Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYa Anthology
Page 19
The photo of her with the comb, with the newly added captions of ‘Lucy Hairis’ and ‘Hairball alert’ were shared around the school and online under an anonymous account the next morning. The boys stayed quiet as teachers tore down the posters, but everyone else figured who was behind it. The next day, gossip got back to Lucy that Mitch was spotted storming out of the principal’s office, red-faced, hunched over, spitting on the concrete as his dad thundered alongside him. He didn’t show up for class the next day or the day after that. By the end of the week, word had spread that Mitch’s rap sheet of suspensions over the past three years had added up, and the king of the jerks had been brought down. Mitch was expelled. His reign was over.
In the coming weeks, Lucy lost count of the classmates who bailed her up in the hallways, whispering, ‘Thank you’ as though Mitch’s expulsion was all part of a grand master plan that she’d personally orchestrated.
She only wished she could take credit, because with Mitch gone, the mood around school was lighter. Slower. There wasn’t a need to be on high alert. But then Cameron would lumber past her on his way to the gym and she’d hurry to look in the opposite direction, counting the seconds until he was off in the distance and she could walk the halls without her stomach lurching. Because she couldn’t forget what he’d said. And when Cameron was presented with a state sports award at assembly a few weeks later, she scowled at her lap while everyone else whooped like he was some kind of hero. Like popularity was contagious.
Cameron and his family left Canberra not long after so Lucy didn’t have to speak to him again.
Until today.
7.39 p.m.
Lucy exhales.
Bushpig.
The comb.
Hairball.
She’d almost forgotten.
7.42 p.m.
Anyone out there?
7.55 p.m.
‘Wakey-wakey!’ the driver calls out over the loudspeaker. ‘We’re pulling into Gundagai, folks. I’m making good time so run don’t walk to your suitcases.’
He waddles off the bus and a handful of yawning passengers follow him onto the gravel.
Cameron’s phone starts ringing and, for a second, Lucy wonders if he’s getting picked up at this stop.
But the world’s not that kind.
It’s put her on a bus with Cameron Webber after all.
‘Hey, sorry,’ Cameron begins, snapping her into the moment, ‘can I squeeze out past you for a sec?’
A thousand words bubble on the edge of her tongue. She swallows, trying to think of a comeback — something ruthless — that will make everyone on the bus cheer and carry her on their shoulders down the aisle. Maybe it’ll be so fierce that his cheeks will burn strawberry red, his palms will sweat so much they stain his jeans and his voice will stammer as he apologises to her for everything he did.
‘Sorry,’ he tries again, still holding the buzzing phone, ‘can I get past or …?’
Lucy pauses, chest puffed and tight. ‘Yeah.’
Fudged that, Faris.
Lucy moves her knees to the left, opening up a small gap for him to get through. Her fingers stay intertwined, like she doesn’t dare move them in case they brush the same air as him.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbles, pressing past her body, his thighs scraping past her bare knees. ‘Sorry.’
Once he’s gone, Lucy glares at the spare seat.
Three sorries.
None of them for the right thing.
7.58 p.m.
Her heart races as she remembers there are still six hours to go. Six hours breathing the same stuffy coach air as Cameron Webber. Seriously, I know you can’t read this message, but this is worse than when Tamiko got stuck in the lift with the dude with rank BO, I swear, Lucy types, her stomach feeling as tightly wound as steel wool. Nate, haven’t you sorted out the crappy reception at Maya’s place by now? There’s gotta be a way. She stares at the empty seat, panicking at the thought of Cameron’s return. Please, Nate-boy, I can’t do this.
8.01 p.m.
A few spots have opened up on the bus. The nearest seat is two rows ahead and across the aisle next to an old man who’s snoring with drool trickling down his chin. He’s whistling through his nose, but Lucy decides anything is better than being stuck next to Cameron Webber.
The bus rumbles back to life, which wakes up the old man.
Lucy makes her move. ‘Hi, sir, can I sit here?’
The man’s eyes widen behind his smudged glasses. ‘I hope you can,’ he says, baring his chipped, brown teeth. Lucy grimaces, already wishing for him to get off at the next stop.
‘Er, thanks.’ She rushes back to her seat to collect her stuff before Cameron returns from the bathroom, then slides in next to the old man.
‘Drink?’ he asks, holding up a silver flask.
Jesus.
‘Er, no. No.’
Once the driver turns off the lights, Lucy tries to relax into the seat, no longer needing to worry about the distance between her knee and Cameron Webber’s, or if Cameron Webber could hear her breathing as loud as she could hear him breathing, or if Cameron Webber had noticed she’d changed into a dress since he got on the bus.
8.06 p.m.
She fumbles for her phone.
Free at last.
8.55 p.m.
More people file off the bus at Wagga Wagga. Sadly not the old man, but enough seats open up for Lucy to get a spot by herself a few rows down. As she bundles her luggage into her arms for her third shift of the night, she notices Cameron’s sneakers hanging out over the edge of the seat.
Maybe the driver is right.
Maybe she is brave for getting on the bus.
11.27 p.m.
‘Food stop, my lethargic companions!’ The driver calls out over the loudspeaker. ‘Now I need you all back on the bus in thirty minutes. I’m leaving any dawdlers in Albury to hitchhike across the border.’
Passengers file off, one by one, each trudging under the streetlights into the roadhouse restaurant. Lucy plods through the cold air with the pack, her legs erupting with goosebumps. Once inside, she orders a hot dog and slides into a booth at the far end of the restaurant, swiping at the sauce then sucking it off her fingertip.
‘’Ello again, petal.’
Lucy looks up.
Oh no.
The old man takes a swig at his flask. ‘Eating a hot dog, are you?’
‘Ah … not unless it eats me first.’
‘Funny one, you are.’ He snorts out loud. ‘What’s your name? Got yourself a boyfriend?’
She bites her lip. ‘Ah … yeah, I do,’ she says, ignoring the first question and lying in response to the second one.
‘’Course you do. Girl like you.’
Picking at her hot dog, Lucy spots Cameron waiting to collect his food by the counter, fists stuffed deep into his hoodie. The old man follows her gaze and sees Cameron in line. ‘That fellow?’ He wheezes, breath smelling like it could clean rusty metal. ‘Him?’
She doesn’t reply.
The old man takes another sip and stumbles off, elbowing a shocked Cameron on the way out. ‘Treat her right, buddy,’ he says, pointing at Lucy back at the booth. ‘She’s a funny one, but not a bad looker.’
Cameron waits until the old man has stumbled through the sliding doors, then he heads for Lucy’s booth, half-eaten sausage roll in hand. Wiping tomato sauce from his mouth, he slides in opposite her.
‘Hi.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Okay, so you do know who I am?’
Lucy swallows. ‘Yeah. Cameron Webber.’
He nods. ‘Full name and everything. When I said hi before it seemed like you didn’t recognise me.’
She pauses. ‘Guess I had a hairball.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, you don’t speak “bushpig” anymore?’
‘What?’
‘Or do you only understand people whose throats you haven’t had your tongue stuck down?’
Cam
eron shakes his head. ‘Lucy, I —’
‘No,’ she blurts out. ‘You can’t just slide into my booth and start talking to me.’
‘Okay … what’s … what’s up?’
‘Seriously?’ Lucy says, heart racing. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t act nice, like nothing happened that day. When I met you, I thought you were nice, but … but you were nothing more than a Mitch in disguise. You were awful, you all were. You made life hell.’ Her eyes drill into his. ‘Now get out of my booth.’
‘I know you’re upset, but —’
‘I’m not upset.’ She leans forward, her elbows smacking the table. ‘I’m pissed off. There’s a difference.’
‘Then give me a chance to explain.’
‘You cracked the hairball joke, didn’t you?’ Lucy says in mock confusion. ‘And … and I’m speaking English, right?’
‘Ah … yeah? What do you mean?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Just get out of my booth … please.’ Her voice falters. ‘You know what, I’ll go.’
Lucy storms out of the restaurant, leaving behind a stunned Cameron and a cold hot dog on the table.
12.03 a.m.
Her thumbs tremble as she types.
Done.
Told him what I thought.
Slayed.
12.04 a.m.
Kinda thought it’d feel better than this.
12.05 a.m.
Lucy watches as Cameron walks to an empty seat right up the front. His head is down as he types on his phone, hitting the keys hard with the pads of his thumbs. She imagines him texting Mitch: Bushpig’s here, hairball’s imminent, 3/10.
12.06 a.m.
Maybe it takes time for the good vibes to kick in, she types to the group. Like medicine.
12.08 a.m.
Lucy swaps to the opposite side of the bus; far away from the old man, but mainly to avoid seeing Cameron’s fingers tapping on his armrest.
12.09 a.m.
Still waiting.
12.13 a.m.
This is the worst trip. Ever.
12.15 a.m.
Lucy’s phone beeps.
Battery’s nearly done.
Chewing on her inner cheek, she hurries through a new message to The Olivia Bensons — Only biscuits can fix this — but her phone dies before she presses ‘send’. Closing her eyes, Lucy falls asleep to the sound of the couple behind her bickering about whether to spend their honeymoon on Hamilton Island or in Fiji.
CAMERON
1.02 a.m.
The Stones’ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ thumps in Cameron’s ears as he nibbles on the jagged edge of his thumbnail.
An overnight coach.
Lucy Faris.
Endless texts and calls.
The bus lurches along the highway as acidic bile burns up his throat, his stomach churning at the taste.
And now motion sickness.
The fun continues, he thinks, replaying the moment Lucy drilled him back at the roadhouse restaurant. Her words were laced with a disgust he’d never seen in her before — like she loathed the taste of their conversation on her lips. Like she wanted to wash her mouth out with a bar of soap after speaking to him.
Like she hated him.
Lucy freaking Faris.
The chances.
Unbelievable.
‘Oi, driver, I think something’s burning back here!’ a deep voice booms through the silence, snapping him to attention. Cameron looks around the back of his seat, feeling everyone’s panic swelling like a tidal wave. The smell hasn’t reached him in the front row, but he watches as passengers unbuckle their seatbelts and cram into the aisle, grabbing bags and arms and shoulders and pillows, and inch forward step by step, like they’ve forgotten that there’s nowhere else to go.
Didn’t he know it.
‘It’s getting hot back here, like an oven!’ a woman in a beanie shouts, as a small boy clings to the back of her jacket.
Cameron spots Lucy in the middle of the bulging line, squashed between a young couple fighting about their hen’s and buck’s parties. He notices as Lucy checks then rechecks over her shoulder at the chaos at the back of the bus, before smirking to herself as the girl shrieks at her fiancé, ‘Stop being such a groomzilla, babe! Mum’s bought the penis straws for the party, and she’s not returning them. They were half-price. I told you that!’
Cameron watches Lucy cover her lips, trying to disguise her amusement as the couple launch into another round.
‘It’s starting to stink!’ The same deep voice shouts again. ‘Pull over or something! There are kids on the bus, man.’
The driver clears his throat into the loudspeaker as the passengers jostle for space in the aisle. ‘Just looking for a spot to pull up here on the left, folks. The old girl’s probably just overheated — please, let’s all remain calm.’ He draws in a sharp breath and exhales, not realising his microphone is still on.
As the bus screeches to a stop on the side of the highway, everyone shoves and pushes to the front of the aisle. Cameron lets in passenger after passenger, biting his tongue when no-one bothers to thank him.
‘Quickly please, everyone, let’s go!’ the driver says, mustering people off the bus. ‘Grab what you can and stick together, please, just wait over there, out of the way. We’re all friends, or at least we’re gonna be after this.’
Cameron steps onto the gravel with a crunch, the icy air burning his nose and cheeks. ‘Where are we?’ he asks the driver, shoving his fists deeper into his hoodie pockets.
‘I can tell you where we ain’t, big fella,’ the driver says, still frantically directing people to stand by the wire fence surrounding endless acres of paddock, ‘and that’s Melbourne, so keep moving so I can get a new bus called out, yeah?’
Cameron nods.
The driver claps in frustration when he sees the group starting to spread like ants along the grass flanking the highway.
‘Miss, did you hear me?’ he barks at a woman shuffling backwards to take a selfie with the bus. ‘No wandering into the dark unless you fancy spending the night alone — although the cows are friendly around these parts. Now move away from the highway and into a group, people! The emergency lights are on for a reason.’ He claps again. ‘Miss, I said into a group! Into a group! It’s as if you all want to be flattened like pancakes.’
Cameron gets lost in the mix of beanies and jumpers and flashing mobile phone lights, but he’s only looking for her.
He spots Lucy on the other side of the huddle; her lips are hardened into a faint line as she stares at the cars whooshing past, lighting up the highway.
She’s not looking for him.
Cameron lets his body get jostled to the edge of the crowd.
1.11 a.m.
Despite the driver’s orders, everyone’s melted into sections.
A nervous pack stands on the gravel, whispering and dissecting every move or word the driver utters as he paces back and forth while speaking on his phone, demanding a new bus is sent out because the old one is overheated and ‘buggered to buggery’. Others sit on the damp grass, relaxed and chatting, while a handful suck on cigarettes by the fence behind them.
Cameron keeps one foot on the grass and another on the gravel — and both eyes on Lucy, who’s staying close to the driver. She’s still bare-legged but has pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and crossed her arms around herself. Shivering and shaking, she steps from side to side to a beat all her own.
Cameron’s phone buzzes in his pocket.
Nan.
First the texts, now the calls.
‘Hey again,’ he answers, wandering away from the group. ‘Everything all right? … Oh, okay. Go back to sleep, Nan, it was just another bad dream. I promise … Promise. Okay, bye, love you … No, it’s after one … Yes, one in the morning, you’ve been asleep so it was just a nightmare. You’re safe … Love you, too … Yes, Nan, it’s me … Tiny. I said, it’s Tiny, Nan … You’ve got my number, it’s saved in your phone, remember?
You just rang it so … Love you, too … Yes, it’s Cameron … I said, it’s Cameron.’
She’s hung up.
Sighing, he stuffs his phone back in his jeans pocket.
‘Righto, folks,’ the driver shouts, standing on his tiptoes and rubbing his palms together. ‘I’ve sorted a bus, but it’ll be at least forty-five minutes,’ he shouts. Everyone groans. ‘May I suggest hugging the person closest to you to stay warm? Actually … don’t.’ He chuckles. ‘Everyone, keep your hands where I can see ’em.’
‘Er, sir,’ Lucy asks him in a soft voice, but loud enough for Cameron to hear. ‘Do you have a quick second?’
‘For you, Eight, I’ve got a long second. What’s on your mind?’
‘My trackies. I must’ve dropped them on the way out and … can I go and get them?’
‘From the bus? Nope.’
‘What? Why? You have to let me back on so —’
‘Can’t risk it. You don’t want me to have to tell your parents you were fried like a dim-sim in that lemon, do you, Eight?’ He unbuttons his coat and passes it to her. ‘Here, take this.’
‘But then you’ll be cold.’
‘I’m a tough nut,’ he says with a laugh. ‘On your way. I’ve got a bus with a temperature to curse for busting me good run.’
Lucy’s mouth splits into an enormous grin and Cameron wishes he’d thought of offering her his jacket earlier.
1.20 a.m.
Cameron kicks at a patch of dirt next to the fence, glaring at the moon shimmering white in the sky. The silence creates empty moments to sink into, but he fights being dragged down into them as they smother his mind one by one. Lucy’s penetrating glare across the restaurant table. The way she stormed off back to the bus. When she called him awful. He’s already lost count of how many times he’s replayed the spray from her. With a shake of his head, Cameron gives in to it all at once.
‘When I met you, I thought you were nice … but you were nothing more than a Mitch in disguise.’
Stuff it.
1.22 a.m.
She’s sitting on the grass now, the driver’s jacket wrapped around her legs. Cameron watches from a distance as she shoos away the old man with the flask, no longer bothering to be polite. Her gaze has found Cameron’s a few times through the crowd, piercing into him for a second, maybe two, but then she looks away whenever their eyes meet.