‘I’m at your house. Working on an English project about the link between fascism and the media.
She looks down.
‘Listen. I’m sorry about what happened today,’ I say. ‘With Eddie.’
She shrugs. ‘Nothing you could have done.’
‘I could have called him a cheesegoat.’
She snorts. ‘Next time.’
I want to hug her but I don’t think that would go down so well. ‘Have you seen Carmen?’ I ask instead.
‘Over there.’ Zan points behind her to where Carmen is slumped on a retaining wall.
Carmen looks up and says something but not using any actual words or any actual language. Unless ‘drunk’ is a language.
‘Ray!’ Carmen calls, then she frowns at her feet and finally the words tumble out in a slurred mush. ‘Why are my feet on backwards?’
I walk over and sit beside her.
‘They’re nice shoes,’ I tell her, and they are. Leopard print brogues.
Carmen rocks into my shoulder. Her usual bright smile is a bit sloppy round the edges. She jabs my chest, right where my scar is. ‘Have you seen my feet?’
I nod.
‘They’re backwards.’
Kari looks over and sends death rays with her eyes. ‘They’re really not,’ she says. Even through her blatant dislike of me, I can see she is even more over drunk Carmen than she is pissed at my arrival. Or maybe it’s on par.
‘God,’ says Carmen, throwing her arms up. ‘Fine. Cos you’re never wrong, Kari.’
Carmen leans heavily into me. ‘Have you met Kari? She’s never wrong. And she knows everything. She’s like a demigod or something. Karisma the Almighty. Karisma the Wise.’
I’m in danger of toppling from the weight of Carmen leaning against me so I wrap my arms around her and steady her.
‘And she knows what’s best for everyone. I mean, you don’t know her very well, but I bet she still knows what’s best for you.’
Kari looks away and I can tell there are a bunch of words all crammed in her mouth that she’s dying to spit out. Zan grabs her hand, leans in close and says something the teeth-rattling techno doesn’t let me hear. I probably wasn’t meant to hear it anyway.
Kari shakes her head but eventually lets Zan pull her away. She pauses beside me as she passes. ‘You’re in charge now,’ she says, and I don’t for a second miss the bitterness in her voice. ‘Don’t let her drink anymore.’
They leave.
‘She’s so bossy,’ says Carmen.
‘You are a bit drunk.’
‘I am so drunk,’ she says and disappears in a fit of laughter. She falls into my side and I wrap my arms around her again.
Carmen turns her head and looks quizzically at me. ‘Ray,’ she says, after what feels like an hour of staring.
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s your name, isn’t it?’
My throat feels thick and achy. I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘My name is Carmen.’
‘I know. We’ve met.’
She pushes my shoulder. ‘I know we have. You came into my shop and beat up those guys.’
‘I didn’t beat them up.’
‘You told them where to shove it.’
She reaches out a hand and runs a finger along the length of my cheek, but never touching, always just a millimetre away. ‘He has cheeks like yours. Luis does.’
I swallow the lump in my throat. I tell myself she’s fine. She’s not falling apart like Kari thinks she is. This is just a blip. A drunken blip. She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.
‘You’re so much like him,’ she says, but then she drops her hand and stares into her lap. She squeezes her hands between her knees like she wants to stop them from escaping.
She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.
‘Okay, Ray,’ says Carmen and pushes herself to standing. I stand too and hold one arm behind her and one in front like a nervous parent trying to protect a jelly-limbed toddler. ‘Let’s dance,’ she says. And then she sings it, like the Bowie song.
‘Aren’t your feet backwards?’
She throws back her head and laughs. ‘Backwards feet are better to dance with!’ she shouts, and then she throws her arms in the air and writhes and sways and floats like she doesn’t have a care.
Some other people join in and some just keep talking. Some stare with cloudy, distant smiles. Carmen grabs my hand and spins me around and dips me and her smile is so infectious that I smile too and forget there was ever anything to feel anxious about.
Because she’s fine.
I’m fine.
We’re all fine.
________
I hold Carmen’s hair back while she retches into the toilet. The tiles are cool against my bare legs. Strands of hair cling to her face with sweat and vomit and tears, and I try to smooth them back but they’re all sticky.
‘Oh god,’ Carmen says, leaning back and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She scrunches along the floor until her back is against the bath, legs splayed out in front of her. I flush the toilet and sit beside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, rubbing her face with both hands.
‘Don’t be.’
I hug my knees to my chest. We danced for so long and so hard and only stopped when people started swearing as Carmen’s wayward arms hit their faces and she was shouting for people to get away from her, shouting that she was the dancing queen and they could go fuck themselves, then I had to lead her away, drag her. We only just made it to the bathroom.
‘I’m a mess,’ she says, and she says it with equal measures of laughter and sobs.
‘Here.’ I wet a face washer and hand it to her. ‘On the back of the neck,’ I tell her, but she unfolds it and splays it across her face and leans back, her dark hair fanning down the side of the bath like a crow’s wing.
‘You’re nice,’ she says from under the washer, ‘for staying with me.’
I can’t remember the number of times Mum stayed up with me when I was sick, when I was scared, when I didn’t want to be alone. Telling me silly stories to take my mind off the ‘d’ word. I liked it when she took control then. I needed it.
‘Today’s been a shitty day,’ says Carmen, the face washer sucking in and out with each breath.
I say nothing.
Carmen drags the face washer off her face and dumps it in her lap. She stays looking up at the ceiling. It’s cracked and peeling and dirty. ‘Do you know how when something really bad happens and everyone expects you to behave a certain way and it just feels so . . . claustrophobic?’ she says, her voice tinny in the cold, small bathroom. ‘Like, if you don’t fit their model of grief – you’re doing it wrong? But maybe you don’t want to talk about it because maybe you don’t want it to define you? You want to remember things how they were? Remember the good things.’
She’s struggling to slip her tongue around her words.
Finally, she looks at me.
I nod. I do know.
‘The worst part is,’ I say, ‘it’s the only way people know how to define you. You’ll never be anything else.’
She grabs my arm. ‘Yes,’ she says, fingers digging in. ‘So much yes.’
So we don’t talk about Luis and I don’t ask her how she’s really feeling. We talk about silly stuff. About the boy Carmen used to date and the snooty cow he’s dating now, and I tell her about Pip and she laughs until she groans and holds her belly but then laughs again, and we don’t talk about the things that make us sad because we’re more than that.
‘Thank you,’ she tells me, struggling to keep her eyes open. ‘I needed this.’
She’s limp and unhelpful as I try to drag her out of the bathroom. I’m surprised to find Kari waiting on the other side, arms folded, death rays reloaded and in full force.
‘You were supposed to cut her off.’
‘I did.’
‘She’s a mess,’ she says, and I wan
t to tell her she’s not. She’s not a mess, she’s fine. But I don’t say anything. I just let Kari grab one arm and I grab the other and we help her to the bedroom. ‘I can walk on my own,’ she says.
‘Not with backward feet,’ I mutter.
Kari tells me she can take it from here.
Carmen lies on the bed, rolling onto her side and hugging her arms into her chest. ‘I can walk,’ she keeps saying.
‘You need coffee,’ says Kari.
‘I need you to quit bossing me,’ snaps Carmen.
She’s fine, I tell myself. We’re both fine.
Kari looks over her shoulder at me. ‘I told you I’ve got this,’ she says, impatience making her voice sharp.
I back out of the door, closing it part way.
And somehow, in a tiny house crammed with a hundred people, I’m alone. Again.
The way I figure it, if I’m engrossed in the contents of this bookcase no one will notice that I’m back to being Annie McNo-friends. Because Kari is with Carmen and Zan is nowhere to be found and Leo hasn’t even turned up.
I scan shelf to shelf, reading the names of the books and the authors and, well, judging.
Because you do. People say eyes are the windows into the soul but that’s crap. Books are.
‘Your verdict?’
I spin around.
Leo.
He stands behind me with his hands in his pockets and only the barest smile. And it’s like he hasn’t messed with my heartbeat enough simply by appearing behind me. Oh no, he has to set it racing even faster by looking completely adorable with his stripy t-shirt and his messy hair and his bright blue socks and his skinny jeans and that little quirk to his lips. Actually, he looks kind of unsure and shy. Which is even more adorable.
He should come with a warning sticker – contents may cause adorable overload.
He motions at the bookcase. ‘You’ve been giving those a serious once over,’ he says. ‘I’m wondering what you think.’
‘What I think?’ I hope I convey the image of someone calm and in control and not someone who thought she’d been stood up. ‘I think there are a lot of uncracked spines. All the right books to be seen reading on the eighty-six tram if you’re an art school wanker.’
He laughs. ‘Don’t hold back, Ray. Tell us what you really think.’ He points to a tall, thick black spine. ‘Maus,’ he says. ‘That’s pretty cool. You read it?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s a graphic novel. You’d like it.’
I nod and we stare at each other in awkward silence. Part of me is so nervous that I feel like looking over my shoulder, checking that my mum isn’t about to jump out from behind the speakers to catch me trading small talk with the enemy, to yell at me for daring to be civil – even if awkward – to a butcher. But I’m not really nervous about being caught, I’m nervous about what to say, what to do with my hands, and what it will look like if I lick my lips. Because they’re dry and I’d really like to, but if I do will he think I’m thinking about kissing him? Will he know I’m thinking about kissing him? Will he get the wrong idea? Or is it the right idea?
‘Are you okay?’ he says. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘It’s hot.’ I’m certain my cheeks glow red to prove my point. ‘Maybe I need air?’
He grabs a light hold of my elbow and nods towards the back doors. I let him lead me through the pulsing crowd and now that I’m moving I realise I am kind of hot and light-headed. All that crazy dancing and the sugary drinks Carmen shoved into my hand are taking their toll.
We slip into the backyard where there are fewer people than before, less noise because people are gathered in small groups chatting and the pounding of the music inside is muted by the glass doors.
‘Fresh air,’ he says as he leans in and I notice his cheeks are a little red too. There are a lot of things I notice. Like the familiar scent of his shampoo (I didn’t know I had such a thing for lemongrass but, seriously, is there a better smell?) and how the smattering of freckles across his nose make him look younger but the prickles of stubbly hair along his jawline make him look older. And how he doesn’t pull away when our arms press against each other’s and I notice the thumping of my heart like maybe it’s trying to tell me something in Morse code.
We sit on the same retaining wall Carmen and I sat on earlier. I wonder if she’s asleep. I wonder what she’s dreaming about and how she’ll feel tomorrow when she wakes up sore and tired and ill and sad.
‘So,’ says Leo.
I nod even though ‘so’ isn’t a question so nodding is pretty dumb. But saying ‘so’ and leaving it at that is pretty dumb too.
‘You came,’ I say. ‘Are you sure this isn’t a prank? You didn’t bring a vat of offal, did you?’ I look around in case there’s a Carrie-style disaster about to happen.
‘You invited me, remember?’ He taps a nervous beat on his thighs.
‘So,’ I say and then remember how dumb it was when Leo said it. But then he does the same nodding thing I did.
I think I’m going to explode with just how awkward this whole thing is.
‘I have a question,’ he says. ‘Why did you invite me? Aren’t we locked in a bitter, age-old feud between good and evil that will only end when the chosen one fights a dragon and finds a ring and drops it in a volcano and all that shit?’
I bump his knee. ‘So long as I’m Frodo in that analogy.’
‘No way. That makes me the evil wizard dude.’
‘Sauron.’
‘There’s no way I’m anything called a Sauron. Just look at me.’
‘Look at me. There’s no way I’m anything other than a hobbit.’
He laughs. ‘This is true. Show us your hairy feet.’
He fends off my elbow to his gut by grabbing my arm.
Which is altogether too much touching for mortal enemies. He freezes, hand on my arm, and we stare at each other.
I certainly don’t remember the scene where Frodo and Sauron stared meaningfully at each other for ages. Maybe it’s in the movie.
He lets go but doesn’t shift away so there’s not a lot of air between us, even though we came out here for more of it. All I know is I’m suddenly very resentful of air and wish it would bugger off and stop getting in the way of Leo and me.
‘So,’ he says.
‘So,’ I say. I lick my dry lips and watch as Leo’s eyes flick to my mouth and stay there.
Wow, I could count his freckles this close up.
I don’t know who leans in first but I think maybe we both do at the same time. I really don’t remember the bit where Frodo and Sauron get it on, but suddenly it feels like that’s what The Lord of the Rings was missing. An epic kissing scene.
His lips are soft and gentle and he slips a hand behind my head and draws me in closer. I comb my fingers through his messy hair as I slide onto his lap, and his hand presses into my waist and there’s no air between us, not anymore.
His hands are strong as he grips the bare skin at my waist. I’ve been touched before but never like this. Only a thousand times by hands in latex gloves, by doctors and nurses who prodded me and poked me and hurt me. Leo’s hands move in soft circles. He holds me close, needing me to be closer and closer still and dear god I need him close too – why did I ever think I didn’t?
‘For god’s sake, get a room.’
I tumble out of Leo’s lap and land with all the grace of a newborn faun on the ground.
Ouch. I mean, seriously. Ouch.
‘Shit, you okay?’ Leo’s eyes are wide as he reaches out to help me up.
There’s laughter. I scramble to my feet and find Carmen, Zan and Kari standing in a semi-circle like they’ve got front row seats at a play. Except, judging by Kari and Zan’s looks, it wasn’t the play they’d paid to see.
Carmen is frayed and tired-looking, but she’s the one laughing.
She covers her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, but the laughter doesn’t stop.
Leo’s still look
ing at me, waiting to make sure I’m okay. Which is sweet, but I mean how is he not dying of embarrassment right now? I am.
I smooth down my skirt and try to look respectable. Like I didn’t just land on my arse, like I wasn’t just caught kissing a butcher in Kari’s backyard.
‘I thought you were passed out,’ I say.
‘No,’ says Carmen, gripping her stomach. ‘But I think I threw up all my drunkenness. Now it just hurts.’
Like my pride, I think. And my butt.
Zan’s eyes keep flicking between Leo and me. She twitches an eyebrow at me.
‘This is Leo,’ I say.
He nods at everyone. ‘Hello.’
‘Oh, I know Leo,’ says Carmen. She grins. ‘I’ve heard aaaaaall about him.’
Dear Earth Goddess, please can you see about organising some lightning to strike me down and end this torture. Much love, Marlowe.
Leo slides his arm around my waist because apparently he’s impervious to embarrassment. ‘Hope it’s all good things,’ he says. ‘Marlowe hasn’t always had the highest opinion of me.’
I know there’s a problem with that sentence, but I don’t know what it is. The disaster is in my peripheral vision but I haven’t seen it yet. It hasn’t registered.
But it’s there. Somewhere in the back of my head a small part of my brain is screaming: Run!
‘Marlowe?’ says Carmen. ‘Who’s Marlowe?’
Leo looks at me. ‘I got it right, didn’t I? Shit.’
He laughs. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? If he called me the wrong name. Because he’s never actually called me by my real name, just that silly nickname he came up with. He could have forgotten. Got it wrong.
But he didn’t.
He got it right.
My real name is Marlowe. Marlowe Jensen.
And I mean, I still don’t get it. I’m still caught in the embarrassment of the moment and the exhilaration of whatever just happened between Leo and me. But that warning voice is getting so much louder.
‘Marlowe,’ says Zan. ‘I think it’s time to come clean.’
‘Who the hell is Marlowe?’ says Carmen. She looks at everyone, face all scrunched up with confusion. She lands on me last, and I see the thoughts ticking over in her head.
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