A maybe pretty cute guy.
The pressure.
A passenger with a toenail clipper would be welcomed right now.
She looks up to see the maybe pretty cute guy standing in the aisle next to her. The hoodie’s slipped off and he’s not maybe pretty cute at all. He’s definitely actually cute, but that’s not the problem.
It’s Cameron Webber.
His shoulder-length hair is cropped off, but it’s him.
Cam.
Webby.
The World Wide Web.
BBQ.
BBQ Sauce.
Smoky BBQ Sauce.
Smoky.
The guys in his group had too many nicknames to keep up with. Smoky was always Lucy’s favourite — it matched his eyes — until it felt wrong and she could only think of him as Cameron Webber again.
Lucy’s jaw tightens.
‘Hey,’ Cameron says, breaking into a smile as he readjusts his backpack.
‘Hi.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
She holds her breath as Cameron squeezes past her to the window seat.
He’s said hello, he’s asked how it’s going, but Lucy can’t tell if he’s making small talk with that girl he used to know or if he’s just being friendly to the grubby stranger on the bus. Maybe he doesn’t even remember her. When Cameron is settled into place, earphones in, thumbs drumming against his jeans, Lucy reaches for her phone. Not that it’ll be any use: Maya’s farm has Australia’s worst mobile reception.
But still Lucy’s fingers dance on the keyboard.
SOS, Olivia Bensons, she types, biting her lip. Trapped on a bus with Cameron Webber. Benson #2 down. I repeat: Benson #2 down.
6.19 p.m.
He keeps sniffing.
Long, crackly sniffs that sound like he’s trying to snort something up his nose. Lucy wriggles her earphones in a little further, wondering how deep they can go without busting her eardrums. She sniffs as payback, drawing in a long, loud breath, but it only makes her torso hard from nose to gut and she explodes into a coughing attack, burying her mouth into her soft fist.
Cameron raises an eyebrow — an everything all right? eyebrow — but Lucy forces a small smile, still spluttering into her fingers.
He settles back in his seat. Another sniff. Then more drumming of his thumbs to the beat pounding in his head. Fast, hard drums, the type of song Lucy knows she’d rip up on stage if she and The Olivia Bensons ever got the chance.
She curls her body away from Cameron’s, wiping her hand on her uniform when he’s not looking, then fluffs the tracksuit beneath her head. It slips down from the headrest. Sighing, she flops the other way to try to get comfortable, until she realises she’s now arched in towards him.
He spots her before she has time to shift.
‘You okay?’ he asks, taking out an ear bud. ‘You seem kinda —’
‘What?’ She sits up a little straighter, lips pursed.
His bottom lip twitches. ‘Nothing. So you’re okay?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Then okay.’
He turns up his music but he still hasn’t said her name. Lucy Faris. It’s not that hard. Four syllables. He has to remember it. You don’t just forget the name of someone you used to know. Although, to be fair, she hasn’t said his either.
Lucy wonders if the sound of his would catch in her throat if she tried to say it out loud.
Oh, how she’d fantasised about spitting it in his face.
Or just spitting in his face.
Now she’s here, centimetres from Cameron’s skin, close enough to smell the peppermint on his breath, and she can’t look past the invisible bubble around him; her skin prickles every time he tries to hold her gaze for more than a second. Frustrated with herself, Lucy’s eyes lower to snoop at the scribbling on his hand. A blue chequerboard on the ruddy flesh below his knuckles. Two red stars on his little finger. And the word ‘tiny’ scrawled up his left thumb in mottled black ink, running into the quick of his chewed nails.
Clearing her throat, Lucy makes a big deal out of retrieving her phone from her bag, hating herself for not handling this better. But Cameron’s said less than twenty words to her and none of them are ‘I’m sorry’.
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Yep. Still okay.’
‘Then okay.’
Twenty words.
Still no sorry.
6.54 p.m.
I’m dying, she types to the group. Dying … dying … please send help before I’m dead. Benson #2, over and out.
She frowns at her phone, willing someone to do the impossible and reply.
But no-one answers her SOS.
7.01 p.m.
Still nothing.
It’s just her, Cameron Webber and six hundred kilometres of highway, she thinks, grasp tightening around her phone.
7.03 p.m.
Lucy’s thoughts are so loud she worries the whole bus can hear them. Arms folded across her chest, she glares out the window across the aisle; Cameron’s shut their blind. Not that she would’ve dared peek out past him anyway.
It’s been three years since Cameron showed up at her school in the middle of Term 1 and promptly disappeared a few months later. Plenty of the guys in Year 9 had cold porridge for brains, but he seemed like a different breed with a soft tone that made it sound like he was trying to swallow his words before anyone heard them. Cameron played a ton of sport — the number-one currency in their corner of Canberra — so after a few days of bouncing between groups, word spread about his sprinting and kicking game in PE and it landed him in with the popular guys. The footyheads. The jerks, according to Lucy. According to just about everyone who was brave enough to admit it. Cameron wouldn’t say much when the loudmouths — the Mitches and the Daveys and the Matts — talked rubbish; he’d just nod and tuck his shoulder-length hair behind his ears, cracking jokes that everyone pretended to get.
Lucy would see him at the local pool on mornings before class. Green swimming cap on, he’d power through the water, his enormous feet kicking up and down, propelling him through the fast lane. He would see her, too. One day he complimented her backstroke style, the next day she mentioned his fast tumble turns, and they soon fell into a habit of propping each other up whenever they saw each other.
A smile. A wave. A flattering comment.
Lucy didn’t understand how a nice guy like Cameron could hang with such a group of jerks; Mitch was a walking, talking detention slip with more than one suspension on his record.
Then came Soo-Yin’s fifteenth birthday party. The jerks, the in-betweeners, the drama kids — everyone who wanted in, was in. Cameron had found Lucy by the bonfire with The Olivia Bensons and he’d wedged himself into the conversation, not that Lucy had minded. She’d locked eyes with Nate across the group, hoping this was the night he’d learn to read her mind.
Be my wingman.
It must’ve worked, because one by one, Nate, Maya and Tamiko snaked back inside to fill up their glasses. Lucy and Cameron laughed about sports and movies and Mr Haber’s new toupee until Cameron’s eyes watered. He filled in the edges of a mounting silence by stammering that she had ‘long eyelashes’, which Lucy liked. Before she could reply, he rushed to say that she looked really pretty with her hair pulled back into a long plait, too. It was a fishtail braid, but Lucy wasn’t about to correct him. Instead, she stepped in closer until their warm breath was intertwined and she kissed him, not bothering to say any more words. Not about his lips tasting like peppermint, not that she liked the way his hair fell to his shoulders and he should wear it out more often. Judging by the feel of his lips and tongue softly moving with hers and his hands fumbling on the small of her back, tracing their way to her hips, he didn’t mind one bit.
But day by day, week by week, Cameron stopped showing up to the pool as often. It didn’t take long before Lucy stopped watching the entrance to see if his big, broad figure would come loping in, towel draped around his
shoulders.
He was no longer one of hers, he was one of theirs.
Yet when Lucy and Cameron passed in the halls, he’d squeeze out a smile like they’d shared the sweetest secret in the world, but he’d never hold eye contact long enough for them to take anything further. Lucy wore her hair in a fishtail braid after the kiss, but when Cameron started to vanish out of her orbit, she swapped it to a messy knot plopped on top of her head.
7.17 p.m.
Lucy bumps her head on the bus toilet’s ceiling as she attempts to untangle herself out of her school uniform. Arms caught in the pocket holes, she wriggles and hops around until it slips off onto the bathroom tiles. She snatches it up. The edges are wet.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t imagine what might be on the scungy toilet floor.
Lucy drags on her dress — a low-cut number that was packed for tomorrow’s dinner with Ana and Simone but was now hugging her skin since Cameron Webber found his way onto the bus. She catches her reflection in the tiny, cracked mirror and fake-pouts her lips, wishing Nate was crammed into the cubicle to tell her she’s ridiculous for squeezing into the dress. She swears again, realising she’s been fussing with her hair for so long that Cameron probably thinks she has some sort of life-threatening intestinal disorder.
Not that she cares what he thinks.
7.21 p.m.
My life is in the toilet, literally, she texts, cringing at the wet paper towels clogging the drain of the bus bathroom’s sink. It’s Friday night and I’m in a smelly toilet with nothing but a door and a few lousy metres distancing me from that jerk-off. This is not okay, you guys!
She pauses then spritzes perfume onto her wrist and neck.
7.23 p.m.
Lucy drags on her hoodie over her dress, pulling it down to try to hide evidence there was any attempt to look nice for Cameron Webber. She wipes at her wrist with a damp paper towel.
7.27 p.m.
Still avoiding eye contact with Cameron, Lucy slides onto her seat. Her thoughts are drenched in sarcasm as she imagines Mitch and the bros whispering about her, just loud enough so she can catch the echoes of their words. Faris is a six out of ten today, she pictures them saying in muffled tones in the back of Year 9 English. No really, she’s an all right sort, the kind you’d be happy enough to hook up with, even if the lights are on, but you wouldn’t brag about it.
Her skin prickles.
This bus is the time machine from hell, she thinks, glaring at her knuckles as she berates herself for thinking about Mitch’s cruel rating system for the first time in ages.
The categories were brutal.
Hottest Girl.
Best Legs.
Most Improved.
Prawn (‘Smokin’ hot body, throw away the head,’ Mitch’d say, his upper lip quivering into a smirk that made Lucy’s stomach whip with anger on behalf of his latest victim).
Eleven out of Ten.
Negative One Hundred.
And they’re only the ones she can remember.
The system was created by Mitch, who took pleasure in pitting all the Year 9 girls against each other by ranking them based on their looks and personalities, and giving out awards for the ‘winners’ at a party at his place.
It was a process that was months in the making.
It was a process that should’ve been illegal because it felt like a crime was going down every time word spread through the school about the latest batch of unwilling nominees. The Olivia Bensons sat close enough to the jerks that they’d occasionally hear a familiar name thrown out from Mitch or Davey. But it was the screeches of laughter and thigh-slapping that made everyone pray to the high school gods that their name wasn’t mentioned.
One day during English, Lucy heard Mitch mutter Maya’s name to Davey. She told herself it was nothing. That she’d imagined it. But then she heard it again.
Once Mr Burgess turned his back on the class to scribble on the whiteboard, Lucy sucked in a breath and walked to the desks where Mitch and Davey were shaking over their pages, failing to hold back their sniggering.
Mitch’s mouth folded into a thin, crooked sneer when he noticed her standing there. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his greasy coffee-coloured quiff. ‘Whaddya want, Faris?’
Lucy’s jaw clenched. ‘Just wanted to borrow something …’
‘Too povvo to have your own stuff?’ Davey said, crossing his thick freckled arms across his chest. ‘Although I guess your dad’s not getting much coin making tabouli, huh?’
Mitch snorted.
Lucy nodded, pretending to turn the idea over in her mind, then snatched the page from Davey’s desk. She tore back towards her spot, eyes dancing over their messy handwriting. Her thigh smacked into the corner of a desk, but she didn’t care until later when she realised a bruise had painted her olive skin purple.
Maya, 8/10 (hot legs, kinda stupid).
Tamiko, 9/10 (bangin’, ice queen but).
Faris, 7/10 (boobs on legs, bit of a bushpig).
Then, next to it, an addition to Lucy’s: +1/2 (loves a lacy bra).
She felt her cheeks roasting, then stormed back to their desks, no longer caring if Mr Burgess noticed.
‘Bushpig?’ Her voice was low. A hiss.
Mitch didn’t blink. ‘It’s creative writing.’ His pink mouth locked into a firm line. ‘This is English class, remember? You speak English, don’t you, Faris?’
‘What did you say to me?’
His lip flickered. ‘Oh, you don’t understand?’ He was fighting laughter. ‘I know your dad was born in Beirut so I’ll talk … slower … next … time.’
‘Grow the hell up, Mitch,’ Lucy said, scrunching up the page and pegging it at the nearest bin. ‘Yeah, I’m half-Lebanese … and you’re a full-freaking-arsehole.’
The kids at the desks nearby laughed under their breath, and a few caught her eye, impressed that someone had finally stood up to him, but Lucy’s heart raced so hard she felt like she was about to explode all over Mr Burgess’s classroom. When the bell rang, she powered towards the door, focusing on nothing except getting to her next class. But she hadn’t even made it to the quadrangle before Mitch called out behind her.
‘Oi, Faris, wait up, got something for ya.’
Rules didn’t seem to apply during these in-between-class moments and there weren’t any teachers monitoring the hallway, so Lucy didn’t slow down.
‘Faris, come on!’ he tried again. ‘I wanna say sorry.’
Lucy paused and turned around, only then realising Mitch had collected a group of mates, who’d slipped out of neighbouring English classrooms. Matt, Davey, Lee and Cameron all dawdled behind him.
A pack.
A mob.
Sheep.
‘What do you want, Mitch?’
‘Sorry about the list, hey. That class gets my imagination running wild, ya know how it is.’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever.’
‘Here.’ He passed her a comb. ‘For you.’
Lucy took the comb, confused. ‘This? Why?’
Mitch and Matt cracked up laughing, while Davey snapped a photo of her with it. Cameron and Lee looked at their scuffed school shoes, looked at the canteen sign, looked anywhere that didn’t involve looking at Lucy.
‘It’s for your mo.’
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘It should work on those caterpillars, too,’ Mitch said, pointing at Lucy’s eyebrows. ‘So, like, did your mum do it with a bushpig or was it your dad who —’
Lucy swore as she pegged the comb at him, but he just sniggered, until he realised Lee and Cameron weren’t joining in.
‘Right, boys?’ he said. Still nothing. ‘Whaddya think, Webby? Reckon you’d hook up with a bushpig?’
Cameron cleared his throat. ‘What?’
‘You heard me, bro. Up for an oinker?’
Cam paused, unable to look at Lucy. ‘Ah …’ His cheeks were smeared with a rich burgundy. ‘I dunno
.’
‘We’re all friends here,’ Mitch said, stepping in closer. The top of his head barely reached Cameron’s forehead, but he didn’t break eye contact with him. ‘Would ya go there or what?’
Cameron swallowed. ‘Nah … nah,’ he said, voice catching on the middle of his sentence.
Lucy sucked in a breath.
Liar.
Mitch laughed. ‘No way, huh? Come on, bro, don’t be shy. We’ve all got different tastes.’
‘Nah,’ he repeated, as Lucy’s skin crawled at the memory of Cameron’s hands and lips on her. ‘Wouldn’t want to … choke on a hairball.’
Lucy’s chest felt so tight it was like someone had run laces through her ribcage and yanked on them, pulling her in on herself.
‘Friggin’ lethal, Webby!’ Mitch hooted. ‘Check out the quiet assassin, hey, boys. You’re not wrong, though, I wouldn’t either.’
While the boys snorted, Cameron’s eyes found Lucy’s for a second. She could feel her cheeks flush red, and she held her breath to try to stop tears escaping down her cheeks. Undo it, Cam, her mind pleaded, but he just stood there. Silent. While her eyes watered, he stared at the crack that carved through the concrete in between his Vans. His lips flickered a little, like he was building up to say something, but he said nothing.
Coward.
Lucy watched as Cameron kicked at the ground then walked off, stepping in time ahead of Mitch and the rest of the pack as they lumbered out of sight around a corner. Seconds later Davey moonwalked back into view to holler at two Year 10 girls leaning against the drama-room door, which ignited a fresh round of whooping from Mitch and Matt. Jaw tightening, Lucy retrieved the comb and snapped it in half. Animals.
Later that afternoon, in the back aisles of the library, Nate wiped away her tears. ‘Babe, we’re only stuck with them for a few more years —’
‘Jesus, don’t remind me.’
‘But, Luce, then you and your spectacular brows never have to see them again. And they’re stuck with themselves and their teeny-tiny brains forever. Talk about a life sentence.’
Lucy liked that part.
Things didn’t get easier straightaway though.
It’s a cruel fact of life that things often get worse before they get better.
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYa Anthology Page 18