I stalk the footpath like an alley cat. Probably faster, to be honest. I want to get the hell away.
People are home; lights are on, TVs cast their blue-alien glow on the walls, kids stare at screens, snapchatting their woes to the world. My status is implausible, there is no point updating it for my one friend, Felix.
The houses in the area where I live are mostly semis; one building split down the middle. Their windows face the pavement like hooded eyes, their reinforced bars like rusty eyelashes. Crummy bits of furniture are chained to the tiny verandahs, not that you’d bother stealing any of it, except maybe for firewood.
It’s not the most well-to-do suburb but I like it. It’s got a caustic crustiness that suits me. We’ve been here thirteen years now. Dad moved Rose and me back to Sydney after my Ma died. We lived in New York before that. I don’t remember much except everything was huge and crowded; not enough space for someone like me. Australia is all wide open blue sky and sun. It’s easy here, you can breathe.
Up the street, the lights are burning at Jordan’s. Her bedroom, like mine, is easiest accessed by the path that runs down the side of the house. I could slip down there tonight, like I’ve done a million times before, but I’m not so welcome there anymore. My throat gets stuck thinking about it—summertime, coming home from the beach, sitting in the back of her parents’ old Datsun, the skin on my thighs burning on the polyester seat, windows down, Jordan’s small warm pinkie entwined with mine.
I kick their fence and walk by. It would be boring visiting Jordan anyway. She’d be listening to crap folk music, trying to make her guitar sound decent when all she can manage is a couple of lousy chords. I’m better off alone.
I’m seeking the adrenaline rush I usually get sneaking into a club, but the girl at the door is so utterly confident that nobody will dare slip behind her that it’s easy, and I feel nothing. Not a good start. Inside, the air is hot, thick and sweet. The lights spin; dark then white, colour after colour. Dancers worship the DJ: her hair in pink pigtails; Clark Kent glasses, a man’s shirt, tie, and suit pants cut high into shorts. I can respect it.
I run my fingers down my own dress. It’s long, white and floaty, but who will notice? I suck in a deep breath and roll. I’m cool as a cucumber; put some spurs on my boots and I’m a cowgirl sauntering into a saloon.
And I can dance.
I get a few odd looks but nothing serious. I don’t get completely trampled—a few sharp elbows do the trick. The song changes to a slow, moody number and the dance floor almost empties. I don’t mind the music, it’s as morose as I am feeling tonight. Plus it’s opened up miles of space so I start spinning, my arms wide. Rose says I should have grown out of trying to make myself dizzy by now, but it still feels awesome, so why would I?
Then in that lolly sweet air, with my senses gone haywire in the heat and light—my world shifts. Someone is watching me. I can feel their eyes on my skin, I don’t know how, but I just feel it. I slow down and turn to face them. A guy. His eyes lock with mine—the screwy disco lights turn them red then blue then green. He’s cute. Broad open face, dirty blond hair, tall enough. The corner of his mouth turns up. It’s a smile. An uncertain kind of smirk, if that’s possible. He could be a real cocky prick. He takes a step toward me and I feel my throat tighten. Christ. I’ve wanted this for so long—just for someone to notice me—it’s heavenly, truly, it’s absolutely more than I could have hoped for. But what do I do next?
I hide at the bar.
I don’t know what else to do. It’s crowded over here so I have time to think. I need time to consider this. This is a very big deal. Briefly, my mind wanders to Muirgheal on that dark Irish afternoon, all west-wind crazy. Maybe that curse wasn’t complete insanity.
Suddenly he finds me. He finds me! If I were an ice cube I would melt on the spot. He stands beside me and orders a drink. My heart is beating so fast it’s putting the dance beat to shame. Surely I will die if it keeps up this pace. Like some 1950s crooner he swings toward me with a cheesy smile, his elbow on the bar. ‘Can I get you something?’ His voice is hot buttered toast.
My jaw drops. I can’t help it. What an idiot I am. I only have time to shut my mouth before a girl slips in between us.
‘Cosmopolitan out of the question?’ she asks.
‘Um, I’m kind of busy here …’
I slide off the stool and slip into the crowd. I know one safe place at this club. I bound up the cherry wood steps. If he truly sees me, if he truly wants me, if he truly likes me—he’ll find me.