Zan’s dad chuckles. It seems right that he would be a chuckler. ‘We’ll take good care of her.’ He opens the door wide.
I look back over my shoulder and can’t help the pang I feel as Mum disappears from view. Is it too late to chase after her for a hug?
‘So, Marlowe,’ says Zan’s dad. He’s still holding the door open for me. I duck inside. ‘I hear that you draw.’
The front hallway is small and dimly lit and with a ceiling that’s slightly too low. Like, it’s probably only a fraction lower than most ceilings but you notice it and it makes you feel claustrophobic, like it’s going to fall on you any second.
‘Yes. I draw. A bit. Well, a lot. But it’s kind of a hobby. Though I guess I’d like to study Art at uni. If I go to uni. I might not. Or I might.’
‘That’s nice,’ he says. He’s the kind of person whose eyes never quite settle on you, like there’s something – someone – more interesting than you to be found. I think my image of him being carved out of marble wasn’t that far off because despite the unexpected hotness and despite his smiles and crinkly eyes and polite responses he’s . . . cold.
He calls for Zan and I hear a door opening upstairs and then the thump, thump, thump of footsteps above us.
He smiles benignly at me, and I don’t know why but it makes me feel . . . inadequate.
Zan takes the stairs two at a time wearing her standard black jeans, black tank, black cap and black sneakers. At the bottom she looks me up and down. ‘You still look like jail bait,’ she says.
‘Play nice,’ says her dad. Is it me or did the tone of his voice drop the temperature in the room by fifty degrees?
‘I’m always nice,’ says Zan. And there goes another fifty degrees. I guess it makes sense why Zan never mentions her parents. I’m not getting a close-knit vibe here.
Zan’s dad folds his arms across his chest. ‘What are you two doing tonight?’
‘Painting each other’s toenails and having pillow fights,’ deadpans Zan. ‘The usual.’
‘Your mother’s on night duty.’
‘I’m aware.’
I know I complain a lot about my mother and Pip and my runaway dad, but this feels like a whole other kind of nightmare. I think I understand Zan a lot more.
Zan’s dad turns to me. ‘I’ll be working in my study but you have fun, okay?’
Is that an order? I nod.
‘Come on,’ says Zan, and I get another head-to-toe look. ‘We have work to do too.’
________
Zan’s room is like the inside of Kurt Cobain’s head. I stand in the centre of the room taking in the overwhelming Zan-ness of the space. When I spy my drawing pinned to the side of her wardrobe I get this feathery, fluttery feeling like I’m a birdcage filled with hummingbirds.
‘Dinner,’ says Zan and points to two bowls of spag bol on her desk. ‘I microwaved. It’s meat-free with gluten-free pasta.’
I look at it with a pang of homesickness.
‘Chao was the only one of us who could cook,’ she says.
I realise she must have seen my face and thought I was disappointed with the food. I turn to hide the flush in my cheeks.
‘Was?’
‘University in Sydney. He hardly ever comes home.’
Her tone is sharp, bitter. I turn back and she’s twirling her fork in the bowl until the spaghetti grows too heavy and falls off. She does it over and over without eating a bite.
‘And Jian?’ I ask.
‘Backpacking.’ The same bitterness.
‘You miss them?’
I’m surprised to see the brick wall threatening to crumble. But it doesn’t. Instead, she fills in all the cracks, builds a second wall just to be sure and ignores my question.
‘You can’t wear that,’ she says, shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth and pointing at me with the prongs. ‘Have you been to a pub before?’
‘No.’ I look down at my clothes. ‘I didn’t have much to choose from.’
‘Sit,’ she says and I plop onto the edge of her bed and watch her lay out tubes and pencils and compacts and bottles. It reminds me so much of Hannah and her instruments of hospital torture that my heart does a strange little dance in my chest. It’s not a fun dance.
‘You worn make-up before?’ I shake my head.
‘Keep your eyes closed. I’ll keep it light.’
Reluctantly I let my eyelids flutter to a close, but it’s weird when there’s someone right in front of me.
‘Relax,’ she says.
‘I can’t.’
‘Tell me something. Tell me about Leo. What did he say about the posters?’
I feel a dull pressure against my eyelid as she draws a line along the edge. It’s weird and uncomfortable and makes my eyes water.
I tell her about the posters, even the small tear of paper that was the only sign my handiwork had ever been there.
‘It’s like, this is what it must feel like to have your baby kidnapped, you know? Or, even worse than that, like the whole nursery is gone, like it never existed, and the only thing left is a small white rattle on the ground.’
She snorts and I open my eyes. ‘You could tone down the dramatics just a touch,’ she says and then stabs the centre of my forehead with the blunt end of her eyeliner. ‘Close your eyes and keep them closed.’
The gentle scratching along the edge of my eyelid resumes. I think I prefer Hannah drawing blood.
‘I’ll have to think of something else to do,’ I say.
‘Or maybe you don’t.’
‘Huh?’
‘Keep your eyes closed.’
‘I am.’
‘Wait.’
‘I am.’
‘There. Done.’
I keep my eyes closed, even though the scratching has stopped. ‘Now?’ I ask.
‘Now.’
I open my eyes and Zan is looking at me in a waiting-for-the-bus-that-should-have-arrived-half-an-hour-ago kind of way, like ‘Hey, I’ll just sit here waiting for you to catch up to me. Just let me know when you’ve worked it out and then we’ll talk.’
‘Seriously,’ I tell her. ‘What?’
She sighs and leans forward again. ‘Keep your eyes open but look up,’ she says and I obey.
The soft jab of the eyeliner feels extra weird under my eye and I try not to flinch. Tears are pooling, though.
‘Just forget about Leo,’ she says. ‘Do nothing. The guy called you a name. He was being a jerk. You got back at him. It’s over. Move on. Think of him as a secondary character. Like, in the credits of the movie of your life he won’t even get a name. It’ll just be ‘Butcher Jerk’. . . unless you want more from him.’
She pulls back and I blink my eyes a hundred times, trying not to let the eyeliner tears fall. I look at her like I’ve been waiting for the same bus only now it’s zoomed right past without stopping and no amount of arm waving and yelling will stop it. She’s right, of course. His dad’s a jerk and Leo behaved like a jerk too. He called me a name and he made me clean up offal. So he’s definitely ‘Butcher Jerk’. And nothing more. Or maybe he’d just be ‘the Butcher’s Apprentice’ because I don’t think he’s always a jerk. Sometimes he’s funny and sweet and I think we’re kind of going through similar things. So, yeah, ‘Butcher’s Apprentice’. Or ‘Boy Next Door’. But nothing more.
‘Next eye,’ she says and I look up again. Make-up is cruel.
We’re silent while she finishes the eyeliner and then pulls out a mascara wand. I struggle not to blink while she applies it.
‘Anyway, tonight is not about a boy,’ she says finally, capping the mascara. ‘Tonight is about Carmen. But mostly it’s about you.’
I blink furiously because I feel like someone’s tried to paint my eyes shut. Zan is watching me, head tilted, an amused quirk to her lips.
‘I feel like a bird has plucked out and eaten both of my eyes,’ I say.
‘That’s how it’s supposed to feel,’ she deadpans.
She moves away
and opens her closet, pulling out the most un-Zan-like dress I’ve ever seen. It’s lemon yellow, A-line, sleeveless and with a short turtleneck. I could picture it on Twiggy, but she was an It-girl model – waifish and doe-eyed and painfully cool. I fantasise about cutting my hair just like hers – short, short hair with a side-part and a little curl in the front. But people notice you when you look like Twiggy.
‘That’s . . .’ I say.
‘Not mine,’ she answers, and I almost laugh. ‘It was my mum’s. It’s old. She keeps all her clothes. I thought it looked like something you’d like.’
Zan lays the dress on the bed and turns her back so I can change. Even with her back turned I still feel self-conscious. I slip the lemon-yellow dress over my head so quickly that I get a little tangled.
I tug the dress down, running my hand down the front to smooth it out. I step forward and look at myself in the mirror over Zan’s dresser. My reflection looks back at me between a collage of photos and mementoes stuck to the mirror’s edge: her brothers, ticket stubs for bands, postcards, blackout poetry that I guess she made herself.
The dress is perfect. I suspect it’s not at all perfect for a night of punk at the Tote, but it is perfect for me. It’s the kind of me I’ve always wished I could be. True to her word, Zan hasn’t gone overboard with the make-up, just enough to frame my eyes. And even though I like what I see, it scares me too. Because I’ve never been this visible before.
Zan turns back around and takes forever to look me up and down, her eyes half closed. It’s deceptive. There’s no one with a sharper gaze than Zan.
‘You look seventeen and a half,’ she says and shoots me the wry smile. ‘Lucky you’ve got ID.’
I’m the only person not wearing black. Worse, I am wearing lemon yellow. The colour of sunshine and daisies and baby ducks.
We pay a girl with long dirty hair at a table just inside the front entrance. We show ID – mine is legit but Zan’s is, well, I’m not asking questions. The girl presses an elephant stamp to the back of my hand without making eye contact. Instead, her hazy, kohl-rimmed eyes slide up and down my baby-duck dress, lingering for a moment too long, and then settle on whoever’s behind me.
At least she didn’t beat me up.
Zan leads us down a narrow corridor; my shoes stick to the ancient-looking beer-stained carpet – if I could hear my footsteps they’d make a rip, rip, rip sound, like Velcro. But I can’t. Because of the Seriously Loud Music.
The corridor opens into a large room. I think there are round tables, stools and a bar that covers a fair chunk of the left wall but it’s hard to see because there are so many people. I make a plan to buy shares in a company that makes and sells ripped black skinny jeans. Because. Every. Single. Person. Is. Wearing. Them.
‘I hope this place is up to fire code,’ I say, and Zan gives me a serial-killer stare.
Mental note not to be such a dork.
She drags me through the crowd to the bar, where she insists on buying me a drink. She wants to get me a cider but I tell her I can’t. She raises a brow, but I point at my chest so she buys me a coke and gets a cider for herself. The words – ‘Aren’t you underage?’ – fizz on the tip of my tongue.
Don’t be a dork, Marlowe.
The glass is cold in my hand and I struggle to hide my disgust when I take a sip: this is how the tears of an Oompa Loompa would taste.
‘Wow. You really like it,’ she says.
‘I’ve never had coke.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
‘Huh.’ She takes another sip. ‘So is your friend here?’
I look around the packed room but everyone looks the same, like an army of Death Eaters on their night off. There’s a swarm of bees in my stomach as I think about which would be worse: finding Carmen or not finding her. I wobble on tippy-toes, searching the crowd. My head is already spinning from the fifty million gallons of sugar in my one sip of coke.
‘I don’t think – ?’
There’s a tentative tap on my shoulder. Just a feathery brush of fingers against my skin. Oh god, it’s her. It’s Carmen. It has to be.
I turn slowly, a wonky smile fixed to my face – there are a thousand and one excuses for why I’m here and why, honestly, I’m not a stalker, but I don’t need them.
Because it’s not Carmen.
How surprised am I?
Imagine you’re chatting to a friend, your best friend, someone you’ve known since the day you were born. You’ve shared secrets and crushes and beds and tears and laughter and there’s no one in the world you trust more. But then your friend rips off her face to reveal a lizard head underneath because it turns out your friend is actually an alien lizard in disguise and always has been. Surprise!
It’s not Carmen.
It’s Leo.
It’s green eyes and freckles and broad shoulders and that infuriating grin. It’s good-day hair – a little bit tousled but not too messy.
He looks good.
Seriously good. I mean, if those jeans were any tighter I’d be worried for his future children. And a salmon pink t-shirt? It goes well with his eyes but it’s totally overcompensating. Like, hey, I’m so comfortable with my masculinity I can wear salmon pink to a punk concert . . .
He looks good. Seriously good.
Did I mention he looks good?
‘You’re a Kill the Club fan,’ he says, hands in pockets, rocking back on his heels. His grin is especially crooked tonight.
Surprise gives way to a face-pinching, shoulder-rolling, chin-jutting annoyance. ‘Yes. Obviously.’
‘I can see that.’ Leo gives me the same lazy once-over as the girl at the door. I feel the expected irritation surge through me but dancing underneath is a surprising tickle of something else. Something not entirely unpleasant.
‘I can see you live and breathe punk,’ he says. ‘And if I asked you to name all five of their albums, you could. Right?’
‘Of course.’ Someone bumps me from behind. My coke sloshes onto his salmon pink t-shirt but he doesn’t seem to care or even notice.
‘All five? Seriously?’
I nod.
Zan nudges my elbow. ‘All three,’ she whispers in my ear.
Oh.
Leo can barely contain his laughter – it’s going to split his face in half. ‘You kill me, Ray. You’re too much.’
I grab Zan and pull her through the crowd.
‘Where’re you going?’ he calls after me. ‘We haven’t talked favourite singles yet!’
I squeeze between sweaty bodies. I’ve no idea where I’m going. It just has to be nowhere near Leo. The crowd decides our path – wherever gaps appear, that’s where I head and eventually we’re spat out in front of the ladies toilet.
‘So that was Leo,’ says Zan. She takes a sip of her cider, unruffled, unconcerned, just another day at the office.
I could throw up I’m so angry.
The nerve.
Who does he think he is? Zan’s right. He’s definitely a secondary character. Butcher Jerk it is.
Zan interrupts my silent fuming. ‘He called you “Ray”.’
People push past us, in and out of the toilets, giving us dirty looks.
‘Ray,’ says Zan. ‘I thought that was the fake name you gave to Carmen. How come Leo called you that?’
‘It’s just a silly name he called me when we first met,’ I say. ‘And when Carmen asked for my name it was the first thing that popped into my head.’ I’m getting better at reading the teeny tiny shifts in Zan’s expression and right now I think she’s doing a Zan version of smug. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not used to giving out fake names. I just reached for one I already knew.’
She nods, but my cheeks are getting hotter and hotter. She rolls her eyes at me.
‘What?’ I snap.
She angles her face so I won’t see. But I can see. Behind her brick-wall façade, she is Zan-smugging me.
I punch her in the arm, though I can’t he
lp but smile. ‘Stop it. Stop reading into things. He might not be the jerk I once thought he was and I might even think he’s little bit cute, but there’s nothing to it. So stop.’
‘Stop what? I’m just standing here, drinking my cider, waiting for your favourite band to come on.’
I give in and laugh. ‘You’re worse than he is.’
She’s bumped out of the way as three girls push through the toilet doors. ‘Do you need to pee or are we just going to block the toilets all night?’ she asks.
‘Can we look for Carmen?’ I say, and she nods.
We weave through the crowd, but when there’s this many people and this many elbows digging into your side and this many people jumping and dancing and throwing their hands all around it’s more like you’re in rough seas and all you can do is stop fighting it and just let the current take you. The current of people takes us right up the front to the stage.
The support act starts and even though I keep bobbing up and down on my heels searching for Carmen I get drawn back to the stage to watch them.
It’s a four-piece; the lead singer has messy black curls, black skinny jeans (ripped, of course). He’s wearing a maroon shirt, buttoned all the way to the top. He’s got a nice voice, a little husky but nice all the same. The music buzzes deep in my bones.
I look back over my shoulder but the crowd has closed in and I can’t see anything more than black, black and black.
Zan stretches her hands over her head, closes her eyes and sways to the fuzzy, droney sound. She looks happy. Free.
And squished amongst all these heaving, swaying, musicdrunk bodies, I finally get the point of all this. You let go and the music holds you up and you don’t even have to think. You just feel. And if you want to jump around and scream and cry and lose yourself completely, then you can – no one will judge you for it.
Suddenly I’m dancing like I’ve lost my mind because the music is in my bones. It takes me over. For the first time in a long time – in forever – I let go. I stop worrying about Carmen. About Luis. About Eddie and three-headed dog-beasts and people staring at me. About my mum. About Pip. About my heart.
I never dance in public – but now I’m dancing like a wild girl.
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