Bright light rips through the window. I rub at my eyes, which have shrivelled to slits, and wince at the thumping cacophony in my head. Morning has caught up to me. I have to suck it up and drive home whether I’m up for it or not — and I’m definitely not up for it.
There’s no sign of Milo. Propping myself up on one elbow, I cringe at the cracked windscreen and dented bonnet. I’d almost blocked out that part. I strain to see him lying on the grass in the shade, arms crossed over his face. My boots crunch down on a half-eaten packet of chips, which have spilled across the car floor. I fiddle with the handle until the door struggles open.
‘Hey,’ I croak, peering down at him. ‘You alive?’
‘Maybe,’ his muffled voice replies. ‘Unless this is hell?’
‘Possibly. Why does it feel like I haven’t slept?’
‘No idea. Especially ’cos you snored for like an hour.’
‘Damn Veronica, this is all her fault.’ I pull at the nametag still pinned to my T-shirt. ‘Tell everybody: Veronica made us do it.’
Milo groans. He still hasn’t removed his arms from his face.
‘MD, I want eight thousand McMuffins.’
‘You’re a McMuffin.’
‘I wish. Hey, what time are we leaving again?’
‘Nine fifteen. Why? What time is it?’
‘No idea. I’m outta battery. Reckon I can go back to sleep for a bit?’
‘Probably.’ Without getting up, he turns on his phone.
When he springs to his feet, I know we’re screwed. And boy, are we.
Because it’s 12.23 pm, and it takes about two hours to get back to Durnan. My training at Joe’s Charcoal Chicken Shop starts at 2 pm, I stink like someone on day five of schoolies’ week, and I feel like I’ve spent ten hours trapped in a tumble dryer. I’d be furious at my terrible life choices, but I’m too busy wondering whether I can curl up under the nearest tree and wait for a truck driver to throw me a double cheeseburger.
With bacon.
And maybe large fries.
Definitely large fries.
Milo passes me his phone, which beeps in my hand. The battery is close to quitting. I dial the chicken shop’s number while Milo watches on, his hand buried in a packet of pretzels. It rings out, then the phone beeps again.
‘Just say you’re sick,’ Milo says. ‘It’s kind of true. Like a half-lie.’
‘It’s not enough. Joe’s a tough old dude from the city. Like, if I actually was sick, I’d have to show up and prove it by, I don’t know, coughing up a lung or bleeding from my nose, then hang on until he sent me home. He might be new around town but I know his deal. If I say I’m sick, he’s either going to think I’m a wimp or I’m lying.’
‘Which you are.’
I scrunch up my nose at him — not helping — and try again.
This time Joe grunts hello down the line after two rings. I’m on.
I’m on and I’m not ready.
Joe puts me on hold while he swaps to the phone in his back office. My mind kicks into overdrive. Panic at the thought of losing this job rattles my brain. I need to be able to pay my way. I need to prove to Kurt that he doesn’t have to get messed up in whatever he’s getting messed up in. I need to get my life started again, even if I’m elbow-deep in chicken fat while doing it. All of that depends on the next second, the next words out of my mouth, on telling a lie so detailed, so creative, that it can’t possibly be made up.
I’m not proud of lying, but as I hear Joe’s voice asking me what’s going on, there’s no time to back out. Thirty seconds in and I know he believes every word I’m feeding him: that I can’t come in today because my mum has dislocated her shoulder while hanging out the washing and I’ve taken her to emergency.
Joe tells me he understands and we’ll reschedule, adding, ‘You’re a good daughter.’
I thank him for his kindness. Despite my heart pounding, somehow my voice hasn’t wobbled over the word ‘mum’. Not once. For a few small minutes, the real me no longer exists. I’m lost in my lie, believing it so much it almost feels true. I’m ‘Layla the girl who’d do anything to help her family in a time of need’, not ‘Layla the screw-up with a sorry state of a bank account, a boyfriend who’s dealing pot and a dead mum’. I’m transformed.
I’m midway through explaining that Dad is away for work, which is why it’s up to me to drive Mum to the hospital, when I catch Milo gaping at me. I’ve been so caught up in orchestrating my performance of a lifetime that I’d forgotten he was watching.
I’m not sure how I feel about it myself — it wasn’t planned, or something I’ve ever done before. But as shame rises through me, from my toes to the top of my head, dusting my cheeks with a cherry glow, I know I never want him to look at me that way again.
When I hang up, he doesn’t ask me why I said what I did.
Maybe he doesn’t want to risk upsetting me.
Or maybe he’s scared of the answer.
* * *
The staff at Macca’s let Milo charge his phone while we scrub the car at the petrol station next door. I don’t bother charging mine. Kurt had his chance yesterday but went MIA. Another hour or so without hearing from me won’t bother him.
‘I should go get my phone before Ronald McDonald nicks it,’ Milo announces, hosing down the bonnet. Everything still bends in the wrong places, but at least the blood and dust is gone. I spare another thought for Skippy. ‘Want anything while I’m in there, Lay? Coke? Sneaky cheesie?’
He still hasn’t mentioned my phone call with Joe.
‘Nah, I feel a bit off,’ I say as he hangs up the hose. ‘Actually who am I kidding … nuggets! And don’t forget the sweet and sour. Thanks.’
‘On it.’
He lopes over to Macca’s, and I can see him through the glass, standing in line, phone pressed to his ear. A few minutes pass. His head is down, he’s shaking it. Something’s up.
When he returns, shoulders hunched, he’s carrying two bottles of Coke and a cheeseburger.
I lean on the car, peering across the roof at him. ‘No nuggets?’
‘Crap. Sal rang and I flaked. I’ll go back.’
‘All good, we’ll split the cheesie. And by split, I mean I’ll eat most of it.’ I pause. ‘Hey, MD?’
‘Hey, Lay?’
He climbs into the car so I follow suit. I rev the engine.
‘You’re kinda quiet. You mad at me?’
‘’Cos of the nuggets? Nah, just forgot.’
‘No, ’cos of before … with Joe?’
Milo stares through the splintered screen. ‘What? I haven’t said anything.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, driving us out of the petrol station and onto the highway.
‘Wait, you want me to?’
His eyes are on my hands now. I readjust my grip on the wheel, almost to prove I’m still capable of driving.
‘No … well, kind of. You not saying something is worse. I’d rather you be angry at me than nothing at me.’
‘I’m not angry, I’m …’ He pauses, probably realising he’s got himself in it now. ‘Bit worried, I suppose.’
I turn to face him. ‘That’s even worse.’
‘Can you watch the road?’ He opens the packet of jelly snakes and coils one around his finger. ‘I vote we talk about this later. Let’s get home, get to a mechanic, get some sleep. In that order.’
His phone buzzes. A message.
‘Is that Sal again?’ I can’t help myself, so I pop a snake in my mouth in the hope it shuts me up. ‘How is she?’ Nope. Didn’t work.
‘Great.’ There’s a bite to his tone that I haven’t heard before. ‘Apparently she ended up going to a big party in Bungendore last night. They did a car rally all over Canberra.’
‘No way, that’s awesome.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And she knows about the accident?’
‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘She left her phone in Jamie’s car last night so just saw my messages … Anyway, doesn’t matter.’
He passes me the unwrapped cheeseburger and turns on the radio, doing an abysmal job of pretending everything is fine.
For once, I don’t say a word.