“Please tell me you’ll be at Willow Creek for Easter,” he says, peppering light kisses all the way down to my collarbone.
“You’ll be at Greenwillow?”
“Mm.” He lifts his face up to mine and I wonder if my lips look as punished as his. “So I can visit you at your aunt’s house. Please say you’ll be there.” He arches a flirty eyebrow.
“Uh … I might,” I tell him, suddenly drunk on the idea of me and Morgan pressed together on that patchwork couch. Spending time alone with him is Willow Creek’s only drawcard. “My aunt’s invited me to stay. I haven’t given her an answer yet.”
Morgan grins, pretending to frantically pat down my pockets. “Why are we still talking? Where the hell is your phone?”
When I eventually climb out of the car, my body is humming and I feel deliciously light-headed. I duck home for my camera and head over to the old mill, wanting to capitalise on this high. I shoot frame after frame in the cool wind, warmed by the promise of a future with Morgan, as if reinventing myself is entirely possible after all.
I’m still smiling when I make it home as the sun is slipping behind storm clouds. Mum picks up on my positive mood as soon as I walk into the kitchen.
“Looks like you’ve had a good day,” she says, glancing up from slicing carrots. I think there might be affection in her eyes as her gaze follows me across the room. If my hormones hadn’t already surged enough today, I feel an unexpected rush of emotion.
“I have.” I’m almost tempted to tell her all about it, but my stolen moments with Morgan are something I want to keep just for me.
“Well,” Mum says, grabbing a tea towel to wipe her hands, “maybe this will make it even better.” She moves to the alcove beside the fridge and returns with a shoebox-sized package wrapped in brown paper. “This was on the doorstep when I came home.”
She holds it out to me. It has no postage mark and my name is scribbled across the top in black marker. The letter “O” in my surname has a diagonal line through it the way some people write zeroes.
“A late birthday present, perhaps?” Mum says.
I think of Morgan finding out about my birthday and how he hasn’t said a peep about it since. I smile coyly as I take the package from Mum, wondering how he managed to swing this when we’ve been together for most of the day.
It’s very light, and when I give it a shake something rustles inside. I can tell Mum’s fighting the urge to ask what it is, but she resumes chopping vegetables and tells me dinner’s at seven when Dad and Tim get home from the footy. She’s granting me some privacy and it feels like a breakthrough … which is exactly why I shouldn’t push it. I just can’t stop thinking about the possibility of more time alone with Morgan.
“Mum?” I say, pausing in the doorway. “Aunty Ally’s invited me to stay with her at Easter. I’m thinking about saying yes.”
Mum places her knife down. “Oh, Tash, I don’t know …”
“Just a couple of days,” I add. “It will help me finish my art project for school.”
“But Easter is family time.”
“Ally is family too.”
Mum huffs at the technicality. “I’ll have to talk to your father about it.”
Which means it’s not a no.
“Okay. Thanks, Mum.” I smile at her and she returns a faint one of her own.
I rush up to my room and slip the door closed before she changes her mind, nestling in the middle of my bed to tear my package open like a kid on Christmas morning. Inside is a black shoebox. I fumble with the tape holding the lid in place, my eager fingers suddenly all thumbs. Holding my breath as I pop the lid off, I know there’s every chance I’ll adore whatever this gift is simply because Morgan chose it.
I peel back two layers of crumpled white tissue paper.
In the bottom of the box are five dead sparrows.
*
I eat dinner in silence, barely able to swallow, pretending to listen to Tim’s account of the close-scoring footy match. Mum throws me confused glances, wondering what could cause such a turnaround in mood. Those dead birds circle my thoughts like they’ve become reanimated, dipping and swooping, teasing and taunting.
Sparrow’s sending me a message.
No. There’s an actual box of dead birds underneath my bed right now. Not imaginary. Not make believe.
What if he’s come back?
How? From where, exactly? Mum handed me that package herself – whoever left it is a hundred per cent real.
What if he’s real too?
How is that even possible? What evidence is there that Sparrow ever existed anywhere other than my flawed memories?
No, those birds came from someone who wants to rattle me. Someone who stands to gain if I start spiralling.
It has to be Rachael. It’s the only possibility that’s close to making sense.
Why didn’t I confront her months ago when I suspected she was behind the first sparrow on my doorstep? It might have nipped things in the bud, might have taken the fun out of trolling me if I’d called her out publicly. Now there’s the added complication of Morgan. Rachael told me to back off from him and I haven’t. She won’t take that lying down.
I push food around my plate as my stomach churns. Rachael and Morgan are together at her party right now and she could tell him anything she wants without me there to defend myself. If he’s going to hear about what I told the police all those years ago, Sadie’s right – it has to come from me. I need to be able to explain myself.
Excusing myself from dinner without finishing, I race upstairs to phone Morgan. My call goes straight through to voicemail, so I slip on sneakers and a hoodie. As an afterthought, I tug the shoebox out from underneath my bed and slip it into a plastic bag. I may need it as evidence of what Rachael’s done.
When I come downstairs, Mum and Dad are clearing the dinner plates.
“Need to drop something at Sadie’s house,” I tell them. “She’s invited me to hang out and watch a movie.”
Mum frowns. “I thought Sadie was going to the Tans’ party tonight.”
I pause. “What?” I shake my head. “Not possible. No way.”
“That’s what Kiri said when I ran into her at the supermarket.” Mum shrugs. “Must have had her wires crossed. Don’t be late.”
There’s no chance Sadie would be caught dead at Rachael’s party; she must be using it as a cover story for something else. Maybe something to do with Alice. It shouldn’t even matter anyway since I’m not really going to her house, but it still stings that I’m not privy to whatever Sadie’s up to tonight. If anyone’s going to be her alibi, it should be me.
“I’ll drive you over there,” Dad offers.
“I’ll take my bike,” I say, grabbing my helmet from the hall table. “It’s only five minutes away.”
The Korean restaurant owned by the twins’ uncle is actually more like two kilometres from my house, in a strip of shopfronts on Marine Drive near the pier. Christopher has been waiting tables there for almost a year and has just scored Morgan a job interview for a kitchen hand role on Friday and Saturday nights. Tonight, instead of the usual hustle and bustle along this strip of eateries, the whole block is deserted thanks to light rain falling and thunder rumbling out at sea. I catch snippets of music and laughter from Kimchi before I spot the glow of its neon sign reflected on the wet footpath ahead.
As I roll up to the plate glass window, it’s like watching the party on a movie screen. Guests buzz around white-clothed tables as waiters dart between them with lavish trays of food. A large banner has been strung across the wall above the restaurant’s bar – Happy 18th Rachael and Christopher! – and clusters of silver helium balloons are tethered to the centre of each table.
An antique sideboard by the window is buried under a stockpile of presents beside an elaborate three-tiered chocolate cake. I watch as a red-haired girl covertly dips her finger in the cake’s glossy icing, then sticks it into her mouth and giggles. Her friend takes a much lar
ger swipe, and the two of them double over with laughter.
It takes me a second to realise the redhead is Alice and her friend is my friend. Sadie’s inside at Rachael Tan’s party.
Blood rushes to my head and I back away from the window, digging for excuses about why Sadie is a guest here tonight. No matter which way I slice it, her presence feels like betrayal. Why would she come? Why wouldn’t she tell me?
And why do I feel like the punchline of some inside joke?
Yanking the plastic bag from my handlebars, I dump my bike against the bus shelter, shoving the restaurant door open before I lose my nerve.
Kimchi’s cramped foyer is lined with black vinyl chairs and potted ficus trees. The leafy plants form a privacy barrier to the dining room, which does well to hide me, while also making the space feel too cramped and cluttered. I grope for the assurance of the door at my back, knowing I can be through it and outside any time I need to be.
A young maître d’ in a three-piece suit materialises, explaining the restaurant is closed for a private function.
“Thank you, yes,” I say. “I’m not staying. I just need to speak to someone.” I catch a glimpse of Morgan by the bar, relaying something amusing to his father judging by the way Mr Fisher is chuckling. Morgan’s dressed in a black collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair scooped into his trademark quiff. He looks handsome. Happy. And just like three months ago at school when he stepped out of his dad’s SUV, the world around me stills as I drink him in.
Do I really want to have this conversation with him right now? He may never speak to me again.
Before I can say anything else, the maître d’ scurries away from me into the dining room. I lurk awkwardly for a moment until I see him returning with Christopher.
“Hey, Tash!” he says as he approaches. “Glad you could make it.” He smiles warmly and I feel another pang of guilt about how I snapped at him at the Fishers’ house last month. He made it so easy for me in the weeks that followed by acting like it never happened, insisting there was nothing to apologise for. He’s a stand-up guy and I won’t let my thoughts about his sister prevent us from becoming friends, especially for Morgan’s sake.
“Hi Chris,” I say, taking in his dark knit jumper and pinstriped pants. “You’re looking sharp. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” He grins. “Can you tell my mum I’m officially an adult now? Because she laid these clothes out on my bed earlier – I think she missed the memo.”
I force a laugh in spite of my nerves. “Your mum’s very well organised.”
“If that’s a polite way of saying she has control issues, then yes.”
Smiling, I feel my resolve softening. I’m getting too relaxed. I’m here for a purpose and need to stick to the plan.
“Listen,” I tell Christopher. “I’m sorry, I can’t actually stay.”
“Oh, okay. You want Rachael?”
“No, no. I was–”
“Hang on,” he says, glancing around the restaurant. “I think she’s over with the DJ.”
Before I have a chance to stop him, he jogs back into the restaurant. I hear him calling out Rachael’s name. It amazes me how sometimes guys can be oblivious to friction and fallings-out. He still thinks his sister and I are the same girls who used to see movies together and paint each other’s fingernails. Or maybe he just wants us to be those girls again.
Rachael skips over to the foyer in a black cocktail dress, her face lit up and flushed. When she spots me, her shoulders drop and her smile flatlines. To say the feeling is mutual is an understatement.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she says, looking me up and down. “Why did you even bother turning up?”
“I couldn’t care less about your bloody party,” I say. “I’m not here to see you.”
Glancing past her into the crowded dining room, my eyes fall on Morgan. Rachael sidesteps to block my view. “What happened to staying away from him?”
“Like I take orders from you.”
“You need to leave,” she says, folding her arms. “There is no way I’m letting you cause a scene and ruin my party.”
“As if I’d want to cause a scene.”
“Hello, attention-seeker?” she says. “It’s what you do.”
Maybe it’s the cutting look she gives me that helps her words find their mark. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the restaurant’s cheerfulness, the stream of carefree conversation, Morgan and his father cracking jokes by the bar. And here I am in my torn jeans and faded hoodie, my hair wild from my bike ride and the look in my eyes even wilder.
It was a mistake coming here. This isn’t the time or place to talk to Morgan about my problems. I don’t even care about humiliating myself – I don’t want to embarrass him.
The plastic bag crinkles in my hand. I feel powerless. Desperate.
She sent you a box of dead birds, for Christ’s sake. Do something about it!
“I need to talk to you.” I hold up the bag. “Now.”
“God, spit it out then. I’d like to return to my guests.”
“Not here,” I say, my eyes finding Morgan again. I nod towards the opposite side of the street, the row of lamps dotted along Port Bellamy Pier. “Meet me at the Seaspray, and don’t bring your rubber-necking entourage.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Unless you want me to announce to everybody here what you’ve been doing?”
Rachael scoffs in disbelief, but there’s a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. Even before the dead sparrows, her nastiness goes back years and she knows it. Not exactly the kind of speech she was anticipating for her eighteenth.
I glance past her and realise Sadie has spotted me through a gap in the plants. She’s weaving her way towards us looking baffled. I slip outside and hurry across the street just as Sadie reaches Rachael near the doorway. I pick up the pace knowing Sadie will try to follow me, call out for me at any moment. But that moment never comes.
*
Out on the pier the ocean surrounds me like an inky mass, slopping and sloshing against boat hulls in the marina. Every now and then, a flash of lightning illuminates the horizon, sending a rumbling wave across the sky. When I reach the small weather-beaten shed of the Seaspray, I rest a hand against the wall to steady myself. The wind buffets me back and forth, lashing at my hair, blasting through my skin to seize my bones.
No sooner have I had doubts about whether Rachael will actually turn up, the wind carries the sound of her clicking heels on the boardwalk behind me. She appears and disappears as she passes under lampposts, illuminated one second, swallowed up by darkness the next. As she draws close she shivers, tugging her leather jacket across her chest.
“You’ve got two minutes,” she says. “What do you want?”
I tug the black box out of the plastic bag and Rachael’s face remains infuriatingly deadpan. My prepared accusation flies out of my head. I rip the lid off the box and thrust it towards her.
“You wanna explain this?”
She glances down in surprise. “What–?” She squints at the contents in the low light, then flinches and jumps backwards. “Eww!” Her arm jerks up, knocking the box out of my hand. The dead sparrows plop onto the pier around us like hacky sacks.
“Are you insane?” she says. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The wind catches the empty shoebox, toppling it end over end until it sails over the edge of the pier.
Rachael hugs herself tighter, slipping her hands inside her leather jacket. “God, you really are deranged.”
I scowl at her in the darkness. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
“Seriously? Has it ever occurred to you that not everything’s about you?”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because we’re all pretty sick of The Natasha Carmody Soap Opera.”
“What?”
“Everything always has to revolve around you. ‘Tas
h’s anxiety attacks’ and ‘Tash’s claustrophobia’ and ‘Tash doesn’t want us to be friends any more because she’s so fragile and needy.’”
“That’s supposed to be Sadie, is it? Nice try. I know she wouldn’t say those things.”
She wouldn’t, would she? Sadie doesn’t think of me like that. She’s got my back; she always says so.
“Did it ever occur to you that I just wanted to make friends when I first moved here?” Rachael says. “You and Sadie invited me to hang out, but you were always so possessive of her. You still are. Why couldn’t she be my friend too?”
My skull aches as the wind blasts against it, jangling and scrambling my thoughts. “I don’t know what …”
“You probably can’t remember it. You probably couldn’t care less. But I remember all your private jokes and how you gradually excluded me. I remember how you turned Sadie against me, and I won’t let you do it again with Morgan.”
She bunches her arms up further inside her jacket, her black cocktail dress flapping across her thighs. I try to make sense of what she’s claiming. Is that really how it was? It’s not how I remember it. Then again, neither are a lot of things.
“I’m not turning Morgan against you,” I tell her. “He can see you for what you really are.”
“Me? What about you? He’s dating a total head case and doesn’t even know it.”
“You can say what you want about me; Morgan won’t believe you.”
Rachael’s face hardens and her gaze flits around as though she’s grasping for her next insult. Suddenly, she yanks her phone out of her jacket and waggles it in front of me. Her cutesy Hello Kitty phone case is like a red flag in her hand. “It’s just as well I recorded your confession to Sadie at the sailing club, then. Morgan can hear it in your own words.”
My gaze darts to her phone. She’s bluffing. She didn’t have her phone in her hand when I caught her eavesdropping.
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