Life in Outer Space

by Melissa Keil

  She smiles whenever she sees me, and occasionally chirps ‘Dex’ as she passes by. I have no idea what her angle is, so I have defaulted to a standard response of a furtive half-wave before fleeing in the opposite direction. She is in my history and English classes, but is always knee-deep in Vessels-of-Wank suckage. She seems to slot right in, like the missing piece of a really lame puzzle.

  I do not play Warcraft again all week. This is not entirely my choice.

  On Tuesday, Mike and Adrian show up after school. We try to work on my screenplay, but since Adrian’s idea of a good movie is to have girls in PVC jumpsuits appear at random moments, I give up and stick on Wolf Creek instead. Despite Adrian’s sledgehammer questioning, Mike refuses to discuss karate.

  On Wednesday, I come home to find Mum sniffling over The Notebook. Apparently Dad decided he ‘needed a night off’ and has gone to a movie, alone. I’m not sure what pisses me off more: the fact that he’s ditching Mum, again, or the fact that he’s doing it in a movie theatre. It’s like, he might as well just walk into my place of worship and pee all over the pews. Mum and I make tacos and watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We discuss the development of the slasher genre since the 70s; I know Mum is just exercising the former English teacher in her, but I don’t mind. It’s almost midnight when I fall into bed. I try to rewrite the opening scene of my movie. It still sucks arse.

  On Thursday, Alessandro corners me in the IT office at lunchtime with a request to help test some new software after school. I end up stuck for hours while he scours IMDb for news of the latest Superman movie. When I get home, Dad is locked in his study and Mum is in bed. Not even the prospect of an Evil Dead marathon can entice her out. I make toasted cheese sandwiches for Mum and me, and watch The Evil Dead in my bedroom, vaguely contemplating the various ways in which a face-eating curse might be unleashed upon my father. I am not in the mood for Warcraft.

  Except that I do log on, briefly. My night elf is alone.

  By Friday I am tired. I am tired of school, and home, and Killer Cats from the Third Moon of Jupiter, and hiding out in Alessandro’s office, which – since the five of us have been crammed in there every lunch hour and free period this week – is starting to smell like the inside of a body bag.

  ‘I think we should have lunch in the dining hall,’ I say as I walk into the IT office. I didn’t even know the words were planning to work their way out of my mouth until I said them. Everyone stares at me.

  We do not eat lunch in the dining hall. Not since last year, when Justin Zigoni and his minions and four strawberry milkshakes made it clear that it was best if we ate elsewhere. I was more than happy to maintain the status quo until graduation. I have no idea why I’m feeling so twitchy now, but regardless – I can’t spend another lunchtime stuck in this office talking about Battlestar.

  ‘Look, it’s just lunch,’ I say. ‘Besides, has anyone copped anything other than a couple of looks this week?’

  Mike and Allison glance at each other. I’m starting to feel inexplicably annoyed.

  Allison tugs her Doraemon T-shirt over her knees. ‘Well, no. But aren’t we better off not tempting fate?’

  ‘Tempting fate? What’s the worst that could happen?’

  Allison looks pained. ‘I think that might be the definition of tempting fate,’ she mumbles.

  Adrian tosses his sandwich in the bin. ‘Come on, guys. No fate but what we make.’ He grins at me. For once, his Terminator quotage might prove to be useful.

  Mike stands and straightens his glasses. ‘Okay. I’m in,’ he says quietly.

  Allison scrambles out of her chair. ‘If you want, Sam, I’ll come as well. I think it’s supposed to be apple-crumble day.’

  Alessandro appears to be trying to clean his teeth with a USB key. ‘You guys need company?’

  My friends are looking at me like I’ve become the leader of a possibly doomed expedition. I swallow. ‘Thanks, but we don’t need a bodyguard.’

  Alessandro shrugs. ‘Your funeral.’

  I grab my backpack and try my best to look casual. The ridiculousness of this situation is not lost on me; then again, neither is the memory of a strawberry-milkshake shower. I march out of the office before my legs have the chance to change their mind.

  The four of us scamper into the too-bright dining hall, blinking like hibernating gerbils on the first day of spring. I grab a tray and join the line near the steaming bain-maries. Mike files in after me. Adrian is already in the middle of a conversation with the tuckshop lady about the Friday special – a greying eggplant casserole that looks like the chemical sludge from which comic-book supervillains are born. Allison huddles behind us, clutching her tray like a shield.

  I pay for my lunch and make a beeline for an empty table near the door. A bunch of year sevens at the next table look up in alarm; I baulk before I realise it’s actually me that they’re looking at.

  ‘This isn’t so bad,’ Adrian says cheerfully as he slides into the seat across from mine.

  Mike pokes at his eggplant casserole and frowns. Allison sits down with a small bowl of dessert. She looks paler than usual.

  ‘You okay, Allison?’ I ask.

  She smiles faintly. ‘I’m good. Thanks, Sam.’

  The noise of a hundred voices and chairs scraping on lino is verging on painful. I’m not exactly sure what part of this plan I thought was a good idea, or why. In my rush to break the tedium of my week, I’d forgotten I never actually liked eating in the dining hall, even pre-strawberry-milkshake incident.

  I shovel in a forkful of casserole. If malevolence has a flavour, I now believe it might be eggplant. Just as I’m wishing I was four years old and could acceptably spit my food out, a shadow falls across my tray. I freeze, a half-chewed mouthful lodged in my cheek.

  ‘I would say to avoid the special, but I fear I’m too late. I think whoever made it hates tastebuds.’

  ‘Hey, Camilla,’ Adrian says, waving his fork in the air.

  I spin around. Of course, I then proceed to choke.

  Mike thumps me across the back a couple of times. Allison hastily pushes her bottle of water across the table. I take a few giant mouthfuls, my eyes watering.

  Camilla’s smile wavers. ‘Sorry, Sam. Didn’t mean to lurk.’ She pulls out a chair and drops into it without even asking first. ‘You okay? Do we need a medic?’

  ‘No – I’m – fine,’ I manage to gasp.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I gulp another mouthful of water. My oesophagus takes a few moments to decide whether it will swallow or projectile-vomit it across the table.

  I swallow. ‘Uh-huh,’ I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

  Camilla takes a bite of the apple in her hand. She is wearing a T-shirt that has the words ‘Cobra Kai’ stencilled on the front. Her hair is shoved underneath an old-man hat. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you guys here at all this week? Though I’m impressed the school actually has a dining hall. It’s like an homage to The Breakfast Club.’

  I glance around the room. I can see Sharni Vane and Michelle Argus staring in our direction. Justin Zigoni is looking at me with this smirk on his face. I fear that the plan to remain inconspicuous may have failed miserably.

  Camilla nudges my arm like she’s known me for longer than five minutes. I flinch. From the corner of my eye, I see Allison grimace.

  ‘Hey, you haven’t been on Warcraft this week. My dwarf had to fight all on her lonesome.’

  ‘Um, yeah. I’ve had stuff on.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘And here I was thinking you and I might be soulmates. Unfortunately, I cannot be friends with anyone who prioritises real life over WoW.’

  It takes me a moment to figure out that she’s joking. I risk another glance at Justin. He’s still looking in my direction, and he’s laughing. He also has a banana in his hand. I am uncertain of the anatomical correctness of the gesture he is making with it, but it looks painful.

  ‘Um, so, was there something you needed?’ I say. Even to my
ears, it sounds a little tetchy.

  Mike shoots me a look.

  Camilla nods. ‘Actually, yeah. See, for some reason I thought it was a good idea to sign up for history, only, I’m a little behind. Actually, I’m going to get my arse majorly kicked in history if I don’t have help. And since we’re in the same class, and I figure you guys probably crack open a book every now and again …?’

  ‘You want to study with us?’ Mike says. His eyes dart over to the Vessels’ table. Allison’s eyes dart over to the Vessels’ table. I keep my eyes on Camilla. She looks back at me innocently.

  ‘Why are you taking history then?’ I manage to ask. I don’t think it comes out rude, but Mike gives me that look again anyway.

  Camilla shrugs. ‘I was pretty decent at it in my other schools. But I’m not exactly up on Australian history. I was six years old last time we lived here.’

  Adrian is busy shovelling lunch into his mouth. He doesn’t look up from his plate. But with a mouthful of toxic-sludge eggplant casserole, Adrian says:

  ‘Sure. We should catch up for a study group. How ’bout Fridays after class? We could go to Mike’s place. Or Sam’s. They live near here. Tonight?’

  Camilla takes another bite of her apple. ‘Can’t tonight. I’m going to Sydney with Dad. He has a thing. But next week? I mean, if that’s okay with the rest of you?’

  Allison glances at Mike. He shrugs. ‘I could do with extra study. But my house is out. Mum … has her book club over on Fridays.’

  Mike catches my eye. I know the real reason he wouldn’t want a stranger at his house is because his parents have turned it into a shrine for their okayness about their gay son – complete with a giant rainbow flag hanging in the foyer. The only fight I’ve ever seen Mike have with his parents was when his dad wanted to hang a rainbow flag off the antenna of their car. Mike thinks his parents are just happy to have something interesting to tell their friends.

  Either way, we are not going to Mike’s.

  Adrian nods. ‘Sam’s it is then.’

  Everyone looks at me. I make a noise that apparently passes for assent.

  Camilla grins. ‘Awesome. Maybe I won’t be looking at a total embarrassment of a history score after all. Cheers, guys.’ She pushes her chair back and stands. And then she actually tips her hat a bit and smiles. ‘Well, guess I’ll see you in class then. Bye!’

  Adrian waves. ‘Bye, Camilla!’

  Apparently we now have a history study group. Is that even a thing people do?

  I keep my eyes off the A-group’s table. I don’t know if Camilla made it back there, or if she’s pointing and laughing at us, or if Justin is making his way over with a milky beverage of some kind in hand.

  I do not eat the eggplant casserole.

  The four of us make a run for history before the bell rings.

  History on a Friday is supposed to be my best class. The four of us are together, it’s light on suck-factor, and Mr Norrell is massively lazy so often just shoves a DVD on and leaves us alone. We have our normal seats: Mike and me side by side, third row, and Allison and Adrian in the two seats behind us. There is order to our Friday afternoons.

  Today, Camilla skips into the classroom and takes the seat next to mine. The hat is gone and in its place are headphones that look like two giant speakers mounted on either side of her head. I’ve seen her walking around with those in the corridors a few times before, her face in this kind of faraway haze. She slides them off and shakes out her hair with a ‘hey’ in my direction.

  Camilla perches her glasses on her nose. Then she leans backwards over Allison’s table and starts talking about the psychology class they’re both taking until Mr Norrell walks in with a DVD of Gallipoli in hand.

  Allison actually responds with more than monosyllabic whispers, which is weird in itself.

  People are looking at us. Camilla doesn’t seem to notice.

  We should have just eaten lunch in the IT office.

  Why Princess Leia hair is always a bad idea

  The ‘thing’ Camilla’s dad had in Sydney? It turned out to be a party for the new Starfig Soles record. I find this out when I receive a hysterical call from Adrian on Sunday morning; apparently Camilla is in the paper. I look it up online; sure enough, at the bottom of the entertainment section, there are photos of the launch. Camilla is smiling at someone off-camera with the arm of the bass guitarist around her shoulder. Her hair is poker-straight. Her lips are cherry red.

  I’ve never liked Starfig Soles. I turn off my computer and go back to bed.

  My weekend is pathetically uneventful.

  At eight twenty-four on Sunday night, Camilla logs on to Warcraft.

  The chat window flashes at me. ‘Hallo, Dex,’ she types. ‘What’s happening?’

  The original Halloween is blaring from the mini DVD player on my desk. I have my Anatomy of Story book open on the bed in front of me. I wasn’t really concentrating on Warcraft. I shove my book to the other side of my bed and grab the laptop from my pillow. After some consideration, and a few deleted sentences, I type:

  ‘Hey. How was Sydney?’

  ‘Meh. One of Dad’s work things. Lots of being hit on by drunk old guys. Heaps o’ fun. How was your weekend?’

  I’ve spent my weekend alternating between homework and my movie. KCftTMoJ has reached this point where my three guys are trapped in the basement of a burning building, and one of the guys has been bitten and is freaking out about turning into a Killer Cat person. I’m not really sure what comes next. I’m also worried that the special effects needed may render my script unfilmable. And I think I may have written my characters into a corner.

  I tried to catch up with Mike, but he’s been busy doing unspecified things all weekend. Ever since we were kids, I’ve been able to decipher Mike’s grunts and half-sentences, like one of those British war guys who could read German codes. It’s strange, because I’m not exactly the most intuitive person in the world. Apart from his coming out, which was kind of a surprise, Mike has always been an open book to me. But now I’m drawing blanks. He’s starting to freak me out. I don’t know what, if anything, to do about it.

  ‘Not much happening,’ I type. ‘Planning on bed soon.’

  I hit enter before it strikes me what a dumb-arse thing that was to say. It is now eight twenty-seven. Why the hell did I say I was going to bed?

  Camilla types a smiley face. ‘Whoa. Big night last night?’

  Right. Saturday night. I spent my Saturday night analysing the opening scenes of every Hammer horror movie in my collection, and trying to drown out Mum and Dad’s theatrically whispered fighting, which they assume I can’t hear because it’s whispered.

  ‘Something like that,’ I type.

  ‘You up for a quest before you crash? I’m a little wired.’ Her dwarf jogs into view. It jumps around hysterically before bowing at me.

  I shrug, and then realise that I am an idiot. ‘Sure. Lead the way.’

  I check out the map, and then our characters jog towards the path that will take them where they need to go.

  I drum my fingers over the keyboard. ‘So … you seem to have settled in quickly?’

  There is a pause on the other end of the window as her dwarf chats to a weapons seller. ‘Yeah. Kinda mandatory when you move around a lot.’

  I think about this for a moment. I wonder what it would be like to be able to start somewhere new, somewhere with no Vessels or minions or miserable dining halls with strawberry-milkshake histories.

  ‘Must be cool,’ I type.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fresh starts,’ I type back, before I realise that it might be a naff thing to say.

  Her dwarf spins around to face my night elf. The cursor blinks for eight seconds. I panic and consider logging off. It was, objectively, a naff thing to say.

  ‘Wherever you go, there you are,’ she says.

  What does that mean?

  ‘What does that mean?’ I type.

  ‘I think it’s
Buddhist. You’d prefer something about being stuck in your own bell jar? We had to read Plath at my last school. It means fresh starts are fresh for all of twenty-five seconds. Unless you can factor in a brain or personality transplant – there’s no such thing as a fresh start. You drag yourself with you wherever you go.’

  I push my laptop away a bit. She makes her dwarf do that stupid dance in front of my night elf. I place my hands back on the keyboard.

  ‘So the person you drag with you – she manages to fit in no matter where she goes?’

  ‘Well – she didn’t always. But she’s levelled up a lot since she started out. She just upgrades her equipment and hopes that there aren’t any evil guilds waiting to shoot her in the back. And anyway, it’s not always about fitting in, Dex.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Nope. Sometimes it’s about reading your environment real quick, and then finding the bits of it that fit you.’

  I can see my face reflected in the laptop screen. It appears to be smiling. ‘Does your dwarf have a philosophy degree, AltheaZorg?’

  ‘Ha. Not exactly. She does however have a PhD in new-girl-ness.’

  ‘And her thesis was on what?’

  ‘Well, Dex, it was called: You can rock the boat, but you better make sure you have a very safe seat first.’

  Jamie Lee Curtis screams on my DVD player. I jump, and my laptop almost slides off my bed. I grab it with both hands. My fingers have been f lying over the keyboard seemingly without being connected to my brain. I re-read over what she has written. I can’t help but laugh a little bit.

  ‘Anyway, Sam – school is school. I’ve never been to Mongolia or Afghanistan, but I’d bet money that school is the same in those places as well. Maybe the school dances involve more horsehair in Mongolia. But you get the idea.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not really into dancing. Or horsehair. Or glitter.’

  ‘Ha, the dance committee did go kinda heavy on the sparkle. But it’s Hollywood-themed. Thought you’d be excited?’