I need to get my life started again, even if I’m elbow-deep in chicken fat while doing it. All of that depends on the next second, the next words out of my mouth, on telling a lie so detailed, so creative, that it can’t possibly be made up.
I’m not proud of lying, but as I hear Joe’s voice asking me what’s going on, there’s no time to back out. Thirty seconds in and I know he believes every word I’m feeding him: that I can’t come in today because my mum has dislocated her shoulder while hanging out the washing and I’ve taken her to emergency.
Joe tells me he understands and we’ll reschedule, adding, ‘You’re a good daughter.’
I thank him for his kindness. Despite my heart pounding, somehow my voice hasn’t wobbled over the word ‘mum’. Not once. For a few small minutes, the real me no longer exists. I’m lost in my lie, believing it so much it almost feels true. I’m ‘Layla the girl who’d do anything to help her family in a time of need’, not ‘Layla the screw-up with a sorry state of a bank account, a boyfriend who’s dealing pot and a dead mum’. I’m transformed.
I’m midway through explaining that Dad is away for work, which is why it’s up to me to drive Mum to the hospital, when I catch Milo gaping at me. I’ve been so caught up in orchestrating my performance of a lifetime that I’d forgotten he was watching.
I’m not sure how I feel about it myself — it wasn’t planned, or something I’ve ever done before. But as shame rises through me, from my toes to the top of my head, dusting my cheeks with a cherry glow, I know I never want him to look at me that way again.
When I hang up, he doesn’t ask me why I said what I did.
Maybe he doesn’t want to risk upsetting me.
Or maybe he’s scared of the answer.
* * *
The staff at Macca’s let Milo charge his phone while we scrub the car at the petrol station next door. I don’t bother charging mine. Kurt had his chance yesterday but went MIA. Another hour or so without hearing from me won’t bother him.
‘I should go get my phone before Ronald McDonald nicks it,’ Milo announces, hosing down the bonnet. Everything still bends in the wrong places, but at least the blood and dust is gone. I spare another thought for Skippy. ‘Want anything while I’m in there, Lay? Coke? Sneaky cheesie?’
He still hasn’t mentioned my phone call with Joe.
‘Nah, I feel a bit off,’ I say as he hangs up the hose. ‘Actually who am I kidding … nuggets! And don’t forget the sweet and sour. Thanks.’
‘On it.’
He lopes over to Macca’s, and I can see him through the glass, standing in line, phone pressed to his ear. A few minutes pass. His head is down, he’s shaking it. Something’s up.
When he returns, shoulders hunched, he’s carrying two bottles of Coke and a cheeseburger.
I lean on the car, peering across the roof at him. ‘No nuggets?’
‘Crap. Sal rang and I flaked. I’ll go back.’
‘All good, we’ll split the cheesie. And by split, I mean I’ll eat most of it.’ I pause. ‘Hey, MD?’
‘Hey, Lay?’
He climbs into the car so I follow suit. I rev the engine.
‘You’re kinda quiet. You mad at me?’
‘’Cos of the nuggets? Nah, just forgot.’
‘No, ’cos of before … with Joe?’
Milo stares through the splintered screen. ‘What? I haven’t said anything.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, driving us out of the petrol station and onto the highway.
‘Wait, you want me to?’
His eyes are on my hands now. I readjust my grip on the wheel, almost to prove I’m still capable of driving.
‘No … well, kind of. You not saying something is worse. I’d rather you be angry at me than nothing at me.’
‘I’m not angry, I’m …’ He pauses, probably realising he’s got himself in it now. ‘Bit worried, I suppose.’
I turn to face him. ‘That’s even worse.’
‘Can you watch the road?’ He opens the packet of jelly snakes and coils one around his finger. ‘I vote we talk about this later. Let’s get home, get to a mechanic, get some sleep. In that order.’
His phone buzzes. A message.
‘Is that Sal again?’ I can’t help myself, so I pop a snake in my mouth in the hope it shuts me up. ‘How is she?’ Nope. Didn’t work.
‘Great.’ There’s a bite to his tone that I haven’t heard before. ‘Apparently she ended up going to a big party in Bungendore last night. They did a car rally all over Canberra.’
‘No way, that’s awesome.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And she knows about the accident?’
‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘She left her phone in Jamie’s car last night so just saw my messages … Anyway, doesn’t matter.’
He passes me the unwrapped cheeseburger and turns on the radio, doing an abysmal job of pretending everything is fine.
For once, I don’t say a word.
Milo
I told Sal that I missed her, and she said that she missed me too. We said it back and forth a few times through the call, especially after I mentioned the car accident. I shared just enough to paint a picture of a grand gesture that’d gone unbelievably wrong. She gasped and swore in all the right places and seemed happy when I told her I’d been coming to surprise her. I guess I made myself sound like a legendary boyfriend. The sort that steals a car and hits the road for two hundred and fifty kilometres so he can see his girlfriend. A guy of the super variety.
Yeah. And I’m also the new prime minister of Australia. I’m moving into the Lodge on Monday.
Sal knows I’m no hero, but I had to try to cancel out all the weeks we’ve been apart and make up for lost time. That’s why I didn’t mention Layla’s name again. Couldn’t mention it. Just like I didn’t ask why Sal’d told me she was lying low if she was planning on partying all weekend. And why I had to stop myself asking why Woody’s arm is wrapped around her shoulders in every second photo of them together. Our catch-ups need to be full of ‘Wish you were here’ and ‘Wish I was there’, don’t they? How else are you meant to cram a relationship into a handful of rushed phone calls and texts?
Especially when I’ve just spent a night in a car with another girl.
A girl who won’t stop winking and singing and humming and forgetting to adjust her baggy top, which keeps slipping down over her bare shoulder.
Definitely not a champion boyfriend.
It isn’t until I’m chowing into my half of the cheeseburger that I realise Sal didn’t bother to dig for details from me either. Not about the family friend I’m travelling with, or what I’d planned for the surprise, or what I did all night in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.
She could be as worn out as I am from feeling stretched between two states, or she mightn’t have wanted to be the one to ruin the moment. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
At school, all our mates thought Sal and I were meant to be. That we were ‘locked in’ as her friends used to say. For two years I believed them. It’s easy to believe stuff if you’re told it often enough. Except, I think as I wind down the window, I haven’t been told it for a while.
‘D&M skills: five out of five.’
‘What?’
‘Earth to MD!’ Layla tickles my side. ‘I said D&M skills: five out of five. Driving skills: two out of five. That one’s on me, obviously. Company: four stars. We’re excellent sorts, but there’s always room for improvement.’
I swivel to face her. ‘Please. Company is at least four and a third. At least.’
‘Snacks: three and a half,’ she says with a laugh. ‘We had some tasty choices, but we stuffed up the sweet-to-savoury ratio. And those jelly snakes have left the weirdest taste in my mouth. Music: half out of five. That one’s on both of us, although we didn’t count on the whole sleeping-on-the-side-of-the-road thing. Next time we’re bringing a speaker and batteries.’
‘Next time?’
‘I’m focusing on the positives. My survival guide for Durnan is all about the positives.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘We’ve stuffed the car, you lied to get out of training, my girlfriend doesn’t give a rat’s, and for some reason you won’t call your boyfriend for help. Remind me where the positives are?’
I suck in a breath. I hadn’t meant to explode like that.
‘Wow. Anger management much?’
My palms sweat as I wait for her to say something else, but she only stares ahead, tapping her fingers on the wheel.
‘Lay …’ She doesn’t leap to finish my sentence like she often does. This is bad.
‘Nah, it’s true. It’s a big rotten mess.’
‘Stop. You were right.’
She arches an eyebrow as if to say go on.
‘And that other stuff — the lie, your boyfriend — none of that’s my business. And yeah, there’s been stuff happen that I wish didn’t, but … but last night was still somehow fun.’
I glance at her, trying to gauge if she’s soaking it in. It’s impossible to tell because she won’t look in my direction.
‘The most fun I’ve had in ages, despite the big rotten mess.’ There. I catch a smile. ‘And if I have to rate it … well, overall road trip: four and a half out of five. I think we could’ve done without the whole accident part. But the rest? The rest was perfect.’
Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
And then.
‘Overall trip: four and a half stars,’ she says. ‘I agree. Anyway, what’s the time check, good sir?’
She’s back.
‘Two thirty-three, Miss Montgomery. We’ll be home in about fifteen. Mum and Dad will be at the races, and Trent’s not back ’til tomorrow arvo, so we’ve got time to spare.’
‘What a finish. Legendary, some might say.’
‘And some would be correct. I reckon we swing past mine for like two minutes so I can drop off my stuff — you know, after “staying the night at Murph’s” — so Mum and Dad don’t freak that I’ve bailed for Sydney with him or something. Then it’s straight to the mechanic.’
‘Your parents love you so much it makes me sick. And by the way, I love this plan. It’s genius.’
* * *
We slow to a stop in front of my house. Layla spots Trent tearing across the veranda before I do.
‘What do we do? MD? Should we get outta here? Shit!’
I’m frozen.
Trent was supposed to be away camping for another night, but there’s no time to wonder why he’s back so soon. He’s seen us, which means he’s also seen the giant dent in the bonnet and the crack yawning across the windscreen. If he was going to be annoyed about us taking his work car, he’s going to go postal about us banging it up.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, wondering if it’s too late to escape and start a new life thousands of kilometres away in Darwin or Byron Bay. As he barrels down the driveway, I can see he’s barefoot, shirtless and ruddy — maybe blistering from too much time water-skiing with the boys, or maybe so angry his body is close to self-c
ombusting.
Layla’s widened eyes search mine for guidance, but I’ve still got nothing. After months in overdrive, my brain has chosen this instant to take a sick day.
Trent’s arms pump back and forth at his sides as he storms towards us, shouting so many obscenities our neighbours will have enough material to talk about for the next six months.
He opens the door before I can, now so close I can see a vein pumping in his forehead.
Hand gripping the top of my T-shirt, he yanks me out of the car and pins me against the back passenger door.
‘I can explain!’ I say as the door handle digs into my lower back. ‘Let me explain!’
‘Go on then.’
I strain away, pushing at his hands, body wilting against the car. ‘Let … go … first.’ I feel pathetic and bet I look it in front of Layla too.
‘What happened to my car, mate?’
‘Trent, let him go.’ Layla circles around the car to stand behind him. ‘Let him go then I’ll explain.’
‘He’s a big boy, Montgomery.’
Without warning, Layla throws herself on Trent’s back. She wraps her arms around his neck and jerks backwards, putting all of her weight into it. He sways on his feet, but finds his balance, grunting for her to get off him. Her knees and feet dig in around his waist, her hands clutch at his throat, his shoulders, his collarbone, anything she can make contact with. Trent’s grip on me loosens, slipping a little every time she pulls.
‘Montgomery, relax!’ He chokes out a laugh. ‘Jesus, I’m only messing around! I’ll let go! I’ll let go!’
She doesn’t though, and with a final tug from her, I manage to twist out of Trent’s grasp. I fall to the side and my hip slams into the open car door.
Trent walks over to join Layla, who has flopped onto the grass, panting. The two of them sit side by side, arms wrapped around their knees. He’s always like this — exploding, then relaxing within a few minutes. A human firecracker.
I plonk down next to Layla, rubbing at my side. ‘You’re a real jerk, Trent, you know that?’
‘You stuffed the car, bro.’ He shakes his head. ‘Mum and Dad are going to blow up when they see it. What were you doing?’
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