I make sure I’m ready for
Mum when she gets up. I’m dressed in my school uniform, my bag packed with what I need for Shopping Night, sitting on the edge of the couch waiting. I’ve had barely five hours’ sleep. School is going to hurt today.
Mum walks into the lounge with a toothbrush poking from the corner of her mouth. She fumbles with the clasp on her bracelet.
‘You’re keen for your first day,’ she says. ‘Honey, can you do this for me?’
I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge her outstretched wrist. Mum dumps the bracelet on the kitchen counter and pulls the toothbrush from her mouth.
‘What’s wrong? You’re giving me that look.’
‘Sit down,’ I say.
‘Oh god.’ Her face falls, and she zips over to the couch in record time, staring at me with wide eyes. ‘Are you pregnant? Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.’
‘I’m not pregnant, Mum. Give me some credit, please. I want to talk about you.’
‘Me?’
‘I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth, even if you think it’s going to make me mad. I need to know.’ I pause. Mum has two spots of white toothpaste on either side of her mouth, and she hasn’t painted her face yet. ‘A couple of months ago, say six months ago, did you answer my phone and talk to someone?’
She looks confused for a few seconds, then recognition dawns. ‘Oh. That.’
‘Yes, that. Teen wolf from Shytown. This is the bit where you tell me what the hell you were doing answering my phone, for one. And then another thing you might want to tell me: what did you say to him?’
Mum draws back into the couch. ‘The thing is, Nia, I was protecting you. After that night, when you never came home and I was so worried, I realised that I hadn’t been doing my job as a parent properly. So when he called, I thought the right thing to do, the proper, responsible thing to do—’
‘MUM,’ I say. ‘Cut the crap. It is of vital importance that you tell me what you said to him.’
Mum shrinks even more. ‘I told him that he wasn’t good enough for my daughter and that he should never call you again.’
I stare into space for a few seconds, pressing my lips together. It’s worse than I thought. No wonder Wolfboy was so vague about what was said. I speak with tight control. ‘I’m going to go to school now, Mum. And I won’t be coming with you to Fish Creek on Wednesday. I don’t want to talk to you at the moment.’
‘Nia,’ she says, pleading, practically hanging onto the hem of my school dress.
‘Nuh.’ I hold my hand up in her face. ‘That’s enough.’
The walk through the school gates is loud, the yard is loud, assembly is loud. Hundreds of screaming teenagers all trying to tell each other everything they did on summer holiday, in the shortest space of time possible. A wave of body heat and body odour and hormones. The only good thing is that now I’m not the new girl anymore. I notice straightaway that there’s a different vibe in classes. Everyone quietens down and takes notes, even the kids who are normally climbing the walls. I try to concentrate, I really do. But my head isn’t really in school; it’s still in front of the train station, in the dark and the cold, arguing with Wolfboy.
At lunchtime I grab a salad roll from the tuckshop and eat it quickly in the quad with the group of girls I made friends with last year. We talk about which boys got hotter over the summer, and which teachers we have this year. Even though the sun bakes the crown of my head so fiercely I might actually catch on fire, I can’t stop thinking about the night.
I give up trying and go to the library to use the computer. We don’t have the internet at home, a fact that never ceases to amaze my classmates. The library is deserted. Even the hardcore nerds aren’t inside on the first day.
I search for Datura Institute, but nothing comes up. No big surprise. If you were running a clandestine organisation, you’d hardly have your own website. Next, I look up datura. As I’d suspected from the flowers on the card, it’s a plant.
At first the information is boring and heavy with scientific terms. I scroll down to the juicier bits about witches brews and love potions and hallucinogens. Holy crap. Confirmation that some seriously weird shit goes down in Shyness. If Paul’s involved in a secret society, they’re just as likely to be into kitten sacrifice as flower arranging. If the institute is a front for a druggie cult, though, why would you give it such an obvious name? Maybe whoever runs it doesn’t care. Police aren’t exactly an issue in Shyness.
According to the site, many people have died, either accidentally or deliberately, after eating the datura plant. I jump off the computer and head for the stacks. I’m an old-fashioned girl in more than a few ways and I’d rather look up a book than stare at a screen all day.
I scan through the science Deweys and eventually find some illustrations of datura plants, which look like delicate upside-down tubas. Apparently there are lots of different types, even though they all look basically the same. Their names are chilling: devil’s trumpet, mad apple, moonflower, nightshade.
Wolfboy’s right to be concerned. I look at the line drawings of the beautiful but deadly plants. Paul was a nice guy. Jury’s still out on Wolfboy. I’d like to pretend I didn’t care about either.
‘You’re not dressed,’ is the first thing Helen says to me.
She’s wearing a long, glittering silver caftan and, inexplicably, has a black moustache drawn on her upper lip, the ends curling up towards her cheeks. Behind her, the shop floor has already been cleared and a makeshift catwalk laid down.
‘I came straight from school.’ I hold up my backpack. ‘My ballgown’s in here.’
‘Good girl.’ Helen waves a champagne flute at me. Her whole body sways with her. ‘Because I need something to go right tonight.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, as Ruth sweeps past me and snatches the glass out of Helen’s hand.
‘The caterer forgot our order,’ Ruth says. ‘But they’re still going to put something together, and drop it off a bit later. Helen’s nephew was supposed to DJ but he’s stuck at the beach with a broken-down car. I’ve put together an emergency playlist for the parade, and we’ll have to play store records for the rest of it. On the plus side, Bob has already built the stage, and we’ve had loads of last-minute RSVPs. Oh, but Duncan has food poisoning. So no male model.’
‘Which is why Helen has a moustache?’ I guess.
Ruth points at me. ‘Bingo.’
‘So, Helen is taking Duncan’s place in the fashion show?’
I don’t want to be rude, but Duncan is at least six feet tall and as thin as a Masai, whereas Helen is a five-footnothing all-woman.
Helen clearly agrees with my assessment of the situation, because she slaps her own arse so hard it makes her wince. ‘This is prime rump steak, ladies! How’m I going to fit it into those skinny little man clothes?’
Ruth gives me a beseeching look, and starts pulling reams of fabric out of the storeroom. ‘Please, Nia, can you get dressed quickly and help me with this train wreck? I left you something to wear in the staffroom.’
I race off to the staffroom where I find a red velour jumpsuit hanging on the door. It’s much nicer than the fluffy old formal dress I was going to wear. I put it on and brush my hair out, slapping on a quick bit of mascara and lippie. There’s a knock on the door.
‘Have you got it on?’ calls out Ruth. She pokes her head around the door. ‘Ooh, I knew that would suit you. Let me quickly do your hair. I brought my curling iron.’
I sit on the kitchen table while Ruth gets to work behind me. The curling iron is warm against my scalp.
‘Hey, I almost forgot—how did your big date go?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Oh, sweetie. That bad?’
‘Yeah.’ I’m unable to say much more than that. Ruth’s hands are soft against the nape of my neck. My hair crackles. ‘But, you know, I’m going to study hard this year,’ I tell her. ‘And then rule the world after that. I don’t need boys.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And now, magic has officially been worked. Although it’s not difficult with hair as beautiful as yours.’
I check myself in the mirror. Ruth does have magic fingers. She’s somehow managed to twist my hair into a sleek forties hairdo, my hair rolling away from my face on either side. I turn my head and see some lazy curls tumbling down my back.
When we emerge from the staffroom Helen has recovered from her despair and managed to cover all the windows with heavy drapes, put some breathy sixties French pop on the stereo, and pour a tray of champagne. She calls out from her position near the counter-slash-bar. ‘Nia, darling! You’re needed over here!’
It must be after five because the front part of the shop is filling up fast. Lots of people have dressed up for the occasion, in dresses and suits and flashy seventies disco wear. I squeeze past a man in a safari suit to get behind the counter.
‘You have a visitor, honey,’ Helen says.
I look across the counter and I see Wolfboy.
He’s red in the face, from sunlight or embarrassment, I don’t know.
‘Nia,’ he says. ‘You look, um, incredible.’
I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that in this moment I am completely unable to produce sounds from my mouth. I look mutely across at Helen instead. Maybe if I pretend he’s not here, I can make him disappear.
‘I’ve already introduced myself to the gorgeous Jethro.’ Helen’s eyes twinkle even more than her caftan. She has the same look on her face that she gets when we bring her surprise doughnuts from the bakery.
‘What are you doing here?’ My voice is snappy.
‘Ortolan gave me her invite.’ Wolfboy holds up the printed curl of ribbon Helen used as invitations.
‘It’s a pity she couldn’t make it tonight,’ Helen says, ‘but I’m glad she sent someone in her place. Nia needs some more people her own age here, instead of all these old farts. Champagne?’
Wolfboy shakes his head. I have my arms crossed, mostly to force away the image I have of him leaving the Darkness in his black night-time clothes and pale skin, and crossing into the sunlight and heat of the City. Crammed into a smelly train carriage, walking down the bright summer streets, all to come here. To see me.
‘So, you think I’m going to forgive you because you made a minor effort to find out where I work?’
Next to me Helen fusses with trays of glasses, but I can tell she’s still listening. Listening with all her body, as if she could suck sound up through her pores.
Wolfboy’s eyes are piercing blue and brimming with apologies.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, hands fidgety on the glass-topped counter.
I look down at those hands, the too-thick hair growing there, a reminder that Wolfboy is not your average guy. Maybe my mum was right to protect me from him.
‘There’s nothing I can say other than that. I wanted so badly for the other night to go well, and it didn’t.’
I teeter on the edge, staring back at him. He doesn’t flinch. He’s brushed his hair and put on a neat buttondown shirt for the journey. I have the barest thread of an idea forming in my mind.
‘Exactly how sorry are you?’ I say.