It takes Sal fourteen minutes and twenty-five seconds of talking about lectures, bar nights and first-year hazing before she admits she’s cancelling her weekend in Durnan. She takes twice as many words as she needs to get it out, which somehow makes it worse.
‘You’re angry, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘You haven’t said anything for like a minute.’
‘No, I’m not, it’s just … I mean … it’s kinda been planned for ages.’ The aim is to sound chilled, to be the relaxed, cool boyfriend, but there’s a sharpness to my tone.
It’s a Sunday afternoon, but it no longer feels like the time for customers, so I hang the Back in five minutes sign on the door, then head for the children’s picture books section, which is at the far end of the shop, and plonk down on the floor. My back presses against the hard shelves, the corners of the books digging into my skin.
‘I was just keen to hang, that’s all.’
Keen to see a familiar face that isn’t Trent’s or Mum’s or Dad’s. Basically anyone who doesn’t live at 58 Stone Street, Durnan, New South Wales, Australia, The World, The Universe.
‘I know, I’m sorry. I was too.’ I imagine Sal twirling her ponytail as she says this. She always does it when she’s freaked about conflict. ‘But it’s such a whirlwind here. Classes are picking up, there’s assignments and there’s so much other stuff going on. Ressies is hectic, and for the first time I feel — and this’ll make me sound like a loser — that people here like me. They want to be my friend.’
‘You’ve always had mates. Heaps.’
‘I can’t explain it then. Things feel different.’
Tell me about it. Somehow things feel different for me too, even though everything here is still the same. Everything except the people.
‘Okay …’ I say.
‘You are angry.’
‘Nah, I’m … I’m cool.’ I force a fake laugh. I don’t want to be the guy who wrecks her life just ’cos I stayed. It’s my own stupid fault, not hers. ‘All good.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you. Thank you, Milo.’
She believes me. Or maybe she hears what she wants to hear. I can’t tell the difference over the phone.
‘I can’t be that girl who everyone stops inviting to stuff ’cos she’s bailed so many times. That would be tragic. We’ll reschedule, promise. And I’ll make it up to you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Like, really make it up to you.’
I jolt upright. ‘Yeah?’ Shrieks of laughter flood the phone line. ‘Sal?’ Rustling. Girls whispering. More laughter. ‘You there?’
‘I have to go.’ She squeaks out the words through a fit of giggles.
‘What?’
‘Like right now. The boys have water bombs and — ahhh! We’re under attack!’
‘Okay, wanna Skype soon?’
She’s already hung up.
When I finally get up to take the sign off the door, there’s someone sitting on the front steps. For a moment, I don’t recognise Layla. She’s all lanky legs and arms, and her streaked yellow mop is pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. It looks so loose that if she were to grin too hard it might unravel. Not that’s she grinning. So much for never seeing her again. Now I’m seeing her on the anniversary of her mum’s funeral.
I open the door. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ She jumps to her feet and points to the sign. ‘That was more than five minutes.’
‘Sorry. Work stuff.’ My mind races, trying to decode why she’s here. ‘Oh! The sunnies, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ She passes me a foam cup of hot chocolate. ‘This is for you — to say thanks for texting. Sorry I didn’t write back. There’s two marshmallows in there, by the way.’
‘Ah, sweet, thanks,’ I say, taking the drink, stunned she remembers how her mum used to make them for me. I used to sneak over to Layla’s for dessert after dinner ’cos Mum’s queen of the anti-sugar brigade. We were eventually busted, but that didn’t stop Layla — she’d just pass me choccie frogs through a hole in our adjoining fence. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’
‘Sure I did,’ she says with a soft smile. ‘I got it from the café next to the gelato shop on the main street. I forgot how cheap stuff is here. Sidenote: can’t believe Durnan’s got gelato. ’Bout time.’
‘Just think, in another fifty years we might even get decent wi-fi.’
I take a sip and splutter as the hot chocolate scalds my tongue and burns my throat.
Layla steps closer. ‘You okay?’
‘Holy … yep … yep, fine, all fine,’ I choke out. ‘Come in.’
‘Alright.’ Layla bends down to tuck her jeans deeper into scuffed boots. ‘After you.’
We head inside, Layla dawdling behind me. She’s quieter today. Everything about her points downwards.
‘How are you anyway?’ she asks. ‘Living the dream?’
‘Always. It’s a rock-star life.’ I gesture around the empty store. ‘More like, I’m killing time before I kill myself.’
It’s a bomb of a joke, but the words are already out. I definitely didn’t plan to bring up death with Layla, especially not today. She doesn’t seem upset, but it’s been five years and I forget the signs so I can’t be sure.
‘Sorry,’ I add, ‘that was kinda messed up.’
She hoists herself up onto the counter, legs dangling above the carpet. ‘You have been living in Durnan this whole time so I’ll forgive you. Besides, I feel about the same. Maybe we could do it together? End the pain now.’
‘Dude,’ I say, as I rifle through the lost-and-found box for her glasses, ‘that’s messed up.’
‘I’m kidding,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Relax. So … why are you still here? I guess I always imagined you going off to uni or taking on the world somehow. You were such a brain at school.’
‘Shut up, you were.’ I laugh, before noticing her eyes dart away for a second. The walls are back. ‘Just can’t decide what’s next, I suppose.’ I shrug. ‘Any ideas?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing. Year 12 wasn’t exactly my friend.’
‘Serious?’
Layla was always so smart. The type who could get away with barely studying then still kick everyone’s bums in the exams. Teachers used to feed her extra homework to try to challenge her, reminding her she could be anything she wanted to be when she grew up, but she’d shrug it off, never wanting to stand out in that way or be seen as different.
‘Serious. Anyway, what else, what else?’ she asks, shutting down any hope of her elaborating on her final year. ‘Going out with anyone, stud muffin? And imaginary girlfriends don’t count.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, got myself a real one.’
‘No way.’
‘I know, right? Ever have a class with Sal — Sally Patterson?’
‘I know the name, I think.’
‘Well, she’s in Canberra now.’
‘But you’re not?’
‘Clearly not.’
‘Interesting. Maybe you should’ve gone with her. Shaken the cobwebs off this stale little life.’
Ouch. For weeks I’ve been telling anyone with an eardrum how much things suck right now, but hearing it from her is brutal. Sometimes you don’t want to hear the truth when living it is hard enough.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say. ‘Who knows? Not me … and it’s not like you really know me. Not any more.’
It sounds harsher out loud than it did in my head. I just meant it as a fact. She doesn’t know that I topped chemistry last year, or kissed Leisel Multari under the school jacaranda tree in Year 8 as a dare, or that I eat avocado all the time now even though I used to hate it when we were kids. And I don’t know anything about the last five years of her life. But still, I regret letting the words slip out. If only life came with a prepared script.
‘I’ve known you since you were in nappies and that counts for something.’ Her mouth curves into a crooked smile. ‘Stinky poopy nappies.’
‘Would you believe I don’t need nappies any more?’
‘Excellent. Knew you had it in you.’
‘Had to happen sometime.’ I grin. ‘Things change.’
‘Sometimes, for sure,’ she says, jumping off the counter and landing on the carpet with a thud. ‘But sometimes they stay the same.’
My fingers find the sunnies and I hand them over. ‘They’re pretty smudged, but I can clean —’
‘They’re fine.’ She sits them on her head. ‘I should go. You’ve probably got more work stuff.’
‘Yeah. Work stuff.’
‘So … ah … bye for real this time, I guess.’
‘Bye for real.’
Her hand is on the door handle when I say the thing I was too scared to say yesterday, and too surprised to say when I saw her body arched over on the steps today. ‘Lay … about your mum …’
I’m in it now.
She freezes, fingers still curled around the metal.
‘I know what today is and … well, I wanted you to know I’m … I’m sorry. I think Mum sent a card to your dad again, she usually does, but … ah, if you’re not staying with him this year, then … well … we’re thinking of you.’
Layla stares at the ground. Her expression is impossible to read.
‘I’m here too, is what I mean. You know, if you need anything. You probably don’t … but if you do.’
I hold my breath, silently berating myself for being such a bumbling idiot. Maybe in the past five years Layla’s found a way to forget the anniversary of her mum’s death and I’ve brought it up at the crappiest time on the crappiest day, reminding her of the crappiest parts of it all over again. Jesus.
She looks up, watery chocolate eyes locking with mine, and smiles the smallest of smiles. ‘Thanks, MD.’