Cloudwish

by Fiona Wood

  ‘Yeah, okay, I know. He’s doing nangs and pills and not much schoolwork.’

  ‘Have you said anything?’

  ‘I’ve said stuff, but he’s not listening. He’s pretty much hanging with River and those dudes now.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Matthew shot her a but what are you gonna do about it? look, and ran off.

  As she walked out the gates, she was distracted; no one liked seeing someone they’d known since little-kid days take a turn for the stupid.

  She looked down, focusing on one of her silver discs embedded in the footpath. She had just squatted down to examine it, hoping there would be some unclouded morning light for photography this weekend so she could get a shiny, east-side-lit image, when a large shadow created an annoying obstruction. She looked up. If she were ever to swear aloud, this was a classic WTF moment.

  ‘Why, Billy? Why are you here?’

  ‘Walk you to school?’

  She stood up and stalked past him, angry.

  He caught up, trying to relieve her of her turtle-like backpack. She yanked it away and tried to walk faster than him. Not easy. He was a boy with a long stride. She looked back at the flats anxiously. Someone would be seeing this, for sure.

  ‘How did you even know what time I’d be leaving home?’

  ‘You’ve got Baroque ensemble rehearsal.’

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Let’s recap . . .’

  ‘It’s not Baroque ensemble rehearsal?’

  She pinned those baby blues with her most penetrating look. ‘Just yesterday, you acknowledged that you didn’t know I came to Crowthorne Grammar in year nine?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘So, I was there, but you couldn’t see me . . . or you didn’t notice I was there.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Last term we were both at Mount Fairweather – could you even tell me what house I was in?’

  Billy looked at the sky. ‘Nope.’

  ‘It was Reynolds. So, close quarters for a whole term, only one quarter of the year level there, and you couldn’t have located me if you needed to. And yet now – out of the blue – you’re virtually stalking me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t use that word.’

  ‘Last week you followed me into the girls’ toilets, Billy. What would you think if you were me? Honest answer.’

  ‘I’d be thinking, Can this be a mortal, or is it a god of rowing, recently scouted by Brown, walking next to me, trying to carry my backpack against my will?’

  ‘That is pretty much on the money, if you replace “god” with “stalker”,’ she said.

  Hmm, stalker of rowing, majorly dumb comeback. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.

  She was a patient girl, someone with all too much practice at delaying gratification, but she was getting really sick of not knowing what was going on.

  ‘Given this agreed-upon reversal from complete lack of awareness of my existence formerly to annoying over-focus on me now, would you agree it’s reasonable for me to wonder why?’

  Unless he was a great actor, and she’d seen no evidence of that to date, Billy was surprised at her vehemence.

  ‘I don’t get why it’s a problem.’

  Was it possible that someone could go through life assuming the whole world loved him? Expecting to be welcome wherever he happened to turn up?

  ‘Our class does a group double take when you speak to me. Haven’t you noticed that people are a little surprised? Why are you speaking to me? Following me around at school? Coming to my place at dawn?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really liked hanging with you last night.’

  ‘That was homework, not hanging.’

  ‘It was a homework hang.’

  She couldn’t help smiling. This was, after all, her number-one mew boy, giving a very good impression of bending over backwards to be nice to her.

  ‘And we had food. That really takes it from homework to a hang in my book,’ he said confidently. Because of course his book would be the book.

  They walked on. She would have given a great deal at this moment to spend sixty seconds inside his brain.

  ‘If you’re smiling, does that mean I can hold your hand?’

  She reapplied the frown. They were walking along Albert Street, her usual route to school, where there were countless people who might report back to her mother by lunchtime today at the latest; despite the fact the street was almost deserted at this hour, she knew the windows had eyes.

  ‘No!’

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Just tell me what changed.’

  ‘What what?’

  ‘Exactly when did I go from being invisible to being visible?’

  This was his cue to say that he’d gradually been noticing her over the last year or so – he hadn’t wanted to be obvious in his attentions, but he knew by now that, though quiet, she was smart; though shy, she had a sense of humour; though not a self-promoter, she was a dedicated, passionate artist . . .

  Billy smiled. ‘It was that class – the first week back, when the visiting writer came. The one with the pink hair?’

  Vân Ước stopped dead. It took a huge effort to retain her cool, but she managed it. Just. ‘Yep. Yep, I remember. So, what was it that made you notice me?’

  Billy nodded and looked into the middle distance as though he was trying to replay the scene in his mind. He looked puzzled. ‘It was like you suddenly had a spotlight on you.’

  ‘So, just to be clear: it was a sudden thing more than a gradual thing.’

  ‘Can’t answer that – because who knows what’s been going on subliminally and for how long? Am I right?’

  God, of all the annoying times for him to become reflective. ‘Billy, just concentrate on that particular class – what else did you notice about me, if anything?’

  ‘The best way to put it, I guess, is that it was just blindingly obvious that you were the most interesting person in the room.’ Billy smiled the addictive smile. ‘Apart from me.’

  She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. She had to force herself to breathe in to avoid a footpath vomit. She needed to sit down, fast, and put her head between her legs.

  It was like being pulled apart with no chance of reconnecting the two halves again. Wasn’t this proof that her most ridiculous, improbable fantasy was being delivered to her on a plate? But how could she – she could not – believe in the means by which the fantasy appeared to have been delivered? A little glass vial? A wish being granted? This was not a phenomenon of the real world. She knew it as well as she knew her own name.

  Her name, Cloudwish, could that have anything to do with anything? Of course not! Things inside her head were hectic and preposterous.

  A tram stop seat saved her from falling in a heap. ‘Shazbat,’ she said as she sat down, slipped out of her backpack straps, and dropped her head between her knees.

  ‘What the fuck’s a shazbat?’ Billy asked fondly. ‘Are you okay? Did you have breakfast?’

  She lifted her head. ‘Shazbat is an alien swearword from an antique American sitcom called Mork and Mindy that Jess’s parents got in a DVD collection of old TV shows. I’m fine. I had a humungous breakfast.’ She dropped her head again. Circulation normalised. She re-engaged with her backpack and stood up.

  ‘Are you really okay?’ Billy asked, touching her shoulder gently.

  ‘Yup,’ she said, and risked giving him her first unguarded smile. She had to figure all of this out, but, hell, why not enjoy the aberration while it lasted?

  Billy appeared to be appropriately dazzled, and she widened her smile in response.

  Bizarro world, I’m moving in, she thought. Who knew for how long?

  chapter 24

  Before she and Billy parted company, he to the gym, she to rehearsal with Polly, who played c
ello, he said, ‘I’ve got a little plan to mess with the collective minds of the staff.’

  ‘What sort of plan?’

  ‘It involves a bit of photography.’

  ‘I’m on a scholarship. I have to behave myself.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m the perp. I’ll do the time. I just need someone with a good camera to direct me.’

  ‘It’s a likely “no”, but talk to me later.’

  ‘Are you going to watch Miro at lunchtime?’

  She generally preferred to spend lunchtimes reading, but since Lou was Miro’s lead singer, she had planned to make an exception. ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ll catch you there.’

  Polly looked at her, wide-eyed, as Billy gave Vân Ước’s hand a goodbye squeeze and left. ‘Since when has that happened?’

  Vân Ước shrugged. ‘I know.’ She shook her head, no less mystified than Polly.

  Unravelling knots in the Handel grand concerto – in G minor for two oboes, two violins, cello strings and continuo, the focus of their rehearsal – was a welcome break from the strange new world of Billy-likes-Vân Ước.

  As soon as they finished, as she stretched her neck, wiped her oboe, pulled it apart and packed it inside its case, she felt the weird new excitement bubbling up in her chest. How was this going to play out? What would the limitations on her new-found charm be? Was there an expiry date? She couldn’t even revisit how the hell was this happening? It was too much to get her head around. It did not bear scrutiny.

  Now that Billy had pinpointed the exact moment of noticing her, his sudden fascination could logically come down to one of two things. Either her wish had come true, or jumping up and down in front of someone you liked could create an instant attraction where none had existed before. Neither scenario seemed remotely plausible.

  She was honest enough to admit to herself that in planning to enjoy this, at least for a little while, and going with the wish theory, she was saying yes to living a probable big fat lie: Billy was being duped. For once the joke would be on him. It was simply too tempting, and too intriguing an experience to forgo. But she had the horrible feeling that this would be akin to her childhood habit of saying yes to the giddy thrill of the playground whizz-around, despite knowing for sure that afterwards she’d feel sick, stagger, and fall.

  At lunchtime she headed for a spot under a shady tree to see the year eleven band, Miro, who were just finishing their sound check for the lunchtime concert. She couldn’t see Billy yet, so that gave her a chance to experiment. Would he find her and come to her?

  ‘Taken,’ said Tiff coldly as she was about to sit down, not even very close. ‘Sorry. We’re minding spots.’ It was amazing the way these girls managed to say ‘sorry’ in a tone that so clearly meant ‘piss off’.

  She went to the next tree over and sat alone. From the stage, which was just an elevated paved area at the north edge of the quad, Lou gave her a little wave, and she waved back. A knot of tall boys emerged from the Kessler wing and mooched towards the trees. They stopped near where Tiff had saved space. A couple of them sat down, but Vân Ước saw Billy looking around. He smiled when he saw her and headed straight over, throwing himself down next to her. At least six sets of eyes from the next tree along stared in disbelief and frank hostility. She knew exactly what they were thinking. He’s our friend. What is our friend doing with her?

  She let herself have a moment of triumph, looking back at them. Taken. Yeah, that’s right, me, I’ve taken Billy. From you. He’s choosing me. This was like being in a formula that was being chemically altered. The next thing she saw was Sibylla virtually dragging Michael, with whom she’d been sitting on a bench, over to her.

  ‘Hi,’ Sibylla said, glaring at Billy. She sat herself down between Vân Ước and Billy, a squeezy small space to settle in, and left Michael standing, looking uncomfortable and bemused.

  ‘Dude,’ said Billy. ‘Are you going to sit? You’re kinda blocking my view.’ Michael sat down hastily and started opening his package of sandwiches.

  Miro was playing their warm-up-the-audience opening number, something thrashy. Vân Ước was grateful for the musical distraction.

  Billy was looking at her with regret – their brief time together intruded on. Sibylla was giving her a significant look: I’ve got your back, sister.

  And Michael decided now was as good a time as any to ask her a detailed question about their calculus assignment. They had to have the exchange at high volume because of the music.

  Sibylla shushed them saying, ‘Would you listen to Lou? She’s amazing.’

  The four of them sat, eating lunch and listening, for the next three songs. Any time Vân Ước glanced towards Billy he was looking at her. Sibylla, in turn, was looking suspiciously at Billy looking at Vân Ước. She’d have to tell Sibylla and Lou the landscape had changed. What would they make of it? She barely believed it herself. Plus, she didn’t really know what ‘it’ was.

  The band ended the set with a cover of the Vance Joy song that had been everywhere a couple of years earlier. Their version had a bit more of a trance vibe than the original, and Lou’s melodic, wide-ranging voice suited the song beautifully. She sang the line about a girl running down to the riptide. Vân Ước let herself lie back on the grass, plant herself into the heart of the song, and be that girl, the girl who inspired dreamy lines in pretty songs.

  Just as Billy was her fantasy real boy, the lead singer of that band was her fantasy celebrity. She hated the official clip for the song that featured a clichéd victim-smudged-makeup-woman, but she’d watched a live version on YouTube until she knew it by heart. She knew the water bottles, the little furry monkey, the Howard Arkley portrait of Nick Cave.

  She imagined herself in that student house – it didn’t matter if was real, or if an art director had dressed a set: it was real to her. She’d hung out in that room, at dim parties with good loud music that made the neighbours shout over the fence, and fairy lights strung on the walls merging through open windows with the stars strung across the sky, and people not caring, and caring too much, and drinking cheap wine, and breathless kisses in dark hallways.

  She loved Vance Joy’s voice. It gave her goosebumps. One day she might even get to see the band live. Meanwhile, she’d enjoy those parties – as an artist, she fitted right in – in that room in her imagination.

  She was still in a delicious half-doze when Billy got up, stretched, and said, ‘Party’s at mine on Saturday, after the regatta. Welcome, any friends of Vân Ước’s . . . etcetera.’ He was looking at Sibylla and Michael.

  Vân Ước took his outstretched hand and stood up.

  ‘Only, Holly will probably be there . . .’ he added, looking at Sibylla.

  ‘Who?’ Sib asked coldly.

  ‘Come if you want to. I guess if you can avoid each other at school, you can probably manage it at my place, too.’

  ‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ Billy said to Vân Ước. ‘I know you can’t make the regatta, but you’re not working at night, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d be allowed,’ said Vân Ước.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Sibylla, looking Billy in the eye with a mildly threatening manner. ‘If Vân Ước goes, I won’t be far away.’

  ‘Go-od,’ said Billy, apparently unsure what he’d done to deserve such stern looks from Sibylla.

  It was lovely that Sibylla was prepared to protect her at Billy’s party, particularly because it would involve social contact with her former best friend and now, surely, least favourite person in the world, Holly.

  ‘Whatever’s going on, I will see it,’ Sibylla added.

  ‘Cool,’ said Billy, understandably a bit confused by Sibylla’s intensity.

  As the bell for the end of lunch blared, Billy whispered into Vân Ước’s ear, which gave her an unexpected little shudder of pleasure, ‘Meet me in the com
mon room after last period.’

  chapter 25

  The afternoon of calculus seemed to last for about a week. Vân Ước popped into the girls’ toilets adjoining the locker room for a quick mirror check before heading to the common room. She arrived a few seconds before Billy, relieved to see only a few stragglers collecting things left from earlier in the day or killing a bit of time before being picked up.

  Billy came in and swept them out. ‘That’s all, folks, thanks for coming, see you tomorrow – show’s over, room’s taken.’

  She was bemused at the willingness of people to do as Billy told them. No one protested or even showed any resentment; they accepted the alpha presence doing what he did best: getting his way. Leading.

  She recognised a notebook jammed between two cushions on the corduroy-covered sofa as Michael’s, and picked it up. He was a great absent-minded leaver of stuff.

  When everyone was shooed away, she expected that Billy might turn to her and throw his arms around her, and the whole soft focus, swelling orchestral score would happen.

  But he had something else in mind. ‘Have you got your camera?’

  She was never without it, just one of the reasons her backpack was always so heavy. As she dug it out, Billy flicked through his phone’s photos and showed her a series of images.

  It was the security office’s panel of CCTV screens. Quite modest, just four screens that rotated through images from the various cameras positioned around the school. Two screens were for interiors, and two for exterior views.

  ‘You and I are going to shoot this room, from that angle’ – he pointed at the image of the common room – ‘and make a print we can stick up there, in front of the camera.’

  ‘So it looks like the common room is always empty?’

  ‘Yeah, stop them spying on us, and get our privacy back.’

  Vân Ước couldn’t help smiling. ‘I can’t do it. If I get caught I’m in huge trouble. Scholarship students must demonstrate exemplary behaviour at all times.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll take the blame.’

  Now he kissed her. Now, when she was unprepared and unguarded, he leaned forward and kissed her gently, and it felt like a question she’d been waiting to hear for the longest time. She opened her lips and her mouth to his, touched one hand to the side of his face, and wondered how it would be possible to live another day in the world that didn’t include kissing Billy.