The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl (17 page)

Daniel drags me into another hug. ‘Sure. Tomorrow. I’m holding you to that, Sarah.’

I send Grady a text as I’m walking back down Daniel’s drive.

Poor Anthony. This many girls in one spot was never gonna end well for him. No wonder he’s been reduced to a drooling, gibbering mess. Like Clouseau that time Mr Grey left his BBQ unsupervised. Call me when you’re back?

I make it to the bakery just as the music from the farm crackles to life, and a dozen naked people in Santa hats streak down Main Street to triumphant claps and cheers. I catch a glimpse of the back of Penny-Farthing Man as he pedals into the trees behind the service station for his morning high-rise wee.

I am, most definitely, not checking for a reply from Domenic. Not even when my brain starts to ache, and the silence from my phone feels like it’s burning an eyeball-shaped hole inside my pocket.

•

It’s been scorching for so many days now, my aircon is barely making a crack in the wall of heat. I’ve flicked on my desk fan, aiming the thin puff of air at my neck, but I might as well be sitting inside one of the bakery’s ovens for all the good it’s doing.

I’ve lost count of the number of hours I’ve been twirling in my chair while staring at the computer. I’ve scanned the roughs from my sketchpad, but I just can’t make Daniel’s world come to life for me. His trees are too alien, and the composition is all wrong. I have no idea what it says about my skills that I can’t capture a real-world street without it looking trippy, like something from a Dr Seuss book.

I waste some time doodling Cinnamon Girl in a Silver Age Wonder Woman outfit, but as her face materialises on my page, I can tell she’s not at all happy with me. She plants her hands on her hips, her solid thighs busting out of her star-spangled shorts, and I swear she’s glaring at me with contempt.

I don’t know what happens to my day. I lose a couple of hours shuffling from my desk to the kitchen for snacks and whatnot, in between doodling Cinnamon Girls in combinations of rockabilly and spandex-superhero costumes, and fielding Christmas calls from our handful of scattered relatives. I’m not even hungry, though I do snaffle a few slices of chicken pie before Mum disappears to the Corner Arms with Cleo. Before I know it, I look through my window and the sky is all streaky orange and bruised blue.

My mobile has been chirping all day with Merry Christmas messages from my friends. Even Ed sends me an update on the his dad’s shenanigans; apparently Mr Palmer had one too many Christmas Jäger bombs with some guys from Denmark and almost punched a Merri Man in the face.

Grady doesn’t barge through my verandah door mid-afternoon as is customary, and his eyeball doesn’t flash on my screen once. I try to tell myself that he’s just brooding after our spat, but, thing is, I
know
him. Grady doesn’t stay grumpy. Sulking just isn’t in his make-up. And hello? I should be the one pissy at him for the lecture, not the other way round.

I’m really not in the mood for a party. But after sprawling on my couch and staring at the same page of
Batgirl
while the noise from the farm becomes louder and messier, I change my mind. I throw on an old polka-dot dress and my Santa hat. I text Tia to check they’re still out, before hurrying through the door and into the darkness.

•

While our visitors are busy turning the Palmers’ farm into a stampy dust bowl, a bunch of locals have headed in the opposite direction, to the top of the hill where boulders stand guard over the Valley. The streetlights are non-existent here, and the towering trees give the whole place a distinct lair-of-a-serial-killer vibe. It’s almost stranger-free though, and, inspired by nostalgia or simply the need for a time-out, the remnants of our high school seem to have fled here.

Someone has thrown a blanket over the barbed wire fencing, and people are dotted on the other side. A few guys are dancing near the old washing-machine drum that in winter holds a crackly fire. I see Eddie and Caroline and both of Ed’s brothers, and a little ways down the road, Tia and Petey are perched on the hood of Pete’s dad’s car.

I walk, waving at familiar faces and hoping I’m avoiding the roo poo scattered underfoot. If I turned my back on the Valley, this could be any normal Friday night; except for the cacophony of eighties hair metal blasting from the bottom of the hill.

I spot his curly hair and baby face in the moonlight. He’s leaning against a tree, his hands motioning madly at a red-headed girl in front of him. Without the trilby, it takes me a few seconds to place her. But I’d be able to spot the eager face and touchy hands from a thousand paces.

It’s not
totally
bizarro to see him with a girl. There was this phase in grade four when Grady became inexplicably studly for a few short months, attracting his very own entourage while he hid behind me in the climbing fort. And while he’s never been a floozy like his big brother, playing centre on his basketball team has secured Grady a few random snogs, though he’s always been vaguely embarrassed sharing his girl stories. And he dated Ellie Knoxbury, co-captain of our high-school netball team, for three whole weeks back in year eleven. Ellie was nice, if a little nondescript. Though, I never did hear her talk about anything other than netball, and horses. But Grady spent nineteen days looking fascinated by whatever netbally, horsey knowledge she graced him with. It was weird.

I climb awkwardly over the fencing, and I bounce towards them.

‘Hey hey!’ I say brightly. ‘Fancy bumping into you kids here.’ I wink at Grady and drop my voice to my best husky growl. ‘You’re gonna take that J.C. Penney tie off, and we’re gonna have us an old-fashioned man-to-man drinking party, Marlboro.’

Grady looks at me blankly. ‘That line’d be more apt if I was wearing a tie. If I ever wore ties. Maybe I should wear a tie?’ he says with a giggle.

Hat-girl gives me a half-hearted wave. ‘Um, hey there. I’m Jess. And, um … what?’

‘Movie line.
The Long Goodbye
. It’s … old,’ I say weakly, suddenly feeling shamefully show-offy. I stick out my hand. ‘I’m Alba. Nice to meet you!’

Jess gives my hand a shake. She smooths down her hair. ‘So I guess I’m gonna go check out that other pub,’ she says lightly. ‘Catch up later, Dom?’

I watch her walk away with a glance back at Grady, who has never, ever been a
Dom
in his life, and who’s still staring at the spot she just vacated. And I feel like the worst kind of rubbishy idiot. I feel –

‘Alba?’ Grady says.

I drag my eyes back to his brown ones. But really, brown is a descriptor that can in no way capture them. Not quite India ink, but somewhere between Burnt Carmine and Mars Black. And right now, they’re uncharacteristically glassy.

I clear my throat. ‘I was starting to think that you and Mrs Garabaldi were in cahoots, Grady. You been busy stocking up on the tuna and nudie mags you’re gonna need come the Rapture? Either that or … you wouldn’t have been avoiding me today … right?’

I clear my throat again, not entirely sure why my oesophagus is so squeezy. I punch him in the arm. ‘You know stories of Aunt Molly shenanigans are the highlight of my Christmas afternoon. And I
know
you wouldn’t have ditched me for a girl. Not without giving me every teeny, disgusting detail first. You realise it’s the wing-person’s duty to offer her unbiased opinion of these things, right?’

‘Hmm … what?’ he says.

‘Jeez. Grady man. Distracted much? I thought
I
was supposed to be the space cadet of the group. What’s the matter with you?’

He takes a loping step towards me. His eyes are flashing with the manic energy that’s particular to little kids and hobos.

I grab him by his T-shirt. ‘Grady – are you
drunk
?’

‘I am not
drunk
, Alba. I have been drinking, yes, but with my height and weight it would take another … two-point-four drinks for me to be properly drunk. Right now, I am just slightly …
happy
.’ He winds one arm around me and grabs my hand with his.

‘So you’ve raided Cleo’s stash of cooking sherry? What’s going on with you?’

He tilts his head, as if listening to something intently. And then he slows his spinning, adjusting for the ballad that’s exploding from the bottom of the hill. I’ve gotta hand it to him – even drunk, Grady can move.

‘Look around, Alba,’ he says, his voice all booze-infused husky. ‘Armageddon might be just around the corner. I mean, have you actually let that sink it? In a few days’ time,
that
might be it – zero, nothing, zippo left. I’m allowed to be a little bit
not
me, right?’

‘Grady, I’m not sure if this counts as being a “little bit not you”. Besides, you have enough trouble not falling over when you’re sober –’

‘But this might be one of the last, final parties at the end of the universe,’ he says, leaning down so we’re eye-to-eye. ‘I may never have the chance to do a tequila shot off the belly of some hot girl at a frat party.’

‘Frat party? You are now banned from watching American movies.’

He chuckles. ‘So I was probably going to skip the tequila anyway. But can’t I have a few beers with a pretty girl, and dance with my best friend? If I’m going to die, it might as well be while I’m dancing.’

I grab him tighter, even as he keeps turning us round and round. Even though I’m still pissy at him, I just can’t help it. ‘Grady. Only you could face the end of the world with a Pinterest slogan.’

Laughter rumbles through his chest. ‘Sarah Jane Albany. Haven’t you figured it out by now? I am unflusterable.’

‘Unflusterable?’

‘Yes. He who shall not be flustered. Besides, we may need to repopulate the planet. I figure that has to work a little bit in my favour.’

Grady drops my hand and winds both arms languidly around my middle. He’s never been all that touchy, but clearly alcohol and possible planetary destruction are loosening him up, because he tightens his arms around me and he doesn’t let go.

‘Al-ba,’ he says in a singsong voice. We’ve slowed down now, our feet tangling, but still, we’re moving without falling. It’s the strangest thing; I can remember every dorky school dance from when we were little, all rigid arms planted on each other’s hips and giggly, out-of-time swaying. In my head, I know there should be some bits linking then and now. But right at this moment, I can’t remember the in-between. Only, I think we’ve always danced this way, neither of us leading nor following.

Grady sighs. He really is more wasted than I thought. I loop my arms around him as his weight tilts me off-balance, my hands landing beneath his shoulders. And then, though I’m vaguely aware that we have stopped moving, somehow the ground continues to tilt. Because beneath his shoulders and his
Space Invaders
T-shirt is the unmistakable shape of proper, solid, boy-muscles. Almost experimentally, I splay my fingers a little. I feel the muscles across his back tense beneath my palms.

‘Al-ba,’ he says again, a distracted, soft whisper this time.

‘Um … come on, Domenic. Time to go home.’

‘Don’t first-name me,’ he mumbles. He rests his cheek on my shoulder. For a moment I think he may have fallen asleep, but I don’t want to move to check. I don’t want him to fall. I barely even notice that we’re not dancing anymore. My tingly, numb hands are still idly exploring, like they’re all distant and preoccupied.

‘Alba,’ he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear. ‘Alba … Alba …’

His voice near my ear is barely a whisper now. I don’t think I hear him say anything. It was my imagination. Probably my imagination.

But I think I hear him whisper:

‘My beautiful Alba.’

He takes a giant breath and stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet and slamming straight into Eddie.

‘Whoa, G-man,’ Eddie says, grabbing Grady effortlessly with one arm. ‘Shit, dude. How many chardonnays did you drink?’

Grady makes a sound like
ghamnotfatdrumk
, as he throws an arm around Eddie’s tree-trunk middle. ‘Dude. I know I call you an arsebag, and a butt-monkey, and, you know, sometimes I call you a dick behind your back. But you are awesome, man! I love you, Eddie!’ Grady yells in his face.

‘Fecking hell, Domenic! Get it together man!’ Eddie yells back, though he’s half-cracking up as well.

I, on the other hand, am finding this slightly less than amusing. My skin is too warm, and my hands feel miles away from the rest of me. I grab Grady’s other arm, and I attempt to pull him off Eddie. ‘Ed, help me get him back to my place?’

Grady pushes Eddie away and draws himself up to his full height. ‘No help needed, guys. I’m cool. Really, I don’t get drunk ever, well okay, one time before, but I blame Indigo and his stupid face for that, and anyway I’m really okay …’ And then he stumbles sideways, and is saved face-planting into the tree by Eddie, who throws his body right in Grady’s path. My bestie – my sensible, responsible, homework-obsessing best friend – face-plants with a surprised grunt into Eddie’s chest instead.

‘Okay. Time to go home,’ I say firmly. ‘Francis Edwin – you are responsible for getting him down the hill without a scrape or bruise, or, so help me, I will be placing you on my list. It’s new, and it involves a ninja chop to the Adam’s apple. Understood?’

Eddie wraps an arm around Grady and lifts him off the ground. ‘Jesus. No need to get testy. Whaddya think I was gonna do? Roll him down the hill?’

Grady giggles. ‘Bowling ball,’ he mumbles. And then he leans his head against Ed’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

‘Crap. Eddie –’

‘I got it, Alba. Just like steering a wayward calf. Easy as.’

Eddie grins at me. I try to smile back, but my lips feel frozen in an expression that I’m sure is both a little bit perplexed, and a whole lot panicked.

Grady looks up, briefly, and his eyes meet mine. Even through the booze-haze, I recognise the look in them: anxious, and sad, like that time when we were seven and he accidentally spilt glue all over my painting of Astro Girl. Back then, it didn’t take much to snap him out of a funk; I remember that I held him down and sat on him until he laughed, and all was right with the world again.