Zac and Mia (10 page)

He offers me forty bucks from his second drawer but I close my eyes and drive my fingers into my temples. I’m not in the mood for this.

‘What? The jocks are clean,’ he laughs.

‘It’s not enough.’

I don’t have time for jokes. Beneath the doona, I’d made a new Plan D: Albany, Adelaide, Sydney. I checked the bus times on my phone. The new Plan D needs money, not a stand-up fucking comedian.

‘Have you got more?’

He points to a Milo tin. ‘There’s a year’s worth of coins in there. It’ll be heavy though … Better yet, there could be some valuable stamps in that collection.’

‘Something else.’

I scan the room looking for anything of worth. There’s so much crap in here—posters, trophies,
a signed football, a globe, weights and a chin-up bar behind the door. The room stinks of Lynx and dirty socks. Why do guys’ bedrooms always smell the same?

‘What’s this?’

He squeezes the metal thing in demonstration. ‘A wrist strengthener.’

‘Fuck, how strong do you want a wrist to be?’

He shrugs. ‘The physio said it was a good idea …’

In a corner there’s a TV, a PlayStation 3 and a pile of games. Pinned to a corkboard is a booklet and a list of ‘Banned Foods’.

‘They gave me one of those. Not as … extensive as yours, though. No pâté for twelve months? Helga, how do you cope?’

On the desk is a laptop, an iPod and a messy pile of CDs. The top one has handwriting I recognise.
Lady Gaga—for Rm 1
.

I pick it up and trace the blue pen with my finger. I remember writing it for him, though it feels like two lifetimes ago.

It was a strange request, I thought at the time. I could have given him the original CD, but I chose to hang onto it. I kept everything Rhys gave me. Instead, I copied the album and slipped it under his door. I didn’t expect him to keep it.

I remember his knock on the wall that first day, like he had something to tell me. I remember overhearing conversations with his mum, his voice more interesting and real than anyone else’s in that hospital. And
I remember how pale and sad he was when he didn’t know I was watching.

I put the CD down. I haven’t come all this way to reminisce.

‘How much is in your bank account?’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘You think?’

‘Shit, Mia, you can’t … I mean … don’t you …’

‘What? Tick-tock.’

He leans against the orange curtain and crosses his arms.

‘I haven’t seen you in three months. Okay technically, I never really
did
see you, except through the window. And now you turn up from nowhere, scare the flying crap out of me, and ask for money? It’s not exactly … you know …’

‘Not what?’

‘Normal.’

‘Nothing’s
normal
anymore, is it, Helga? For either of us. Besides, I’m not exactly robbing you. It’s more like a loan.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you owe me.’

‘For what?’

‘For lying.’

‘I didn’t—’

I stomp my left crutch and it jars us both.

‘You lied.’

He looks at the rubber stopper pressed into the floor. ‘I didn’t—’

‘You told me I was … you said I was the luckiest on the ward.’

He seems pale again. Is he swaying, or am I?

‘You were.’

I stamp the floor again.

‘You
are
,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s not my fault,’ he tells me, and he’s right. None of this is his fault, but it’s not mine either.

‘You told me I should trust you.’

He nods, remembering. He’d said that and more. He told me things I shouldn’t have believed.

‘I need a friend,’ I lie. ‘And about three hundred bucks to get to Sydney. My aunt Maree lives there—she’s expecting me. I’ll pay you back once I get there. I’ll transfer it directly, with interest, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Arms folded, he takes his time. I think he’s trying to read me, so I do my best to keep my face on straight. If I look away, he’s got me.

‘Mia, it’s not the money I’m worried about.’

I can’t cry yet, not until after, when I’m on a bus out of here, then another, and another, where no one asks questions about my leg, where I’m going or what I’m leaving behind. I need to go so far I forget what I’m crying about.

So I fake a smile and laugh. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Zac.’ I use his name deliberately, and he smiles too. My heart’s hammering so hard he can probably hear it. He deserves better, I know, but I don’t have a choice.

‘You’re a friend, Zac, a good friend. And I trust you. I’ll pay you back, okay? I’ve organised this with my aunt. She’s got a place you can see the harbour bridge from. It’ll be sweet. Trust me.’

His blue-grey eyes burrow into me, further than I want them to. I wonder what he sees.

Then he relaxes and nods.

Fuck
, I think.
This is going to hurt us both
.

‘Riding a … quad bike is number … six … on my banned list,’ he shouts as the wheels find every hollowed ditch along the back driveway. The bike plunges and lurches and I’ve got to hold tight to the grips behind him. My crutches are pressed against his back. ‘The doctors say … it’s too easy … to come off.’

‘So don’t come off,’ I yell.

The bike bounces and I smack my chin on his shoulder. Blood’s bitter in my mouth.

‘Then don’t wriggle,’ he says.

‘I’m not wriggling.’

We finally make it to the highway, where Zac pushes up through the gears. I hold onto my wig and lean forward. His hair whips at my lips.

‘Why are you going so slow?’ I shout.

‘It’s as fast as this one goes.’

The quad bike straddles the verge and the highway as cars roar by. We pass rows of trees to the right, then a cheese factory, a cidery and a pear orchard. I’d come
this way last night after walking from the hostel in the dark, but I hadn’t noticed the signs. I’d been focusing on the gravel in front of me, taking one slow step at a time. I was zombie-tired and it took forever.

We pass a cricket field and a school, then take the turn-off for town. Zac doesn’t go down the main street, but veers us around the back of a quiet car park.

He idles the engine then turns it off. ‘You okay?’

I release my hands from the grips and shake them. ‘I’m alive.’

‘Mum would kill me …’

Backpack on, I make good speed with the crutches. I should—I’ve had enough practice. Zac has to jog to catch me.

‘Were you always so fast?’

‘Sportsgirl of the Year, Como Primary, two years running.’

I was even faster when I reached high school, playing centre for club netball until it eventually dawned on me that getting up early on Saturday mornings actually sucked. I soon learned there were better things to do with weekends.

‘Were you always so slow?’ I say, though I know better. I’ve seen his Facebook photos and old videos uploaded by his footy team. I’ve seen him. He’s fast.

Was
fast. I have to remind myself we’ve both shifted tense.

‘You’re so slow my gran could beat you,’ I say.

‘I thought you said your gran died.’

‘Exactly.’

The sight of the bank’s logo cranks up my speed. The crutches dig at my armpits and my leg throbs, but I can’t slow down now. I won’t want to be mucking around with money or goodbyes when the bus pulls into town.

But the bank’s doors don’t slide open for me. I move toward the sensor, then away, but nothing.

‘Fuck. Seriously?’

I pull my phone from my backpack to check the time. It’s 8.50—too early for banks. I see there’s a message from Shay.

And another from Mum.

Delete. Delete. I chuck the phone back into my bag.

‘So how’d you get here, then, without money?’

I cup my hands to peer through the glass. Where is everyone?

‘The Greyhound. Perth to Adelaide.’

‘You’ve already got a ticket?’

I pull it out of my pocket and flash it at him.

‘The driver stopped for a smoke at every bloody town, so I got off at this one for a Diet Coke from the machine. One of your petting farm brochures was there.’

‘In the Coke machine?’

‘Beside
the machine, in one of the tourist stands … Then the shuttle bus turned up and I thought, what the hell?’

‘You came? I didn’t see you.’

‘You weren’t looking. I thought I could just get another bus, but the drivers are wankers. I’m seriously busting for a pee. Where
is
everybody?’

‘At home, probably. It’s Sunday.’

I glare at him. He’s right. Why didn’t he say something earlier? Is he trying to mess with me?

‘My brain’s foggy,’ he says. ‘Not much sleep, for some reason … There’s an ATM about a block away.’

Goddamn, I really need to pee. I can’t think straight.

‘The toilets are over there.’ Zac points to a cream-coloured block. ‘Why don’t you go, I’ll get the cash, and I’ll meet you back here in five, yeah?’

‘Not just a pretty face, Zac.’

He beams and it looks good on him, better than I could’ve imagined. I appreciate it for a couple of seconds, hoping to remember it.

‘You better go.’

‘Yep, hold my bag,’ I say.

I make the mad sprint to the toilets. Even on crutches, I reckon I could still break school records.

I watch her go,
click creak, click creak, click creak
. Her blonde wig sways with each swing of the crutches. I see how the left leg of her jeans hangs at an angle.

Then I duck behind the side of the bank, kneel on the cement—what choice do I have?—and dig through her backpack. There’s a jumble of clothes and crap. There are bandages and pills. There’s a purse with cash and a provisional driver’s licence showing how she used to look, with long hair, cherry lip gloss and a knock-’em-dead smile. It’s the kind of beauty that catches people off guard. It’s a face you’d do anything to please. I want to please her, but not like this.

I search her mobile. There’s no Maree under M, or aunt under A. There have been no outgoing calls for ten days. There are some older texts, though, from her mum, wanting to know where she is. But no replies.

I don’t want to be the latest dickhead in a long line of dickheads that she weaves through with her cherry lies. Whatever she’s scheming, I’m not about to fund it.

I hear the
click creak
of her return so I zip up the backpack and meet her halfway, near the butcher’s.

‘Relief.’ Mia laughs up the pavement. She flashes her full smile, and even with that cheap wig she can still pack a punch. With a face like hers, she must have spent her whole life getting what she wanted. It’s not easy to resist.

‘Sorry, I just get this bladder-brain condition sometimes. When my bladder’s full, the brain kind of switches off, you know?’

‘I’ve only got thirty bucks,’ I say, showing her my bank card as if it’s proof. I hate the way it rips the smile from her. How tempting it is to give her all my savings in return for her perfect, fleeting thanks.

‘I spent the rest. I forgot, sorry.’

Mia doesn’t react the way I expected. She doesn’t stomp or swear or shout. She just folds into herself and closes her eyes.

‘You can stay at my house tonight … or there’s a hostel near here.’

Mia turns and presses her forehead against the glass pane of the butcher shop.

‘The hostel’s not so bad,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind paying, if it helps. It’s only twenty bucks.’

When she shakes her head, the wig shifts a little. She doesn’t bother to fix it. ‘Twenty-five,’ she mumbles, though I barely hear it. It’s like the glass has turned to
sponge, soaking up her words. ‘Before I came to your house, that’s where I was.’

‘Was it too loud?’

The answer’s so small I almost miss it. ‘I paid, but all they had were top bunks.’

And there it is: the unspeakable thing.

Whatever’s happened to Mia, it’s emptied her. It’s left behind a girl with fake hair, fake plans, and nowhere in the world she actually wants to be.

There’s so much I don’t know, but I do know she’s not a bad person. Not really.

What would Dad do?

What would Mum do?

I do what someone should have done already. I hook my arms around her and pull her in, even though she tenses. I feel her struggle, the way an injured animal would, so I hold her tighter and feel her twist against me, again and again, wrenching and writhing, spitting muffled words into my T-shirt until something finally breaks and she sinks into me. I breathe her in.

Trust me
, I think.
Trust me
.

Then she tilts into me like I’m the only friend left in the world.

I go even slower on the ride home. I have to keep looking over my shoulder to check she’s still there. Her left hand grips the handrail; her right holds down the wig. She has her eyes closed as if she’s on a boat,
bracing herself against the next wave.

I pass the cidery and orchards, and the turn-off for our farm. I ride past the end of our olive grove then keep on going, past Petersen’s pistachios, then further past the new estate and winery. Somewhere after rows of rippling vineyards, Mia slides her left arm around my waist.

There’s no plan. All I want to do is follow this road for the rest of the day and probably all night, but the quad bike has other ideas.

We roll to a stop near bushland.

The tank’s bone dry. My brother’s even managed to screw this up for me.

‘Not good?’ Mia chews a fingernail, waiting for an answer.

I shake my head, more in disbelief than in reply. It’s surreal to see her out here.

‘It felt good, though, didn’t it? For a while.’

I sit beside her on the seat and nod. It felt awesome.

‘What are you going to do?’

I shake my head and laugh. I’m in such deep shit right now, there’s only one person who would know how to clear it.

I’m in his sister’s lounge room, supposedly out of earshot. I hear enough.

‘You can’t
keep
her.’

‘I know—’

‘She’s not a stray dog.’

‘I
know
. It’s not for long.’

‘What did her mum say?’

Zac lowers his voice. ‘They don’t get on. Mia moved out after—’

‘She’s running
away?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘What the hell were you doing on a quad bike? Mum would kill you.’

‘She doesn’t need to know. Can you keep it a secret? All of it?’

A joey sniffs at the hem of my jeans. Each time I
shoo it away, it comes right back. It’s only small but I don’t trust its paws at my leg.

‘I’m nearly out of firewood—’

‘I’ll get the axe.’

‘God, Mum would kill us both. Just go nick some from the olds.’

Zac peers in at me from the hallway. He seems relieved I’m still here. ‘Bec needs wood.
Fire
wood, I mean.’

‘I heard that!’

‘She won’t hurt you. The joey, I mean. Or Bec.’

‘I’m okay.’

The door bangs shut behind him and I’m alone again in this room with too much wood already: the floorboards, television cabinet, coffee table and clock. In the fireplace, wood crackles and snaps. The air stinks like smoke and wet fur.

I’ve never seen a real fire before. It’s supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it? But the flames burn my eyes and I have to look away. I have to get out of here.

Bec’s pretty in a sun-bleached, unkempt way. Her long shock of wavy blonde hair falls down the denim shirt that’s stretched over her belly. She offers me a baby’s bottle of milk.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘It’s for the joey. I thought you might want to feed her.’

I shake my head. Bec hoists the kangaroo into her arms and it sucks on the teat.

‘What’s broken?’

‘Broken?’

‘You’re on crutches.’

‘I tore a ligament at netball. It’s getting better.’

In the fireplace, sparks shower upwards. If only a life could crackle and vanish so easily. If only I could turn to smoke and drift.

‘Here’s the thing: Zac’s worried about you and I worry about Zac. That’s kind of my job. He says you two are old friends. You are, aren’t you?’

I nod, hoping it’s enough.

‘I’ve got two spare rooms, though one’s got colour samples on the walls. I’ll be painting it for the baby.’

‘I just need—’

‘Money for a bus, I know, but you shouldn’t be crossing a continent on crutches. Your aunt will understand if you leave it a few days.’

Fuck
.

‘I can’t have Zac worrying, because then I’ll worry, and that’ll worry Junior here. Then he’ll come out prem and everyone will worry and we don’t want that, do we? So stay until it’s healed, okay?’ She poses it like a question, though it isn’t.

I nod and smile, but I’m crossing the Nullarbor in my mind. It’s not Bec’s fault. She doesn’t know it’s already too late.

‘You want a hot drink? I don’t have coffee, sorry. We’re all tea-drinkers here.’

The front door bangs and Zac comes in with a load of wood and a ridiculous grin. ‘Stealth! Mum didn’t suspect a thing.’

He feeds the fire carefully, as if there’s a skill to it. I trust Zac. For what it’s worth, I even trust his sister.

It’s me I’m not so sure of.

I lock the bedroom door from the inside. I lock the window too, and draw the curtains. Then I peel back the wig and push it under the pillow. I scratch at my scalp. My hair’s growing back, but unlike Zac’s, there’s not enough. He’s had five months since his last chemo. I’ve only had two.

My phone beeps twice.

I hope Mum gives up soon. Everything she does makes this worse.

I set my alarm for four, then switch off the phone. I plan to get away in the dark, before Zac can find me. I’ll make my own way to town and hole up somewhere, waiting for the bus. I’ll use my ticket and go to Adelaide, like I planned. I’ve got to leave before kindness turns to meddling. I’ve already left one mother behind; I don’t need a replacement.

I take the last two painkillers in the packet, then check the prescription repeats in case I’ve misread the numbers.

I haven’t.

Tomorrow’s going to hurt. Better off on a bus,
I think, taking the pain with me. It hurts less when I’m moving.

Bec’s spare bed is soft when I lie in it. The blankets smell of mothballs, reminding me of Gran. I reach across to tap the base of the lamp once, twice, three times before it goes out. I sink deeper into the mattress, waiting for the drugs to soften what’s left of the edges.

Four glow-in-the-dark stars seem to float from the ceiling. They’re only plastic, so why do they shimmer and shift, as if real?

Each time I blink, the stars swirl and dissolve, skimming across my eyes like tears that should know better.