Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  I freeze, handful of raisins halfway to my mouth.

  “The top half would be preferable, at least at first thought. But the second half…when you really stop and consider…there’s a kid who can run all around, play soccer.” He points to the trail. “An uncomplaining hiker. Might be the perfect child.”

  “You are such a weirdo.” I give him a glimpse into my freakish mind and he makes a joke. “My crazy. That’s a real flaw.”

  “You’re not crazy, Talia.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so, but really, I am. I’m a high-functioning basket case.”

  “Like the entire rest of the human species.” He leans over and grabs another handful of nuts and presses them into my hand. “Eat, nutso girl.”

  I pop two in my mouth.

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “Is that a real option?”

  He frowns. “As opposed to?”

  “Where you offer but don’t really mean it. If I say I want to go back, won’t you bully me into making the choice you want?”

  “Talia.” His tone is a warning.

  “Yes.”

  “Did I or did I not make you a promise?”

  “You did,” I mumble.

  “And that was…” He’s goading me, pressing on my pressure points.

  “I don’t have to repeat it.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “You promised you’d be straight with me.” I sound like a sulky schoolgirl.

  “So it would be pretty shitty if I broke that promise straight off, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What do you mean you guess so?” he asks.

  “People make promises all the time.” I turn away to avoid those green eyes. “The trick is keeping them.”

  “I don’t make promises all the time.” Bran is on his feet before my next blink. “But when I do, I fulfill them.”

  I look at him nervously. “You’re okay to go back if I want to?”

  “Yes. I’d be a little disappointed, but I’m not going to have fun if you’re getting tortured.”

  “I want to keep going.” My words march out like soldiers off to war.

  “But you said—”

  “Yes, I’m scared. I should have told you about my fear of heights. But I’m so tired of being scared all the time. If I don’t try to fight back, this feeling is going to drag me down and I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to me again.”

  Bran puts his hands on my shoulders. “Natalia Stolfi, you’re going to climb this fucking mountain.”

  I cover his hands with mine. “Brandon Lockhart, I’m climbing the shit out of this mountain.”

  * * *

  “A few meters more, you’re almost there.”

  It’s like we’re at the end of some old-school adventure tale, one where the heroes are stoic even as the blizzard rages, avalanches fall, and death hovers like a benevolent ghost.

  Well, Bran is the hero.

  I’m like one of the minor sidekicks who goes down during some important turning point. My death might even inspire the hero on his journey or teach him a valuable lesson. But at this point in the flick, the minor sidekick should be well and truly dead. Not white-knuckling a column of dolerite rock, thighs gripping the stone like it’s the world’s best lover.

  “That’s it, Talia,” Bran’s voice is encouraging. “You’re holding tight, that’s great. Now, I’m going to need you to release your left hand and reach up a few inches to grab the next hold.”

  I grit my teeth. The way he talks, you’d think I’m scaling Everest. Or at least Kilimanjaro. Instead—

  “’Scuse, us, we’ll be by in a tic. That’s the way, Andy, right around the lady.”

  I’m the lady. Andy is a kid who doesn’t look a day over seven who scrambles past me in a flurry of Spider-Man shoes and gap-toothed smiles. His parents bring up the rear, smiling up at their wild monkey child with obvious pride.

  And they aren’t the first group to pass me.

  Five Swedish women, a couple, and a guy who looked to be in his mid-seventies have also shot past me during the course of the last quarter hour.

  The top is so close I can taste it. Bran is being nothing but encouraging, but below me is a twenty-foot drop. Not enough to kill me, unless I fall with some sort of suicidal intent, but enough to make me feel incredibly uneasy about the boulder field.

  Bran eases toward me. “Talia, take my hand.”

  “Can’t let go.”

  “Talia.”

  “No.” This is it; this is the reason. Bran isn’t going to admit it here, while I’m bordering on a panic attack on a trail being conquered by elementary school children and senior citizens, but there’s no doubt this is A REASON to lose interest in me. I’m giving him a big capital-lettered reason, but I can’t stop. I physically can’t let go.

  “Talia. Take a deep breath.”

  “Breath taken.”

  “Another.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me your hand, no bullshit. I want your fingers in mine. You’ll be safe. I’m going to keep you safe. I need you to trust me.”

  Somehow I do it. I give him my fingers. He assists me up. We’re doing this together. My head clears the boulder and I can see the steel marker that identifies the summit ahead. Holy shit, he’s right. I’m going to reach the top.

  A few more steps, easy now, and we’re there. The kid in the Spider-Man shoes munches a Vegemite sandwich. I want to scoop him up in a smooshy squeeze. Except his parents would likely object, so I switch gears to give Bran a long and passionate kiss.

  “I knew you’d get here,” he says.

  “I didn’t.”

  He turns me to see the view, his hands tight around my waist. “Your place is here, Captain, in the sun,” he whispers in my ear. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  * * *

  Our walk back down to the parking lot passes quickly and we say very little. I’m not quite sure what happened up there on the mountain, but I feel connected to Bran more so than ever. By connected I don’t mean some vague sense of “I really like this guy.” I mean that I finally get Jane Eyre, required reading in my History of British Literature class. There’s a part where Mr. Rochester tells Jane it’s as if he had a string under his rib, connected to hers, and he’s afraid their parting would snap the connection and they’d both bleed inwardly. Bran’s become vital to me, and our time together has almost run its course. Two weeks more.

  Two weeks and back to Santa Cruz.

  Two weeks before I’ll have to admit to my parents that my OCD train wrecked my academic career.

  Two weeks before no Bran.

  I plow straight into a wall. Which is actually Bran’s body. He’s stopped on the trail ahead and I’d been too zoned out, wrapped in my own self-torture, to notice.

  “You okay?” He’s looking at me strangely.

  “Yeah,” I sniffle, and wipe my nose. “Hiking is good thinking time.”

  “You look like you’re about to cry.”

  “I do?” My voice wobbles on the d.

  “I’ve been thinking too.”

  “About?”

  “Us.” He crosses his arms and my heart breaks into a gallop. “I’ve got this idea. It’s wild, but hear me out, all right?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bran

  Talia stares at me, face afire, eyes glowing, as if I announced having the ability to fly.

  Talia, Talia, Talia—why do you make yourself so open? Hide nothing. It’s dangerous to be this way with another person, to reveal your soft underbelly, those secret weaknesses. She’s granted me the ability to hurt her. That’s not a superhero power I want. So with great power comes great responsibility—I guess. And fuck it, I can’t pretend I’m not relieved she didn’t give me a pitying look and pat me on the head.

  “Are you serious?” she whispers. She looks at me like she woke up on Christmas Eve to discover Santa Claus stuffing her stocking. My instinct is to draw back. I’m scared as
fuck. This isn’t only her soft underbelly on the line. My heart’s just lurched back to life. I’m no longer a zombie. I’m Frankenstein’s monster with enough stupidity to hope that this time I’ll be able to have a happy ending.

  “I am.” I am, I really am. I am an idiot. The kid who stuck his finger into the electrical socket and ended up in the hospital. And who’s back again because, what the hell—it was fun the first time. But this is Talia—not Adie. They are nothing alike, inside or out. Talia couldn’t hide from me¸ even if she tried. Talia doesn’t play games. I wish I had more to offer her than my broken heart, awkwardly stitched together.

  “You want me to come back to Australia. Come to Hobart. Live with you?” She sounds dazed.

  “Yes. We can do this. I’m not too messy and can cook a mean spaghetti Bolognese. You’ve got the chance for a great project—that professor is eager to work with you. He said so himself. And even followed up with the e-mail afterward. He wasn’t blowing smoke—he means it.”

  “He did seem to, didn’t he?”

  “You’ll have a chance to do something real. Document important stories about actual people’s lives.”

  “A chance to do something real,” she repeats softly, staring at me like I’ve hypnotized her.

  Come on, Talia. Say yes, say yes.

  “I’m not going to lie; this is coming from a purely selfish place.” Nice one, Bran. Still, I told her I would never lie to her. So might as well put this out there. “I don’t want to say good-bye to you.”

  “I don’t want to say good-bye either.”

  “But I’d never ask you to give up your future to try and be with me. I did that last year, for Adie, and it sucked. This way, you don’t have to. You could do your senior project down here, at UTAS. My honors year will take a little longer, but only by a few months. After that, we’ll see.”

  “See…,” she echoes.

  “Where things stand between us.”

  “What if I come back and live in Hobart? Give this”—she waves her arms back and forth in the narrow space separating us—“a chance. What would happen next?”

  No lies. “I have no idea, but who knows, maybe we’re destined for greatness.”

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “I do.” I didn’t realize how much I meant my words until this second while Talia measures my offer of myself. A flicker of regret burns up my spine. I’m just getting back on my feet; is this really wise?

  I like Talia. Really, really like Talia. More than like. But is that enough? Should I be so greedy to want to keep hold of this feeling? Couldn’t this moment with her be a beautiful memory, something I can look back on later and smile? Is it better to dream about a what-if than end up in the drudgery over petty fights, the inevitable disillusionment? The moment when she stops looking at me like I’m Superman and realizes I’m Clark Kent.

  Maybe this is a bad idea.

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay. This is insane, but yes, okay, I’ll do it.”

  “You will.” I shovel my fear aside. She said yes. Yes to me. I’m not alone here—alone in this with her. I’ll deserve this yes.

  “I don’t know what will happen, but I want to make this work.” I’d like this moment to be Shakespearean. Tell her that this is it. I’ll love her forever. We’ll stumble together toward the sun. Everything is hunky-fucking-dory. But that innocence died with Adie in a brilliant fireball. I got way too close to the sun and nearly burned alive.

  Talia is not Adie. Adie doesn’t belong here in this moment. That painful memory needs to get out.

  Let me be worthy of this strange, lovely girl, who thinks I’m something special, worth taking a chance on.

  “This is crazy,” she repeats.

  “I’m crazy for you.”

  Her watcher eyes snap from whatever deep thought they’re mired in and mockingly roll at my bad humor. “Har. Har.”

  “I am, though.” I pull her toward me, needing my mouth on hers, to feel her, know she’s real. “Crazy for you.”

  I really do want to try. “Want to try” isn’t deeply romantic. It’s not a love sonnet. But it’s the best I’ve got. Look how far I’ve come these last months. I can be a better guy. Maybe Talia is my own personal blue fairy and if I work my fucking guts out, I’ll become a real live boy again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Talia

  Someone knocks at my door. Before I can even get off my bed to respond, the raps grow insistent. Bran dropped me off from our Tasmania trip about thirty minutes ago—enough time for a fast and furious quickie before he left for tutoring. I’m surprised he’s back already.

  I lurch across the floor, only half joking when I mutter, “Dude, serious, you’ll kill me if we do it again.” I fling open the door and flash-freeze, like Han Solo at the end of The Empire Strikes Back. Mom’s hair is swept into a ponytail. Her dress hangs low, revealing sharp clavicle bones and a clearly delineated sternum.

  “Mom?” She’s arrived three days ahead of schedule and I can’t muster any genuine excitement. Maybe that’s shitty, but them’s the apples.

  “Hooooooooooney.” She draws out the o so long I’m certain I must be dreaming.

  I’m engulfed in her skeletal hug. This is a waking nightmare.

  “Hey.” I inject the word with false enthusiasm. “Wow. You’re here…in Melbourne…early.”

  “Surprise!” She throws up her hands.

  Time to plaster on a phony grin. “Yeah.” I punch the empty air. “Woohoo.”

  Her smile fades. “You’re not happy?”

  “No, no, no.” I’m emphatically not happy, Mom. “You surprised me, that’s all. What about the plan—to see you next Monday? Is something wrong?” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist’s brain or Sherlock Holmes’s super sleuthing to deduce there must be trouble in the jungle with Logan the Wunderchimp.

  “Of course not.” Her tinkling laughter coats me like icy rain; soon I’ll topple over with all the grace of a fallen power line.

  There’s only one thing that can make this moment worse. I glance to the empty doorway. “Is Logan here, too?”

  “No,” she replies, mouth pursing. New lines have formed around her lips; beneath the tan skin and brilliant hair-dye job, my mom looks tired. If she’s wasted away this much in months, what will be left of her in a year? “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Yeah. Of course, for sure.” It’s like inviting a vampire inside your home—no going back. “Come on in, not many places to sit but mi casa es su casa.”

  Within three minutes, I’ve managed to successfully hide any reference to Bran while getting tortured with TMI about Logan. Turns out Mom discovered him engaging in floor sex with one of his celebrity clients—a twentysomething host of a popular cable dance competition show. He claims to love Mom but wants an open relationship, maintains he’s excessively potent.

  I grab some Kleenex and dab my face. What he probably wants is an all-access pass to Mom’s money and her parents’ sweet Kauai vacation home.

  Mom grabs an orange pill bottle from the top of my dresser. “What’s this, Natalia?”

  “Jesus, boundaries.” I snatch it from her hands. “Ever heard of them? Handy things, especially in a family.”

  “Natalia.” Her voice hushes. “Are you taking drugs? Popping pills? Ecstasy?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Language,” she snaps.

  “Mom, it’s my medication.”

  She snorts. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I…it settles me down, helps me be…me. Only better.”

  “That’s giving up your power.”

  “Right, sorry, guess I should be consulting guardian angels?” Mom’s class at Byron Bay was all about past and future lives, communing with spirits. I hope she’s not trying to rope in Pippa for that particular duty. Because if my sister is out there somewhere, she doesn’t deserve having to hear the ins and outs of Mom’s midlife crisis relationship.


  Mom scans my dingy room. “We’re booked in at the Crown Hotel downtown, fabulous views. Logan’s there now, getting a hot stone massage.”

  “Come again—he’s still with you?”

  “I’m considering his offer.”

  I throw up my hands. “The one where he bangs other women on his kitchen floor?”

  “When you get to my age—you realize a few things. Monogamy isn’t suitable for everyone.”

  “Funny, for other people, of your age, it seems a more than satisfactory arrangement—take Dad, for example.”

  She stiffens. “I’m not discussing my marriage or your father.”

  “Strange, considering you want to share up close and personal details about everything else.”

  “I came by to give you a nice surprise and invite you to dinner.” She turns away. “If my presence is not a welcome one, I can—”

  “Mom, it’s fine. I’d love to catch up. And wow—getting to meet Logan, what a treat.” She’ll play the martyr card until I capitulate. Better to give her what she wants, which is time to talk about herself. All I need to do is keep my face polite and switch my brain off.

  “I’d really appreciate your opinion.” She ignores my sarcasm and smiles like I’m her girlfriend.

  I don’t want to be her pal. And I really don’t want a blow-by-blow about her relationship with a man who’s not my dad. I want to say no thanks, but she makes me feel guilty for taking the medication, for being the screwed-up, defective daughter who’s left behind.

  As soon as Mom leaves, I text Bran to cancel our plans for tonight. His reply is almost immediate.

  All parents are mental. I’d like to meet her. Okay, I just want to see you.

  I don’t want to share him with Mom, but I’m too big of a wimp to deal with her and Logan on my own for dinner.

  * * *

  That’s how I end up leading Bran through a crowded Vietnamese restaurant toward a small table in the back. “Hey, I brought a friend, hope that’s cool.”

  Mom’s eyes widen infinitesimally at the sight of me with a guy. Logan’s settled into a high-back chair. In the flesh he reminds me of Keanu Reeves, except in a turban and a hand-tooled-looking leather vest.