The Boundless Sublime (3 page)

Because it was
my
fault. All of it. It had all happened because of me.

2

‘So did I tell you I’ve decided on my major project for Art?’

I shook my head. Minah was a good friend. She didn’t comment on the way I’d choked in third period when Mr Petrovski had called on me to articulate the major underlying theme of
King Lear
. She didn’t ask me why I went and sat in the library after lunch instead of going to Chemistry. She knew I’d wanted to be alone. She respected that.

Minah grinned. ‘I’m building a bed out of pig bones.’

‘Really?’ I made a face.

Minah looked devilishly pleased with herself. ‘It’s going to be amazing. I got the bones from an abattoir. They’ve still got bits of meat and gristle clinging to them.’

It sounded awful, but I supposed that was the point. Minah delighted in making art that disgusted people. If someone felt queasy when looking at one of her pieces, she knew she’d succeeded. One time a pregnant lady had thrown up when she saw Minah’s sculptural recreation of Arcimboldo’s
Vertumnus
made entirely with rotten fruit and maggoty vegetables. Minah had crowed about it for weeks.

We reached the crossing opposite the park, where Minah and I usually parted ways.

Minah hesitated. ‘Do you want to come and hang out with the others?’

I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go to the Wasteland. The very thought of it made the thick dark blankness swirl and eddy around me, revealing things I didn’t want to see.

But I wasn’t ready to go home and face Aunty Cath’s forced optimism. And there was safety in numbers. In groups, nobody expected me to carry half the load of social interaction. I wasn’t responsible for awkward silences.

‘Sure,’ I said.

Minah nodded, trying to disguise her surprise and trepidation. ‘So Flick reckons she can get us tickets to this underground art/music club that specialises in liturgical deathcore. There’s a metal band that performs whole Catholic masses in Latin. Are you interested?’

It sounded awful, but awful in a way that was loud and eliminated the need for conversation.

‘Maybe.’

The crossing signal began to tick. But I didn’t move, because I had seen him, and he had taken my breath away.

His face was turned up to the sun, eyes closed. The tilt of his head made his sandy hair fall back from a smooth, pale forehead. His strong brows angled into a thoughtful frown, but there was a smile on his full, soft lips. He was … perfect, lit up like an angel in the afternoon sun. His clothes were slightly too large – brown old-man slacks and a tucked-in cream shirt buttoned all the way to the collar. The cuffs fell over his wrists, covering most of his hands. At his feet was an open cardboard box. He was one of those weird people, the ones who handed out free bottled water to raise awareness for … Jesus or animal rights or refugees or something. They were always there, on the corner outside the newsagent. Every day. But I’d never seen this guy. I’d never seen anyone like him.

It wasn’t that he was good-looking – although he was. It was something else, something that touched my core and made me utterly certain that I had to speak to him, to know him, that he could change my life.

If only I’d known in that instant
how
he would change my life. Would I have behaved differently?

‘Ruby?’ Minah was talking to me.

I muttered some generic response. Minah followed my gaze.

‘Holy hell,’ she said. ‘That guy looks like an angel. Do we know him? Does he go to our school?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

I couldn’t associate someone like him with anything as mundane as school. I imagined him running through fields of waist-high grass and swimming in crystal-clear waterfalls.

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Minah. ‘He’s one of those Hare Krishna or whatever guys.’

I didn’t care what he was. I just wanted to look at him.

‘I want to paint him,’ breathed Minah appreciatively. ‘There’s something about him. Something … wild.’

There was. Something wild and unknowable, like the distant speck of a bird in the sky. The sun moved behind a cloud and the boy tipped his head down, his hair flopping into his eyes. Eyes that immediately met mine, as though he could tell I’d been watching him.

A jolt somewhere inside me made my knees weak. It had been a long time since I’d
felt
anything. For the briefest of moments, a spark flared in the darkness.

The boy’s eyes were soft and brown, and full of concern and … recognition. I had the oddest feeling that he’d been waiting for me. That we’d been waiting for each other.

‘He’s looking at you,’ said Minah. ‘The hot wild angel boy is looking at you.’

I didn’t say anything. A corner of the boy’s mouth turned upwards in a half-smile that was more like a question. He reached up and pushed his hair back away from his eyes.

‘You should go talk to him,’ said Minah.

Talk to him. See those eyes up close, gazing at me through the sandy fall of his fringe. Talk to him … about what? The tiny spark sputtered out, and my throat closed over.

I wasn’t the sort of girl who talked to boys. Not anymore.

‘I have to get home.’ I turned to walk away.

‘What about the Wasteland?’

The thought of being around other breathing, living humans made panic rise in my throat. ‘I can’t.’

I heard Minah sigh, but she didn’t say anything else or try to follow me.

I hurried past shop windows and offices, trying to cloak myself in emptiness so nobody would notice me. I hunched my shoulders and jabbed at a pedestrian crossing button.

‘Excuse me.’

I turned around and stared. It was him. He was even more beautiful close up.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’ His voice was soft and husky, and deeper than I’d expected.

‘I—’ I had to get away from those concerned, gentle eyes before they saw me for what I really was.

‘I think I can help you.’ He reached out and touched my arm. Even through my jumper and shirt, it made my skin burn.

‘You’ve got the wrong person.’ I yanked my arm away.

‘You think you can hide inside your grief,’ said the boy. ‘You let it bind you, hoping it pulls you down deep enough that nobody will be able to make you out. It doesn’t work on me. I see you.’

I felt my gaze drawn up to meet his, and I saw compassion, understanding, warmth. And something else. Something I recognised.

I saw pain.

‘You’re hurting,’ he said. ‘And people are trying to pretend that everything is normal. They try to cheer you up by doing normal things. Things you used to enjoy. But they don’t understand that, for you, nothing will ever be normal again. The person they’re trying to cheer up doesn’t exist anymore.’

What if he really was an angel? I knew I should walk away. But … he saw me. This boy
saw
me. I’d been invisible for months, hiding in plain sight. Being
seen
like this made me giddy with exhilaration and terror. I had to know more.

‘So what do I do? Am I going to be like this forever?’

The boy smiled. ‘You can let it keep pulling you down into the darkness. Or you can fly.’

He pressed a water bottle into my hand, and walked away.

I didn’t go dancing that night. I stayed home and helped Aunty Cath make cannelloni, and put on a load of washing. When had I last washed my sheets? I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

You can fly.

What would that even look like?

Aunty Cath prattled happily, obviously convinced that our late-night chat had been responsible for my turnaround in attitude. I put on my good-girl face and made the appropriate responses, but inside everything was in turmoil.

I’d thought I’d never feel like this again.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

We ate the cannelloni and watched a ridiculous TV show about girls competing to marry an oil tycoon. Aunty Cath ran a constant cheerful commentary, while Mum and I sat
silently. As soon as it was over, I went to my room, shutting the door carefully behind me, then dug in my backpack for the bottle of water the boy had given me.

I’d taken them before, the free water bottles. Everyone had. They were great on a hot day when you’d forgotten to pack one of your own and didn’t want to fork out three dollars for a new one. But I’d never really looked at the bottle before.

It was a regular plastic bottle, with a sealed lid.

The label was paper, and had been glued on slightly crooked. There was a weird symbol on it, white on black. A triangle, with a horizontal line cutting through its centre. At the top point of the triangle sat a circle, with a smaller circle inside it. Underneath the symbol read:

BOUNDLESS BODY BOUNDLESS MIND

That was it. No contact details. No website. I’d thought they were advertising something. And maybe they were. Maybe it was some viral marketing campaign.

I twisted the cap to break the seal and brought the bottle to my lips. It tasted like … like water. Maybe the faintest hint of something else. A trace of bitterness. But it could have just been the plastic of the bottle.

I lay awake, listening to the strains of chatter and music coming from the television downstairs. It was the same as every other night. Whenever I started to drift off to sleep, Anton’s face would flash into my mind. I dug my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from falling asleep. I didn’t want to see his face. I couldn’t.

How could I fly, knowing that Anton never would?

I didn’t go to school the next day. I knew nobody would care. One of the very few perks of living through a family
tragedy is that teachers get pretty flexible about your attendance. And anyway, what was the worst that would happen? They’d call my mum? She hadn’t picked up the phone for six months.

When I emerged from my bedroom some time after midday, Aunty Cath announced she was taking Mum shopping, and Mum didn’t protest. I was invited too, but I declined, complaining of a sore throat. I paced the house, restless and fidgety. Finally, I grabbed my coat and headed out. A walk would do me good.

I didn’t know whether I’d see him again – the wild angel boy. But I wanted to. Against all my better judgement, I wanted to see him again. I wanted to be seen.

He was there, on the same street corner as he had been the previous day, a fresh cardboard box of bottled water by his side. As I approached, he offered a bottle to a passer-by, saying something I couldn’t hear. The person – a woman pushing a pram – screwed up her nose and quickened her pace, as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. He didn’t seem at all perturbed.

I approached him from the side, so I could see his face, but he was still slightly turned away from me. My skin rippled in anticipation.

‘Um. Hey,’ I said.

He turned. As he saw me, his face broke out into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. I’d made him smile. It felt like the greatest achievement of my life.

‘It’s you,’ he said, seeming delighted. ‘I knew I’d see you again.’

I was utterly tongue-tied. How was I supposed to talk to someone like him?

‘Who …’ I shook my head. ‘Who
are
you?’

‘My name is Furicius,’ he said. ‘But everyone calls me Fox.’

Fox. It suited him. He was wild and beautiful like a fox. And maybe dangerous, if you were an unsuspecting hen. He looked at me expectantly.

‘Er,’ I said, trying to remember how to be a human being. ‘Ruby. I’m Ruby.’

‘Ruby.’ Fox said it slowly, as if he were trying it out for the first time. Then he reached out and formally shook my hand. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Ruby.’

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Do you want to get a coffee or something?’

Check me out. That sounded pretty normal. Maybe a little overconfident, even.

Fox looked at me with a slightly puzzled frown. ‘I don’t drink coffee.’

‘Oh.’
Stupid, stupid. Of course he doesn’t want to talk to you. Idiot.

‘But I do drink juice,’ he said gently, a smile playing around his lips.

‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘Okay.’

He reached out and took my hand, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. The simple act of intimacy nearly made me burst into tears. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been touched like that, skin to skin. It was electric.