Night Beach (35 page)

I
laughed.
‘Are
you
going
to
sign
me
afterwards?’

But
what
Hollywood
did
–
what
sealed
it
–
was
he
didn’t
laugh
at
all.
He
cleared
his

throat,
looking
very
nervous,
and
he
touched
my
leg
with
his
left
hand.

I’d
never
seen
him
touch
anyone
with
that
hand
before,
or
allow
anyone
else
to
touch
it.

What
I
loved
most
about
my
first
time
is
that
we
were
friends
before,
during
and
after.

When
it
was
over,
the
sun
was
up.
We
left
Max
and
Petey
sleeping,
and
Hollywood
drove

the
Audi
down
to
McDonald’s,
where
he
had
three
bacon-‐and-‐egg
roll
things
and
I
had

the
pancakes.
We
drank
Coke
for
the
caffeine,
because
when
you’re
feeling
that
dusty

there’s
something
satisfying
about
pushing
through
it,
and
we
put
extra
sugar
in.

‘Why
does
this
all
feel
normal?’
I
asked
him.
‘I
thought
I’d
feel
really
different.
Why’s
the

world
still
the
same?’

‘What
do
you
want?
A
street
parade?’

I
laughed.
But
as
I
drank
the
rest
of
my
Coke,
making
loud
slurping
noises
with
my

straw,
worry
began
to
gnaw
at
me.
I
knew
what
guys
were
like.
I’d
had
Anna
warning

me
about
them
nonstop
since
the
day
I
started
high
school.
I
couldn’t
bear
to
be
talked

about.
Some
girls
are
shiny-‐sharp
enough
to
not
be
damaged,
but
I
didn’t
think
I
would

be.

‘Do
you
promise
you
won’t
tell
anyone?’

‘Yeah,
it’s
cool,
Abs.
We
talked
about
this.’

‘No,
I
mean,
do
you
swear
it?’

‘I
swear
it.’

‘Can
you
look
at
me
when
you
say
that?’

Fed
up,
Hollywood
pulled
out
his
marker,
grabbed
my
empty
drink
container,
and

scribbled
down
the
side
of
it.

Then
he
pushed
it
across
to
me,
saying,
‘Sign
here.’

‘Mum?
Mum,
are
you
awake?’

Her
breathing
is
deep
and
steady.
It’s
12.37
according
to
the
screaming
red
face
of
the

alarm
clock
on
the
far
bedside
table.
She’s
probably
going
to
be
annoyed
at
me
waking

her
up,
but
I
can
deal
with
that.
I’ll
tell
her
that
I
just
need
my
mum.
I
need
her
to
give

me
a
big
hug,
and
say
everything
will
be
all
right.
She
won’t
mind.
That’s
what
mums
are

for.

No.
I’ll
tell
her
the
truth.
I
feel
scared.
Scared
to
be
in
this
house
at
night.
I’ll
ask
if
I
can

sleep
in
here
with
her.

‘Mum?’

I
turn
on
her
bedside
lamp,
hoping
the
light
will
help
me
wake
her
up.
She’s
lying
on
her

side,
snuggled
down
under
the
doona,
her
breath
whistling
in
and
out.

‘Mum?
Mum,
wake
up.’
This
time
my
voice
is
loud.
She
doesn’t
stir.
I
feel
like
I’m
going

crazy.
I
feel
like
I’m
the
last
person
awake
in
the
world.
I
checked
around
the
side
of
the

house
before
I
came
inside,
and
Kane’s
place
was
in
darkness,
too.

‘Mum!’

No
reaction.
Maybe
this
house
is
bewitched.
Maybe
it’s
cast
a
spell
over
both
of
them.

On
her
bedside
table
there’s
a
tissue
box,
half
a
glass
of
water,
and
her
watch,
pearl

earrings
and
wedding
ring
–
she
can’t
sleep
with
it
on
because
sometimes
her
fingers

swell
up.

There’s
also
a
pill
container.
I
pick
it
up,
reading
the
label:
‘Restavit.’
They’re
some
kind

of
sleeping
tablets
–
the
instructions
make
this
clear.

So
that’s
why
you
go
to
bed
early
when
Brian’s
away.
You
can’t
wait
to
bomb
yourself

out.
What
about
me?
What
if
I
need
you?

The
instructions
say
you
shouldn’t
take
Restavit
if
you
have
asthma,
or
bronchitis,
or
a

whole
list
of
other
stuff.
But
there’s
nothing
about
not
taking
it
if
your
daughter
needs

you.

I
rub
viciously
at
my
eyes,
and
grab
a
couple
of
tissues,
blowing
my
nose
loudly.

What’s
wrong
with
you?
Why
do
you
stop
functioning
just
because
Brian’s
away?
What

if
someone
broke
in
and
got
me?
You
wouldn’t
even
know.

How
can
you
even
be
a
parent?
You
need
one
yourself.

Mum
frowns
and
makes
a
swallowing
noise,
and
then
her
steady
breathing
resumes.

I
throw
the
dirty
tissues
on
the
carpet.
It’ll
give
her
something
to
freak
out
about
when

she
wakes
up
in
the
morning.

In
my
room,
I
turn
on
my
bedside
lamp,
rip
open
the
windows
and
hook
back
the
glass

door
that
leads
to
the
balcony,
letting
night
into
the
house.
The
southerly
starts
the

vertical
blinds
clanking,
which
is
good.
I
need
to
stir
things
up.
I’ve
got
to
stay
awake,

because
the
last
thing
I
want
to
do
is
fall
asleep
and
end
up
somewhere
else.
Although

I’ve
obviously
been
going
about
things
the
hard
way:
‘Restavit’
–
helping
people
check

out
of
reality
since
I
don’t
know
when.

The
contents
of
my
bedside
table
don’t
look
to
have
been
touched
since
I
left.
I
pick
up

the
cup
of
secrets,
hearing
the
rattle
of
plastic
inside,
and
I
turn
it
until
I
find
the
two

signatures,
Hollywood’s
and
mine.
I
always
thought
of
this
relic
as
representing
loss,
but

not
the
medical
fact
of
losing
my
virginity.
It
was
more
like
what
happens
when
you

reach
the
glittering
lights.
It’s
different
to
how
you
thought,
and
for
some
reason
that

changes
you,
and
you’re
never
really
sure
what
left
at
that
moment.

But
now
I
think
it
should
represent
change.
Because
the
moment
Hollywood
and
I

decided
to
change
things,
to
stretch
the
friendship,
everything
got
screwed
up.
No.
Loss

still
works.
It
captures
that.
For
me,
change
and
loss
mean
pretty
much
the
same
thing.

I
throw
the
cup
in
the
bin.

Then
I
get
ready
for
my
next
reflection
portrait
–
a
daughter’s
tribute
to
her
mother.

When
I’m
done,
I
set
the
camera’s
timer,
stare
into
the
mirror,
and
hold
up
a
piece
of

paper.
The
words
on
the
paper,
as
I
see
them
in
the
reflection,
are
backwards:

The
timer
light
on
my
camera
flickers
faster
and
faster.

The
flash
goes
off,
the
shot
is
taken,
and
I’m
momentarily
blinded.
When
my
vision

clears,
I
have
to
blink
again.
Because
now,
the
words
in
the
mirror
are
the
right
way

around:
I
never
want
to
be
afraid
like
you
.

And
the
breeze
pushing
into
the
room
isn’t
the
southerly
anymore.
It’s
too
warm.
I
know

this
wind,
I’ve
felt
it
once
before.
It
carries
the
scent
of
white
peaches.

My
eyes
meet
those
of
my
reflection,
and
in
that
moment
I
have
the
uncanny
realisation

that
she’s
become
someone
quite
separate
to
me
again.

The
same
long
dark
hair
as
me,
the
same
greenish-‐greyish-‐brownish
eyes,
the
same
full

lips,
just
slightly
ajar,
showing
her
teeth.
But
she’s
not
someone
known
to
me.
She’s

more
like
a
stranger
I
recognise.
The
girl
from
the
photos.
The
girl
who
is
my
reflection.

As
though
acknowledging
this,
she
stands
up,
not
taking
her
eyes
away
from
mine.
It’s

disconcerting
watching
her,
because
I
haven’t
moved,
still
sitting
on
the
end
of
the
bed.

‘
Something’s
coming,’
she
whispers,
looking
to
her
left,
at
something
out
of
my
view.
I

stand
up,
not
sure
what
to
do,
my
skin
washed
in
goose
bumps,
adrenaline
skittering

around
my
system,
and
I
clamp
both
hands
to
my
head.

She
notices.
‘
Keep
your
hair
on.
’

I
think
she’s
joking.
But
I
feel
like
I’m
about
to
pass
out
I’m
so
frightened.
I
can
hear
a

noise,
slowly
growing
louder,
something
on
her
side
of
the
mirror.
And
oddly
enough,

there’s
a
pattern
to
it
that
seems
to
suggest.
.
.

Something
mechanical.

It’s
the
black
horse
from
inside
the
carousel
jewellery
box;
freshly
painted,
its
bridle
and

saddle
encrusted
with
jewels
that
twinkle
like
they’re
electric,
a
gold
pole
rising
from
its

withers.
The
horse
is
slowing
as
it
draws
close
to
the
girl,
and
it
stops
when
it’s
directly

in
front
of
her,
on
the
down
part
of
its
rise-‐and-‐fall
cycle.

After
a
moment’s
consideration,
she
puts
her
hand
on
the
horse’s
neck,
which
is
what
I

would
have
done.
And
I
gasp,
because
my
palm
feels
the
hard
glossy
shell.

Looking
across
at
me,
she
says,
‘Well,
I
think
we
both
know
the
question.’

For
a
moment,
I
can’t
respond,
because
I’m
taken
aback
by
how
much
I
like
her
right

then.
Her
eyes
–
my
eyes?
–
are
shining,
lit
up
with
something
that’s
coming
from
within.

Her
smile
is
tight,
I
can
see
that
she’s
scared,
but
she’s
also
.
.
.
she’s
rising
to
this.

She’s
a
girl
who
knows
how
to
take
a
leap.

Then
I
frown,
and
she
frowns,
too.
Mocking
me,
I
think.

‘You
mean,
go
there
again?’
I
say.
‘Are
you
nuts?
Why
would
I
do
that?’

‘It’s
part
of
the
process.’

‘What
if
I
can’t
ever
get
back
here
again?’

‘What
if
you
can’t
ever
leave
here
again?’

‘But
what
about
the
shadow
thing?
What
if
it’s
there?’

She
shrugs.
‘Say
hi
from
me.’

I
stare
at
her.
After
a
long
time,
I
ask,
‘So
what’s
the
question?’

The
girl
who
is
my
reflection
smiles,
everything
about
her
shining
with
risk.