Everything Beautiful (3 page)

4
Black Ball

Inside cabin three there was a bunk and a single bed. The single was in prime position by the window, but somebody had already claimed it, using her suitcase as a stake. I peeked into the fancy leather suitcase and saw polythene-packed clothes. Just what I needed, an OCD girl, the kind who carried antiseptic hand gel and can only have one type of food on her fork at a time. So sad, too bad. I placed whoever’s suitcase on the floor and lay on the bed in coffin pose. Then I sat up and weighed Chloe’s good-bye present in my hand. It felt like a book. It was probably a Bible.
Nice one, Chloe
. “Don’t open it until you get there,” she’d said. I tore through the wrapping paper. Sure enough, it was an old hardcover,
Utopia
by Sir Thomas More. The cover was brown cloth and faded. Inside, the print was large and there were old-fashioned illustrations and maps.

Chloe had left a note:

My friend, my friend. This is what you call a bunker book. It’s big and intimidating and multipurpose. You can use it as a weapon or you can cut a hole in it and stash life’s little essentials: you know, poker chips, acid tabs … But before you do any of that I recommend that you turn to page 67. And then come back.

I turned to page sixty-seven. An envelope fell out. I opened it. It was a bus ticket, from Nhill to Melbourne, leaving Wednesday at 10:30 p.m.

This is important. The bus only leaves once a week but it’ll get you home in time for Ben Seb’s. I’ll pick you up at the station, Thursday a.m. My folks are away, so we can do whatever. We can order pizza and bang the delivery boy. It’ll be cool. Re: the bus. I advise you to sit next to a lady, and if some gross farmer tries to pick you up, pretend to be deaf. In the meantime, do me proud, make trouble, and always remember that Jesus Loves You.

Chloe

I stared at the ticket for a long time, a smile growing on my face. In the background I could hear a fly trapped behind the screen window. I listened to its blind buzz until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then I pulled the screen open and, using my bunker book, put the fly out of its misery. I was going home! I was going to get Ben Sebatini! The plan wasn’t foolproof. Dad and Norma would find out eventually. I’d have to answer some sticky questions and I’d probably be grounded until menopause, but anything was better than staying here.

I lifted a corner of the blind. The quadrangle was filling up with campers. They wore bright colors. They seemed to know one another. There were miles of smiles and rampant hugging. An aerial view would look like a pool table—the colored balls dispersed, came together, and dispersed again. I could see how the game was going to play out. I was going to be the black ball.

Two girls had broken from the pack and were walking toward cabin three. This had to be Fleur and Sarita—my roomies. I could tell everything I needed to know just by looking at them. Fleur was the Valkyrie, tall and dominant. Her face was just a little too sharp to be beautiful. The end of her nose pointed up piggishly. She had a dancer’s legs and caramel-colored hair. The suitcase was hers for sure. Sarita was tiny, doll-like. Her face was set in such a way that she looked permanently thrilled. She was wearing sensible shorts and the Spirit Ranch sun visor. Tragic! Under it, two braids thick as jungle vines hung halfway down her back. Fleur was doing most of the talking—it looked like she was giving instructions. Sarita said something. Fleur stopped and smacked her on the arm.

“No way!” Her mouth flapped open, unhinged. “Who told you?”

They had stopped just outside the door. I ducked down from the window.

Sarita’s voice trembled with Bollywood gravitas. “I saw him in the parking lot, with his mother. She was crying. I heard he jumped sixteen floors.”

“Oh, God. This is awful.” Fleur’s voice was full of moan. She sounded like she had a cold. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking … like anything.”

“You’d better not,” Fleur warned. She pushed the door open to reveal:

One Riley Rose: lounging on the single bed in a pose that I hoped was reminiscent of a 1950s burlesque star. Hands behind head, fingers underlining the brim of my floppy black hat, everything else out and proud, legs crossed at the ankles. (You can say what you like about the rest of me, but my ankles are divine!)

“Hi, roomies.” I twinkle-twinkled my silver-painted fingertips.

Fleur groaned. “Great.” She turned to Sarita as if my presence was her doing. “I thought it was going to be just us two.”

Sarita looked grave. “You’re not Poppy.”

Fleur said, “Dumbhead! I told you. Poppy’s got glandular.” She circled her throat. “Her glands swelled up to here. She looked like one of those frogs that carry their babies in their mouths. She couldn’t leave the house.”

They both stared at me. Fleur looked annoyed. Sarita looked worried. She seemed to be staring at my chest, so I pushed my boobs together with my hands. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

Sarita’s face went a deep shade of red.

“She was looking for your
name
tag.” Fleur’s lip curled. “Who
are
you?”

I flopped my hand for her to kiss. “Riley Rose. Charmed.
Utterly
. ”

“Oh.” She ignored my hand, scowling. “Where’s my stuff?”

“I relocated it.” I sighed. “I can’t possibly sleep in a bunk. I get claustrophobia. And vertigo.” Silence followed, so I decided to keep spinning. “Also, I sleepwalk—just so you know. It can be a bit of a shock to the uninitiated because I like to sleep
au naturale
. ”

“Are you French?” Sarita asked.

“
Mais non
. But I speak several languages.
Un peu
. Conversational. When one travels, one cannot help but pick up some of the vernacular.”

Fleur snorted. Something about the set of her face made me vow right then and there to never tell her the truth about anything. She huffed past me, picked up her case from the floor, and began to unpack on the bottom bunk.

“Well, come on,” she snapped at Sarita. “Help me.”

Fleur started taking items of clothing out of plastic bags. She passed the clothes to Sarita, who looked at each piece reverently before refolding it and placing it in Fleur’s chest of drawers.

“So what do you do for fun around here?” I drawled.

Sarita smiled. “There is always plenty to do. We have games. There’s a talent show on the last day.”

“You never enter in the talent show,” Fleur reminded her.

“It is true. I have no talent,” Sarita said sadly and returned to the subject. “There’s the campfire … lots of singing. Last year we went into the desert—”

“Did you find yourself?” I asked.

“Oh. I—” Sarita looked at Fleur, flummoxed.

“She’s teasing you,” Fleur said.

“I’m not much for nature,” I said with a shrug. “I’m a city girl. Sophisticated, you know.”

“Oh, well,” Fleur said testily. “Don’t expect to have much fun here, then.”

“I don’t.”

There was a moment of dead air. Fleur turned back to her suitcase. Sarita licked her lips and nodded at me and whispered, “I am enamored of your hat.”

“Oh!” I was surprised but I made a quick recovery. “It’s from Barcelona,” I lied, careful to lisp the
c
as
th
.

Sarita was looking at me like I had the answer to everything. The intensity of her stare made me want to laugh. And then it made me nervous. I didn’t want to be anyone’s answer.

Fleur suddenly asked, “How much do you weigh?”

In my mind’s eye I punched her. It all happened in beautiful slow motion. My fist hit her jaw. Her flesh wobbled, her mouth opened, spit came out, and a bit of blood, maybe even a couple of teeth. Mom used to say that anyone who used your appearance as ammunition was the worst kind of bully—weak and unimaginative. She would have had Fleur pegged. I heard her in my ear. “
If that’s the best she can do, then you’ve already won
.”

“I need air,” I decided. “Please don’t go through my things. Certain items may offend.” I stood up and flung my bag over my shoulder, and gave Fleur a hard stare. “And FYI, I weigh a hundred eighty-two pounds and I don’t give a fuck.”

5
A Rare Bird

I sat on a picnic bench and speed-read my camp program. On the cover happy campers formed a human pyramid on a green expanse, but as the newspapers kept saying, we were in the middle of a drought. There was no lawn now, so the area matched its name: the plain. The office, mess hall, recreation room, and counselors’ annex were at one end of the plain and the shower block was at the other. The cabins were lined up on either side like boxcars. They were squat, wood and stucco. Each had an aboriginal “motif” painted on the door. Mostly fish—all of them trying to swim home.

In the program introduction, it said that the Little Desert used to be a sea, and then after the sea dried up it became home to the Wotjobaluk people. For 5,000 years they sourced food and dipped in the soaks. Then the European settlers came. They tried to farm the land, but you can’t get wheat out of sand. Whatever they planted dried up and disappeared. Ossification. That’s what it’s called. I looked around. My throat felt dry, my eyes itchy. If I wasn’t careful it would happen to me. I sat for a minute mustering up delirium and then I bolted. I ran barefoot over the rough grass. My stretchy top kept riding above my jelly belly, but I didn’t care. I had the sensation that everything on me was wobbling. Everything. “There’s too much of me,” I thought. “I’m Too Much!” And this made me giggle and run even faster. I was out of my element at Christian camp. I was a rare bird, the mysterious, maniac loon. “Koo-koo-KA-KA-KA!” I called out to a pale, speccy kid standing by a water fountain. “AaaaiiiiEEEEEE!” I shrieked and flapped my wings and pretended to fly.

I stopped at the shower block. From inside came the sound of water blasting, followed by a shriek. I padded in, liking the cool cement on my toes. All the shower doors were open but one. I stood outside it for half a second, then pushed. Three girls in the ten–twelve bracket—psycho-tweenies—were huddled over a girl who was lying on the floor with her head in the shower recess. Her hair and face were wet and her top was around her neck, exposing pale skin, almost-breasts. The psycho-tweenies dispersed, smirking, and their victim hastily covered up.

I bore up like a mama lion. “What’s going on?”

Little helium voices squeaked, “Nothing!” They pushed past me and skittered outside. I helped the girl to her feet. She was skinny and awkward and her skin was so pale it had a blue tinge.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

The girl didn’t answer. She straightened her clothes and walked over to the sink. I followed her and watched as she bent over and started wringing water out of her hair. She tied it back with an elastic band and smiled at me in the mirror. “They wanted to see my witch’s tit.”

“Your what?”

“I have three nipples. Only the third one is just like a birthmark. Janey and them say it’s the mark of the devil.”

“What?” It took me a few seconds to absorb this. “Bullies,” I said tersely.

The girl said, “They do it every year. It’s like a tradition.”

We walked out together. My Spirit Ranch map ended at the shower block, but I could see a path beyond it.

“What’s down there?” I asked the girl.

“The recycling cage. Fraser’s house. He used to be the owner, but he died. He went into the desert and never came back out. He was wearing only his underpants and he had face paint on. Bird says he was a visionary.”

“Who’s Bird?”

“My brother.”

“Is he here?” I asked. “Why doesn’t he look after you?”

“He does look after me. But he has special duties. We both do. Bird looks after the wildlife and I look after the … domestic side of things. It’s how we pay our way.”

The girl stared across the plain, wrinkling her nose at a group of kids kicking a soccer ball around. Then she turned back and without warning gave me a swift hug. “I’m Olive,” she said in my ear. “Hug me back. Janey and them, they’re looking.”

I hugged back. It felt weird, but not awful. She smelled like a mixed bag of candy—milk bottles and musk sticks. I stepped back and straightened my sleeves. Olive said, “I think they’ll leave me alone now. Thanks.” She ran off with her face all aglow, like she was carrying a present and she knew what it was, and it was good. I turned and faced the wild. Somewhere out there was the desert, then Nhill, then the world. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been hugged so hard.