Everything Beautiful (12 page)

28
Assorted Guys

The sun was back out on this most schizophrenic of days. I skipped lunch and the off-site activity and went back to Fraser’s house, where I smoked and read
Utopia
and schemed a running order for my great escape. Dinner would be finishing around seven, and then there’d be campfire jollies. Dylan would have returned by then, so I could pack up Sarita’s makeover kit with instructions and she’d still get to be beautiful, and maybe might forgive me. There was going to be a movie later. That gave me just over an hour to walk to Nhill. Thank God I’d brought my combat boots.

But time seemed to stop at Fraser’s house. I couldn’t hear anything except birds. And the excitement I was feeling about my future escape kept bumping up against worry. What if night never came and all I had was this day—this series of humiliations? What if what happened at camp
didn’t
stay at camp?

I ground my cigarette into the sand and sent myself on a lazy spin on the merry-go-round. Craig’s face, blank and bastardly, circled my mind. I pushed it away and tried to concentrate on my imminent freedom, but his face came back laughing. More faces came—assorted guys from adventures past, Noah “Krakatoa” and Murray from the ice cream parlor—tumbled all the way back down the conveyer belt to Aaron Becker. All those guys and they all had the same expression, because none of them
really
liked me. And I didn’t
really
like them. I just liked to feel liked. I knew all this. I wasn’t stupid. I also knew that just because I could get a guy off didn’t mean I was skilled. “It’s not rocket science, Riley,” Chloe had said. “It’s friction.”

Now I was having a horrible memory flash. Once—pretty soon after we moved—I hooked up with a guy whose girlfriend was in my class. She was Fleur-ish, one of those beautiful bitches, so I didn’t feel bad about betraying her. But after the deed (school dance, emergency exit stairwell) I turned up at school to see my locker plastered with stickers that said
fatgirlsaregrateful.com.
And I tried to be surreptitious about taking them off, but they were cheap stickers, they threaded weirdly, they got all in my nails, and left a sticky mess. But I guess I should have been used to that.

“Hey, Riley?”

Bird was standing at the top of the stairs to the garage.

“Do you want to see something?”

I pretended not to hear him and he went back inside with his shoulders slumped. But curiosity got the better of me. When I peered around the garage door I saw that the tarp was off the VW. And the VW was off the blocks. It had tires now, great big fat ones. Bird was sitting in the driver’s seat, flicking the indicators. When he saw me he stood and wiped his hands too many times on his jeans. I opened the door of the passenger side and got in. We were high up. I bounced in the seat. “Nice ride.”

“It’s a dune buggy. She was born a 1967 VW Beetle. We had to cut her chassis.” Bird looked apologetic.

“We who?”

Bird shook his head. “Fraser and me. I’m just finishing her off.”

“Is this one of your ‘special duties’?”

“No. No one knows about this. Just you and my sister.” Bird’s face became fraught. “You won’t tell, will you?”

“Of course not.” I crossed myself for good measure. “Why are the tires so fat?”

“They’re sand tires. When she’s ready she’ll practically be able to go vertical.” Bird kept saying “she” with an air of protectiveness that was sweet.

“Does
she
have a name?” I asked.

He flushed and looked away. I heard him mumble, “Not yet.”

“Does
she
go?”

Bird smiled. “Almost.”

“Right, spark plugs.”

Bird nodded. “Dylan will be in town by now.”

I sighed and leaned back in the seat. “I wish she went. I’d take her.”

“Can you drive?” Bird asked.

“Almost.”

“Riley?”

“What?”

“I like you.”

He was staring at the windshield and blushing furiously. His hands gripped the wheel. “When you said that to Roslyn … about a guy who likes you. Well, I do, too.”

“Aww, sweet.” I patted his hand. “Thanks, Bird.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said.

I looked at him. I had a sudden image of the male malleefowl, tending his nest 24/7. That was devotion. I kissed Bird on the cheek lightly and he held his breath. “Don’t hyperventilate.”

29
She’s So Satan

And the rain hammered down . . .

In cabin three I lay on my bed and stared at the wash, and wondered if it would ever stop. I didn’t want to make my great escape under flood conditions. What if I fell in a soak? Or some quicksand? Trevor said the desert was full of holes. Craig wasn’t going to rappel to save
me
. When Sarita and Fleur came in, I pretended I was sleeping.

“Look at that,” Fleur said. “I haven’t been able to eat since she came.”

“You never eat.”

“That’s not true,” Fleur insisted. “I had lunch. Shut up.” She sighed heavily. “Where’s Dylan and the lozenges?”

“Fleur, I have to go and perform my ablutions now,” Sarita said.

“Do you know how gross that sounds?”

I heard a thump. Then Fleur cried out, “That bitch! Look what she’s drawn on my bed. She’s
so
Satan. I’m going to tell Neville.”

“Don’t.”

“Sarita! Why are you sticking up for her?”

“Please, Fleur. I have a headache.”

“You should lie down with a wet cloth on your head. I’ll get you one.”

Fleur left. The bunk creaked as Sarita climbed up the ladder.

I heard her unfolding some paper, over and over. I peeked out from under my hair. She was sitting on the end of her bed with the memory cross I’d written for her, switching the panels and reading my words again and again and again.

30
Fond Farewell

I was on my way to the mess hall for dinner when I saw Trevor’s ute pull into the parking lot. I lingered by the wall, waiting for Dylan. But he didn’t show. There was only Trevor, headed for Neville’s office with his hat in his hand and a frown. Where was Dylan?

There were some edgy heads at the Honeyeaters’ table. They wanted their goodies.

“Dylan’s got our money,” Ethan said darkly.

Richard shook his head. “He’s probably halfway to Queensland.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because it’d be so easy to hitchhike in a wheelchair.”

“Sympathy.” Richard sniffed.

“Retard,” I returned.

Fleur gave a pathetic cough and shuddered like she was on her deathbed. I tried to catch Sarita’s eye, but she was still ignoring me. How many times did I have to say I was sorry? Maybe the memory cross wasn’t enough. Maybe she wanted me to write it in the sky. Where was Dylan? Sarita would never get her hair care package now. She’d never know how close she came to looking good. And as for me, my watch was set, my bag was packed, my goth Lolita dress was hanging up to dry. The only thing standing between me and freedom was Time.

Post-dinner, the Honeyeaters gathered by the barbecue for campfire jollies. The sun had started its slow descent. Craig had his guitar out. He was singing, and to look at him you’d never believe he was anything but honest. He sang a few Jesus-y numbers before moving on to an old song, a Dad-rock standard about life and cycles and mortality. Fleur joined in with her anorexic pitch. She cupped one ear and swayed from side to side.

It was all so uncool—it should have been funny, but I found myself feeling a prickle of sadness. Minor chords can do that. It occurred to me that I might miss people: Olive, Bird, Sarita. I didn’t want to think about Dylan, because when I did I felt stupid and full of
should’ve.

And then it was nine o’clock and everything was going according to plan. The movie was
Pay It Forward
. I sat through half an hour, with one eye on my watch. Just after the little kid introduces his wild idea—when someone does you a favor, don’t pay it back, pay it forward—I left my seat and tiptoed up to Roslyn’s chair.

“I have a headache,” I whispered. “May I be excused?”

Roslyn was engrossed. She waved me away and I walked out the door and didn’t look back.

In cabin three I turned the light on and stopped with a start. I had thought Sarita was in the rec room along with everyone else—but there was her arm hanging down from the bunk. She was asleep. I studied her face; it looked peaceful, dreamy. I was toying with the idea of waking her to say good-bye. I wondered again about Dylan, and if Sarita would know what to do with the Hella Hot Oil, or if Bird would ever get his spark plugs. My mind jumped from thought to thought, face to face until I felt dizzy and had to sit down. This was real. I was
really
going. But the flip side of excitement was tension. I was getting the nervous sweats. I checked myself. “Riley,” I told myself. “Breathe. Think. Get your suitcase. Forget the fond farewells, no one will miss you when you’re gone.”

I checked my watch again. Fifteen minutes had passed in a second. I had to
move
! I paused at the door, holding Roslyn’s shroud like the white hanky of surrender. Then I hopped up on Fleur’s bed and draped the shroud across Sarita’s chest. A puff of air escaped her lips. I heard something scatter and looked down to see little white pills everywhere. Sarita moaned and rolled slightly to the left. I saw something white under her waist. I reached for it. It was Dylan’s missing vial—
after four it depends on your tolerance
, he’d said. I had no way of knowing how many Sarita had taken.

I prodded her. I called her name. She didn’t move. “Oh, shit.” Her eyes remained closed.

I threw my suitcase down. “Okay, keep breathing. I’ll get help.”

I opened the door to Fleur. She scowled automatically. I pulled her inside. But when she saw the look of panic on my face she sucked back her barbs. “What?”

“Sarita took Dylan’s pills. I don’t know how many.”

Fleur looked up. She started climbing the bunk bed ladder.

“I’m going to get Neville,” I told her.

“Wait.” Fleur put her index finger to her mouth and bit off her nail. She dragged Sarita into a sitting position. Sarita’s eyes popped open. Her mouth started to go, “Wha—?” but then Fleur stuck her finger in it. Time seemed to accelerate. I could see Sarita’s eyes racing. She was trying to protest, but Fleur had clearly done this before. Suddenly Sarita heaved and liquid flooded from her mouth. It got in Fleur’s hair, but she didn’t even flinch. She turned to me. “Never fails.” She poked her finger in again, tentatively. This time Sarita’s teeth clamped down on it. “Ow!” Fleur yanked her finger out and wiped it on Sarita’s bedspread. “Ingrate.”

“Fleur!” Sarita managed to splutter. “
What are you doing?”

I answered for her. “What are
you
doing?” I threw the vial at her. “Are you crazy? Taking pills . . . Do you have any idea how
fucked
that is?” My heart was beating super-fast and my hands were trembling.

Sarita’s face went redder and redder. Then she burst out with: “But I was only pretending!”

“
What?”

“Really. I was being a drama queen.” Sarita coughed gingerly. She stuck her tongue out and winced.

“I thought you’d OD’d,” I said dazedly.

Fleur started laughing. “That’s twisted!” I looked at Sarita. She was biting her lip, trying to suppress a smile. “I thought it would be funny.”

“There’s nothing funny about death,” I said.

“Riley, Riley.” Sarita echoed my earlier advice: “You have to lighten up.”

Relief and anger snuck up on me. It filled all the hollow places inside me. It felt like a sugar high. And then, somehow, I was laughing. It
was
twisted, but it was funny. Who knew Sarita could do funny? After she’d wiped the tears from her eyes, Sarita mocked herself. “Always someone is saving me . . .” Her lips formed a straight line. “And now I must go and perform my ablutions.”

Fleur groaned. “You do that.”

After Sarita left we laughed again. We smiled goofily for a few seconds before returning to form. Fleur eyed my packed bag. “Going somewhere?”

I looked at my watch. “Shit!”

31
Walkabout

I ran. Past the plain, past the shower block, past Fraser’s house, where the light was on and Bird was tinkering, making a kind of night music. I ran. Past the walled garden and the evil merry-go-round. Along the path even as it thinned into a mere strip, sandwiched by scrub. I was brave, lawless, and wild. I was a city girl, but as I weaved between trees and leaped over rocks I felt as though the land was my familiar. With each slap of boot on sand, hope hammered in my heart. But hope is just a four-letter word. I had been running
forever
and still had not hit asphalt, when I tripped and fell. That was the only way I was going to stop. Then I knelt in the dirt and shouted in frustration and exhaustion. It was the roar of Stupid-or. I’d screwed up. I’d underestimated the distance between camp and the road. It was 10:28 and I was already too late.

By the time I reached the road to Nhill, I had a stitch and my breath was staggered. As I walked I tried to make a rational plan: I would find a phone booth, I would call Chloe and appeal to her sense of adventure. Never mind that it was a five-hour drive from Melbourne and Chloe didn’t have a car. I was escaping, damn it!

Walking, walking. Hup-two. Now that I had a new plan I concentrated on my surroundings. The night was big and beautiful and
mine
. I was looking up at a huge cathedral ceiling with no clear end. And under it Neville’s rave about smallness and bigness didn’t seem so stupid. Even Roslyn’s “
God made the sun and the sea and the sky
” had gained weight. I was power-walking now. It was weird, because even dead-tired I could feel exhilaration bubbling up. Was this because of exercise? Endorphins? I thought of Dad, post–spin class sporting a Rorschach of sweat on the back of his track pants, red-faced and singing Gilbert and Sullivan. Maybe Norma had something.

In a parallel universe I was on the bus. I was pressing my face to the window and watching the scenery fade to black. In another parallel universe I had slipped out of the swimming pool five minutes before the cops turned up and Ben Seb and I were solid—we walked with our hands in each other’s back pockets and swapped spit under streetlights. In another parallel universe my mom was making a dress for me out of silver voile, and I was holding my breath against probable pin jabs. “Don’t move,” she warned me. “Don’t even breathe.” When she was finished I didn’t even recognize myself. I was her creation. I slinked and shimmered like water under the sun.

I almost wanted Roslyn to appear so I could ask her if a parallel universe discounted God. What kind of God was there for a girl like me? Why couldn’t I just choose a God, like I’d choose a pair of shoes? “Me and
Utopia
’s Thomas More,” I thought. “We’ll give you gods.” And then I giggled. I’d been infected. My next step was snake handling and speaking in tongues. I had to find a phone booth.

Nhill looked like a sketch from an Australian history textbook. All tin roofs and lacework, screen doors, shutters drawn, sleepy verandas. I stood in the middle of the road and wavered. I couldn’t see a phone booth. I couldn’t see any lights on anywhere. As I stood in the empty silence, a wave of hopelessness came over me. I didn’t want to walk anymore. I was
tired
. Maybe I’d find a pub or a church or a police station or a psycho-killer. But what was I
really
looking for? I sat on the curb and stared at a grain silo in the distance and tried to empty my head of all thoughts.

A ute pulled up. Inside was Trevor, “Parks and Wildlife.” Slumped in the passenger seat was a very drunk Dylan Luck.

Trevor had his elbow out the window. “You gone walkabout?”

I shrugged. I felt weird, leaden. I was angry with myself, the whole disaster, but I was also feeling this massive relief that I didn’t have to walk anymore. Whatever.

Trevor jerked his head. “Get in.”

I opened the passenger door. And there was Dylan, looking cute, all floppy and irresponsible. He shook himself alert and inched over to the middle seat, using his arms for leverage. He smiled at me sheepishly. “What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?” I parroted.

Trevor lowered the hand brake. “There’s one every year.”

He rolled back onto the highway. I wound the window all the way down—to match my face. The air gave me cool kisses and whispered of the things I couldn’t have, like freedom, escape, and Ben Sebatini. Dylan smooshed into my shoulder and pressed his face against my bare skin. He nuzzled my arm. I tried to shrug him off, but he persisted, and it felt nice, comforting, so after a while I just let him. When he put his hand on my thigh I didn’t do anything about that, either. He kept it there all the way back to camp.

Neville was waiting outside his office when Trevor dropped us off. He was wearing a brown and purple terry-cloth robe, and his bald spot shone in the moonlight. Trevor got Dylan’s chair out of the back and snapped it expertly into place. He helped Dylan into it and then tipped his hat to Neville. “Do you want me to stick around?”

Neville squeezed Trevor’s shoulder. He looked so tired and over it. He was trapped in his role as good counselor as much as I was trapped in mine as camp renegade. Neville sighed. He spread his arms as if he might gather us up. “Let’s go.”

Inside his office Neville fixed himself some coffee. He sat in his chair and sipped it and stared at us. No one said anything for a long time. Finally Neville put his cup down. “Okay. What have you got to say for yourselves?”

“Sorry, chief,” Dylan slurred. I didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been running this camp for fifteen years,” Neville told us. “There’s nothing I haven’t seen.” His tough-guy stance only lasted a few seconds, then he crumpled. He cradled his face and wiped his eyes and spoke as if to himself. “How have I failed you? How can I help you?”

“We were trying to help ourselves,” I muttered. If Dylan minded me speaking for him, he didn’t say anything. Not that he was capable of saying much in his inebriated state. His eyes opened and he smiled fuzzily.

“Are you going to send us home now?” I was smiling, too. I saw Chloe shaking her head and saying, “
My friend, my friend, you’ve got him.
” Dylan and I had been wildly disobedient—how could Neville let us stay? Expulsion was just as good as escape. It was all a means to an end.

Neville thought about my question. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “No, Riley. Sending you home would only make all of us look bad. And what would you have learned?” He stood up and flexed like a man of action. “Go to your cabin, Riley. I’ll take Dylan to his. I’ll work out what to do with you both in the morning.”