The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl Page 10

  ‘I suppose dickhead-shaped pancakes were too hard to make?’ she says without looking up.

  Grady pulls Tupperware from my basket. ‘Scones? Awesome. They almost make up for that dress, Alba. You look like a walking butt-rash.’

  I stand on my toes so my face is right up in his. ‘Aw, you’re such a sweet-talker. So explain to me again why you bombed out with hat-girl?’

  Grady rolls his eyes. He tugs my Santa hat down over my face. ‘Woman, maybe normal girls are just immune to my charm?’

  Beside me, I hear Daniel snort. ‘The chick you snuck off with at the pub? Didn’t look like anyone was bombing out. From where I was standing, hot chick looked totally into someone’s “charm”. Right, Domenic?’

  I readjust my hat. Grady’s innocent-face is fighting with his uncomfortable-face. He glares at Daniel before giving me a lopsided grin. ‘Maybe we had a chat while the rest of you were gawking at Ned … anyway, that doesn’t explain the dress, Alba. I can barely look at you without itching.’

  Daniel jabs me in the arm with a Christmas cracker. ‘What am I missing …?’

  I swallow down an unfamiliar hunch that Grady is not being entirely upfront. ‘Grady’s … allergic to strawberries, remember?’ Grady wrinkles up his nose at my dress in faux-disgust.

  Daniel leans back in his chair. ‘Right – yeah, I remember that. Dude, you couldn’t have picked a less-manly allergy? Really not what you want mentioned in your eulogy. It’d be, like, “here lies Domenic Grady – he was tall and brave, beloved by all, until he was felled by a torte”. Way not cool.’

  Grady installs himself on the other side of the table. ‘Guess I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about how cool I’ll look at my funeral, Dan,’ he says as he pours some juice.

  Daniel swings precariously backwards. ‘You’ve never imagined the thousands of people gushing about how awesome your life was? The gorgeous blonde with just the right amount of funeral-appropriate cleavage weeping over your casket?’

  Eddie grabs a tray from Pete and squeezes himself into a chair. ‘My funeral is gonna be like a cross between a NASCAR rally and a party at the Playboy mansion. Feck funeral-appropriate cleavage. The more boobs, the better. Right, G-man?’

  Grady laughs as he hands me a juice. ‘Knowing my luck, my funeral will be more like Scrooge’s. Just my cold, dead body, and a couple of people who’ve shown up for a free lunch. I think cleavage might be in short supply.’

  ‘Argh! Can we please stop talking about your funerals?’ I say. I pull up a chair at the end of the table. ‘Not only is it mega-depressing, but also, this obsession with cleavage is really disturbing.’

  Eddie looks at me blankly. ‘You prefer no cleavage? Feck. Talk about depressing.’

  Caroline groans. ‘Francis, if you ever find your way to a breast that doesn’t belong to a cow, your eyeballs would explode from the trauma –’

  ‘All right, enough!’ I yelp as Daniel and Pete burst out laughing. ‘It is Christmas Eve – hence, we give thanks to the little baby Jesus, and we do not talk about funerals and boobs! Jeez. Breakfast-at-dinner dinner is supposed to be classy.’

  Pete and Tia settle at the table. ‘Sorry, Alba,’ Petey says sheepishly. ‘Even though, I would like to point out, I had nothing to do with the boob pancakes.’

  Daniel pours himself a glass of water, as relaxed as if he’d been part of our group a thousand Christmases before. ‘But what about you, Sarah? The End of Days are on everyone’s mind. Surely you’ve been thinking about mortality and stuff as well?’

  ‘Indigo? Surprisingly, I don’t spend a lotta time contemplating my demise.’ I swallow a gulp of juice, my throat feeling dry and papery. ‘This girl is totally living in the moment,’ I say, with a smile I can’t totally pull off.

  Daniel’s eyes linger on the bacon. He grabs an apple from the basket on the table. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Little you was always crazy ambitious. Didn’t you want to run away to draw for Dark Horse, once upon a time? You banged on about it so much when we were kids it’s pretty much imprinted on my brain. What the hell happened to the plan?’

  I glance around the table, noting that my friends are busy piling their plates with food and are all, suspiciously, silent. Grady is the only one not distracted by the deliciousness. He’s running his hand along the back of his neck, his eyes on me.

  I fidget with my Santa napkin. ‘Maybe I did, once. But I don’t want to walk around town in a Wonder Woman bra, or grow my own unicorn anymore either. I … wanted those things, sure, but I don’t know if I still do – and even if by some miracle I do get into uni, which, hey, who knows at this point … I mean, I’m not sure …’

  ‘Dan, just let it go,’ Grady says quietly.

  Daniel takes a ginormous bite of apple. ‘I’m just saying, Sarah, that maybe it’d pay to not completely ignore what’s happening around you,’ he says through crunches. ‘Check it out. While the rest of the population is knocking things off their bucket lists and hooking up, you are baking cupcakes and doodling in your little sketchbook.’

  I grab a scone and slice it in half with one angry swipe of my butter knife. ‘So you’re saying I should be “hooking up” with some random stranger, just in case the world ends? Cos that will be the thing I’m going to most regret come the Rapture –’

  Daniel leans across the table. ‘Sarah, I don’t believe I ever suggested a random stranger –’

  ‘Hey, Daniel?’ Grady growls. ‘Stop.’

  Grady and Daniel stare at each. Clouseau hefts herself off the ground and parks her face in Daniel’s lap.

  Daniel eyes Clouseau distastefully. ‘Dude. Your dog drooled on me.’

  ‘Dude. She has good taste,’ Grady replies.

  Daniel looks at Grady with a raised eyebrow. Then he laughs, and somewhat pointedly swipes a hand at the doggy-drool wet spot on his crotch.

  Petey smiles brightly at Tia. ‘Well. Merry Christmas everyone. Personally, I’d like to give thanks for these awesome eggs and weirdly conspicuous tension –’

  He yelps; my guess is as Tia kicks him in the shin under the table.

  Tia raises her glass. ‘Happy Christmas guys! Here’s to surviving high school, and, um … to new-old friends,’ she says shyly as she taps her glass against Daniel’s.

  I clink my glass with everyone else’s. Petey cranks the music, and my friends drift back into conversation. I hear snippets of stuff about Mayan calendars and Large Hadron Colliders as I pile more scones onto my plate, but I’m only vaguely aware of what my hands are doing. A few minutes ago I was starving; now, my stomach feels like a big ball of bread dough on the inside, kneading itself into a knot.

  Grady pushes a jar of peach jam towards me. I take it from him with a smile that falters the moment his dark eyes lock on mine. I know that look – his I’m-going-to-badger-you-until-you-tell-me-what’s-wrong face.

  I shuffle my chair closer to Caroline. ‘What were you doing, Caroline?’ I say, nodding my head at Grady’s laptop.

  She shovels in a mouthful of pancake. ‘Grady’s helping me fix my résumé. I started applying for jobs months ago, but so far no luck.’ She grins. ‘Personally, I reckon scooping manure on the Ark probably isn’t gonna require references, but someone thinks that I’m getting “waylaid by mob mentality” –’

  ‘Yeah, I’m the insane one,’ Grady says. ‘This from the person who has “wee off Harbour Bridge” and “obtain neck tattoo” on the top of her bucket list?’

  ‘Regardless,’ she says, flicking a chunk of pancake at him, ‘apart from the grocery store, and that year-seven nativity play, my résumé is looking pathetic. D’ya think anyone is gonna care that I was “second sheep in manger” when I was thirteen?’

  Grady peers at her over his mound of scrambled eggs smothered in chilli sauce. ‘Which is why I think you should apply for some courses as a backup –’

  ‘Yeah, thanks but no thanks.’ She steeples her fingers behind her neck. ‘Anthony says it’s gonna cost another couple
of hundred bucks for the parts to finish my baby. But I will be riding off into the sunset. Even if I have to do it on one of the Ridleys’ goats.’

  I abandon my scone onto my plate. ‘What … sort of job do you think you want, Caroline?’

  Caroline pauses, a piece of bacon halfway to her mouth. ‘I don’t really care, Alba. An office job, or something in a cafe. Anywhere that’s not here is fine with me. I just wanna try on a few things and see what fits.’ She drops the bacon and glances at Grady, but Eddie has him bailed up in a story about these topless frisbee-playing girls camped near the farm gates, and Grady is all wide-eyed and distracted. ‘Why d’you ask?’ she says quietly. ‘I know you … well, hate talking about this stuff.’

  I pick up her bacon and munch slowly. It’s not like I’ve never thought about leaving Eden Valley. But visions of my fabulous adult life usually involved sharing a light-filled artist’s loft with Ramona Fradon, or building my own Iron Man suit. I guess it’s easy to dream about things that are abstract, or impossible.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re done with school,’ I blurt. I lower my voice. ‘It’s like … my brain just glitches when I try and imagine not being there. How is that going to be a thing, Caroline? Don’t you feel sad? Is it really going to be that easy for you to leave?’

  For the briefest moment, Caroline glances at Tia, who is giggling with Petey over some story Daniel is gracing them with. Caroline drops her voice to a whisper. ‘Alba, you know, ever since we were kids, Tia and I had this plan to move away together? Okay, when we were kids Tia also wanted to live in the planetarium … but it was always supposed to be us. And now, pretty sure I’m gonna be out there alone.’ Colour rises in her cheeks. ‘And you guys … it’s gonna really … suck saying goodbye.’ She takes a long swig of juice. ‘But the other option?’ she says eventually. ‘It’s not an option. I can’t stay here. Even if the rest of the world is a zombie-infested wasteland, I still have to go see for myself. It’s not going to be easy at all. But it is necessary.’

  I push back from the table. ‘I had no idea you were so adept at philosophisation, Caroline,’ I say dryly. ‘You’re, like, rocking the Zen-master thing.’

  She shrugs. ‘I have my moments. Clearly, fewer moments than you, but I’ve made my peace with it. What choice do I have?’ She gestures surreptitiously around us. ‘It’s not like things can stay the same as this.’

  ‘You don’t know that –’

  She elbows me in the arm, her face just a wee bit too exasperated for my liking. ‘Yeah, I do. We’re not a superhero team, Alba.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Eddie barks through a mouthful of hash brown.

  Caroline scowls. ‘Girls’ stuff. Clothes and periods. You have something to add?’

  Eddie blushes. ‘Feck that,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m eating.’

  I smother jam onto my scones as Caroline turns around to spar with Ed. Daniel continues to make vaguely rude comments, which do get a laugh out of Petey and Tia, but serve only to make Grady’s cheeks turn deepening shades of red. I keep smiling, and my mouth keeps moving, cos when all else fails I can talk my way out of a paper bag. Part of me is grateful for my friends and their banter; part of me knows that the thing I need most right now is time to sort through the rubbish in my head.

  I’m not sure that food is the solution to my problems. But I stare at the whirls of peach on my scones, wishing that – like the face of Jesus in a meat pie – the answers to my questions might miraculously materialise on my plate.

  Later, sickly full, I park my protesting friends in Grady’s lounge as festive sounds and music drift through the windows. Daniel is the only one not in a fidgety rush to be elsewhere. He has a thousand anecdotes about life as a D-grade celeb, and my friends seem duly fascinated – admittedly, the boy knows how to tell a story. I can just picture him, with his chaotic, colourful life. And it’s not exactly jealousy that stirs in my belly; more like this itchy, faltering curiosity.

  The thing is – despite all the stories that the three of us share – my memories of Daniel are framed by those last few weeks before he went away. The misery that followed him like a cartoon raincloud; the playground lunchtimes with Grady and Daniel devising rubbishy ten-year-old boy plans to keep him in the Valley; and the last glimpse of Daniel’s despondent face through the window of his parents’ Volvo. Even seeing him on TV, with his new body and shiny smile – some part of me always believed that Daniel must be miserable away from here. Whatever the reason, Daniel’s cheer makes me feel even more inexplicably confused and morose.

  But then Daniel drags his feet to his manager’s rental, and Grady whips us into a cleaning frenzy before everyone finally scarpers to the farm, and the two of us head back to my place. Yes, I am a sucker for tradition, but our time-honoured post-Christmas-Eve-breakfast-at-dinner dinner dessert-fest is just about the only thing that can rescue me from my bewildering funk.

  Mum’s gone all out this year, whipping up a spiced white chocolate and cherry cake that’s like a piece of Christmassy heaven in my mouth. Grady has clearly forsaken his one job, as Cleo has attempted an American pumpkin pie, which tastes like she scraped the bottom of a roast-beef pan and then added cinnamon sugar. My poker face is ruined when Grady bursts out laughing, covering Mum’s Santa statues with sprayed chunks of pie.

  Then Anthony gives me a giant hug and Grady an affectionate head slap before he hoofs it to the Palmers’, and Grady and I leave our mums making cocktails in the bakery kitchen as we retreat to swap presents. I can’t remember how this tradition started. I think it was that time Grady bought me these wicked earrings with dangly Legos on them – Wonder Woman for one ear, and Spider-man for the other. For some reason he was way embarrassed for me to open them in front of our mums, and I guess our private gift-giving ritual just stuck.

  We’re sitting cross-legged on my bed, Grady grinning like a maniac as I hand him the box that I know he knows has been hiding on top of my wardrobe for months.

  I’ve gone for a themed present this year, scouring online for the perfect collection of stuff. On top, I’ve sketched a shadowy Cinnamon Girl on the steps of 221B Baker Street. Individually wrapped inside is this box set of the complete Sherlock Holmes stories with beautiful silhouetted covers, and a rubber ducky in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, and a T-shirt that says Sherlock is my Holmesboy on it, and a proper houndstooth deerstalker hat, which Grady unwraps with a delighted, albeit girly, squeal.

  ‘This is brilliant! I’ve always wanted one, but it was way too dorky to buy myself. You are the best!’

  ‘And you look like a tool,’ I say, laughing as I adjust the earflaps over his curls. ‘But it suits you. Very investigationy.’

  He sits back and gives the Sherlock ducky a couple of squeaks in my direction. ‘Okay. Your turn.’ He reaches under my bed with one hand and emerges with his old Santa sack that I’ve been busting to get my hands on all evening.

  ‘Oof. It’s heavy!’ I say as I haul the sack onto my lap. ‘Lemme guess, you’ve bought me that very special concrete slab I’ve always wanted?’ I yank out a giant rectangle shrouded in glittery Christmas wrapping and tear frantically at the paper.

  And then I freeze. Grady smiles shyly. The hefty present is Gil Kane’s The Amazing Spider-man: Artist’s Edition, which I have been salivating over for years. It contains the original artwork of the infamous LSD issues, and the first Morbius storyline, and one of the most classic Spidey stories ever – The Night Gwen Stacy Died. It’s amazing, and perfect, and it costs an absolute bucket-load.

  ‘Grady, you are insane!’ I say as I carefully peel back the plastic. ‘We said we’d stick to a budget!’

  ‘You don’t like it?’ he says innocently.

  I leap across the bed and book and throw my arms around him. ‘It is the best present in the universe. You suck. How am I ever gonna top this?’

  Grady gives me an awkward half-hug. I sneakily slip my phone from my side table and hold it in front of us before he can move away. Grady
groans. Though, for a change, he doesn’t pull a face or attempt to squirm away. When I look at the photo, even though half his face is buried in my hair, I can tell he’s sort of smiling as well.

  I shuffle backwards. Grady adjusts his hat. ‘The Eversons have pretty much given me a full-time job over summer, and all those odd jobs and tutoring at the primary school last year added up, and hey –’ He grins. ‘Who knows what the currency of the future might be, Alba? This might turn out to be our very last Christmas ever –’

  He seems to realise what he’s said just as the words leave his mouth, because his smile disappears. He takes off the hat and runs a hand through his hair.

  I glance through the window. The string of lantern lights is clouding the fields, giving the entire view a surreal glow. I can see shadows moving in the distance, but they’re vague and indistinct, the tops of ghostly heads swarming in the darkness. I’ve stared, daydreaming, out this same window since I was five years old, and the only things that have ever changed are the height of Dad’s plum trees and the formation of cows in the Palmers’ paddock.

  From my living room drifts the croony voice of one of those old guys that Mum likes, filled with snow and fireplaces and loneliness. I never understood why anyone would want to sing Christmas songs so melancholic. It’s like, dude, the song’s called ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ – cheer the hell up. Tonight, though, I think I know how glum-guy feels.

  I drag my eyes back to Grady. He fidgets with my bedspread. ‘I do have something else for you, Alba.’ He fishes through the back pocket of his jeans and emerges with a crumpled envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Well, it’s two train tickets to Melbourne. I thought we could go after Christmas –’

  ‘Oooh, to see that Vali Myers exhibition? I read there’s a couple of unpublished drawings on display –’