Fins 4 Ur Sins (6 page)

13

AT THE END of the school day, I catch the bus home. I still
haven’t gotten around to fixing my shoe. I gaze out at the mismatched materials
that form an endless line of old Queenslanders. It’s like the owners discover this
bit and that, and then think, hey, this will fit. Rusted tin with blue walls,
or tiny green cottages and waist-high, chain-link fences. Even the crumbling
houses are worth a fortune in Wynnum. The bus revs to get up the hill, crests
and then all I see is blue.

The bay seems deeper and bigger
than the sky. Sparkling sapphire stretches at my feet across the horizon. I
can’t take it all in at once, and my heart expands. I am higher than the
clouds. At the bottom of the hill, the trimmed, green parklands come into view.
Maybe I can visit the beach this afternoon and be amongst the beauty.

Just before I reach my stop, I
press the signal button, and the bus pulls alongside the curb. Exiting the bus,
my smartphone jingles in my shirt pocket. I quickly check the messages, turning
my back on the sea breeze. Two unread, one from Mum and another from Bethany.
The taste of metal coats my tongue at not talking to Beth before I left school.

The glass doors slap
shut
behind me, and the roar of the bus makes me look up to
check I’m not about to be run over.

I trek down the street toward our
house and open Mum’s text first:
Can you cook dinner,
pls
?
I’ll be working late.

I reply back:
Ok

Then I swallow and check
Bethany’s text:
Sry
if I upset u 2day. I
didn’t mean 2

I sigh and answer back:
That’s
ok. Just had 2 think for a bit

She replies immediately:
Sure.
Can u
hav
a sleepover? Catch the bus home with me
Fri, tomoz? We’ll go shopping Sat

I text back:
I’ll c when mum
gets home. Sounds g

She replies:
Ok :)

I’m browsing music sites on my
phone as I stroll through the front door to our house, but I drop my bag in the
hallway and then start on dinner. Cut the potatoes; add sliced onions to the
pot. Stir the gravy with a fork. Dad would give me jobs in the kitchen when I
got home from school. He’d help me conjure spaghetti or crumbed steak. Big fat
chips to dip into fried eggs and coleslaw swimming with delicious mayonnaise. I
stop what I’m doing and smile at his memory.
“Dad.”
I am adept at doing the basics because of him.

While the steaks and vegetables
cook, I undress and put on some R&B music and rummage through my closet,
deciding what to wear to the shops with Bethany. It never crosses my mind Mum
might say no to the trip. I need more swag, but a lot of my clothes already make
me look too much like a boy.

Too many
hoodies.
I pull out my black Vans and black socks with the white Vans
logo on the ankle and then pack them into my school bag.
My
favourite blue jeans, high-waisted short shorts, pyjamas, t-shirt and
underwear.
I get a purple hoody and jam it in. Maybe Mum might give me
more money to buy some cute tops. My old clothes are perfect for the cold
weather down south. Not so much here.

I don’t want to be the odd one
out.

I eat dinner on the recliner in
the lounge room and then switch on the TV. For having cable, it’s amazing how
often I find absolutely nothing is on except ads. I flick through the channels,
and a newsbreak comes in the ad of one of my favourite vampire shows. Curious,
I leave it on and watch the footage.

A graphic warning appears on the
screen.

A blonde reporter speaks loudly
on a mangrove-ridden beach, a microphone snug in her hand. “Thirty-eight year
old,
Gregor
Bane,
is the
suspect in the Anders Peterson murder case. Police arrested him this morning
after investigators found human remains and Mr. Peterson’s personal items in
the suspect’s home.” The image flashes to police walking a man alongside the
local courthouse, his head pixelated. “Although authorities have yet to release
a detailed statement, all evidence suggests
Gregor
Bane killed the young swim star, but his parents and friends are still under
close police investigation.”

The next images and voice over
reveal details about Anders. His smiling face while he’s wearing his uniform. A
smattering of freckles, broad shoulders, brown eyes. His mum crying on his
father’s shoulders while being interviewed and asking for help. His mum’s face
is a mess. The way my mum’s looked when I woke up in hospital.

Back to the
reporter, and her red coat flapping in the brisk wind.

“Again police are asking for
information about that night and hope they can piece together what has become
an absolute tragedy to young Anders Peterson and his family. Our sources say
there have been similar accidents and one as close as a few weeks ago when
another young teenager’s body was apparently found on a beach, although she
survived. For now, this beach will be closed as police investigate the crime
scene.
Back to you, Sam.”

My iPhone jingles again. I grab
my phone and tap the message icon.

It’s Bethany.
R
u watching news on 5?

I sit back down and speedily
type:
Y.
Omg
!

She replies:
Do u remember
this guy? Ur mum is
gonna
b
happy they found him

I text back:
I know. But I
don’t remember him tho

Mum’s car pulls into the drive,
bright headlights shining through the glass panels in the door. I text Bethany:
Mum’s here,
gotta
go

Mum unlocks the front door and
walks down the hall, her shoulders slumped, face tight.
“Hey,
sweetheart.
Oh, you’re watching the news. Did you hear they caught a man
who might have killed that poor boy?” She jostles through to the living room
and sets her handbag at her feet. “I heard it on the radio on the way home.”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, wondering
if the taboo on the whole subject has now been broken. “I watched the news just
then. Do you think he was the one—” I instantly close my mouth and guard what I
say, but the need to tell her everything is a knife in my chest.

“Do I think he was the one who
made you go over the cliff?” she asks gently in the silence.

I hesitate, and then say tensely,
“Yes.”

“I don’t know, honey.” She nods.
“We’ll wait and see. For now it’s enough knowing you’re safe. Does his face
ring a bell?”

I shake my head.
“No, not at all.
And you know how good I am with faces.
There’s this new guy at school, and I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere.”

“Mm.
Interesting.
If he acts strange let me know.” She studies me. “No
homework?”

“No, not today.
We had sports and an exam. Hopefully, I did
good
.”

“You would have.” Mum moves back
into the lounge room, collapses onto the sofa and groans. “I swear I had to
show a buyer eight different houses today. My body is killing me. I need to get
an early night.
A bath, then bed.
I might actually be
able to sleep for once instead of staying up, worrying.”

I frown.
“Why
so many houses?”

Mum shakes her head, and her
blonde chignon loosens, spilling out over her shoulders. “No idea.” She shrugs.
“He had the money to spend though.
Cash buyer.
Oh, he
kept us late.”

“Would you like a coffee? I made
dinner.”

“I’d love one.” She smiles up at
me as I walk into the kitchen. “Thank you, honey.”

“I’ll heat your dinner in the
microwave for you. I’ve already eaten mine.”

“You are a lifesaver.”

When I get back to the lounge
room with the plate of food and mug of coffee, Mum has spread out on the sofa
and is lightly snoring. “Mum,” I call out. “Mum.” My heart races, and I think
,
I need her to protect me. I need my mum.

“Hmmm?
Oh right.” She sits up, pushes away her hair and reaches for the coffee and
then puts it on the floor. She pulls the plate of warm food into her lap.
“Thanks, angel.”

“I’m going to bed now,” I say.
“Goodnight.” I lean down to kiss her cheek.

“Sweet dreams,” she says with a
little frown. “Thank goodness, I have a half day tomorrow. I love Fridays.”

I laugh, then remember Bethany’s
request.

Mum’s eyes are stuck on mine,
blue in white. “You know, you look different. Has your hair grown? It looks a
lot longer than I remember.”

The smile on my face wants to
surface, but cannot. “I don’t think so.”

“
Mmm
.
But no, it’s not that. Did you hurt yourself at
sports today? Your body looks a little out. You’re moving differently. Are you
sore
?”

“No,” I say, hoping she won’t go
any further. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh.” Her gaze roams over my body
before she meets my eyes again. “OK. Well, there’s muscle cream in the bathroom
cabinet if you want some.”

Somehow, I don’t think that will
cut it.

“There’s something about you
that’s not quite the same,” she persists. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Stop worrying, Mum,” I say,
trying to smile and wishing she’d drop it. “But Bethany wants to know if I can
have a sleepover at her house tomorrow night. I’ll catch the bus home with her
after school, and we’ll go shopping on Saturday morning. Then you can pick me
up at five from her place.”

Mum’s brow knits. “All right, so
long as you stick together, you should both be safe by now.”

“I’ll text Bethany.” I pull my
phone out of my pyjama shorts and text Beth. She answers back:
Awesome

Mum nods. “That’s sorted. Remember
to take your phone. You probably need new clothes anyway.”

“I do.” Even if I want to deny
what’s happening to me internally, the outside world rarely lets me forget.

“The strangest thing happened to
me today,” Mum says and weakly smiles at me. “The man I showed around asked me
out on a date.”

I almost drop my phone. “What did
you say?”

“Well, you know, I can’t. It’s
business. But . . . I never expected that.” Her gaze drops to her stockinged
feet, and she pulls her arms close by her sides. “He did keep me late, but he
seemed nice.”

14

“ELOISE! GET UP,” the voice of doom barks. “You have to wake
up.”

It can’t be. It just can’t be
morning. I roll onto my back and groan. Remnants of weird dreams push into my
brain, festering, making reality seem so out of place. The blackness of water,
deepening blankets of cold liquid closing in around me and then big, pale
monsters chasing me.
The type that eat people.
Sickly, sallow teeth and a hunger for human flesh.

Breath shudders in my lungs.

“Eloise,” Mum calls out louder,
no nonsense.

I crack open my eyelids. “Yes.
OK. I’m up,” I croak.

“Good. Here’s a drink.” Mum walks
to my dresser and sets down a glass of orange liquid. “I want you to have fun
at Bethany’s. I have Carrie’s phone number, but make sure you keep your phone
on you. And take your charger.”

“I will,” I say, rubbing sleep
from my eyes to clear my blurry vision.

“Lock up before you leave. I’ve
left some extra money on the table for your weekend or if you want to catch the
bus to school this morning. Have fun. Bye, honey.” Mum comes back to me, kisses
my cheek, and then leaves my room, her feet shod in elegant cream heels, legs
scissoring beneath a blue pencil skirt. She seems more dressed up than usual.

I blink again and then look at
the tall glass she left on the dresser. The vitamin fizzes in the water, a flat
disc floating, reminding me to get up with purpose. Orange-coloured bubbles
burst at the surface, releasing the scent of citrus and chemicals. I sit up and
breathe in deeply, then smile. No pain.
Yes!
I look at the calendar.
Science excursion.
No!
I flop back onto the pillow.

I can’t go back to sleep so I
shove away the blue comforter, climb out of bed and then hurry through my
shower. I haven’t hung up my school shirt. It’s still on my dresser. I wonder
how Mum kept from fussing about the mess in my room. I pick up the glass, swirl
the liquid around and then take a long, deep gulp. I figure it doesn’t matter
that my shirt is creased, it’s Friday. The journal is in my top drawer, and I
flip to the next blank page and write a few notes about my nightmare.

After I slide my arms into the
sleeves, I discover the buttons don’t want to meet. “You’re kidding me.” I
shrug the fabric closer, stretching it across my shoulders. The buttons strain.
Not across my breasts, but my ribcage.

“. . .
the
hell?” I suck in a breath and do up the clear buttons one by one, pull down the
hem and then adjust my shoulders. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see my
bra as the shirt strains between my shoulders. The shirt’s too short.

Did I grow two sizes overnight?
My watch reads 8.15 a.m. I don’t have time to spend looking for an alternative,
but there’s no way I can wear this shirt. I yank open all my drawers to hunt
for something else with the same white collar to hide beneath my school jumper.
Where have I grown? Not my breasts . . . well it could be, but I’m not that
lucky. It’s not my height, either.
Maybe my stomach?
I
rub a hand over the flat plane of my abdomen, then across my hips to the sores
that are healing. It’s tender, but there’s no extra weight there. Yet, my bones
feel a little different, as if they’re protruding.
Strange
.
I’ll need a new skirt
and
shirt. And I’ll have to tell Mum about the
outbreak on my hips.

Did all this happen because of
how I died? The uncertainty of not knowing the truth and the formal
investigation around other people dying in similar circumstances means I can’t
forget. There’s the pain in my lungs and the visit to the psych ward. Speaking
to
Dr.
Farrow and trying to gloss over the
nightmares. I just need to get through today and then I’ll be at Bethany’s,
having fun. Focus on the positive, Dad used to say.

My blonde, curly locks bounce
around my elbows. Mum is right. My hair has grown. It’s never been this thick
or luxuriant. So maybe it isn’t odd that other parts of me have grown, too? The
school jumper is two sizes larger than my shirt and fits a lot better. I leave
my hair
loose,
because I know from yesterday we are
going to do a report on the life cycle of a butterfly. No flame from the Bunsen
burners today.

We’re heading out to the breeders
for research first thing.

I’m just in time for the bus to
school with the heaviest backpack in the world, but thankful for the jumper.
The overcast sky means the wind has teeth. I don’t see Bethany when I get to
the school gates. The other year eleven students shiver, and my phone buzzes
with an incoming text.

I palm my iPhone out of my skirt
pocket and check the messages.

Cu @ lunch
:)
B

I smile and answer:
Ok
, and
then wait at the front gate with the other students, but don’t talk to anyone.
The 514 bus arrives for our form class, plus another form whose room is in the
mathematics building.

Wacky gestures to the open door,
and I follow the line of students who climb on board. As usual, there’s a rush
to fill up the back seats, but I slide onto a bench somewhere in the middle,
not wanting to get in anyone’s way.

My backpack bulges, zippers
almost bursting. I shrug it off and rest it on the seat. I might have gone crazy
with the overnight gear, hair straightener and shoes. Trying to stuff the bag
away is similar to hiding an elephant between the cracks in the seats.

I angle my face toward the
window, feigning interest in the scenery. I doubt anyone will want to sit next
to me even though the bus is packed, the groups are too cliquey. My hair falls
to one side, over my shoulder and, occasionally, I peek through the curtain of
protection the strands provide. The bus is warm at least, and a few minutes
pass before someone unexpectedly taps me on the shoulder.

To my shock, Lakyn’s standing
there, a dimple forming in his tanned right cheek. He smiles, wide and
friendly. “Is this seat taken?” he asks, his blue eyes holding the colour of
melted steel. The irises somehow reflect the muted colours outside the window.
“It’s nice to see you again, Eloise. But I don’t believe you gave me a definite
answer about going to the beach with me yesterday.”

I stare up at him. “I didn’t?”

“No.” His eyes narrow, and the
smile drops from his face. He gestures to the vacant aisle seat and asks again,
“Is anyone sitting here?”

“As in, beside
me?”
God, I hope that didn’t come out as snarky. I never meant it that
way. I just can’t believe he’d truly want to sit next to me.

“Yes, next to you.” Amusement
colours his tone.

“Ah, no.”
I say, gathering my bag close, but I can’t take my gaze off the perfect line of
his jaw. My stomach somersaults and I swallow. “I thought you . . . I mean . .
. well, the other classes are catching the next bus. You’re not in either of
these form classes.” I take a quick look behind me and sink further into my
seat. At least half the bus is staring at us. Heat circles my cheeks, and I
hold my hand to the side of my face, and then fluff my hair over one shoulder,
hiding my expression from onlookers.

The bus pulls away from the curb,
and I rock back. Hastily, I move over until my elbow presses against the
window.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, I
swapped with another student. Coach is taking that one, and he doesn’t mind.”

“I bet.”

Lakyn prepares to slide into the
seat. “I wanted to ask, how were you after swimming?” Once he sits, he turns
and looks at me with great interest.
“Your lungs?
I
noticed at the pool you used
the
. . . puffer, is
that what you call it? I think that’s what Coach said it was.”

“I’m fine.” My voice is small.
No use pretending Lakyn doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Good.” His voice warms me, and I
relax a little as he stretches out in the seat, adjusting his uniform.
“As long as you’re breathing properly.
I can’t believe what
they make you wear here. It’s restricting in this weather.”

I frown, confused. “What do you
mean?”

“The clothes.
This uniform.”

“Sure. Yeah. But I suppose it’s
the same for every high school.”

He makes a small sound of
surprise.
“Really?
I thought you could wear whatever
you wanted to. Where’s your friend?”

“Bethany?” I shake my head. “Not
sure. She could be on one of the other buses. I’ll see her at lunch.”

“Good,” he says again. “We won’t
be interrupted then. Well, what was your answer for going to the beach with me?
I’d like you to come.”

“I . . .” As I ponder how to
refuse, because I don’t want to get back into the water, his blue eyes take on
the sudden dimness of the bus interior, and his irises darken. I never noticed
before that his eyes are quite large. The colour always wows me first, but in
this light, the skin around his eyes spreads back. His pupils enlarge, and his
eyes are rounder, bigger.
“Your eyes.
They’ve changed.
They’re the most amazing colour. But they seem to be . . .” I blink and pull
back, then smile and look to my lap. “It doesn’t matter.”

His fingertips caress my hand.
“Tell me.”

I suck in a deep breath at his
touch and lean a little farther away. His eyes meet mine, but this time his
pupils are so large, his eyes look entirely black. A small smile creases his
mouth and that dimple digs into his cheek. “What do my eyes seem to be, Ellie?”
he prompts.

Strange.
“They take on the colours around you. But before, they just looked like they
could morph, grow bigger because there was less light as we went through the
tunnel. They were darker.” I laugh and turn to my reflection at the window, but
when I glance at Lakyn’s reflection, his face is deadly serious.

“You noticed that?” He tilts his
head, curiosity stamping his strong face. “What else did you see?”

“That you’re not built like the
typical sixteen year old, and you probably shouldn’t be here talking to me.
Ashly
is going to give me hell for it.” The mental image of
Ashly’s
face as she spoke to me at the pool makes me
sound a little hard. “I don’t need that, and I don’t want to go back to the
beach.”

This time his hand slides around
mine, capturing my fingers. “What are you so scared of? I can help you, but you
were fast at the pool. I’m sure your family will be proud if you win an award
competing for the school.”

I want to languish here forever,
with the feel of his warm hand on mine, but I eventually drag my hand away.
“I’m not scared.” I rest my cheek against the top of my bag, staring at the houses
passing us by now that we’re out of the tunnel. How slow we’re going.

Dad would ride his bike alongside
mine, speeding down the hills in Sydney.
Laughing.
Flying.
A massive hit of longing forces me back in the seat.
He’s not here to see me swim. He’s not here for me to ask him questions.

Last night, I prayed, perhaps for
the first time since I woke up in hospital. I still pray that I can hug him, or
he will talk to me and offer wise advice. Save me from having to think about
Mum dating a strange man. I miss my dad so much it feels like a betrayal that
anyone could ask my mum out on a date. Missing Dad is living a life with a
significant piece . . .
gone.
No more Father’s Day. No
more taking me fishing. No more cooking tips.
And no more . .
. going to him with good news.
What would he say to me about competing
on the swim team? I know it would be something about following my dreams.

“What are you thinking about?”
Lakyn asks. “You’re smiling.”

“My dad.”

“Tell me about him,” Lakyn
coaxes, and he inches closer, his knees and feet angling toward me.

I scrape back my hair, and a
sharp corner of a textbook digs into my mouth against the fabric of my bag. I
must be curled up hermit style, so I shift to get comfortable. The textbooks
rip a hole in the waterproof, school-issued backpack. Fibres all dangling free.
Kinda
like how life rips a hole in all your
expectations. Maybe it’s easier not to have them. If I don’t expect anything I
can never be disappointed.

“There’s just me and my mum now.
My dad died last year. What about you?
Any brothers or
sisters?”

“No.” His lips spread thin. “Or
father and mother. I had a younger sister, but she died with my parents. I’m
staying at the hostel near the Yacht Club along the foreshore. Do you know it?
A lot of us there have no relatives . . .” His voice trails off and he fidgets,
rubbing his fingers together.

“You don’t have a guardian or
anything?”

“I’m a ward of the state until
I’m of age. The caretaker keeps an eye on me.”

“That must be tough,” I say,
looking into his eyes.
“Having no one.
At least I have
my mum.”

His fingers twist together until
he lifts his hands and rubs his eyes. The shine in his gaze when he looks at me
hints of pain and secrets. “Some people have others, for all the good it does
them. I only have to rely on myself now.”

I get the notion asking him more
about it will be too intrusive. He doesn’t ask me how my dad died, and I don’t
ask him how his sister died with his parents. It’s just enough that we’ve both
lived through the experience. But if I share a little bit more, it might help
erase some of the pain in his gaze.

“Missing him is the hardest part.
I hear a car in the street and think ‘Dad’s home’, and then realise that just
isn’t possible. Each time it hits me hard.” Maybe death is just another part of
life, not really an end at all, but an ever-changing kaleidoscope of opposites.