Coasting

by Ben Karwan

  ‘Yeah.’ I begin to tremble, fighting off those stupid tears. ‘No.’ I give in and let the tears fall. I feel his arm around me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m just being stupid.’

  ‘Please talk to me. I want to help. Did I do something to upset you?’

  ‘No, it’s just … You said this morning you don’t feel like you know me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘But it’s true. Everything I do is what other people want. I do it so often I don’t even feel like I have a personality anymore. I think I know you really well. I’ve never doubted that you’re my best friend and I thought we were really close.’

  ‘We are close.’

  ‘You let me in to your life but I don’t do the same for you. I hide behind what everybody else wants. You can’t know me because I don’t even know me.’

  ‘Can I tell you something?’

  I nod. I’m crying too hard to speak.

  ‘I told you I only get staccato bursts. I never said that I don’t know you. I know you’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. I know you empathise with everybody. I know you’re selfless. And I know you’re the greatest friend I’ve ever had. When I walk into a room and see that you’re there, it brightens my whole day. I can’t help but smile around you. The bursts of Pure Jen I do get are amazing. My point was that you should do things that make you happy because you deserve happiness. I think there’s too much of a difference between what you want and what you do. You’re going to end up collapsing from trying to juggle two identities. You’re my best friend and I just want you to be happy.’

  I’m sobbing into his shoulder.

  ‘Can you wait here for two seconds? I’ll be back straightaway.’

  I try to stop crying while he’s gone but it doesn’t work. He returns with a plastic bag almost immediately, though he doesn’t sit down.

  ‘I got the feeling you were a little mad at me for leaving this afternoon,’ he says.

  ‘I wasn’t mad,’ I say without looking up. ‘Maybe a little hurt.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. But while I was out I saw these.’ He hands me a small box and a plush white kitten with huge blue eyes. I sit the kitten on the curb next to me and take the box. I pull the ribbon to undo the knot and lift the lid off. Inside is a necklace. The pendant is an adorable cartoon cat holding a treble clef.

  ‘Marjolijn’s song,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Her song reminded me of you,’ he says, ‘and not just because you were next to me when I heard it. The girl she sang about had a stuffed cat she turned to for comfort. I wanted to give you something to remind you that things will always be okay.’

  I take off my crucifix, slip it into my pocket and replace it with the cat necklace. With the soft kitten in my hand, I stand and hug Elliot as tightly as I can.

  ‘You’re the best friend anyone could ask for,’ I whisper, tears making yet another appearance. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he says, and I feel his smile. I hope he can feel mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning we continue on our way to Sydney. Elliot rides shotgun and the dashboard is occupied by the kitten, posed as though it were sitting. We refuel (Vincent likes his petrol) and hit the road again.

  After my chat with Elliot last night, I feel a lot better. I haven’t had an emotional release like that for a long time. I’m glad Elliot and I talked through it but I don’t really want to keep thinking about it. It’s too draining and I want to enjoy the rest of the trip without worrying about everything.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll be in Sydney for?’ Elliot asks me, turning the music down.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘The show is on Monday, right? What if we book a room until Tuesday and then see what we feel like after that? Is that cool with you?’

  ‘For sure,’ I say.

  Elliot researches hotels in Sydney on his phone.

  ‘How much money is left from your grandma?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea,’ I say, ‘but don’t stress about that. We’re nowhere near spending it all.’

  We decide on a classier hotel for our stay in Sydney, more like our Gold Coast resort. We’re both sick of thin, uncomfortable mattresses and we’re on a holiday. We may as well treat ourselves.

  Elliot rings a couple of them to check availability and pricing. On the fourth call he books a three-night stay in a four-star hotel.

  It takes us about three and a half hours to get to Sydney. Elliot keys the hotel’s address into the GPS (I should thank Katie for that, without the sarcasm, when I get home) and it takes another fifteen minutes to find the damn place. My knees creak when I finally get out of the car.

  The weather is slightly cooler than it has been over the past few days, though being the low thirties it’s still warm. The Sydney air is remarkably dry. We check in at around two and head up to our room.

  One main room serves as a bedroom, living area and kitchen. I almost need a ladder to climb onto the king bed, which may as well have been on a cloud. I legitimately believe I sink far enough into the mattress for it to be a decent hiding place for a game of hide-and-seek. I place my stuffed kitten on the bedside table. Through a sliding glass door there’s a balcony with an outdoor dining table and in a separate tiled room there’s a shower, sink, toilet, washing machine and dryer.

  ‘I’m starving. Lunch time?’

  As though in response my stomach grumbles, and we head down in the elevator to find some food. The concierge directs us to a sushi bar a few streets over, which is both cheap and delicious – the perfect mix for food. The soy sauce comes in these little fish-shaped bottles. Elliot tries to one-up me by using chopsticks instead of his hands but he fails miserably.

  While Elliot ducks off to buy some water, I find Marjolijn’s phone number and decide to give her a call. I know we’ve only met once but she was so lovely the whole time and I feel drawn to her. I know it’s weird but I think she’d like to know we made it safely.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hallo, dit is Marjolijn. Momenteel ben ik niet bereikbaar. Als u een bericht achterlaat met naam en telefonnummer, bel ik u zo spoedig mogelijk terug.’

  Beep.

  ‘Hi Marjolijn, it’s Jennifer Janson here – from Byron Bay? I’m assuming what I just heard is Dutch for “leave me a message” so that’s what I’m doing. Just wanted to give you a buzz and let you know Elliot and I arrived in Sydney this afternoon and we’re looking forward to seeing you perform on Monday. Uh … give me a call back. My number should be in your call log. Thanks! Bye.’

  I hate leaving phone messages. They either sound really scripted or like I have no idea what I’m talking about. Either way, it never sounds the way I usually speak.

  After nearly ten minutes, Elliot returns with his water.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  Elliot shrugs. ‘Long queue.’

  We wander through the city streets looking in some of the smaller shops that have clearly been designed for international tourists. They have koalas and kangaroos bearing Australian flags, every single type of clothing you could imagine with the flag printed on it, boomerangs, key chains with didgeridoos, hats with emus on them – basically everything is stereotypically Australian. I buy a key chain with a platypus holding an Australian flag and give it to Elliot. He immediately puts Vincent’s key on it, giving me a sarcastic ‘thanks’. I also buy a set of temporary tattoos and put them into my bag. They look ridiculous and I’m not sure why I’d ever want an Australian flag tattooed on me but it seems like it could be funny at some point.

  Not long after we get back to our hotel, my phone begins to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Jennifer?’ says Marjolijn.

  ‘Marjolijn, hi. How are you?’

  ‘I am well, thank you. What about yourself? And Elliot?’ Trills and scales are being sung in the background.

  �
��We’re both good,’ I say. ‘Tired but good.’

  ‘I do apologise for missing your call. Today was my first day as understudy. I had to be prepared in case I had to go on.’

  ‘Oh that’s totally fine,’ I say. ‘How did you go?’

  ‘I think it went very well. We have an evening performance soon, so we’re getting ready now.’ That explains the vocalisations.

  ‘Oh okay. Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know we made it safely.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. I look forward to seeing you both on Monday.’

  I wish her good luck and hang up the phone.

  At about six-thirty, Elliot asks me to go for a walk with him. ‘And, uh, wear that green dress.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please? You’ll figure it out.’

  The dress in question is tight and emerald – by far the most formal outfit I have with me. I only brought it on the off-chance that we’d go to dinner in a fancy restaurant or something. Maybe Elliot has booked a place? I let my vanity get the better of me. I put a few loose curls through my hair and do my make-up.

  ‘Jeez, Jen, you look … I mean you always look great, but … wow.’ Cue the smile. He’s not often speechless.

  ‘You scrub up okay yourself.’ He’s wearing dress pants and a nice shirt that hangs loosely from his body. He tucks the shirt in and fastens his belt.

  ‘Did you bring heels?’

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t expect to be getting all dressed up. This dress was really just a backup –’

  ‘I thought as much. Look in the bottom of my bag.’

  I dig through his bag and find a shoebox hidden at the bottom. Inside is a pair of sparkling green shoes with two-inch heels. They match my dress perfectly.

  ‘When did you get these?’ I ask, pulling them on. A perfect fit.

  ‘Same time I bought that necklace.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. ‘But why?’

  ‘Don’t rush me. I have a plan.’

  I’m not sure how I feel about all this secrecy. It’s exciting but I’m not used to it. Where could he be taking me? I still think dinner is most likely but it really could be anything. Maybe the theatre? But that would be an odd choice, since we’re seeing Next to Normal on Monday …

  We take the elevator down to the foyer and walk into the evening air. It’s cool and still – twenty-two degrees according to Elliot’s phone.

  One thing I like about being so short is that I can wear heels and still be the little one. Even with the extra inches, my eyes are only just level with Elliot’s chin.

  If the goal is to disorientate me, Elliot achieves it. He leads me through twists and turns, down small streets and alleyways for about half an hour. Either he’s lost, or he’s memorised a complex route.

  ‘Elliot, where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I scowl at him. ‘Should I be scared?’

  ‘You’ll love it. I hope.’

  Eventually we walk through a set of huge double doors into the foyer of a different hotel. Perhaps they have a good restaurant or something? But instead of heading to the dining area, Elliot takes my hand and helps me down the stairs and into another foyer, below ground level. Several tables line the walls. Silver letters etched above another set of double doors tell me that we’re outside the ballroom. On either side of the doors are identical signs, which read: ‘Welcome to the Hadley Improv Dance Competition.’

  ‘A dance competition?’ Excitement floods me. I haven’t seen ballroom dancing for years. I grip Elliot’s hand even tighter. Maybe he does know me, after all.

  He pulls me over to a table where we’ll buy our tickets.

  ‘Names?’ says the stout old lady sitting behind the desk.

  ‘Carter/Janson,’ says Elliot.

  ‘Here are your registration tags. Please keep them affixed to your clothing for the entire evening. You’re seated at table six. Have fun and good luck.’

  ‘Um, Elliot …’ I begin as we walk into the ballroom.

  ‘Don’t be mad,’ he says, ‘but we’re not watching. We’re competing.’

  ‘We’re what?’

  ‘Don’t you remember how to dance?’ he teases as we find table six and sit down.

  My heart pounds. ‘I … We haven’t planned anything, though.’

  ‘It’s just for fun,’ says Elliot. ‘It’s improvisation – when people perform, they have to make it up on the spot. Nobody knows what song they’re going to get or what type of dance they have to do. The point is that everyone’s unprepared.’

  ‘I … I didn’t even know you danced.’

  ‘I’m good at everything. You should know that by now. Besides, it’s not like this is the first time we’ve ad-libbed a dance together.’

  My mind flashes back to New Year’s when we foxtrotted around to eavesdrop on Teddy. But usually we just muck around, dancing underwater or something. We’ve never done an actual dance together.

  ‘You okay, Jen?’

  ‘Yeah. But what if we suck?’ Other couples who look far fitter and more prepared than us file in. I haven’t danced for over a year – what if I make a huge mess of the whole thing and fall over?

  ‘Then we suck. Who cares? It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I still wish you’d told me.’ My hands are trembling. I forgot how nervous I get before dancing. My stomach tenses, the way it does when I shiver in the cold.

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he says with another goofy grin.

  There are two other couples sitting at our table. Elliot pins an A5 badge that reads ‘27’ to my dress, then an identical one to himself. The couples already sitting are numbers fourteen and four. Number fourteen is a couple probably in their late forties and couple four would be in their early twenties.

  Elliot says hello to them as we sit. Couple fourteen smiles at us but couple four are kind of cold. I’m not sure if they’re in serious competition mode and we’re the enemy, or if they’re just as terrified as I am. I grab a glass of wine from a passing waiter to help quell my nerves.

  The round tables are arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, leaving a clear dance floor, while the judges sit up the front on a stage, looking very important.

  Once everyone is seated, a tall man stands at a lectern and addresses the audience in a booming voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the seventeenth annual Hadley Improv Dance Competition!’ The audience applauds politely. With eccentric hand gestures, he continues. ‘We welcome dancers, both professional and amateur, from all around the country. In one of the most challenging dance competitions in Sydney, our dancers have no idea of the rhythm, tempo or even style of music they will be expected to dance to.

  ‘Each couple will be ranked by our expert judges. As an improvised routine is expected, the scoring will not be as harsh as it would be for a choreographed piece.’

  He then introduces the four judges, two of whom are professional choreographers and two of whom are last year’s winners.

  ‘Before the dance commences, participants will have the opportunity to hear the first eight bars of the piece, followed by thirty seconds of silence during which they will be able to discuss their routine. There are thirty-five competing couples this evening, meaning we will have five groups of six couples and one group of five. The top couple from each dance will advance through to the final. All dances will run for between ninety seconds and two minutes.

  ‘Without further ado, let us begin. Couples one, four, six, twenty-two, thirty and thirty-five, please make your way onto the floor.’

  The number fours stand up from our table and with serious looks make their way towards the dance floor.

  ‘Please give it up for our first dancers of the evening,’ says the announcer. ‘And please give it up for our conductor this evening, Mr Anthony Bleeker.’

  The conductor turns and waves to the audience before conducting the first eight bars with his baton. It’s a fast-paced piece in six eight time.

&nbs
p; ‘I’d do a Viennese Waltz,’ I whisper to Elliot. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I have no idea what that means,’ he says.

  ‘Couples, this piece will have fifty-eight bars. Your thirty seconds start now.’

  The audience and other dancers sit silently as the couples competing in this round mumble to each other, discussing their plans for the piece. Couple four looks unimpressed with the music.

  The conductor signals with his baton and the music begins. Two of the couples are completely out of time with each other and with the music, two are dancing using very basic steps, the couple from our table is trying some complex moves but look a little shaky and the remaining couple, number six, is flawless. They move gracefully around the entire floor, weaving through the other couples, spinning around each other. They incorporate lifts, the girl swinging around the guy’s body, then over his shoulder. It’s insane. My feet tingle as I imagine the adrenaline rush of dancing like that. Their movements are so fluid and smooth, it’s as if they’re extensions of the same person. They receive several applauses mid-dance – unlike the gasps reserved for the couple from our table. They attempt to finish their routine with a lift but the girl somehow slips out of the guy’s grip and ends up crashing down to the floor. Her partner offers his hand to help her to her feet but she turns it down, climbs to her feet on her own and storms back to her seat.

  The judges take a couple of minutes to talk before declaring couple six the winners, surprising nobody. The couple from our table come second, despite their little tumble.

  ‘Congratulations to all of you,’ says the announcer again. Up next, couples five, seven, nineteen, twenty-seven and thirty-one.’

  I take a deep breath, double-check the number pinned to Elliot’s shirt and stand up. He leads me by the hand onto the floor. My legs wobble a little beneath me.

  ‘God, this was a bad idea,’ he says, his hand trembling more than mine.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. I don’t know if I’m right or not but at least one of us has to keep a level head if we’re going to do this without making complete fools of ourselves.

  ‘Mr Bleeker, as you please,’ says the announcer, and I tune my ear to the music. Two four time. The music exhilarates me.