by Melissa Keil
I glance at my phone. ‘Camilla will be here soon.’
Mike looks at me impassively. ‘Uh-huh. So … what’d you two do last night?’
‘Me? Nothing. I mean, she hung around for a while and then I worked on some dialogue bits in my screenplay – which still sucks by the way. What did you do?’
He shrugs. ‘TV. Stared at that maths homework for, like, twelve hours. Feels like I’m trying to understand Swahili.’
‘You want mine?’
‘You finished?’
‘Well, yeah.’
Mike shrugs. ‘Nah. I’ll work it out on my own.’
I slip my mobile into my pocket. ‘Guess it must be cool to have your Friday nights back. I never got the whole two-hour arse-kicking thing you guys did on Fridays.’
‘It was a fighting class,’ he says quietly. ‘For seniors. And yeah. Friday nights are mine again. So I can watch TV on the couch with a bag of chips if I want, right?’
‘Sure. I’m just saying … I thought you’d be hanging out to kick someone. But I guess you’re not missing it at all. Friday night in front of the TV must be awesome.’
‘It is. Awesome.’
Mike stares at me. I stare back. Mike and I used to get stuck in silent stares all the time when we were kids. This time, Mike looks away. Now he can’t even hold my eye? This is not good.
Mike stands with a sigh. ‘Allison’s waiting downstairs. Adrian’s probably gonna be late.’ He reaches into my wardrobe and pulls out a backpack. ‘You bringing a towel?’
I shelve the karate conversation, again. ‘Wasn’t planning on getting wet.’
‘Right. They do serve other purposes, though. Sitting on. Soaking up blood. Bring a towel.’
I groan, but retrieve one anyway. The only two beach towels we own have pictures of Ninja Turtles on them. After eight minutes of reflection I settle for a plain green thing that looks innocuous enough, cursing whatever creature of malevolence has plagued my life with the need to agonise over towel selection.
The doorbell rings. My stomach flip-flops. Jesus. I cannot be this nervous about going to the beach.
I bound down the stairs just as Allison emerges from the lounge room and opens my front door. She smiles at me as I skid into the foyer. ‘Hey, Sam. It’s such a nice day. This should be good?’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble. ‘Good.’
Camilla swings in through the doorway with one arm braced on the frame. She gives me a brief salute.
She has her hair in two loose braids, and she’s wearing tiny shorts and a see-through top thing that looks a bit ineffectual as a piece of clothing. I can see the tattoo on her arm through the thin fabric. I can also see that she’s wearing a bikini underneath. It seems to have flowers on it. Maybe daisies. Though I’m fairly certain that Smurf-blue daisies don’t exist in the real world. But I am not a florist. Maybe they do exist. They look a bit like the flowers on her tattoo, but it’s hard to tell through the material.
I probably should not be staring at the blue flowers on her bikini.
My face suddenly feels like someone has waved a space heater in front of it. But Camilla is looking me up and down and hasn’t seemed to notice. ‘Sam, sure you don’t want to add your ski suit over the top of that?’
I focus on her braids. ‘I … don’t own a ski suit.’
‘Do you own shorts?’
‘No.’
She looks at me appraisingly. ‘Do you have Wolfman fur? Are you hiding a superhero costume under there?’
‘I don’t wear shorts.’ I didn’t think this was a difficult concept to grasp.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Fine, Sammy. Be that way. You ready to go? I should say hi to your mum.’
My mum, at this moment, is sitting on the decking in the backyard, one of her emergency cigarettes in hand. Mum quit smoking years ago. Last time I checked, her emergency cigarette pack was looking pretty low.
Dad disappeared this morning with barely a glance in either of our directions. Apparently he had ‘stuff’ on.
I do not know what to do about this situation anymore. I feel like I’m watching my parents succumb to the slow infestation by a zombie virus, and I’m the loser from any one of a dozen movies, staring at them with his mouth open as they start to bleed from the eyeballs. I always hated that character. It’s like, dude, run, get help, grab an axe – do something! Don’t just stand around looking blank and waiting for your face to be eaten off.
All I know is every time I look at my mother recently, I feel like someone is strangling me. And aside from figuring out how to clone a non-arsehead version of my father for her, there’s nothing at all I can do about it.
‘S’okay,’ I say. ‘Think she’s in the shower. Mike’s here, but we need to wait for Adrian.’
‘Speaking of …’ says Allison.
‘Hey guys!’ Adrian is bounding up the driveway. His sister Emma beeps her horn and tears off down the street.
Adrian is squeezed into board shorts and a Fraggle Rock T-shirt that looks two sizes too small for him. He also seems to be carrying half the contents of his house, and possibly someone else’s, in his arms. He grins and waves, and a container of orange slices falls out of one of his grocery bags and spills over the driveway.
Yep. We are very probably going to die today. I wonder if it’s too late to convince my friends that sitting in the dark with the director’s cut of The Driller Killer is a healthier option.
Adrian hauls himself and his luggage and his stumpy, hairy legs into the foyer. Camilla grabs a couple of bags from him, giggling. ‘Nice work, Adrian. Neither us nor the population of Brighton Beach will go hungry today.’
Adrian’s face falls. ‘Do you think it’s too much?’
Mike makes his way down the stairs with my backpack in hand. He takes one look at Adrian and his stuff, and he gets this pinched look around his eyes.
Camilla shakes her head. ‘Not at all. Oh, hey, Mike! Okay, let’s just sort all of this. I have room in my bag. We should move, cos I’m hanging to get my toes in the sand. Last beach I went to was in England. Lots of grey water and rocks. I’m excited!’
And with that, any thought of skipping out on this day disappears.
•
I’ve never been out to Brighton. When the train pulls into the station, we pile onto the platform in a confusion of bags and towels, looking pretty much like every group of brain-dead college backpackers who’ve ever decided that exploring a derelict cannibal’s house in arsecrack nowhere Texas is a good idea.
I fear we may shortly fulfil that horror-movie trope known as ‘too stupid to live’.
Adrian skips ahead. Camilla threads an arm through Allison’s, and Allison smiles at her gratefully. The two of them follow Adrian.
Mike drapes his towel around his neck. ‘Dude, are you gonna pass out? Cos I’m not sure unconsciousness will be your best defence.’
‘Mike – assuming we’re not killed on sight – are we actually expected to talk to these people?’
In all my mental scenarios about this day, I hadn’t taken the actual party into consideration until this moment. What possible conversation am I going to be able to manufacture with the Vessels? And how did I not think of this before?
‘What do normal guys talk about?’
Mike shrugs. ‘Dunno. Football. Boobs. Think I’m gonna be screwed as well.’
One of Camilla’s words seems most appropriate at this juncture. ‘Bollocks.’
Mike grins at me. ‘Pretty much.’
I look behind me as the train pulls out of the platform. I allow myself one moment of imagining being on it, heading back to my bedroom and my movies and my screenplay. And then I face forward, and I make my legs march ahead in front of Adrian. I am not sure if this is the equivalent of picking up that metaphorical meat cleaver. But when I glance over my shoulder, Camilla is grinning at me.
•
We find Justin’s guys tossing a ball around near the water’s edge. The girls are gathered on the sand in a loos
e arrangement of towels and picnic blankets.
I’m not sure what the protocol is for staring at the skin of girls you see at school every day. And then I have a moment of panic, because I don’t know whether looking or not looking would be considered ruder. I focus on the city skyline, and try desperately to think thoughts that aren’t bikini-related. It suddenly feels like that space heater is being waved in front of my face again. I note, with almost clinical detachment, that this is an interesting biological feat, as my blood supply is rushing somewhat south of my face.
There are lots of squeals and air kisses as ‘CC’ drops next to the girls. I huddle down quickly on the other side of her. I’m guessing that now we probably look like we’ve wandered from a slasher film into one of those Elvis movies that Mum likes, but if people are surprised to see us, noone reacts. The girls actually give us a couple of lazy ‘hey’s, though Veronica Singh does glare at Adrian, whose eyes are glued somewhere in the vicinity of her bikini top. I nudge his arm. He looks down at the sand with a manic giggle.
I spread out my towel, and check the contents of my backpack; Mike has shoved a spare T-shirt and bottle of SPF 30+ from our bathroom into it. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I mutter.
He whips the towel from around his neck and shakes it out on the other side of mine. ‘I’m not the one who cried last time he got sunburnt.’
‘I was nine.’
‘Dude, you still cried.’
Adrian is busy opening his Tupperware and describing the contents in frenzied Adrian-detail. The girls actually make happy noises at him. Camilla stretches out next to me and looks at the water with a satisfied sigh.
I don’t exactly relax. But I do kick off my shoes, and I dig my toes cautiously into the sand. Under the surface, it’s remarkably cool. And I have not, as yet, been beaten to death. So far, so bizarre.
Camilla glances around. ‘Hey, where’s Sharni?’
Veronica looks at Becky someone-or-another. Becky’s face falls into a sad mask that looks suspiciously like a face-full of glee is trying to work its way out. ‘You didn’t hear?’ she says forlornly. ‘Justin and Sharni broke up. The poor thing can’t stop crying. They’ve been together forever!’
‘Poor Sharni,’ Camilla murmurs. She looks out at the water where Justin and the guys are laughing. I follow her eyes. I see lots of tans and no shirts. Alistair McIlroy looks like he spends his spare time chopping wood or wrestling crocodiles. I resist the urge to tug my hood over my head.
‘Justin seems to be coping?’ Camilla says.
Veronica snorts. ‘Yeah. It’s been thirteen hours. I think his mourning period is over.’
I smile without really thinking about it. Veronica grins back at me.
A bunch of seagulls squawk around us. They scatter as Justin Zigoni and a couple of Vessels land in front of us in a flurry of sand and muscle. My colon decides that my stomach is a good place for it to set up shop. I can all but feel Mike’s danger-status shoot up from yellow to red-alert.
‘Hey,’ Justin says vaguely in our direction. He grins at Camilla and kisses her cheek. He does not have anything else to say to us.
Reverse evil. There is no other explanation.
Justin flops into the sand. ‘You made it, CC. Did you hear? We kicked arse!’
There is much cheering from the other guys. Camilla smiles. Justin runs his eyes over her. They settle somewhere on the front of her top-thing.
I’m not sure whether he’s trying to identify her mysterious blue flowers. I do notice that he has exceptionally bad skin on his forehead, which I’ve never observed before. Probably because my eyes have never had extended contact with Justin’s face. I feel my spine straighten.
‘So, CC, you gonna come for a swim? The water is awesome.’ Justin’s eyes roam over her top again. I clear my throat. Justin ignores me.
‘Maybe later,’ Camilla says lightly. ‘I pretty much have English skin. Gonna burn in two seconds if I take this off.’
He smirks. ‘Shame to hide your gorgeous self under all of that.’
I shake myself out of my stupor long enough to notice that the girls are watching this exchange, their expressions ranging from amusement to bated-breath eagerness.
Camilla shrugs. ‘Not really. Here. Have a celebratory cupcake.’
Justin takes one of Adrian’s mum’s cupcakes from her with a wide smile. ‘I know it’s gay, but I love cupcakes. My grandma makes them all the time.’
He takes a bite. My mouth switches itself to autopilot. ‘Guessing those aren’t your grandma’s cupcakes. Unless she uses shellac and bits of brick to make hers.’
‘Hey, don’t pick on my grandma’s cooking,’ Adrian says loudly.
‘I wasn’t picking on her cooking. Just her baking.’
Camilla laughs. Behind me, Mike groans quietly.
Justin gives me a tight-lipped smile, even as the muscles right across his neck tense. I plaster my most inoffensive expression on my face. I have no idea what I am doing. But whatever I’m doing – it feels kind of good.
Justin turns his back pointedly on me. ‘I’m really glad you made it, CC. I wanted to hear the rest of your story about the Brit Awards.’
She shrugs. ‘Those things tend to all blend together. Jeez, that’s sounds really stuck-up, doesn’t it? I just mean, they’re really not as exciting as you’d think.’
‘Aw, I reckon you have heaps of stories. I’d love to hear them sometime. We should hang out. Maybe at Mindy’s after school one day?’
Time seems to stop. The girls on the picnic blanket freeze, like they’re afraid to disturb even the molecules of salty air in case they miss a moment of this event. It takes me six additional seconds to figure out what is happening.
Justin Zigoni is inviting Camilla to the sad-arsed, 1950s-themed cafe next to the soulless multiplex cinema in the mall. Justin Zigoni is asking Camilla out. This is not possible. The moustache-twirling supervillain with the IQ of a lobotomised crustacean cannot be asking Camilla on a date. Even Adrian pauses his frantic unpacking and stares.
Camilla’s phone beeps. A dozen people watch as she slips off her sunglasses and shades her hand over her screen. She smiles, but something weird is going on around her eyes. I can’t place it at all. ‘It’s Dave,’ she says lightly. ‘Jeez, it’s pretty late in New York as well.’
Becky someone-or-another awws. Justin’s face falls.
Right. Dave the Boyfriend. The guitar-playing, poetry-writing, no doubt chest-hair-possessing Dave the Boyfriend who’s obviously so cool that a few thousand kilometres is no obstacle.
Justin’s face slips back into its mask of smarm. ‘Well, anyway, we should hang out. With the guys. And stuff. You know.’ And then he leaps up, and the guys seem to take it as a cue to grab their football and bolt back out to the water.
Camilla smiles sheepishly at me. ‘How you doing there, sweater-boy?’
‘Just awesome. And stuff. You know.’
She flops onto her back with a chuckle. I glance at Mike.
‘Smooth,’ he says under his breath. ‘I was giving it at least another month before Zigoni took a shot.’
‘What? You knew he had a thing for her?’ I whisper.
Mike shakes his head. ‘Dude. Sometimes, you are seriously … blind.’
Clearly. Justin and Camilla. There is no way. Camilla Carter is off-limits. She has a boyfriend. And even if she didn’t, Camilla would not be interested in Justin Zigoni. Would she?
I have a flash of a possible beach scene in my screenplay where the Killer Cat people morph spectacularly in the midday sun and proceed to relieve the supervillain of his limbs, slowly, one body part at a time, while a crowd of people stand around cheering. The thought makes me feel only slightly less annoyed.
Mike sighs. ‘It’s frakking hot. Gonna go in the water. You staying put?’
‘Someone has to keep an eye on Radley. You go. Watch out for sharks. Don’t talk to strangers.’
Mike glances at a group of non-BLS shirtless guys. ‘Not even the cu
te ones?’ he whispers.
I snort. It’s not the sort of conversation that Mike and I ever have. I suppose drooling over half-naked bodies is what normal guys are supposed to do at a beach party, but I’m not sure I can add another first to this already too-weird day. Even if Michelle Argus is now lying on her stomach, and her back does look incredibly smooth, although I’m pretty sure she should be wearing some sort of Cancer Council-approved shirt since she is so pale and, now that I look at her properly, bears more than a passing resemblance to that page-six cowgirl from Dad’s vintage –
Mike clears his throat. I snap my eyes away. They land on Camilla. Beneath her giant glasses, her eyes are closed.
Mike glances at Adrian, who is attempting to teach Annie Curtis how to play poker. Annie actually seems semi-interested in this endeavour. Apparently satisfied that Adrian is safe, Mike unzips his hoodie, tosses it and his glasses onto his towel, and jogs towards the water.
I’d almost forgotten about Allison. She’s still sitting on the edge of the girls, listening to them with that pensive, calculating look of hers. Veronica and Brie Dailey are poring over magazines and discussing Spring Dance hairstyles. I try to catch Allison’s eye, but her brain appears to be otherwise engaged, cos she opens her mouth and utters what I can only guess is the password to some secret girl-dimension.
‘I hate my hair.’
Veronica and Brie look up.
‘I never know what to do with it. I want to change it, but I don’t know how.’
Veronica and Brie scamper over and Allison disappears beneath their hands. For a second I panic, thinking that they’re trying to bury her, but it turns out they’re simply tugging her hair in different directions. Allison re-emerges, briefly. She looks pleased.
Everyone is okay. No-one has died or looks in danger of imminent death. I lie down cautiously on my towel.
‘Told you it would be fine,’ Camilla murmurs. ‘You worry too much, Sammy.’
‘Ugh. Do I really deserve a Sammy?’
‘Yes,’ she says decisively. ‘For being a huge wuss.’