Night Beach (9 page)

sure
about
Friday.’

I
salute
her.
‘Roger
that,
Ma’am.’

She
smiles,
removing
her
glasses
and
rubbing
her
eyes.

‘How’d
she
go?’

I
give
her
the
run-‐down
on
everything
Joey
has
said,
done,
eaten
and
passed
–
yes,

disgusting,
but
parents
are
fixated
on
the
toilet
for
some
reason.
I
also
tell
her
that
Joey

asked
to
sleep
with
the
light
on.

Jackie
frowns.
‘Really?
That’s
new.’

‘She
went
to
sleep
quickly,’
I
say.

‘Hmm.
We’ll
see
what
happens
tomorrow
night.
Now,
David
was
going
to
take
you

home,
but
it
looks
like
your
bikie
has
arrived.
He
told
us
he’d
drive
you.’

For
one
heart-‐stopping
moment
I
think
she
means
Kane.

‘He’s
young
for
forty,’
Jackie
says.

Would
her
face
light
up
like
that
if
it
was
Kane?
He’s
three
years
older
than
me,
and

there’s
something
about
him
that
screams
lock
up
your
babysitters.

‘And
he’s
driving
an
Audi,
not
a
motorbike,’
she
adds.

As
if
it
would
be
Kane.
I
am
an
idiot.

‘He’s
got
lovely
brown
eyes.’
She
says
this
as
though
I
cleverly
fashioned
his
eyes
myself.

‘Looks
like
a
bit
of
a
rascal.’

Rascal?
Who
says
that?

Jackie,
obviously
convinced
of
the
connection
between
this
‘he’
and
the
glow
I
had

earlier,
asks,
‘Does
he
have
a
name?’

‘Yes,
but
no
one
uses
it,’
I
tell
her.
‘And
he’s
just
a
friend.
And
the
Audi’s
not
his,
so
don’t

go
getting
impressed
by
it.’

Outside,
the
night
is
still,
every
single
thing
looking
crisper
than
usual.
The
noise
of
a
car

moving
down
Back
Ridge
Road
echoes
in
the
distance.
I’m
breathing
out
clouds
of
steam

as
I
wheel
my
bike
over
to
the
black
Audi
hatchback
parked
near
the
Clarkes’
driveway.

I
hear
the
dull
thump
of
bass
from
inside
the
car,
and
also
the
mechanical
click
of
the

tailgate
unlocking.
When
I
open
it,
N.E.R.D.
blares
into
the
night.
I
manoeuvre
my
bike
in

and
get
into
the
car,
the
door
closing
with
a
satisfying
ker-‐thunk.

For
a
moment,
I
just
enjoy
the
warmth.
Then
I
look
over
at
Hollywood.

‘Hello,
rascal.’

‘Rascal?
Where’d
you
get
that
from?’
He’s
pounding
the
steering
wheel
in
time
to
the

music
with
his
damaged
left
hand.
He
looks
hyped,
but
also
a
bit
smudgy.
The
hype
is

natural
–
Hollywood
is
high
energy.
The
red
eyes
could
be
down
to
too
much
time
in
the

salt
water
or
the
dried
green
business.

‘Hey,
do
you
think
Maxy
is
for
real?’

‘What
do
you
mean?’

‘I
mean,
all
that
Church
of
the
Light
stuff.’

‘What
about
it?’

Hollywood
shakes
his
head.
‘It
can’t
be
for
real.
It’s
gotta
be
a
front.’

‘A
front
for
what?’
I
ask.
He
is
talking
shit,
which
reinforces
my
suspicion
that
he’s
been

indulging.

‘I
don’t
know.
But
I’m
gonna
find
out,
man.
All
his
booty
music,
and
his
big
eff-‐off

subwoofer.
And
those
surf
camps
–
what
are
they
called?’

‘Surf
the
Light.’

‘Yeah,
them.
They
can’t
be
for
real.
All
of
them
getting
together
and
camping
out
–
and

they
don’t
drink,
and
they
don’t
get
it
on?
I
don’t
believe
it.’
He
thump,
thump,
thumps

the
steering
wheel,
then
adds,
‘He’s
never
asked
me
to
go
to
one.’

‘He’s
asked
me.’

Hollywood
stops
his
thumping,
making
proper
eye-‐contact
for
the
first
time,
and
says

‘When?’
with
a
hint
of
challenge
in
his
voice.

I
have
to
smile
at
his
reaction.
‘A
couple
of
years
ago,’
I
admit.

‘Grade
nine,
I
think.
Why
are
you
so
obsessed
with
Max?’

‘You
think
I’m
obsessed?’
Hollywood
grins
at
me,
his
teeth
shining
white
under
a
half-‐

arsed
moustache.
His
hair
is
a
dense
dark-‐brown,
flecked
with
shades
of
fire:
red,
honey

and
caramel.
His
eyes
are
the
same
way
–
dark,
but
lit
up.
He
looks
like
a
cheerful

criminal.
Or
a
rascal.

His
real
name
is
Oliver
Wood.
Ollie
Wood.
And
people
still
ask
why
he’s
called

Hollywood.

‘Okay,
I’m
obsessed.
You
know
why?
Because
with
Maxy,
everything’s
–
zhoom
–

straight
lines
–’

‘No
secrets,’
I
say,
and
then
bite
my
lip
when
I
realise
what
I’ve
said.

‘Oh
yeah,
because
your
secrets
are
fascinating.’

There
is
so
much
scorn
in
his
voice.

I
look
forward,
blinking,
feeling
like
a
kid
who’s
joined
in
a
game
without
understanding

the
rules.

After
a
long
pause,
I
hear
him
say,
‘Abbie.’

I
know
he
wants
me
to
look
at
him,
but
I
can’t.
There’s
laughter
in
his
voice
and
that

stings,
too.

‘Aw,
come
on,
Abs,’
he
croons,
rubbing
my
arm
with
his
left
hand.
He
never
touches

people
with
that
hand.
‘I’m
just
messing
with
you.
It’s
all
good.
Don’t
get
uptight.’

‘I’m
not
uptight.’
I
shift
away
from
him,
putting
on
my
seatbelt.

‘No,
what
I
was
gonna
say
was,
with
Maxy
there
are
all
those
straight
lines,
but
he’s
up

for
anything.’

I
look
out
my
window,
feeling
wobbly.
The
whole
game
is
not
to
show
you
care.

‘So
yeah,
just
thought
I’d
give
you
a
lift,’
Hollywood
says,
starting
the
engine.
‘When’s

your
car
back?’

I
blink
some
more,
trying
to
clear
my
eyes.

He
guns
the
engine
needlessly.
‘What’s
wrong
with
it
again?’
He
waits
for
a
while,
and

then
looks
over
at
me.
‘I’m
bored.
Are
we
talking
yet?’

‘It
won’t
start,’
I
say
in
a
flat
voice.

Hollywood
drives
off,
leaning
forward
in
his
seat.
There
are
four
speed
bumps
in

Kirkwood
Crescent
and
we
are
going
so
slowly,
we
barely
make
it
over
any
of
them.

‘Have
you
been
inhaling
by
any
chance?’
I
ask.

‘A
bit
faster?’

I
sniff,
rubbing
my
nose.
‘Yeah.
A
lot.
You’re
not
even
moving.
You’re,
like,
idling.’

‘It’s
the
bumps,
man.
They
freak
me
out.’
He
grins
at
me,
that
charming
grin
of
his
that

he
switches
on
and
off
like
a
light.

I
smile
in
spite
of
myself.
‘Well,
you’re
over
them
now,
so
speed
up.’

He
accelerates
to
a
crawl.
We
pass
the
sign
at
the
end
of
Kirkwood
Crescent
that
reads,

‘Slow
down!
Seventeen
children
play
in
this
street’,
and
turn
left.

‘Where
is
Max,
anyway?’
I
ask.

‘Working.
I’ve
gotta
pick
him
up.
Come
hang
with
us.’

‘You
mean
tonight?’

‘No,
next
year.’

I
hear
the
faint
beep-‐beep
which
means
I’ve
received
a
text,
and
I
check
my
mobile,

buying
myself
time
before
I
answer
Hollywood’s
question.

‘It’s
from
Petey,’
I
tell
him.

‘I
thought
she
was
going
away
with
her
family.’

‘Yeah,
Darwin.
They
flew
up
this
morning.’
I
read
out
her
message:
Thirty
degrees
here.

Balmy,
baby!
About
to
hit
the
pool
for
a
night
swim
with
Jake.

‘Did
Jake
go
too?’

‘Yes.’
My
voice
is
glum.

‘You
jealous?’

I
consider
the
question.
‘A
bit.’

Hollywood
laughs.

If
I
have
a
wish,
it’s
that
one
of
two
things
happens:
either
Petey
and
Jake
split
up,
so
I

get
to
have
my
best
friend
to
myself
again,
or
I
go
out
with
Kane,
and
get
to
have
an

intense,
possessive
relationship
of
my
own.
Ever
since
Jake’s
been
on
the
scene
I’ve

been
hanging
out
with
Hollywood
and
Max
more
and
more.
I’ve
kind
of
burned
old

friends
as
a
result.
Not
with
the
intention
of
hurting
anyone,
but
Hollywood
and
Max
are

more
fun,
and
this
is
our
last
year
together,
so
I
figure
I’ve
got
to
grab
that
while
I
can.

I
text
back:
Freezing
here.
HW
driving
me
home.
Stoned.
R
we
there
yet?

‘So,
you
wanna
come
play,
little
girl?’
Hollywood
asks.

‘I
don’t
know.
What
are
you
going
to
do?’

‘Pick
up
Maxy,
get
some
beers,
head
to
the
beach,
do
this
thing.’

‘Elaborate
on
the
thing.’

‘I
shouldn’t
have
to,
Abs.’

I
open
my
mouth
and
then
shut
it
again.

I
want
to
say
yes.
I
so
want
to
say
yes.
Because
he’s
said
the
magic
word
–
beach.
And

the
beach
at
night
is
my
favourite
place
to
be.
But
Brian
and
Mum
will
be
at
home
by

now,
and
I
said
nothing
about
going
out
tonight,
and
the
thought
of
ringing
to
let
them

know
that
I
won’t
be
home
has
set
off
a
crawling
feeling
low
in
my
stomach.

It’d
be
no
different
if
I’d
called
them
earlier,
giving
them
more
notice;
they
would
still

make
me
feel
like
I
was
doing
something
wrong.

The
only
other
person
who’d
understand
this
is
Anna.
But
she’s
in
Canberra.

Tonight,
though,
there
is
one
thing
saving
me
from
my
spectacular
talent
for
earning

disapproval.
Kane.
He
probably
isn’t
there.
He’s
probably
woken
up
from
his
jet-‐lagged

sleep
and
headed
out
drinking
with
his
mates
like
he
always
does
on
Saturday
nights.

But
I’m
sick
for
him
and
a
part
of
me
wants
to
wallow
in
it.
Hide
away
in
my
bedroom,

watch
the
night
and
ache.

We’ve
inched
our
way
up
the
hill
and
we’re
nearing
Wilmette
Street.

‘Should
I
keep
going?’
Hollywood
asks.

‘Um
.
.
.’

Hollywood
turns
into
Wilmette
Street,
and
I
look
past
him
at
the
view,
debating
whether