Life in Outer Space

by Melissa Keil

  I sit up. I think I may have been holding my breath for the last seventeen minutes.

  Mike takes a cautious sip of his beer. ‘Well. I’m kinda relieved that’s over. Lucky she’s good.’

  ‘Good?’ Adrian says. ‘She was awesome! Don’t you think so, Sam? I mean, it’s not the sort of music I’d normally listen to, but she was so cool, and she’s wicked on the piano. And she looked hot, too.’

  ‘Don’t call Camilla hot,’ I say automatically.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos it’s weird, that’s why. And girls don’t like it when you say that stuff behind their back.’

  ‘What stuff?’ she says from behind me.

  I spin around. She’s standing at the edge of our booth, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

  Adrian grins. ‘I was just saying that you looked hot up there. Sam was disagreeing.’

  ‘Adrian! That’s not what I –’

  Camilla sticks out her bottom lip. ‘You didn’t think so?’

  ‘I did not say that. I mean, I didn’t – I wasn’t – Adrian, you’re an idiot!’

  Camilla giggles. Mike climbs out of the booth. He shoots Adrian and me a look, and then he gives her a hug. ‘You were great,’ he says quietly. ‘Really, really good.’

  She collapses against him. ‘God, I thought I was going to die up there. I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life. My knees are still shaking.’

  Adrian flies out of the booth behind Mike. He grabs Camilla around the waist in a ferocious bear hug. ‘You were really awesome. Wow. Just very, very cool. I loved the one about the donkey.’

  Camilla laughs as she hugs them both back. ‘Thanks, guys. Jesus, I need a drink.’

  I scramble backwards and she slides next to me with a shudder.

  ‘Here.’ I push my untouched beer over to her. She grabs it with both hands and drinks half the glass in a few giant gulps. Then she looks sideways at me. Her eyes are uncertain and self-conscious and completely un-Camilla-like.

  ‘So …?’ she says quietly.

  Suddenly I’m not exactly sure what to say. Somehow, you were awesome just doesn’t seem enough. I try to think, objectively, about the sort of things that a songwriter might want to hear. Objectively, her songs were funny and cool, and her voice was unique and worked perfectly for the music. Objectively, it was a great set.

  ‘You were awesome,’ I murmur.

  She smiles. ‘Thanks, Sam. Really. You have no idea. Even though I thought I was going to cry up there, I think I almost feel good now. I’m really glad you didn’t let me flee.’ She looks around the table. ‘Hey, where’s Allie?’

  ‘Al really wanted to be here, but she couldn’t escape the Winfield fortress,’ Adrian says.

  Mike peers at the empty stage. ‘She said to wish you luck. Sam’s supposed to give you a hug from her.’

  Camilla looks at me. Her face is almost back to its normal colour. ‘Well?’ she says.

  ‘Oh … right.’

  The booth we’re in is too small, and the table in front of us is marked with half-moon stains and scratched graffiti, and the entire bar smells like old beer and foot odour, and Mike is suddenly engaged in an intense discussion with Adrian about why uni students all have the same glasses. Camilla is still looking at me expectantly, so I drape the arm that’s resting on the back of the booth around her, in a half-arsed thing that’s more awkward-shoulder-squeeze than hug. And then Camilla wraps both her arms around my middle and looks up at me with a smile.

  ‘Thanks, Sam. If it wasn’t for your pep talk – I couldn’t have done it without you. Sorry you had to see my pile-o-nervous-jelly side.’

  She feels really, unusually warm. It might just be the stage lights, or it might be the fact that the last time I hugged her she was buried under a coat, but now her dress is pretty thin and I can feel the shape of her beneath it, which feels like nothing I actually have words for. All I can think is that the vanilla is her shampoo, and that my hands might be shaking. And then I move my other arm from its place on the table, and suddenly, both of mine are wrapped around her as well.

  She rests her head against me. I can feel the warmth of her palms through my T-shirt. The fog of bar noise seems to fade. My brain is telling me to move my arms away now. My arms do not move anywhere.

  From somewhere that seems miles away, I hear the scraping of chairs. Camilla quickly untangles herself from me and the room comes back into focus. My skin is prickly, too hot and too cold all at the same time.

  Two guys have pulled chairs up at the edge of our booth. It takes me a few seconds to realise that they are the guitar players who were on before Camilla. They settle on the edge of our table, propping their beers in front of them.

  ‘Hey!’ she says. ‘Guys, this is James and Noah. We fumbled through our sound check together earlier.’ She sits up straighter and puts on her best game-show-host voice. ‘James is a budding singer-slash-songwriter who’s studying industrial design and hopes to travel to Nashville. His brother Noah is in year twelve at City High, and enjoys …’ She raises an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Um, I guess, guitar, New Folk, photography, and, um … lamb pizza?’ he says quietly. Noah has shaggy dark hair and a checkered shirt scattered with holes. He looks exactly like he belongs on stage in a dingy bar, not in a year-twelve classroom. He clears his throat and looks uncertainly around the table.

  Camilla introduces everyone else. Adrian is already in the middle of a conversation with James. James seems either nice enough or drunk enough to deal with Adrian. Noah clears his throat again and glances at Mike.

  ‘I liked your music,’ Mike murmurs.

  ‘Yeah? We mangled the last one. Timing was all off.’

  ‘Oh? I didn’t notice.’

  Camilla turns around to face me, ignoring the conversations around her. I stare at her for seven seconds.

  ‘Why so quiet?’ she says eventually.

  ‘It’s just … I can’t believe I’ve never heard you sing. I can’t believe you never told me you write. There’s this whole thing you do that I didn’t know about.’

  She runs her fingernails over the graffiti on the table. ‘It’s not like I meant to hide it, Sam, but it’s just so … personal, you know? And I have no – well, in your words, no objective measure for anything I write. I mean, Jesus, how many sad emos are out there calling themselves songwriters? As if bad hair and a rhyming dictionary is a qualification. I listen to myself in my bedroom and sometimes I think that maybe bits of my stuff are okay, but –’

  ‘Camilla – objectively – your music was more than okay. You were really great. Hey, even if I am biased, you heard that applause.’

  ‘Well, that was just simple stuff. Since I wasn’t sure if my hands or voice were going to crap out on me. But … I have other music too,’ she says shyly. ‘More instruments. More complex arrangements. Lyrics that aren’t about animals.’

  I think about this. It suddenly hits me that Camilla has always been vague about her plans after high school. I always assumed it was because she didn’t know where she would be or what she wanted to do, but now –

  ‘What do you want to do after year twelve?’

  She takes a slow sip of my beer. ‘I’ve thought about lots of different things. But maybe … music composition?’ She glances at my face. ‘At a proper conservatory. Though I’d have to audition. I think I might be too freaked to even play chopsticks properly.’

  ‘I think, Camilla … I would really like to hear your other stuff. Have you really never been on stage before? With all the people you know, all your dad’s contacts –’

  ‘That, Sam, is part of the problem.’ She sighs, curling her legs underneath her and resting the side of her head against the booth. ‘I think that if I grew up like most normal people, maybe I’d feel differently. But I’ve been around music people my whole life. And they can be soooo judgemental. I mean, hello – you’ve met Henry. Do you have any idea what it’s like listening to him rip shreds off everything? I can only im
agine what Dad would have to say about my music.’

  ‘Okay, so I guess I understand the thing with your dad. But you’ve never cared what other people think.’

  ‘No. Not about stupid things. But my music is different. Putting something out in the world like that, it’s like – stripping naked and asking people to comment. It’s a different kind of judgement. It’s just … harder.’

  ‘Well, okay. I get that.’

  She smiles at me, but for an instant that hesitant, non-Camilla look flickers across her face again. ‘I know,’ she says.

  The guys behind the bar have moved the tables off to the side of the room. The music becomes louder and thumpier. A couple of girls sweep in front of the stage and start waving their hands around. It takes me several seconds to figure out that this is some form of dancing.

  James disappears to the bar. I can’t really hear anyone over the music, but Noah seems to be talking to Mike about a photography course at uni. Mike’s face is blank.

  Camilla scuttles out of the booth and pulls at my hand. I remain firmly in my seat.

  ‘I like this song,’ she calls over the music. ‘And I feel like celebrating. I did not die today, Sam! And I didn’t vomit on stage! This is a good thing!’

  ‘Sam doesn’t dance,’ Adrian says.

  At the same time, I say, ‘I don’t dance.’

  Camilla rolls her eyes and lets go of my hand. ‘Whatever, Sammy. Adrian?’

  Adrian climbs over Mike and is halfway to the dance floor before she has finished speaking. Camilla looks down at me. ‘You sure? Last chance …?’

  I shuffle back into the booth. ‘Positive. You go.’

  She shrugs. She spins around and follows in Adrian’s wake.

  I sink back into the shadows and watch them through the crowd. Adrian dances like a hobbit who’s just peed on an electrified fence. People seem to be giving him a wide clearance area as his hands and hair flail about in every direction in time to no discernible beat that I can make out.

  Camilla dances the way Camilla does everything else. Her arms and legs and hips don’t seem to be moving in any logical pattern, but she looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She isn’t watching other people, or noticing other people watching her. She isn’t moving like anyone else. She’s just dancing. Her green dress spins around her legs, and she laughs at Adrian but doesn’t seem embarrassed to be dancing with him. She looks like she’s actually having fun. She looks really … amazing.

  At some point I glance at the clock on my phone.

  Mike and Noah’s conversation floats back into my consciousness.

  James has, inexplicably, not returned.

  I realise I have no idea what’s been happening around me.

  I realise I have been watching her dance for forty-seven minutes.

  Uh-oh.

  Awkward realisations [that should have been fairly obvious]

  I do not know what is happening to my life.

  But I can’t stop thinking about her.

  I close my eyes, and her face floats in front of me.

  I close my eyes, and I smell lilacs and vanilla.

  I think about her writing a song because Henry made her sad, and my stomach wants to crawl out of my mouth.

  I really want to touch her hair.

  I do not know what is happening to my life.

  So I do the only thing I can:

  I unplug my computer.

  I turn off my phone.

  I dig out my DVDs of the entire five seasons of Andromeda.

  I do not go to school for three days.

  Also:

  I kiss Allison Winfield.

  I punch Adrian in the face.

  There must be a logical sequence of events that led to the above. I’m still trying to figure out what it is.

  The logical sequence of events that led to the above

  I wake up Friday morning not really sure that I’ve slept at all. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I’m unconscious when my alarm blares. But I don’t remember sleeping. What I do remember is lying awake, staring at the shadows on my ceiling and thinking about Camilla. Actually, I spent most of the night lying awake and thinking about how many other nights I’ve spent thinking about Camilla, only clearly I have been too dumb-arsed – and terrified – to acknowledge what it meant. I want to punch myself in the face.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  More importantly, how did I not recognise this sooner?

  I’ve also tried to rationally pinpoint the moments that may have led to this situation.

  I met her.

  …

  This is the last rational moment I’m able to pinpoint.

  Everything else that followed is just this confused, insane tangle, like a jumble of movie scenes that have somehow become mashed together with no particular order or logic, an out-of-focus montage of her smile and laugh and eyes and voice and –

  What am I going to do?

  At some point before dawn, I realise the answer is simple. I am going to do nothing. I am going to recognise this for what it is – a simple crush, like I’ve heard normal human beings occasionally get on other human beings. That’s all. I’ve been spending too much time around her. If I reverse that situation, this thing will go away.

  There’s no other option. I have to get this under control.

  Then my alarm screams, and I wake up thinking about seeing her at school today. My stomach leaps into my throat. I think I might be panicking. I think I also want to run out of the house in my pyjamas, just so I can see her sooner.

  This is, objectively, not getting anything under control. I roll over and bury my face under my pillow.

  Camilla. I cannot possibly be feeling what I am feeling for Camilla. For one, it’s her. For two, she is my friend – one of my best friends. For three, it’s her. Camilla knows exactly what she is doing. She’s had a boyfriend before. If Camilla thought of me as anything other than her friend, she would have done something about it by now. There is no way, in this universe or any other, that Camilla would feel anything for me. The thought makes me feel like a creature of some kind is shredding its way through my intestines.

  There is a logical solution. It is Friday today. If I skip school, that gives me three days to get my head back into a reasonable state. I can avoid Camilla for three days. Three days of not seeing her, or speaking to her, or saying her name. Like detox. Like putting myself into quarantine until this horrible alien virus is flushed out of my system.

  Hell, Luke Skywalker had a crush on his sister. If he managed to get over that, I can manage this.

  I send Mike a text that says, Sick. Staying home. And then I turn my phone off. I haul myself out of bed and turn off my laptop. I climb back into bed. And then I climb out again, and I bury my laptop underneath the old clothes on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I close my wardrobe door. I prop a chair in front of the door.

  I dig out Dad’s stupid goddamned farm-girl vintage porn from its hiding place in my drawer and chuck it in the bin. I am not taking any chances.

  Since I’m hardly ever sick, Mum doesn’t protest when I tell her I’m not going to school. All she does is touch my forehead for four seconds and tell me that I’m looking pale and that I should have soup for lunch. I don’t argue.

  I bury myself under the covers and prepare to wait it out.

  I hear the click of the front door as Mum leaves for work. My house is silent. My street is silent. My heartbeat booms in my blanket cocoon.

  I think about the argument Camilla and I had on the phone last week: whether the Ewok Adventure movies are works of unrecognised genius and whether they should be included in the official Star Wars universe or not. I think about her dwarf doing that stupid dance in front of my night elf. I think about the first time I took her to the Astor, when it was just the two of us, how her face lit up as her eyes roamed over the ancient stairs and old movie posters. I think about when she went away, about my stupid, dumbarse brain refusing
to accept that I was miserable with missing her. I think about her curled against me in the red booth, her long hair brushing my arm, her lilac perfume and vanilla shampoo –

  This. Is. Not. Helping.

  I also realise that – when a guy’s goal is to block out thoughts of the voice and face and lips of a girl for whom said guy is aching – bed is probably the stupidest place to be.

  I leap out and pace instead.

  A distraction. I need a distraction.

  I take the stairs two at a time and skid into the lounge room. I face my DVD collection. And I realise, with an approaching sense of horror, that my go-to favourite movies are now effectively useless. I can’t watch Halloween because Camilla and I have watched it together three times, and I can’t watch Alien because I gave it to her to watch it over the Easter long weekend and then spent two hours on the phone with her talking about the screenplay. I can’t watch Battlestar Galactica because she is a fan and has an opinion on every episode and also because she bought me an Asian Adama. Then there is Star Wars –

  I can no longer watch Star Wars.

  I am not sure my life could get any more disastrous. I spin around in a circle, panic burning through my insides.

  I bolt back upstairs and collapse on my knees in front of my TV shelves. Right at the bottom of my red bookshelf is a dusty DVD set of the Andromeda series that I’ve only watched once, and only because it was last year’s birthday present from Adrian. I yank it out and blow off the dust. There are at least three days’ worth of episodes here. And it has zero connection to Camilla Carter. It will have to do.

  I grab a blanket from my bed and almost fall down the stairs with the DVDs in hand. I guess breaking my neck could be considered a viable fallback plan.

  I make a giant pot of bitter black coffee that looks like an oil slick. I set the house phone to silent. And then I huddle under a blanket in my lounge room and prepare to sweat Camilla Carter out of my system.