‘As long as your hands are dry.’ She smiled.
I flicked through the book. ‘When did you start drawing?’
‘Young. Really young. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love it.’
‘My dad’s a painter,’ I said. ‘You think people can’t live off art, but he does. He sells his paintings and he tutors classes and we make ends meet.’
‘That must be why I like him. An artist.’
I closed her sketchbook and handed it back.’
Instead of putting it in her satchel, she got out a grey-lead and started sketching.
‘What are you drawing?’ I asked.
She looked at me intensely. ‘You.’ She drew some more lines, streaks across the page.
I laughed. ‘Don’t!’
She looked at me again, her expression softer this time. ‘Why not?’
I was silent, and she drew some more.
‘Don’t move, all right?’ she said. We both sat cross-legged and she moved to sit opposite me, so I couldn’t see what she was drawing.
The rain continued to pound down outside. Jewel drew. Then she looked at me, eyes flickering over my face, taking everything in. She looked back down at her sketchbook and she drew more. We didn’t talk. I wondered what the others were doing. There was a clock in the room, but I didn’t want to move to look at it.
We could have been sitting there, me being drawn, Jewel drawing, for ten minutes or three days. Time was irrelevant.
She stopped. ‘Okay, this is still pretty rough, but tell me what you think.’ She spun the sketchbook so I could see, and stared intently at me.
‘It looks like me,’ I said. ‘Oh, wow, Jewel. It’s scary good.’
‘You’re just saying that,’ she said. She snapped the sketchbook shut and tucked it away in her satchel. ‘I’ll give it to you later. When I can do another one I can keep.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because you’re beautiful,’ she said simply, like this was a fact.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. Finally, I said, ‘I’ve got no idea what to say to that, Jewel. No one’s said that to me before.’
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes you don’t have to say anything.’
I reached over and touched her hair. ‘Your hair’s still wet.’
She smiled. ‘You know what my mum used to say, when I was really little, if I had wet hair when I went outside? She’d say, “You’ll catch your death.” I always thought that was strange. I imagined getting Death in some sort of net, like a butterfly catcher.’
‘That’s an interesting mental image,’ I murmured.
‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she said. ‘Anything at all.’
‘What if it’s weird or creepy?’ I asked.
‘Especially if it’s weird or creepy,’ she replied.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I wish I was a person who didn’t worry.’
‘That wasn’t weird
or
creepy.’
‘I know. I’ll try to think of something that is.’
She frowned. ‘I wish I didn’t worry, too. But I don’t think they exist, those people who don’t worry. All the people I thought had it together when I was younger, I realise now are the same as everybody else. They just hid all their doubts and worries and neurotic tendencies better.’
‘People’s neurotic tendencies are the best aspects of their personality.’
She grinned. ‘Oh, definitely. For sure.’
She moved closer, and her fingers crept along the side of my face. Her hand felt a bit clammy, but her fingers were warm.
‘Thanks for letting me tag along today,’ she whispered.
I leant in close and our noses almost touched. ‘Thanks for coming. I think Al’s mum wants to adopt you.’
She smiled. Up this close, I could see the pores in her skin. I could see the faint, faint lines across her forehead.
Up this close, her eyes weren’t just two different colours; they were rainbows. They were bottomless. They sparkled. The deep brown colour of her right eye was flecked with gold, and her left iris was an almost metallic blue.
The rain was thrumming down outside—a steady beat on the roof.
I thought,
maybe now, I should tell her I’m sick. I can’t put off telling her forever
.
But I was afraid of how she’d react. And I liked how things were, at that moment, right then.
She tilted her head and leant forward just that little bit more and she kissed me.
Her lips were soft, and the kiss was soft, and the world was soft. Her fingers against my cheek were soft. My fingers wove through her hair.
For ten glorious seconds, we kissed.
I leant back abruptly and choked down some air. I pulled my hand away from Jewel’s hair and her eyes flashed with an emotion I didn’t recognise. Confusion? Confusion and something else.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
Then I said, stumbling over my words, ‘Jewel, Jewel. God, I’m sorry. I…I have to go. Now.’
Shaking as I stood up, I grabbed my wet jacket and left, and I didn’t look back once, even though I desperately wanted to.
It was all way too perfect and lovely and she was way too perfect and lovely and I didn’t deserve it and I didn’t deserve her.
Things Sacha would do if he could travel back in time and see himself without tearing the universe apart
Stop his mother from dying
Stop himself from introducing True and Little Al
Stop himself from going to the lake that night and meeting
Jewel Valentine
It was quiet and loud all at once—the rain still beating down, the heater whirring, but there was nothing to be heard. I couldn’t hear the voices of anyone outside. I could’ve been the last person left alive. I wanted to be the last person left alive.
I didn’t know what to do or think. The carpet beneath my hands was rough and scratchy, so I thought about that. The classroom whiteboard was rubbed out, but I could still decipher the shadow of words. Which words they were, I didn’t know.
I couldn’t breathe right. I wasn’t going to cry. No. I kept my eyes on the analogue clock that hung at an angle above the whiteboard. If the rain didn’t stop in fifteen minutes, I would have to go anyway. I couldn’t stay in the school all night.
The rain eased, or maybe it was just my imagination. I let five minutes pass and it felt like an hour and I couldn’t handle sitting there any more. I got up, shoved my things in my bag, switched off the heater and the fluorescent lights, and left.
In fact, the rain seemed heavier. I stood outside, back pressed against the door, an awning overhead my only protection from the water. The wind picked up my skirt and messed my hair. I felt numb, numb with cold, and numb with something else.
I walked out through the downpour, shielding my eyes with my hand. This didn’t work too well—I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. But I felt better; I felt better than I would’ve if it’d been a clear night, everyone still enjoying themselves, and me numb.
It’s just rejection
, I told myself.
You just misread the situation. It’s not like it’s the end of the world
.
It felt like it. Christ, it felt like it.
He doesn’t want you
.
I walked around the parking lot looking for Rachel’s car, squinting through the rain, my bag held over my head. My dress was stuck to me, and my hair clumped stickily against my neck.
The car wasn’t anywhere and the parking lot was almost empty.
I thought about what Sacha had said—about trying to kill himself. I should’ve asked why. Why didn’t I ask? Because I was frightened to hear the answer? Why would you do something like that to yourself? Even at my lowest, I’d never considered it.
I remembered saying that maybe he tried to drown because I was meant to save him. It seemed even more stupid now than it did then. I’d misread everything so badly. I’d screwed up.
Why would he try to kill himself? I couldn’t answer that question. I didn’t know him at all.
I might’ve been crying. I’m not sure. I couldn’t tell in the rain.
I considered sitting under one of the marquees until the rain stopped, but by then they had already been packed away and almost everyone had gone. I wasn’t keen on the idea of walking home at midnight, but there was no other option.
I was chilled right through, but the cold had reached the point where I didn’t think about it—I concentrated only on getting home as quickly as I could. I felt sick to the stomach, as if I hadn’t eaten for weeks.
Down the road, a car slowed beside me. I quickened my pace. Then someone in the car wound down a window and yelled, ‘Jewel?’
I stopped and looked back. It was Little Al, hair flat and wet, with a car full of relatives.
‘Get in the car!’ he yelled again, waving at me furiously.
I hesitated for only a moment before I went over and slid into the front passenger seat next to Miri and her baby.
‘Jewel!’ cried Al’s mum, as soon as I was in the car. She was in the back with Maddie and Mason and their dad and his girlfriend. I’m pretty sure having that many people in the car was illegal. I managed a weak smile.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Al. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘I’m fine,’ I stuttered, only noticing now how very cold I was. ‘I don’t know where she is.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Okay. I’ll drop you home. Where do you live?’
He turned up the heater as I told him the address.
Al sighed. ‘Big night, hey?’
‘Yeah. Have you seen Sacha?’
Al nodded. ‘He’s in our other car. Miri’s giving him a lift home.’
‘Right,’ I murmured.
We were quiet on the way back—Al’s family in the backseat included. When we pulled up outside my house, Al said, ‘Look after yourself, Jewel.’ His eyes were lit with concern.
I nodded, before I made a dash to the door in the rain. They drove off.
Rachel’s car was in the drive, and the door was unlocked. She was inside, at the kitchen bench, the phone to her ear.
When she saw me, relief crossed her face.
‘She’s here now,’ she said into the phone. ‘Thanks.’
She put down the phone. I dripped on the Welcome mat.
‘I just called the police. I’m really sorry, Jewel, I thought you’d be getting a lift back with one of your friends and the rain started and then when it got to ten I got worried. I know you didn’t need a mobile when you lived with your grandparents, but now you’re living here, I’d feel a lot better if you would at least take your phone with you—’
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ I muttered. ‘I’m eighteen, not a little kid, okay?’ I felt like one.
I went straight through to the bathroom, locked the door and took off my dress. I put the shower on hot, full blast, and it scalded my skin. I sat on the tiled floor and let the water wash over me. I rested my cheek against the wall, where the tiles were cool, and closed my eyes.
I pressed my hands to my chest and tried to hold myself still and quiet while I cried. I stayed there until the water ran cold and my skin was red.
I stayed awake most of the night and watched movies in bed on my laptop to stop myself from thinking. I fell asleep midway through
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
, listening to the rain dripping off the gutters outside.
I didn’t dream.
When I was younger, before my brother died, we went out as a family every Sunday for lunch. The restaurant was always the same. It was spacious and had patterned dark red carpets and green-painted walls, and a bar. It had vast windows at the front, and clean bathrooms, and the serving staff were polite. We always had jugs of lemonade and sausages and chips and jelly for dessert. It was a treat.
When I woke up that Sunday, the sun was already high in the sky. I stumbled into the shower. When I was out, Rachel came into in my bedroom.
‘We’re going out for lunch,’ she said. ‘Put on something nice.’
I put on the blouse and black pants I’d worn to my grandmother’s funeral and tried to think about anything except the night before.
Rachel and I were silent during the car trip. The restaurant was the same as it always had been, but the chairs seemed smaller. It was busy with people, and a baby squealed from a high chair.
Why had Rachel decided we were going out for lunch? And why come back here?
She ordered spaghetti bolognese and I ordered sausages and chips. We didn’t speak as we waited for our meals, and thankfully they were brought quickly. I stared out the window and at the sunlight spreading across the carpet as I ate, always keeping my mouth full to avoid having to speak to Rachel.
When I was young, Sunday lunch was special. The light through the window made tiny rainbows on sunny days. It still did; it just wasn’t magical any more. The food was nice, but felt heavy in my stomach. I didn’t have jelly for dessert.
When we’d finished, I thanked Rachel for the meal. She looked as if she had so many things to say, but she didn’t say any of them. Instead, she fiddled with her packet of cigarettes, we paid and left. The car trip home was as silent as the one there.
Sometimes, when you return to something that has been wonderful when you were a child—a restaurant, a book, anything—you realise, with older eyes, that it wasn’t so great after all. Not in this case. It wasn’t about the restaurant. It wasn’t ever about the restaurant. It was about the family being together. It was our thing. It could have been any restaurant.
Those Sunday lunches were not something I could have back again by going to the same restaurant and ordering the same meal. My brother and father were gone. I was older. My mother was a totally different person. I don’t know what she was thinking. I don’t know why she took me there. I really don’t know anything about her.
The restaurant was the same, but we’d changed.
Sunday night.
I sat with my forehead pressed against the sliding door between our kitchen and the backyard, watching raindrops streak down the glass. The rain was so thick that I couldn’t even make out the clothesline. Had I brought the clothes in or not? I concluded that I hadn’t, but decided to wait until the rain passed, because a) the clothes would already be soaked and b) I didn’t want to get wet again. My mind was clearly not up to much high-powered thinking. Besides, I was comfortable sitting inside, cross-legged on the back doormat, staring at the streaky rain and the reflection of my own eyes.