‘No! I mean I can maybe pick you up if you’re coming to my house and you need a lift and you have no other way of getting there. Like, as a favour. Or whatever. Don’t even worry about it.’ Now he looks flustered.
‘Okay,’ I say.
What is happening?
Later, I sit on my bed and look at my phone and will a text message from him to appear on my screen, but it doesn’t.
I text Zach and Lucy and apologise for being dramatic and awful. Lucy texts me back rows of hearts, and Zach sends me the thumbs up. I then hide my phone in my cupboard for an hour, to stop myself from checking whether Alex has texted me (even though he has no reason at all to text me), and then after the hour is up, I rush to look at it.
Nothing, of course.
I hate that desperate clutch of hope before you turn your phone over and then the feeling of sick disappointment when nothing is there.
8
Sun and Sand and Girls in Bikinis
‘This is going to be so much fun,’ Lucy says, for maybe the tenth time.
‘I know.’
It’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re at Zach’s family’s beach house. It’s a ramshackle two-storey weatherboard in Queenscliff, inherited from a great aunt, and Zach’s family share it with a bunch of other family members. They’ve spent a week here every summer for the last ten years.
I’ve never been to the beach house before. Last summer, I was invited, but I made an excuse not to go, in part because I was working most days washing dishes in the kitchen of a local cafe and in part because I hate the beach. Of course I hate the beach. It’s the next logical step after hating summer, and I hate summer. It’s not a blanket hatred. I like sunshine. I like looking at and walking alongside the ocean. I can appreciate that some people like sand. I understand that it’s nice to be warm. I sometimes even like being in the ocean (not over my head, and not if there is any seaweed or waves). But hot weather and the beach means wearing bathers, which means revealing my body, with all its scars and stretch marks and other flaws.
I hate the beach because I hate being the only person wearing a T-shirt in the water.
Winter is my season. Long coats, boots, big jumpers, puffer vests, beanies, giant scarfs, jackets with hoods. These are the safety blankets for anyone who is uncomfortable in their skin. On a really cold, wet day, you can hide everything but a sliver of your face. It is a joy. A freedom that people who aren’t anxious about their bodies cannot understand. Only people with nothing to hide love summer. Plus, when it’s cold and raining, no one questions why you want to stay inside and read.
But this summer I don’t have a job. The cafe I worked in closed down and, despite me dropping my resume into every shop and cafe within walking or public-transport distance, no one wants to hire an awkward eighteen-year-old with dishwashing experience and not much else. I have no money, no commitments and no excuses.
So, here I am. If nothing else, I’m away from my parents, and that’s becoming a major plus. I can’t stand the way they talk to each other now. All faux-politeness, careful discussions, phrases straight from therapy and looking at me with concerned eyes after every conversation to gauge how much they might be damaging me, even while they congratulate each other on having such a drama-free break-up. The nicer they are to each other, the less I’m allowed to feel sad and angry about what’s happening, and that makes me feel even more sad and angry. Honestly, it’s infuriating. Some days I can feel a hot, tight resentment building in my chest when I look at them, which can’t be good for my long-term health.
Lucy and I are sharing a double bed in an upstairs room. Anthony and Glenn are sharing another room upstairs, and Zach has a room to himself downstairs, with Mariella and Sal in the main bedroom downstairs. Alex isn’t here because he has to work tonight, and probably every other night too, I’m guessing. I haven’t dared to ask if he’s coming down, because I’m hyper aware that every question I ask could sound suspicious.
Tonight, Zach, Lucy and I are going to walk down to the beach, where there will be a big bonfire and fireworks, and Lucy has insisted on doing my makeup in the bathroom before we leave, because she lives in an alternative universe where a cute guy might pop into my life at any time and fall in love with my smoky eyes.
‘Look down.’
I look down, and she gently presses the eyeliner pencil against my lid.
‘Now look up.’
The thing is, I hate fuss but I like being fussed over.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ Lucy says.
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you swap beds with Zach tonight? Not for the whole night. Just a couple of hours.’
‘Do we need to switch? Why don’t you just go into his bed?’
‘Well, his parents are downstairs. We’d feel better in the upstairs bed.’
‘So you’re okay with Zach’s brothers hearing you have sex but not Zach’s parents?’
‘Gross, no. No one is going to hear anything. But you know what Mariella is like. She’s a very light sleeper and the further away from her we are the better.’
‘I’m happy to switch.’
‘Thank you. I love you.’
Lucy doesn’t turn eighteen until February, and Zach not until March, and because they’re both only seventeen and also for a multitude of other reasons, they’re not allowed to sleep in the same bed. Lucy’s mother only agreed that Lucy could come to the beach house if she and Zach weren’t sharing a room, and Mariella was brought up as a strict Catholic and is squeamish at the thought of any of her sons in a bed with any girl. Her worst nightmare is one of her sons getting a girl pregnant, and Lucy’s mother’s worst nightmare is Lucy’s life not going to plan, so they’re in sync when it comes to thwarting opportunities for Zach and Lucy’s sex life.
It doesn’t seem to have occurred to Mariella or Lucy’s mother that Zach and Lucy have spent countless afternoons locked together in his bedroom after school or in the den on a Saturday afternoon, doing whatever they like to each other. I know Lucy often lies to her mother and says I’m there too when I’m not. I don’t mind. I’m happy to facilitate Zach and Lucy’s plan to be together. It’s probably sad (scratch that, it’s definitely sad), but it makes me feel more involved. It means I’m still needed in our group.
I saw Zach falling in love with Lucy before anything happened, so I knew it was coming. But before it started happening, there was a moment of something almost happening between Zach and me. It is one of those things I have always felt certain of, but I have never discussed it with anyone, and I have no real evidence, other than my own feelings.
It was the school holidays, Lucy was away for two weeks, and Zach and I were watching The 100 together. We had five seasons to get through at the time, and so we were spending all day together, lying on the couch, saying, ‘Let’s watch one more,’ and sharing packets of liquorice. The couch was long enough that we could both lie stretched out, with our heads in the middle on a pile of cushions.
One afternoon, I was lying with my hands tucked under the pillows, and Zach must have put his hands under the pillows too, because our fingers touched momentarily. Only the slightest touch, for a moment. But after a few seconds, Zach’s fingers bumped against mine again. The first time was probably an accident, but the second time felt like it couldn’t be an accident. His hand had touched mine, moved away, and then moved back. Our fingers were now resting against each other.