The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  If I drew my life right at this moment, I’d want it to look something like this brilliant comic-book panel from Wonder Woman: Spirit of Truth. Wonder Woman is kneeling on the lush hills way above her island home, her eyes closed, all steadfast and resolute. The colour and tone in the art is phenomenal; wicked purple cloud streaks in a wide pale sky, lashed with warm yellows as the sun sinks on the horizon. With the light glinting off her tiara, and the half-smile on her lips, Wonder Woman is so alive I swear you can see her breathing. The panel is a perfect, paused moment in time – it could be from the end, or the beginning of her story. She’s kicked all sorts of arse beforehand, and has much more nonsense to face. But this one moment is her reprieve. In this one moment she is content, and home.

  It takes wicked skills to capture so much in a single quiet image; a story that’s both frozen and full of potential. Only truly great comic-book artists can pull off that kind of storytelling.

  I think I’m sort of rubbish at telling stories. It’s weird, cos I can talk a lot – a lot a lot – but when it comes to my pencils and inks, my stories have this tendency to lose their way. Grady says it’s natural with an illustrator’s brain; I see imagery in eye-bursting colour, not ‘linear narratives’, as he once put it. I dunno. I think, in truth, I’m just sucky at piecing together the right details.

  If I were to start this story with the most important detail of all? It would probably be something about the end of the world. But honestly, at this point, the apocalypse and whatnot is just a passing footnote.

  My story – my perfect, paused moment – begins much earlier than that.

  It begins with a house.

  And it begins with two boys.

  The house is a single-storey, chipped white weatherboard, and stands on the edge of a dusty road. It’s set on stilts, unusual for around here, with a rickety staircase leading to the doors. French windows open onto a verandah, dappled by eucalypts and crammed with tables. In my sketchpad, I’ve always managed to make the house look adorable, in an Oklahoma! meets Smallville sort of way. In reality? It kinda looks like it should be harbouring survivalists hoarding Spam and toilet paper and stuff.

  But it’s beautiful. And it’s my favourite place in the universe.

  A neon sign, hung above the trellising, reads Albany’s. That Albany refers to my mum, Angela, but I am an Albany also. On my many school participation awards I’m officially Sarah Jane Albany, though everyone in Eden Valley – almost all three-hundredish of them – has called me Alba since I was old enough to crawl.

  And if I have been Alba since before I could walk, Domenic Grady has been my best friend since eons before then.

  No telling of this story would be possible without a boy. Or, in my case, two. But I promise – it isn’t what you think.

  Grady is beautiful, in that way only a certain type of boy can be. He’d be pissed if he heard me saying this, cos I promised him I’d stop – but he’s just so pretty. He has peachy skin and big doe-eyes, and the softest curls I’ve ever seen on a boy. Grady is kind of relevant to this story. I’ll get to him in a minute.

  Albany’s is my mum’s bakery. We bake cakes and bread and the most wicked apple strudel this side of Melbourne. Technically the house belongs to Grady’s mum, Cleo, but ever since Mr Grady took off when Grady and I were five, Cleo handed the keys over and left us to it. Cleo is Mum’s best friend. Hence, why Grady was destined to be my bestie since we were, like, foetusi. Behind the converted kitchen is the living space that faces the Palmers’ dairy farm, which has been my home since forever.

  Now – before you start thinking that this is the story of some waify, sun-kissed country girl – get this straight. I am so not that girl. I have dark hair, and darker eyes, and did you hear me mention that I live in a bakery? Like, literally. I sleep in a fog of cinnamon and vanilla, and spend most mornings elbow-deep in pastries and pie.

  And, um – I tend to eat a lot of it. I am okay with this. I’ve never glued my face on a supermodel’s body while weeping into a tub of ice-cream. I have curves, and boobs, and no-one I know has a problem with either. There were fourteen people in my year-twelve class, and believe me, if boobs of any kind were waved in their direction, it’d be cause for joy and celebration. Well, for the boys at least. Maybe one of the girls. My boobs are kind of irrelevant to this story.

  I’m drifting. I should decide on a relevant detail.

  Okay. Best friend. Apocalypse.

  Stories can have a multitude of false starts. In comic books, the first frames can take you any place, via anyone in the stories’ universe. But I guess most stories only start when you place yourself in them, right? Well, mine starts when Domenic Grady bursts into Albany’s one sweltering Sunday, waving his iPad in his hand, and says:

  ‘Alba! Have you seen this?’

  He weaves through our sweaty customers and hoists himself on a counter stool, dropping his sports bag and grabbing a biscotti from one of the cake stands. Grady has forever been all arms and buzziness and the desire to do five bazillion things at once. If he were a comic-book character, he’d need his own signature entrance sound-effect, like a Bazoing! or Bamf! or something.

  Today he’s in his standard uniform: grey jeans, Vans and a navy Threadless T-shirt that says Zombie Outbreak Response Team on it. Grady plays basketball on Sundays, catching the bus to Merindale Creek, our closest town, almost a two-hour round trip away. Which means his hair is freshly washed, which means his dark curls would be extra soft atop his lanky frame, if they weren’t shoved under a baseball cap.

  I’m making Mr and Mrs Palmer their Sunday cappuccinos, and Grady’s flusteriness has almost made me upend coffee all over my new swing dress. I hand the coffees to Paulette, our waitress, and I cross my arms and attempt a frown.

  ‘Good morning, Grady. Was there something you wanted to share?’

  ‘I thought I established that with my dramatic entrance,’ he says through a mouthful of biscotti. ‘And don’t look at me like that, Alba. You can’t pull off cross-face.’

  I stick my tongue out at him, and he sticks his right back, then he plants his iPad on the counter. ‘Check this out.’

  ‘Grady, is it porn? I’ve told you I’m not interested in drawing that. No matter how much the Japanese’ll pay for it.’

  Grady snorts. ‘Please, woman, if I was looking for porn, I think my brother’s laptop would rival anything on the interwebs. Except, knowing Anthony, there’s probably some home-made stuff on there, too.’

  Grady shudders. My eyes kinda glaze over at the thought of Anthony’s lithe mechanic’s body engaging in a badly lit sexcapade, until Grady leans across the countertop and swats my arm.

  ‘Alba! Can you focus? This is potentially very cool. And weird. Check it out.’ He flicks his long fingers over the screen, and his New York screensaver disappears. A paused YouTube clip is waiting underneath.

  Mum bursts through the kitchen doors. She slips a tray onto the counter and shakes a dusting of flour from her ponytail.

  ‘Angie!’ Grady says cheerfully, momentarily distracted by scone deliciousness. ‘You survived dinner last night?
I had my doubts.’

  Mum grimaces. ‘Barely. If your mum suggests Asian Cooking Month again, maybe steer her in a less … salmonella-esque direction?’

  I slide the tray beneath the counter, ignoring the scone-starved customers trying to catch my eye. ‘Don’t be so mean to poor Cleo. It wasn’t that bad.’

  Grady laughs. ‘Sure it wasn’t. After a handful of antacid and some Imodium.’

  The Christmas decorations above the door tinkle as Tommy Ridley enters with a wave. The bakery is buzzing this Sunday, as it always is on weekends before the pubs open. The string of bells bobs in the breeze as Tommy natters to Mr Wasileski in the doorway, and my eyes are drawn to the swirls of colour in the sky outside.

  ‘So you’re organising dessert?’ I hear Mum say. ‘Don’t let Cleo make anything with ingredients she has to find on the net.’

  Grady nods, grabby hands reaching for one of my lemon slices. ‘I’d like to not spend Christmas Day on a stomach pump, if I can help it.’ He takes a ginormous bite of mooshy lemon. ‘I have it covered. Don’t stress, Angie.’

  ‘Stress is my middle name, Domenic,’ Mum says with a smile. Then the bells tinkle again, and Mum hurries off to hustle Mr Grey onto the verandah before he catches sight of Mr Bridgeman, and their obligatory smackdown over boutique beer ensues. Our two tetchy pub owners do not get along.

  Through the open widows, the sky stretches beyond the Wasileskis’ service station and my endless fields, the colour of breadcrumbs and sunlight. Summer skies are mind-blowing tones, almost impossible to capture –

  ‘Alba? Now can I please show you this important thing I have here on my iPad?’

  Maybe acrylic would work, or gouache – Grady thumps his hands over mine. ‘Sarah! Woman, pay attention! This is potentially earth-shattering stuff here.’ He waves his fingers in front of my face, the hypno-thing he does whenever I’m being particularly spacey.

  I know I’m in trouble. I have been first-named.

  I hitch my dishcloth into my apron and flash him my best sparkly smile, which I know works a treat since his frown disappears instantly. ‘Okay, okay! I’m focusing! Very important stuff. Go.’

  Grady blinks at me. Then he shoves aside a plate of croissants and hauls his butt onto the counter, angling sideways so that we’re facing the same direction. He swipes at the iPad again.

  The screen fills with the image of a bald guy with one of those glossy black Fu Manchu moustaches. He’s sitting on a cheap set, with a nondescript guy beside him. Stuck behind them is a sign in what I think is Comic Sans. The sign reads:

  ‘The Original Ned Zebidiah. Prognosticator. Seer. Diviner of Ancient Mysteries.’

  And below that in tiny letters:

  ‘And Frank.’

  ‘Have you seen this guy?’ Grady says. ‘He has a show on Channel 31. It’s on at, like, two in the morning. I watch him when I can’t sleep, and he’s usually good for a laugh, but this – is beyond cool.’

  I choose not to comment on the return of Grady’s insomnia. It’s not something he wants to talk about, and besides, he says it’s nothing to worry about. Though, ever since we were five and he managed to break his arm playing minigolf, worrying about Grady has been kinda routine.

  ‘The Original? Is there more than one?’

  Grady snorts. ‘Yeah, it’s a pretty dodge moniker. But seriously, Alba. Watch.’

  He turns the volume up over the chatter and the White Christmas soundtrack burbling through the bakery. The clip has forty-five views and a bunch of comments I can’t read because Grady’s big hand is clutching the screen like he’s crazy Mrs Garabaldi from the hardware store, and his iPad is the last cherry slice at the end of cherry season. He touches the screen, and the clip starts to roll.

  Original Ned peers at the camera, his Fu Manchu wiggling as he swallows uncomfortably. ‘Welcome friends,’ he says, his voice oddly high-pitched for a guy who looks like an X-Men villain. ‘It’s, uh, another Friday, and, uh, the universe is once again speaking to those with the power to, uh, listen …’

  He glances at the guy next to him, a skinny, wide-eyed dude. Presumably the ‘And Frank’.

  ‘Grady, does anyone actually watch this?’

  Grady points at the screen. ‘At least forty-five people on YouTube. Though I’m guessing that’s forty-four views from Ned, and one from Frank’s mum. Hang on … I’ll skip the boring stuff …’

  Grady’s finger trails across the screen. Original Ned is somewhat stressed-looking now, beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead.

  ‘… some call it the Rapture,’ he mumbles. ‘But I have seen it, friends. Ned Zebidiah understands the planetary alignments and the … ancient codes of Revelation and the … uh … Aztecs …’

  ‘Jeez. This sounds credible.’

  Grady laughs. ‘I know. Talk about covering all your bases. But keep watching.’

  Ned straightens. ‘I have peered through the veil and … stuff. But now, the universe has chosen to speak to Ned Zebidiah.’ And then he leans towards the camera. ‘The End of Days,’ Ned whispers. ‘I have seen it. And friends – I have seen the salvation.’

  I giggle as Ned’s eyes roll back and his body shakes like he’s trapped in a giant blender. Skinny guy shuffles his chair away with a start. And then Ned rattles off a list of numbers. Frank frantically scribbles in a notebook.

  I can see Rosie Addler waving from the booth where she’s parked with her poodle, Mr Frankenstein. I reach for a plate of donuts. ‘So what? He’s predicting Powerball?’

  Grady leans precariously towards me, his long legs holding him in place. ‘Nope,’ he says with excited eyes. ‘The comments say they’re map coordinates.’

  ‘I have seen through the illusions!’ Ned bellows, causing Frank to almost fall out of his chair. ‘The calendar will end with the turn of the New Year.’ Ned flops backwards. ‘And I have seen those who will be saved,’ he says in this portentous whisper. ‘Pray to whatever gods you believe in, friends. The end is upon us. And only the chosen ones will be spared.’

  Grady pauses the clip. ‘The rest is pretty boring. People call in for advice on, like, speaking to their dead cats. And then Frank sings. It’s not exactly HBO.’

  He leaps down from the counter and leans over it again. I push back the brim of his baseball cap, cos I know his mischievous eyes are twinkling beneath it.

  ‘Fascinating, Grady, but I gotta get back to work –’

  ‘So get this,’ he says. ‘Those numbers he gave? The map coordinates?’ He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘They’re here.’

  I brush my hands on my apron. They’re suddenly all weird and tingly. ‘You mean –’

  ‘Right. Here. Apparently, when the crap goes down, Eden Valley is the only place on the planet that’s going to survive. We are the Ark, Alba. The – what’s the name of the last city on earth from that weird-arse comic you like?’

  I giggle. ‘Pythonopolis. But you’re not serious. Is this guy for real?’

  ‘I googled him. His real name is Alvin Smith, and he used to work in real estate.’ Grady flashes his cheeky grin at me. ‘I would say his information is possibly suspect. But then again, Alba, if you can’t trust a community-TV prophet …?’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘So the end of the world is nigh in what, seventeen days – and little ol’ Eden Valley is gonna be the last outpost? Very cool.’

  Grady grimaces. He flicks a glance over his shoulder at the dusty, empty span of Main Street. ‘Jesus. Can you think of anything more depressing than that?’

  I busy myself rearranging the macarons I’d pain-stakingly sandwiched with Christmas-coloured ganache this morning. ‘It’s not depressing,’ I say eventually. ‘There’d be worse places to spend eternity. We’ll have everyone we love in the one spot … but, okay, it means we’ll have to repopulate the planet. I suppose that might be inconvenient.’

  When I glance up, Grady seems to be focusing on a cloud of sugar on the countertop. And then he picks up one of my menus.
He grabs a napkin and swipes at a jammy smudge. ‘People have no respect,’ he mutters.

  I flick his arm with my dishcloth. ‘They’re supposed to be used. Utilitarian, remember?’

  ‘It’s not Pizza Hut,’ he says, his eyes on the menu. ‘It’s art – not that anyone in this town would know the difference.’

  My latest menu is a new style I’ve been experimenting with, sort of the wicked inventive layouts of the last X-23 meets the linework of Faith Erin Hicks, but with a palette of old-school Marvel colours, all reds and blues and limey greens. I’m trying out a new character in this one as well. Her hair is styled a bit like mine, with a thick eye-sweeping fringe, but instead of my longish brown boringness I’ve given her masses of red curls streaked with blue. I’d played around with different outfits before settling on a style that I currently love, a scarlet gingham rockabilly dress with navy stockings and giant red heels. She’s not supposed to be me, even though she dresses like me and has my height and, okay, maybe my solid thighs. I think she looks pretty kick-arse. In honour of her hair Grady dubbed her Cinnamon Girl, and I guess his name stuck. Our menu is embedded in the comic’s panels, in the lettering and word balloons that litter her little streets. I’m sort of proud of this one.

  Grady drops the menu. He peers at me from beneath his cap, hitting me with the full force of his stubborn Bambi eyes. Instinctively, I feel myself bristle.

  ‘Alba … I don’t know why you’ve suddenly become subject-change girl, but – you know, you’ve barely told me anything about your interview. Did they like your folio? Of course they liked your folio, your stuff is bloody brilliant …’

  He tugs his cap down and gives me a bright smile. ‘We’re a few short weeks away from getting the hell out of this dump, and I am kinda counting on the fact that the rest of the world will still be standing –’

  ‘You are a few weeks,’ I say, my eyes on the macarons. ‘I’m not sure … I mean, I don’t know now …’

  Grady picks up his lemon slice and devours the rest in one theatrical bite. ‘Seriously,’ he says, dabbing a smiley on the back of my hand with his icing-y fingers, ‘I cannot witness the results of Eden Valley inbreeding without seeing New York at least once.’