by Nina Kenwood
Crying in my dermatologist’s office when he said, ‘You should have come to me sooner,’ and it became clear that everything was my fault.
Crying in my naturopath’s office when she was listing the foods I needed to stop eating and she had been listing them for a while and I realised she probably was only halfway through and I would never enjoy a meal again.
Having a public fight with my mother in the Myer fitting rooms, while bra shopping, because I didn’t want the bra fitter to come in and see the acne and scars on my back.
Not looking anyone in the eye for days at a time, and then being called rude, and having a terrible flood of realisation of what other people must think of me.
Feeling okay about my skin for the first time in a long time, and then a little girl asking if I’d fallen over and skidded my chin along the road, and realising my skin only looked okay relative to how bad it was before.
Giving up sugar for six months and not having a birthday cake or dessert at Christmas or a bowl of ice-cream on a Friday night (my favourite), and my skin breaking out anyway making all that sacrifice pointless.
My parents going away for a weekend and calling me and asking in a hopeful tone if I had invited people over, and realising later they were wishing I would throw a party in their absence (even just a small party, even if I’d just invite one friend over), and instead I read fan fiction and watched YouTube tutorials on cross-stitching and wrote a list of names I would call my dog if I had one, and felt happy I didn’t have to see anyone.
Crying when I’d see myself in the mirror on a Monday morning and realising I had to endure a whole week of being out in the world.
Deleting and then reinstating my social media accounts every two weeks for a year, and agonising for hours every time, even though I never posted pictures of myself anyway.
Spending literally hours on other people’s social media—people from school, friends of people from school, celebrities, complete strangers—and dreaming of having their lives.
Turning eighteen and knowing I had never been liked, romantically, by anyone, at all, ever, in my entire life.
12
A Favour to Ask
Lucy nudges open the door to our shared bedroom with her foot and walks in carrying aloe vera gel, an icepack, a wet washcloth, a bottle of water and a candle. I am lying prone on our bed with the blinds down because I am sunburnt. (Of course I am. This is why I hate summer. No other season physically burns you for doing what everyone tells you to do—going outside and enjoying the nice weather.)
It’s my own fault. The super-strong acne medication I used to take has left me with a semi-permanent sensitivity to the sun. I went for a walk on the beach today, while Zach and Lucy were surfing and Alex was off somewhere, and even though I lathered myself in sunscreen, I couldn’t find my hat and, in an act of vanity, didn’t wear the very old, slightly dirty spare baseball cap hanging by the front door.
Even though I was just going for a casual walk on the beach, the truth was I was hoping to run into Alex.
I had pictured myself walking along the beach, the breeze in my hair, my sunglasses giving me an air of mystery, my short denim shorts giving me a hint of sexiness. Alex would be swimming, and he’d look up and see me on the shoreline. I wouldn’t know he was watching, I would be simply walking along, lost in my own deep thoughts, beautiful but oblivious to my beauty. Like footage from The Bachelorette, when they’re reflecting on the lead’s journey as an emotionally troubled but extremely desirable woman looking for True Love. Except I would be thinking about important things, like housing affordability and climate change and healthcare.
In reality, I was hot and sweaty within seconds of being outside, the denim shorts chafed my thighs quite badly, and I stepped on a non-poisonous (I hope) jellyfish and it squished between my toes which made me shriek loud enough that an older woman rushed over and asked if I was okay. And I got sunburnt in splotches on my legs, my arms, my chest, my nose, my forehead and my neck. Plus, I didn’t see Alex all day.
So now I’m lying on the bed upstairs, being pathetic. Lucy is very good at sympathy, much better than my mother, so I like to play things up to her. We both slot easily into carer/being-cared-for roles.
‘Did you wear a hat?’ Lucy asks, popping the cap off the aloe vera gel.
‘No. But I wore sunscreen.’
‘You need both.’
‘I know.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Hot. And cold.’
‘You might have sunstroke.’
‘Is that serious?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. You’d better drink some water.’
‘What’s the candle for?’
‘It’s scented. Sea mist. It smells like the beach. Mariella said it will relax you.’
‘We’re at the beach. The air here already smells like the beach.’
‘Yes, but the scented candle version of the beach is supposed to more relaxing.’
Lucy lights the candle, sits down on the bed and frowns at me. ‘There’s sand on the bed,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘How did you manage to get so much sand on the bed?’
‘It sticks to me, even when I try to rinse it off.’ I look up at her with my most pitiful face.
I rub aloe vera gel all over myself, until I am shiny, and then Lucy drapes the wet washer over my face.
‘Do I really need this covering my whole face?’ I ask, muffled.
‘Yes,’ Lucy says with authority.
Then Zach walks in.
‘Hello, O Burnt One.’
‘No teasing. I’m in a fragile state,’ I say.
‘Did you wear a hat?’
‘I don’t care for that line of questioning.’ I can see everyone is going to keep harping on this no-hat fact.
Zach sits down on the bed and frowns. ‘Why is there so much sand everywhere?’ he says.
‘God, you and Lucy spend too much time together. Your brains are melding together.’
There are footsteps walking down the hall and into the room, and then the one voice I am both dreading and dying to hear.
‘Hey guys…what’s wrong with Natalie?’ Alex says.
‘Sunburn,’ I say.
‘Oh no,’ he says, but he has laughter in his voice.
‘She might have sunstroke,’ Lucy says, in her most serious carer’s voice.
‘Why are you so shiny?’ Alex says, and his voice is closer.
‘Aloe vera gel.’
‘I’m not even going to ask about the washer over your face.’
‘Please don’t. I’d prefer it if everyone just looked away from me, actually.’ Motto of my life.
Later, after dinner, I’m in the bathroom brushing my teeth and examining my sunburn (red and getting redder) when Zach walks in.
‘I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘Okay,’ I say, through a mouthful of toothpaste. I know what he’s going to say.
‘It’s a big one.’ He’s got his serious face on.
‘I’m listening.’ I spit into the sink.
‘Can we switch rooms again tonight?’
‘And where will Alex be sleeping?’ I ask.
‘On the trundle bed.’
‘I don’t know.’ I can’t look too eager, because then Zach will be suspicious. Also, Zach doesn’t know I like Alex, and if I didn’t like Alex, then sharing a room with him would be scary, in a different way to the way it is scary now, and Zach should feel bad about asking me to do it. Zach is a good person, but he’s also a teenage guy with priorities: Lucy, having sex with Lucy, then a lot of air, then me and his family, then the rest of the world.
‘You won’t have to talk to him or interact in any way, I promise,’ Zach says.
‘Does he know about this plan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say about it?’
‘He said it was fine.’
Fine. What a small, ungenerous word. Fine is not excitement, or hidden
desire, or even pretending not to be excited. Fine is indifference. Fine is fine. I want Alex to feel anything but fine.
‘Hmmmm.’
‘You guys are sort of friends now, aren’t you?’
‘Sort of.’ I busy myself packing up my toiletries bag, which is large enough to almost be an overnight bag: I have an inordinate, embarrassing amount of skincare products that I lug with me everywhere. While I am at the beach house, I am sleeping in a very small amount of tinted moisturiser, just to cover the redness of my old scars, so there is never any chance of anyone seeing my face completely bare.
‘And sharing with him last night was okay?’ Zach asks.
‘It was a bit weird.’
My stomach hurts, thinking of it. I have another chance to be alone in a room with Alex. I want it, I want it so much, but I also want to put nice, safe obstacles in the way of me being able to have it, because that way I can’t ruin it.
‘Okay, let’s not do it then,’ Zach says.
‘Are you disappointed?’ I ask, testing the strength of this obstacle.
‘No.’
‘You have a terrible poker face. I can tell you are.’
‘It’s okay. I don’t really expect you to be comfortable sharing a room with my brother. Lucy said I shouldn’t even ask. And I feel bad that’s what happened last night.’
We look at each other in the mirror.
‘I’m happy to swap beds,’ I say.
‘I don’t want you to,’ Zach says.
‘It’s fine.’
‘No. Now I feel bad.’
‘I want to do it.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I kind of do.’ He can’t know how much I kind of do.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Shut up and stop telling me how I feel. I’m doing it. That’s it. No more arguing.’
‘Okay. All right. Good. Thank you,’ he says.
‘You owe me.’
‘I know.’
‘Big time. You owe me big time.’
‘I know.’
13
A Night in Feelings Town
I tiptoe into the room and shut the door quietly behind me. I hope Alex is on the trundle bed, fast asleep and snoring. That way, I can fantasise about us kissing without it being a possibility. Nothing can happen, and I can be safe in the knowledge that it wasn’t my fault, the opportunity simply never presented itself.
I shuffle forward tentatively, worried I’ll walk into the trundle bed.
‘I’m in the bed,’ Alex says.
‘Zach said you were going to sleep on the trundle.’
‘It’s got a broken spring—it’s like someone is poking you in the back.’
‘I’ll sleep on the trundle,’ I say, delighted I have the opportunity to show how little I care about sharing a bed. I’m just a girl here to sleep. I most certainly do not have a desperate, all-consuming, so-intense-it-hurts crush, and I will unequivocally prove this by sleeping on the trundle.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘I’m doing it,’ I say.
I stub my toe on the edge of the trundle bed as I’m trying to find it, and give out a sort of muffled yelp of pain.
‘What happened?’
‘I banged my toe.’
‘That fucking trundle.’
I crawl onto the trundle bed and lie there for a few seconds. It is extremely uncomfortable. ‘Okay, the spring is really poking into my back,’ I say.
‘I told you.’ Alex sounds amused.
‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ I say, determined not to give up.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’ll make a little nest with blankets and pillows—it’ll be cosy.’ It seems very important I put on a show of not wanting to be in a bed with him. Denying the thing I want the most is very soothing.
‘Natalie. Don’t.’
I like it when he says my name. I don’t want to like it as much as I do.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, and start dragging pillows and blankets onto the wooden floor. Then I lower myself onto the pile.
‘It’s actually not that bad. I think it’s going to be good for my back.’
I swear my back already hurts, down here for two seconds.
I try to find a comfortable way to lie, but the floor is too hard. I am not an animal, I cannot sleep like this. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. I want to share a bed with Alex. What is wrong with me?
I’m scared of him—of anyone—knowing what I want. I’m scared that we’ll share the bed again and nothing will happen again, and I’m not sure I can handle having all these chances that pan out to nothing. On the flip side, the thought of something happening between us is so scary-good stressful, I can’t handle that either. Why are good things so terrible?
‘I’ll make a pillow barrier again,’ Alex says.
I want him to want to kiss me. I want him to want to kiss me so badly that he would never think of a pillow barrier.
Jesus, calm down Natalie.
‘Okay,’ I say, and get into the bed.
‘I’ll sleep on the floor, if you want. In your nest,’ he says.
‘No, stay in the bed. The nest is not comfortable.’
‘I’ll build a big pillow barrier.’
‘It’s fine. We don’t need a pillow barrier,’ I say. I am now regretting that I have pushed us in this direction.
‘I’ll sleep on the couch, until you and Zach switch.’
‘Alex. Stop. I want us to share the bed.’
There’s a beat of silence. I can’t believe I said that. It feels starkly revealing. I want us to share the bed. It is worse than last night’s ‘get in’. I can already imagine how many times I am going to regretfully replay this sentence in my head in the future. I need to backtrack, fast.
‘I mean, I don’t want to, but I’m perfectly fine sharing,’ I say, my voice veering close to embarrassed babble.
‘Good. Because I was beginning to feel like a creep,’ Alex says.
‘You’re not a creep.’
We lie in awkward silence. Any chance of something happening has definitely disappeared.
I close my eyes and count to fifty. I should be grateful. I get to share a bed with the guy I have a crush on, for the second night in a row. That’s not nothing. It’s almost nothing, but it’s not completely one hundred per cent nothing.
‘Are you asleep?’ he says.
‘No. Are you?’ I mean, obviously he’s not.
‘No.’
I turn onto my back. I’m wide awake, even though I barely slept last night.
‘Let’s play a game,’ he says.
‘Uno?’ I ask, hopefully. I love Uno. I would definitely beat him too, and nothing relaxes me like winning a card game.
‘Not that kind of game,’ he says.
‘I’m not drinking,’ I say, suddenly wary. Jesus, maybe he has a flask tucked under the pillow.
‘No, not that kind of game either.’
‘What then?’ For a second, I think he’s going to say spin the bottle and my heart races, even though of course he won’t and we’re lying in bed and we don’t have a bottle and it’s not a two-person game and there’s absolutely no reason he would say it but—
‘Truth. We ask each other questions, and you have to answer each one truthfully, but you get three passes.’
‘That sounds like a very intense game.’
‘It’s easier when you’re drunk,’ he says.
I wonder who he has played it with drunk and who he has played it with sober.
‘You start,’ I say. I need time to formulate some questions. I have no idea how deep we’re going.
‘Okay. Do you have feelings for Zach?’ he says, without hesitation.
Shit, okay, so it’s going to be like that. ‘No, I don’t have feelings for Zach,’ I reply. ‘And that’s actually an insulting question. Zach and Lucy are my best friends. Do you think I’m plotting to break them up or something?’ I’m suddenly so annoyed that I’ve
forgotten I even have a crush on Alex, and I turn towards him in the dark, ready to continue whisper-yelling. I hate that he, or anyone, might think that of me. Even if I was in love with Zach, absolutely head over heels crazy-in-love, I would never do that to Lucy. Never. I don’t know all my limits, but I know that one. Lucy comes first for me.
Alex turns to me, clearly startled by my response. ‘I phrased that wrong. I meant, before. Before they got together. Like, have you ever had feelings for Zach?’ he says.
‘Where has this question even come from?’ I say, buying time, because I don’t know whether to be truthful or not, and also I’m not sure what the truthful answer really is.
‘Mum used to tease Zach and say he was going to marry one of you. I guess she put the idea in my mind,’ Alex says.
‘Really?’ Oh god, I hope Mariella doesn’t think I’m in love with Zach and sadly trailing him and Lucy around like some kind of stalker/sad puppy.
‘I’m sorry. I should have picked an easier question to start with. Don’t forget you can pass,’ Alex says. I have the urge to push him out of the bed.
‘No, it is an easy question. I don’t, and I have never had feelings for Zach.’ The truth is a slightly more complicated version of that statement. But this is not the time to be revealing my true self to Alex, even if whispering in the dark makes me want to start telling secrets.
‘Great. Your turn,’ he says.
‘Are you still in love with Vanessa?’ I say. I don’t really want to know the answer to this, but I need to ask him something equal to what he asked me.
‘Nope.’
‘You didn’t even pause to think.’
‘Didn’t need to.’
‘You don’t have any feelings about your ex you still need to process?’
‘That wasn’t the question.’
‘Okay. Your turn.’
Now he hesitates. My stomach clenches a little.
‘Have you ever been in love?’
He’s good at this, I’ll give him that. My automatic response is Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t answer that.