Should I text Layla again?
I’ve asked myself that question too many times as Trent screams at the zombies lurching towards him on the screen in my room.
Since my latest lecture from Mum and Dad, I’m meant to be smashing through uni applications, but instead I’m doodling on paper and telling myself to sort my head out — all to the sound of gunshots.
When Layla never showed on Saturday, I decided to suck up the blisters and walk home past her place — okay, fine, I caught a taxi to her place — but no-one answered the front door and her phone went straight to voicemail. I only made it halfway up her neighbour’s lawn before the old woman came hobbling out onto the veranda, flapping a rake and crowing at me to stay away from her garden bed.
Can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of mysteries.
‘Suck it!’ Trent’s knuckles are white as his fingers grip the controller. More gunshots. Then a bloodcurdling scream. He flops back onto my bed, swearing so much you’d think he’d actually just faced an onslaught of bullets.
‘Owned again, huh?’
‘Can’t get past this freakin’ level.’ He glares at the screen. ‘Not all of us can be gamer geeks like you, bro.’
I snort. ‘It’s a blessing and a curse bestowed on a special few.’
I draw a line down the middle of the page with two clear headings at the top of each column: Text her again and Don’t do it, dickhead.
My mind runs over what I could write in the first column.
Because the last time I saw her, she was upset — and with Lay there’ll be a reason why she’s blowing me off.
She’s my mate and that’s what mates do.
The car was where I asked her to meet me — but she wasn’t there.
I’m worried something’s happened to her.
A solid list.
I look at the next column. All I can think about is one big fat reason why I shouldn’t.
Because she clearly doesn’t want to see me again. If she did, she would’ve texted back days ago, loser.
I stare at the empty columns, then scrunch up the paper and toss it at the bin by my desk.
I miss. Of course.
‘Wanna game?’ Trent asks.
‘Nah, man.’
‘Whatcha doing over there?’
‘Nothing.’
I walk over to pick up the crumpled paper and aim for the bin again, but it flies past and bounces off the bed. Trent leans down and snatches it up. He goes to throw it, then catches the look of urgency on my face. I’m primed, on the balls of my feet, ready to pounce. I’ve given away that I care what’s on the page and he knows it.
‘What is this?’ he asks, uncurling it.
‘Give it here.’
He’s taller and wider and manages to hold it above my head. ‘Montgomery again? Nah, enough! Can’t let you do it.’ He scrunches up the page and lobs it at the bin. It strikes the inside before hitting the bottom.
‘She’s disappeared,’ I tell him. ‘I reckon it’s our fault — that video tipped her over.’
‘Righto, Sherlock.’ He snatches my phone from the bedside table. ‘It’s just Monty Burns. Text her.’
I stand up. ‘I have. I’m leaving it for a bit.’
‘Fine, I’ll do it then. Hey, let’s just call. She’s probably had her phone on silent or something.’ Trent punches a few numbers into the phone to try to crack the password.
‘Give it back.’
But he keeps fiddling with it, swearing to himself as he stabs for the magic number. Still wrong. Then he snorts with laughter. He’s in.
‘Mum’s birth year? Bro, cut the cord.’
I lurch at him, trying to snatch the phone out of his fingers, but he’s too fast. He leaps onto the bed, bouncing up and down as he scrolls.
‘I’m dialling, mate, I’m dialling!’ He laughs. ‘Whatcha gonna do?’
‘Shit, Trent!’ I swat at him. ‘Man, I’m not messing around. Give it here.’
He throws himself into a sloppy star jump, then lands on his back. He passes me the phone, triumphant. ‘It’s ringing.’
I snatch it from him and slam the ‘end’ button. ‘What the hell?’
‘Chill,’ he says, sitting up so he’s perched on the edge of the mattress. ‘There’s no need to cry about it. It’s just Lay — sheesh. You can go back to sitting home alone with the little general … or we can try again!’ he adds with a laugh, snatching the phone back.
I grab for it and my hands shove his chest, knocking him back onto the bed.
‘What the … can’t ya take a joke, bro?’
He leaps up, nostrils flaring, and pushes my chest, sending me arse-first onto the carpet.
I struggle to my feet. ‘You’re pathetic.’
‘You pushed me first.’
‘It’s like you’re proud of being a prick. I’m done. It’s pathetic, all this.’
Trent puffs his chest out a little more. ‘Say it again.’
‘What?’ I say, adrenaline surging through my body. ‘You didn’t understand me the first two times? I said path-et-ic.’
‘Me?’ Trent fakes a laugh. ‘Ever think maybe Montgomery’s bailed ’cos she doesn’t like you. Get a life, ’cos you’re the pathetic one.’
I swing my right fist, not sure what I’m even aiming for, but he swerves out of the way and I strike his collarbone. My knuckles sting. Not surprising considering I’ve never thrown a punch in my life.
I haven’t thought this through.
Trent hurls himself at me, slamming us both onto the carpet. We’re a flurry of fists as we pant and grunt and wrestle on the floor. My wrists are flimsy as I try to push him off me. His body feels as hard as concrete.
‘Just … relax,’ he huffs out while struggling to pin my arms down next to my sides. ‘What … are you … doing? Stop … shit, bro … stop being … a cockhead.’
‘Get … off … me, man.’
Eyes half-shut, I shove upwards but hit nothing. I try again with everything I have. Crack.
Trent yells out in pain, grabbing at his nose. Even through the blurriness I can see red.
Red smeared down his chin.
Red on my palms.
* * *
Layla: Hey, MD, so I’ve been MIA. I’m so, so sorry. Things have been weird … too hard to explain on texts. If I’m not already phased, wanna catch up tomoz? The river? 1 pm? (Yeah, I’m copying.) Lemme know, Chicken Girl