‘Everyone will think I’m weird, but at least they won’t think I’ve got a crush or anything.’
‘I don’t have a crush.’
Fly thought about it, adjusted her wording. ‘A thing, then.’
‘I don’t have a thing either,’ Bec said grumpily.
Fly knew she did have a thing. That Bec had a thing for Edge had been established during a pillow fight last week, but Fly sensed that now was not a good time to press the point. It had been a late-night giggle session where many confessions were made. Perri didn’t have to be beaten to give up hers, because for all the ins and outs of her school romances, she didn’t seem to hang out with anyone longer than a couple of weeks – and there were questions about why. Anna still had a boyfriend in Germany. At least that was her defence when they all started making suggestions about how much time she was spending with Bec’s brother Joe … And then there was Fly – enough said there.
Bec was still staring at Fly.
‘You are too sweet for your own good sometimes, you know?’
Was she? It was kind of good to hear, because at the moment she was feeling a long way from sweet. She was feeling as sour as a bush lemon. But maybe that’s what it was all about. Sweet and sour. Maybe a bit of both was okay.
From outside the shed they could hear the chief goose calling.
‘Who’ll give me fifty-five bucks for this excellent ham sandwich. Do I have fifty-five? Fifty-five? Fifty-five? No takers? Passed in at fifty-five dollars.’
They both stepped outside to see Heath taking a huge bite of his ham sandwich as he herded the rest of the crew into the van. Fly watched Deb get into the front seat. She had dark glasses on so Fly couldn’t see what kind of mood she was in. As Simmo backed the van out, Fly could have sworn Deb was humming. It was a tune she knew, or at least Fly made it into one she knew. What Fly heard was a song by some geriatric band her parents loved. They were called the Mamas and the Papas and the song started with the words ‘Monday, Monday. So good to me …’ It was her family’s favourite road trip album because there were all sorts of harmonies for the girls to sing, and easy words to remember. Fly used to love that song. Today she hated it, because by Monday, Monday she might still be in a whole lot of trouble.
The auction was being held at the surf lifesaving club’s clubhouse. It was a two-storey building with long glass windows on the top and a big open storage area underneath full of paddleboards and lifesaving rings and battered old surfboards. The surf club had decided to make a day of it. There was a huge barbecue being set up and on the grass in front they had gathered a massive pile of wood for the bonfire they’d planned later that night.
Out in the water two long wooden surf boats bashed their way out through the white water, oars flapping madly in the air like a couple of multi-legged water insects. At the shoreline clumps of little red and yellow capped Nippers sprinted on the sand. A group of the littlest boys strutted around, flexing their muscles and flicking their Speedos up into their bums, just like the big men they wanted to be out there in the boats. By the time Simmo backed the Solar Blue van up to unload the boards, there were about thirty locals gathered.
While they all lined up their sheet-covered boards out the front, Simmo headed over to talk with the tanned old president of the club. Fly didn’t think she’d ever seen someone so brown or wrinkled in all her life. Maybe he was sixty, but he could’ve been one hundred and sixty from the way his skin hung in loose folds from his wiry limbs. It struck Fly that this was what tanning really was. In the old days, before baking yourself in the sun was supposedly a good idea, tanning was a technical term – it described the process by which people stretched out, toughened up and dyed animal skins. Fly was definitely going to get extra serious about that old sunscreen thing.
Simmo tapped on a microphone and called everyone around. ‘Alright, folks, we’re going to do this in two parts. Half the boards now, half after the sausage sizzle. We’ll unveil the board, introduce the artist and then you know how it goes – time to put hands into pockets.’
Simmo gestured for the first board to be brought up. The sheet came down and everyone peered at the design. It was a partial map of the world featuring Australia and Germany. The ocean funnelled down between the two countries into a glue pot.
Anna jumped up off the grass and headed up to Simmo. He held out the microphone and she grabbed it with both hands. ‘Hi everyone. Maybe you know I’m from Germany.’ Anna always beamed when she said it. She was very proud of her roots. ‘And the drawing. I guess it’s about the ocean being the glue that binds my two worlds together.’
There was a solid round of applause.
Simmo took over the mike. ‘The artwork on this is brilliant. Don’t think we can start at less than two hundred.’
As the auction warmed up and people started to get into the swing of things the numbers slowly grew. They bounced back and forth between a young guy in the front and one of the lifesavers and then an older couple at the back came in suddenly at the end and offered to pay four hundred dollars. Anna grinned, proud of the fact that her board had raised so much money. It wasn’t that hard to be happy with earning yourself two hundred bucks into the bargain.
Matt was up next. Simmo pulled down the sheet and revealed a huge knot of sewerage pipes wriggling across the face of the board. The pipes all spewed refuse out into the aqua ocean and a tiny surfer dodged his way through the plastic bottles and rotten food.
‘Yeah so, probably doesn’t need too much explanation. I’m going to donate my half of the money to Surfers Against Sewage.’
There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the crowd. Heath leaned forward to the others.
‘Such a suck,’ he whispered.
Perri sat behind Heath, and Fly saw her hand snake out and pinch Heath’s ear in Matt’s defence. Perri seemed to be enjoying not talking to Matt a lot lately too … And there wasn’t as much talk about boys from school. Now that Fly thought about it, the number of names on Perri’s pink phone list had been getting smaller and smaller over the last few months. Maybe she was talking enough to someone at home.
The crowd really got into Matt’s design and the lifesaver who’d lost out on Anna’s board wasn’t going to be beaten this time. The numbers soon hit five hundred.
Perri’s artwork was the next to be unveiled. Perri had drawn the most intricate and beautiful mandala – all shades of blues, purples, forest greens swirling out from the centre of her board. It had circles within circles within circles and the design was so intricate that it tricked your eyes into thinking the patterns were dancing with each other in 3D. Fly let out a long whistle.
The crowd were blown away. Simmo had to race to catch up as the bidding bounced frantically around the group. Fly watched as a young blonde girl looked pleadingly at her parents, promising to be good for the rest of her life if they bought it for her. It could be her Christmas present for the next ten years. The parents had a hushed conversation and then placed the final bid: $1400. Perri nearly choked on her water and Fly saw the blonde girl well up and hug her parents in an almost fatal way. As Perri sat back down on the grass, Anna was already starting to grumble about the unfairness of having to go first. Auctions were like that, people were nervy at first, and it was always going to happen that the boards up for grabs last would get the highest prices. Perri had been thinking this too, and she had an idea; they should all add their money together and divide it equally – all except Matt of course. It only seemed fair.
Heath pushed up off the grass.
‘Can I give you my answer once I see what my masterpiece brings?’
No-one even bothered to reply.
‘Heath Carroll created our next work of art. We want a really big price for this one, and then I promise, sausages will be ready.’
Heath did the honours, pulling the sheet away from his board to reveal what he had declared Fly wouldn’t understand. In the centre was a still blue lake. On one side was the shore and in the middle wa
s a small island. On a rock at the edge of the island crouched a young Maori man playing a flute. The notes of the flute floated out across the night, drifting down towards the surface of the lake where a beautiful young woman swam through the water. This was the love story of Hinemoa and Tutanekai.
‘So a long time ago,’ Heath began, ‘there was a beautiful maiden named Hinemoa. She was the daughter of a big tribe which lived on the shores of Lake Rotorua. Everyone wanted to marry her, but in those days the family chose the hubby and her family were pretty fussy.’
He pointed to the young man playing the flute. ‘This dude is Tutanekai. His family lived on the island and at one of the festivals Tutanekai and Hinemoa saw each other and – you guessed it – they fell for each other. The problem was her family didn’t think he was much chop and there was no way they were ever going to be allowed to be together.’
Heath let his eyes meet Fly’s briefly before he continued his story.
‘Anyway, Tutanekai went back to the island, but his heart was smashed and he couldn’t get her out of his head. So he sat on this rock playing sad, sad music all day and all night. Hinemoa was sad too, and every night she listened to the music floating across the shores until one night she couldn’t take it anymore. She snuck into the kitchen and stole some big calabashes and went back to the shore. She made them into water wings and stepped into the black night. There was nothing to guide her but the sound of Tutanekai’s flute, and she followed it all the way across the lake to the other side.’
The crowd had gone very quiet. Heath suddenly looked around, and it must’ve freaked him out because he burst into a wide grin. ‘I know what you’re thinking – the next day her family freaked out and there was a big war.’ He shook his head. ‘They were a bit shocked, but it was actually cool. It ended up bringing about a long peace between the two tribes, so … yeah. There you go. That’s the story.’
He passed the microphone back to Simmo and stood aside. Fly couldn’t stop staring at him. She heard the bids ramping up through the numbers, but she wasn’t paying close attention. She was thinking about how amazing Heath was and the fact that she’d pushed him away without even thinking about what it might have felt like to him. Maybe he was Tutanekai and she was Hinemoa? Or was she just being silly and this was a total coincidence? She wished Nell was here, Nell who could sniff out the truth at a thousand paces … but she wasn’t here. Fly was going to have to work this one out on her own.
Heath’s story, beyond raising $1900, had made him the star of the barbecue. A small crowd gathered around him, eager for more details of his history, where he came from, what it was like. It was nice to see him being the centre of attention for something other than goofing off.
Bec stayed very close to Fly during lunch. With only three boards to go, her date with embarrassment was drawing too close for comfort. It must’ve been bad – she couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of her sausage sandwich. Fly’s nerves seemed to be doing the reverse, the closer it got to her deadline, the calmer she was feeling. She was even able to give Deb a real smile as they passed in the drinks queue.
At 2.30 Simmo called them away from the barbie.
‘Time to really tie this thing up, people. Three boards to go, so it’s now or next year.’
And with that, he pulled the sheet off Bec’s board revealing the drawing of Edge. Matt and Heath exploded with laughter.
‘I didn’t know it was a self-portrait competition,’ said Heath.
Fly watched Edge stare up at the image of himself. She could see his mind racing. He looked across to Bec, who was glued to the spot, an intense blush screaming across her face.
Without warning, Edge stood and marched to the front. What was he doing?
‘Edge, you are shameless, man!’ Matt called after him.
Edge took the microphone. ‘Just making sure everyone knows what the winner of this comp looks like.’
Fly stared at Bec. This was the last thing they were expecting.
The bids for Bec’s board were respectable but not great – no-one really likes a self-promoter. Edge stood there and took it in his stride, ignoring the other boys’ hassling as he returned to the lawn. He stared straight ahead, not meeting Bec’s eyes either. There wasn’t time for an explanation anyway because Simmo had unveiled the next board and it was Edge’s – which meant Bec had to get up there and play her part. She had to take responsibility for the wildest grinding surf metal picture she’d ever seen in her life.
Edge had gone ballistic – there were waves being cut to pieces by razor-sharp guitars and lightning bolts and sharks’ fins and … violence. Everything about the picture screamed Aaaaarrrrggggghhhhhh!
Simmo stared at the board, then at Bec. He was surprised to say the least.
‘So … a very …’ Simmo struggled to find the right word, ‘strong piece of work from Bec Sanderson. Just serves to remind us that surfing chicks don’t just sit on the beach thinking about hearts and rainbows. Who’ll start us off at $300?’
For the first time there was silence. Bec glared over at her parents, willing them to bid, but it was clear Bec’s mum and dad were in shock at what had apparently sprung from the pen of their darling daughter.
Finally an older guy at the back stuck up his hand. He had a feral beard and a generous serving of tatts. Fly guessed he was one of those water westies she read about – guys who are into the surf as much as they’re into panel vans and music which sounds like it was cooked up in the Devil’s basement. He was the only bidder but he wanted to pay more because he thought it rocked, so he raised his bid twice and ended up settling on five hundred and fifty dollars. Simmo tried to explain that he was only bidding against himself, that he didn’t have to keep upping the price, but when the guy ignored his advice Simmo was wise enough to just go with the flow.
Fly watched Bec head back to where she’d been sitting, staring at the grass all the way as if it were the most interesting thing she’d seen in a long time. Heath and Matt headed off to beg for more sausages, leaving Bec and Edge more or less alone. If you didn’t count the fact that Fly was right behind them.
Bec kept her eyes glued to the grass, but she whispered softly, ‘It wasn’t meant to turn out like that, alright?’
Edge looked straight ahead. He nodded.
‘And you can have the difference because yours sold for more.’
Another nod from Edge. Fly could feel Bec wriggling awkwardly, hating this. She wanted to bust right through the middle and give a bigger explanation, but even she knew when to keep her nose out.
‘Funny,’ Bec said. ‘You’d rather everyone think you’re up yourself than that I … you know … had a thing for you – which I don’t.’
Edge looked up at her briefly. ‘That’s not why I did it. I’m used to them paying me out. I figured you could do without the hassle.’
When Bec was cornered she was an attacker, not a defender and she’d been working up a good, strong dose of attack. Now Edge was being so reasonable, so nice even, Bec had nowhere to go.
‘It’s a pretty good likeness,’ said Edge as he pulled himself to his feet. ‘Even if it’s not meant to be me.’
He headed off to the barbecue to join the boys without waiting for a response. Fly could feel herself grinning like mental, full of happiness for her friend. If nothing else good happened today, Fly would go to bed feeling like everything was right with the world.
But it wasn’t time for bed yet. There was one board standing, and it was hers. Simmo invited her to the microphone before he pulled down the sheet.
‘Come on, lucky last,’ he said.
Fly unveiled her own drawing. In the cold harsh light of day, that monster wave was no less evil. It was a twenty-five footer, thick-lipped, curling and growling and rising up so high it blocked out the sun. Just beneath the surface Fly had sketched out the coral heads, red and blue and purple, jagged and beautiful and sharp as knives.
Yesterday, before she talked to Matt, she would’ve drawn her
fear, she would’ve scribbled her tiny body grabbing onto those coral heads beneath the surface, holding on for dear life in spite of the fact that the grip would be shredding her hands to pieces. Sometimes that’s what you had to do when the truck unloaded right on top of you. If you weren’t holding onto something you could be sure the wave would suck you right up by the feet before it chucked you back into the rinse cycle. But that’s not what she drew.
Fly leaned in towards the microphone. ‘I’ve drawn myself making the kind of wave which gives me nightmares.’
There, halfway through the bottom turn, on the way to safety, was the tiny figure of Fly. She wore a beaming grin. This was what she was seeing now, thanks to Matt.
‘What’s the can all about?’ a woman yelled from the crowd.
When Fly scanned the group, she saw that the question had come from Deb. She turned back to the board. Floating harmlessly away in one corner was a large empty milk can, its lid bobbing along beside it.
‘It’s a milk can. It’s what I used to keep my fear in.’
Deb smiled, gave her a nod. She wasn’t one hundred per cent sure she was off the hook, but she felt like it was a definite possibility.
‘Well done, Fly,’ Simmo said. ‘Who’ll start me off at two hundred and fifty dollars for this fine piece of fear-facing?’
A young bloke near the back called out, ‘Two hundred and fifty!’
‘Three hundred!’ came the call from the front. Deb?!
‘Three fifty!’ The bloke upped his bid.
‘Four hundred!’ called Deb.
What was she doing? Maybe she was trying to push the price up, make sure they made a good amount for the surf club.
‘Good to see you haven’t run out of puff. Any raises on four hundred dollars?’ Simmo called
The bloke was quiet for a good ten seconds. Fly started to panic. All the good vibes she’d managed to squeeze out of Deb by finally naming the fear could be exploded in an instant if she ended up lumbered with a board she didn’t want and had to fork out four hundred big ones for the privilege.
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