Nine Letters Long (8 page)

‘Goodbye,' Evie chokes. ‘Goodbye.' Caz starts to back away. ‘Goodbye. Goodbye.' As she does, Evie's lungs begin to soften and relax. ‘Goodbye,' she whispers. ‘Goodbye.'

Suddenly, everything is still. In the dark, Evie sits, trying to gather her thoughts. In – out, in – out, she steadies her breath and wipes the sweat from her forehead. The paper is lying crumpled on the floor. The words are scribbled, almost unrecognisable as Evie's writing.

‘Look the door. Scared. Paris talk. Careful. I Need Assistance And Help. Help Help …'

Evie blows out the candles.

‘What has happened to you, Caz?' she whispers. ‘What do you want me to do?'

Evie, Seb and Poppy are squeezed into the one seat on the bus. Seb is showing Poppy how to crack the anagram puzzles in the newspaper. Evie isn't paying attention. Instead, she stares down the aisle of the bus. Every now and then, she feels Seb's eyes on her, scanning her, trying to figure out what's wrong. Today she hasn't the energy to cover it up. Last night dried her up, and now all she can think about is Caz.

‘See, this one's “sports injury”.' Seb shows Poppy.

‘Oh yeah. Wow!' Poppy holds the newspaper up. Evie glances at the randomly placed letters. PTSSRO NJUIYR.

‘That one was dead easy,' Seb says. ‘See if you can get this one.'

Poppy's head is down as she works on the puzzle. Seb watches Evie through the gap. Evie pretends not to notice.

He finally says something to her. ‘So you didn't come on Saturday night?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Where were you on Saturday night? I thought you were coming.'

‘I had a headache.' Evie keeps staring ahead. ‘I just couldn't get rid of it.'

‘Well, being stuck with Alex and Roxy would've made it worse, that's for sure,' Seb grumbles. ‘They were shockers.'

Poppy groans in agreement. ‘Shockers.'

‘Yeah, I heard Roxy went,' Evie adds.

Poppy groans again.

Seb laughs. ‘Roxy rocket mouth,' he says. ‘She can talk almost as much as Alex.'

‘Yeah,' Poppy nods. ‘She did not shut up.'

‘Oh.' Evie feigns disinterest. ‘I thought, um, you and Roxy got on really well.'

‘Huh?' Poppy looks up from the newspaper.

‘Not you. I'm talking about you, Seb. You and Roxy.'

‘Man, I get cauliflower ears after two minutes with that chick.' He looks at Evie. ‘I prefer the quiet, distant types. The ones that don't talk – enough.'

Evie's cheeks burn.

‘Got it!' Poppy calls. ‘It's “tendonitis”. These are fun, Seb. Let's do this one.'

‘Seb, you know Zac Arcos?' Evie begins.

‘Duh.' He doesn't look up from the anagram he's working on.

‘I mean, I know you know him, but Arcos is a Romanian name, right?'

‘S'pose.'

‘Are they, like, really traditional? Do they speak Romanian at home and stuff?'

‘A bit.' He looks up frowning. ‘Why? You thinking of taking lessons?'

‘Just wondering.'

Seb raises his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?'

‘Well, I was.'

Seb stands up. ‘Shove over; my stop.' He squeezes out of the seat. ‘You on the bus this arvo, Evie?'

‘I've got a late art tute.'

Seb files down the aisle with the other Wolsley boys. He stands the tallest. Evie notices the broadness of his shoul
ders and his long square fingers gripping the strap of his bag. He turns around and sees she's watching him. He smiles, and for the second time that morning Evie feels her skin burn.

‘Yahoo,' Poppy squeals. ‘I am the greatest.'

Evie peers down at the newspaper. ‘You got it?'

‘Yep.' Poppy points to the letters. ‘WOEBL NSNTIE. Tennis elbow. See?'

‘Did you think Roxy was trying it on with Seb the other night?' Evie asks.

‘She may have been but Seb sure wasn't interested. Why? Did Alex tell you that?'

‘Kind of.'

‘That girl has completely lost it.' Poppy shakes her head. ‘Roxy and Seb? I don't think so.'

Evie shrugs.

‘He's only ever had eyes for you, Evie. I mean, Roxy – please!' Poppy pretends to stick her finger down her throat. ‘Her older sister, Dana, is the receptionist at – wait for it – the Penis Abuser. Can you believe it?'

Evie sits up straight. She can't believe it.

‘I mean, how long have we taken the piss out of that place?' Poppy keeps talking. ‘And here's Al on Saturday night acting all serious and interested as Roxy crapped on and on about how fantastic it is and how she's thinking of enrolling to do a deportment course.' Again, Poppy pretends to gag on her fingers. ‘God, I wished you'd been there. I nearly wet my pants. I mean, who seriously would even …'

Evie's hand grips at her fingers, tight, till they are almost purple. Roxy, Dana, the Penis Abuser? How is she supposed
to read this? Is it all just a coincidence? What's real, what's true, what's not? Evie doesn't know.

 

‘I'm off to the Glebe markets,' Evie lies to her parents on Saturday morning. ‘I haven't been there since … Adelaide.'

‘So …' Her father's Adam's apple bobs as he gulps. Her mother busies herself with the dishwasher. ‘So, who are you going with, darling?' he asks.

‘No one.'

‘You okay?'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘Just checking.'

Evie wears a straight-legged pair of jeans with a short diagonal striped dress belted at the hips with a leather sash. All new. She doesn't need further complications in her life.

‘It'll get cold later this arvo,' Robin tells her. ‘You got something to keep you warm?'

Evie throws a black woollen scarf around her neck. ‘I'll be home before then, unless I can be squeezed in at the hairdressers. I badly need a trim. I've definitely got a mullet happening.'

‘Do you want me to ring them?' Robin offers.

‘No, don't worry.' Evie's not sure how long this'll take. But the hair excuse will buy her more time – if she needs it. ‘I'll just drop in there on my way home. See what happens.'

‘Well, let us know if you're going to be later than you think.'

‘Okay, Mum.' She pecks her mother on the cheek. The open display of affection still makes her feel awkward. ‘Bye, Dad.'

‘Where's mine?' Nick points to his cheek. Kissing her father has always been easy. She blows him a kiss and sets off.

Off to the Venus Cuza Ladies' College of Modelling and Deportment.

 

At least Evie knows exactly where she's going. She sits on the bus wondering what on earth she'll say to Paris. Evie is certain Paris knows something. What, Evie can't begin to wonder, but, whatever it is, she senses it's worse than she could ever imagine.

A multitude of thoughts swim round her brain. Evie can almost hear them swishing and colliding.

How will I start the conversation with Paris? I hope Mum didn't suspect. What will I do if Nora's there? Will I be able to run in these slippers? I shouldn't have worn them. Bad move. I wonder if Victoria's called the oldies again – no, she wouldn't without telling me first. Would she? Three more stops. Just say Paris isn't there. Just say she tells me to piss off. I hate lying to Mum and Dad but they'll freak out if they know. Is this always going to happen? I wish I was someone else. Ooh, nice jacket that guy's wearing. How embarrassing, he just saw me checking him out. I like your jacket, not you, mate. Oh my god, we're almost there. Shit, what'll I say, what'll I say?

 

The Venus Cuza College stands alone on a corner. On one side of the street, shops and cafes buzz along with a spring Saturday morning in Sydney.

The smells of coffee, freshly toasted bread and bacon fat seem like they're coming from a different world. Couples hold hands, a mother chases her toddler down the street, and a table of friends lounge around enjoying their fry-up. Evie watches them, wishing she was one of them.

But Evie's place is on the other side of the road where no sign or sound of life exists except for a man in white overalls painting a sign at the front of the college. Evie walks towards the building, her beaded slippers scuffing along on the pavement. She counts her steps – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight … The painter turns around.

‘G'day,' he says. His accent sounds like the man's she met at Victoria's. ‘Sorry, you want to get past?'

As he steps away from the entrance, Evie sees there's a long set of stairs leading to another glass door.

‘No, no, it's okay,' Evie answers. ‘I'm, um, waiting for someone.'

The man looks at his watch. ‘The girls won't be down for a while. Why don't you go up and wait?'

‘No … I'll … I've got stuff to do,' Evie tells him. ‘What … exact time do they finish … again?'

‘Twelve-thirty.' He swirls a fine brush in a tiny tin of paint. ‘My daughter's up there,' he grins. ‘She does the Saturday class. Loves it.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm just doing a job for the owners. Nice new door and all.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘Vandals smashed in the old one the other night. Glass everywhere.' Carefully he draws a line on the glass with gold paint. It becomes the letter N. ‘Bloody street gang probably. Up to no good. Fair bit of vandalism round here.' He dips the brush back into the paint. ‘Anyway, now they get a brand-new door with smart gold names on the front. Good timing, really. For Ian, that is.' He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. ‘Sounds funny calling him that.'

‘The Venus Cuza Ladies' College of Deportment and Modelling' is already painted in a fancy cursive style. The letters are shiny and gold.

‘The cops are too soft in this country,' he continues. ‘These fellas that do all this vandalism get off with a warning! They'll never learn.' His brush completes an R. ‘So, you don't do the classes, eh?'

‘No, no, I don't. Um, a friend does.'

‘Well, you just watch the door.' He points up the stairs and smiles. ‘Soon they'll come on down. All those girls, so beautiful.'

‘Watch the door,' Evie repeats his words in her head. ‘That's what Caz meant by “Look the door”!'

‘I'll see you later,' Evie says to the painter. ‘Thanks, you've been very helpful.'

‘No worries, love.'

 

Evie crosses the road to where the new gelato bar is and orders a takeaway latte. This way she can sit on the wall that separates the café and the footpath, and watch the entrance to the college.

Caz's messages repeat in her head. ‘Scared. Look the door. Paris talk. Careful. I need assistance and help. Scared. Look the door. Paris talk. Careful. I need assistance and help.'

The painter begins to pack up and a minute later the first girl comes down. She says something to him and points up the stairs. He laughs and nods. Soon, three more appear. Evie thinks they couldn't be any older than twelve. They carry large bags on their shoulders and seem to be engrossed in conversation. Gradually, girl after girl trickles down the stairs. The painter leaves with his daughter. Two girls caked in make-up wait together at the entrance.

Evie waits at the pedestrian lights. Beep, beep, beep – her heart pounds in time as she watches the other side of the road. ‘Wait, Paris, wait. Don't come out yet.' Beepbeep beepbeepbeepbeep – the walk sign flashes.

The girls out the front are waving to the red car at the lights. It must be their lift. Quickly, Evie walks towards them. ‘Is Paris up there?'

‘Yep,' they reply as the car pulls into the kerb. ‘She won't be long.'

The new door now reads ‘Nora L. Cuza – Manager'. Next to it, in the same shiny gold enamel, are the letters I and A of the next word, yet to be completed. Evie resists the urge to run her finger across the wet paint. Instead, she tucks her hands in her pockets, takes a step back from the
entrance, and watches the door.

Evie feels Paris before she sees her. The familiar tightness crushes her chest and, for a few seconds, she can only breathe in short, sharp hiccoughs. White runners appear on the landing and Evie hears the click of a lock. Then down she comes, taking one step at a time – Paris. Evie can't see her face for her head hangs so low. Instead, she notices a twig-like arm sliding along the banister.

At the bottom of the stairs, Paris takes out a key and secures the lock. Her hair is a mousy brown and tied back like her mother's in a knot at the nape of her neck. From behind, Evie notices her leggings and the way the material sags around her bum.

Evie covers her mouth and swallows. ‘Paris?'

She turns around. There's no eye contact.

‘Paris?'

‘Yes?' Her voice is stronger than Evie expects.

‘I'm … well, my name's Evie …'

‘What do you want?' Paris's eyes flick up to Evie's, then dart away.

‘I'm here to –'

‘To what?' She is walking away. ‘They told me about you.'

‘Paris, stop,' Evie begs. ‘Please. Just stop for a minute.'

Paris's steps are faster. Evie follows, her slippers flapping on the concrete.

‘Please, just listen …'

Now, Paris is running. ‘Go away,' she calls. ‘Leave me alone.'

‘No – please.' But Evie stops dead in her tracks.

Paris's spindly legs fly behind her, almost hitting her shoulder with each stride. How can Evie chase her? At any second, they look like they will snap in two. So, instead, she watches her flee.

Just as she disappears around the corner, Paris turns to look behind, and, for the first time, Evie meets her face. Her eyes are hollow and frightened, and her mouth is twisted with a shame that guards her silence. For Evie, it's like seeing her from the inside out. A foreboding filled with such darkness and fear lands on Evie's skin and wraps itself around her.

‘Oh my god.' Evie leans against the wall covering her mouth. The bile tastes bitter on her tongue. ‘What have they done to you?'

 

Evie sits on her bed, picking at her toenails. A magazine lies open on her lap. She can't even be bothered looking at the pictures. All she wants is to sleep and disappear, but she can't. The irritation nibbles at her skin. It feels like ants crawling all over her. She rubs her face and pulls at her hair, saying over and over, ‘I stuffed up. I stuffed up. How am I going to face her again? What am I going to do!' Evie jumps off the bed and begins to pace the room. ‘Tell me, someone.' She makes a fist at the ceiling. ‘Tell me what to do. When I don't want to hear from you, you bug me, and now when I do you're silent! What can I tell Paris to make her listen? Eh? What can I tell her?'