Life in Outer Space Page 11

  Allison catches my eye. Inwardly, I sigh. ‘Okay. We keep this to ourselves. Until we have more info, we do nothing.’

  Adrian looks displeased. Allison looks pensive.

  I am so not qualified to make this call.

  The healing power of John Cusack movies

  The beach party turned out to be one of the last decent warm days we had. Proper autumn kicked in soon after, rendering my neighbourhood damp and barren and more like a zombie wasteland than ever.

  The Justin-Sharni bust-up was major news for the better part of a month. The dance committee was compelled to remove any trace of the ex-couple from the Spring Dance posters; Camilla used this opportunity to shrewdly manoeuvre them into modifying the entire event.

  The Spring Dance is now also fancy dress.

  I was somewhat unhappy with this turn of events, until Camilla dragged me to a costume shop in Kensington that had honest-to-god Star Wars Stormtrooper outfits for hire, which suddenly rendered the Spring Dance passably endurable. Her exact words, as she paraded around the store wearing the arse end of a zebra, were:

  ‘How many opportunities are you gonna have to dress up as a Stormtrooper?’

  I couldn’t really argue with that.

  I normally find the approach of winter fairly depressing; this year, it sneaks up without me noticing. Camilla tries to convince me that winter depression is scientifically quantifiable, and that the only way to combat it is with Vitamin D and fake sunshine. She wears a lot of yellow and recruits me to help paint her purple room bright lemon. I don’t know if I believe in the scientific reliability of any of this, but I do feel less depressed whenever I escape from my house to hang out at hers. Her dad even scores tickets for us to see Foals at the Forum for Mike’s birthday, which I take as evidence that Henry doesn’t think I’m a complete moron, despite the looks he regularly gives me.

  Mike and I spend most of the Foals gig staring at the fake Roman statues in the theatre, and trying to stop Adrian from hyperventilating with excitement. Camilla stares at the stage with that hazy look she gets whenever she listens to music. I haven’t figured out what that’s about yet.

  The midyear holidays roll around with the usual chaos of exams and filler-activities that are supposed to pass as educational. Mr Nicholas actually tries to make us play heads-down, thumbs-up on our last day. There is much amusement at Victor Cho’s expense.

  Mike is spending the holidays with his cousins in Queensland. Adrian is taking a road trip with his sisters. Allison’s parents have signed her up for an intensive maths holiday program at Melbourne Uni. Camilla is being shipped off to stay with her mum in Singapore.

  I am not going anywhere, because my parents decide to split up.

  I always pictured the parental-separation thing as a scene that included both parents and some heartfelt speeches. In the last few months, I’d even begun to imagine the plinky, sad piano music that should accompany it. I thought I’d at least get a fancy breakfast. French toast. Anything.

  Instead, I wander down the stairs on my first Saturday of freedom to find Mum leaning out the kitchen window with one of her emergency cigarettes in hand. The house is ominously quiet.

  ‘Mum?’

  She takes a final drag and throws the cigarette into the garden. When she turns around, her eyes are dry. ‘Hey, hon. Your father left this morning. I don’t think he’s going to be living here anymore.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I’m not sure what else to add. The thought-processing part of my brain appears to still be asleep.

  ‘You don’t think?’ I say eventually.

  Mum sighs. ‘He’s moving in with your Uncle Richard for now. He’ll look for a place once he gets himself sorted.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Honey, we’ve been unhappy for a long time. We really wanted to wait till you finished school, but we just couldn’t. This is for the best.’

  ‘Oh.’ I swallow a couple of times. My mouth remains stubbornly dry. ‘Did Dad say anything? Did he say … why …’

  Mum sighs again. ‘Sam, I’m not sure we can explain it like that. Things weren’t always bad between us – you remember that, right? We used to be good … and then we weren’t. I know that’s not logical enough for you, but I don’t have any other explanation.’ She smiles tiredly. ‘Believe me – I have been looking for one.’

  ‘Oh. So, then … are you all right?’

  ‘Actually, I think so. For now, yes, I am.’

  I stare at the toaster. ‘What will you do?’

  She shrugs. ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I actually miss teaching. Maybe I’ll look for a job. Who knows?’

  Who knows? Aren’t you supposed to, Mum? If you don’t know, who the hell does? But I don’t say this, because she walks over and gives me a hug. I respond with an arm action that I think resembles a hug back.

  ‘Dad’s going to call you later. He thought he would give you a bit of time to digest.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  She brushes my hair out of my eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep. Fine.’

  I stand where I am until I’m sure she’s not going to dissolve into tears. Strangely, Mum’s face looks more solid than I’ve seen it in ages. And then I walk back up to my bedroom. I should probably change out of my pyjamas or shower or something. I hover in my room, my feet feeling weirdly distant from the rest of me. I try to talk them into moving, but they don’t seem to want to do anything much. I pick up my phone instead. I don’t really know why. It almost rings out before she answers.

  ‘Jesus, the airport is freezing!’

  ‘I just wanted to say bye.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Camilla says instantly.

  ‘Nothing. Not really. My dad moved out. I think my parents are getting a divorce.’

  My knees do something strange when I say the words out loud. They seem to forget how to hold my body upright. I sit down on the edge of my bed. Dryness lodges in my throat again, achy and lump-like. There is silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Sam. Damn it, they finally decide to do this now? I mean, your poor mum, but – Mike’s left already, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s okay. I just … I don’t know …’

  ‘Sam, I’m so sorry. This is horrible, and the worst possible timing. Not that there’s ever a good time to hear that your folks are splitting, but – I’m not even going to ask if you’re okay cos it’s a stupid thing to ask –’

  ‘It’s fine, really. I think I just wanted to tell someone …’

  ‘I’m glad you called me, but – bugger, damn it – Sam, I have to get on a plane!’

  I hear the boarding announcement in the background, as if some faceless airport moron is also taking his shot at ruining my life. ‘You should go. Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘Say anything!’ she barks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say Anything. Late 80s movie, John Cusack – it’s one of my go-to happy movies. Find it. Promise you’ll watch it.’

  ‘It … doesn’t sound like a guy-movie, Camilla?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s a feel-good movie. You don’t need to be watching people having their brains splattered right now. And I don’t need to be on a plane for eight hours worrying about you watching people having their brains splattered. What you need is an old-school 80s rom-com.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. You’ll love it. I’ll call you when I land.’

  ‘You don’t have to –’

  ‘Sam, shut up. I’ll call you when I land. Just … be okay for a little while.’

  ‘Camilla, I’m fine.’ I think my hands are actually shaking.

  ‘Sure. Sam, listen – your friends are all here for you, just not in your vicinity at this second. But we’re here. I’ll call when I land. Eight hours. Say Anything. I gotta go.’

  ‘Okay. Have a good flight.’

  ‘Eight hours. Bye, Sam.’ She hangs up.

  I stare at my phone
for what feels like an hour.

  I open up my laptop and search for a torrent of her movie. I watch for a while as the file downloads, piece by piece, onto my computer.

  I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling for forty-three minutes. At some point Mum sticks her head in to tell me she’s going to Aunt Jenny’s. She asks if I am all right, and a bunch of other things that I nod and respond to without really processing. She walks into my room and kisses me on the forehead before she leaves.

  I send Mike and Adrian a message. I’m not really sure what to write, so I text:

  Dad moved out. Don’t think he’ll be moving back. Bout time, I guess.

  Adrian calls straight away. He is in the car, already halfway down the Great Ocean Road. I can hear Roxanne and Emma singing in the background. ‘Sam, man, that really sucks. What did your dad do?’

  ‘Nothing specific. I don’t think. Just being himself.’

  ‘That is just … arse. Big time.’ There is a pause. I’m pretty sure Adrian is eating something. ‘You gonna slash your wrists or anything?’ he says eventually.

  ‘Nah. Watching a movie. Camilla’s recommendation.’

  ‘That’s good. Don’t stress. I mean, stress, but don’t do anything dumb. Y’know.’

  ‘Kay. I won’t. Have fun.’

  ‘Will IM you if I find wireless. Catch ya.’

  Mike calls as soon as I hang up. He is silent for seven seconds. He sounds like he’s in a car as well. ‘So. Are we concocting some elaborate scheme where we pretend to be twins to get your parents back together?’

  ‘Am I supposed to know the reference?’

  ‘Dude. Parent Trap?’

  ‘Isn’t that a Disney movie?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘How gay are you, Mike?’

  Mike snorts. ‘My cousin made me watch it last time I babysat. It was possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Anyway, doubt we could pass for twins.’

  ‘Yeah. You can’t pull off blond.’

  ‘You’d look even more emo with dark hair.’

  ‘Right. Besides, I think my parents might be better off in different houses. Actually, they’d be better off in different dimensions, but barring the discovery of a Stargate I guess this will have to do.’

  ‘Yeah. How’s your mum?’

  I shrug, then realise he can’t see me. ‘I think she’s okay. Right now, anyway.’

  Mike clears his throat. ‘And you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We talk about nothing for another twelve minutes. Mike’s family are on their way to Sea World. He promises to call back later. I hang up.

  The rain starts to pelt on my window. I curl my body around my laptop and tug a blanket over my legs. I watch Camilla’s movie with my face all but pressed up against the screen.

  When the movie finishes I don’t have the energy to do anything else. So I play it from the start again. I make a giant pile of toasted cheese sandwiches, and then fall asleep while I’m watching it the third time. When I’m playing the movie for the fourth time, I get a text message that reads:

  Where are you? Turn on your computer!! Do it now!!!!

  Camilla knows how I feel about exclamation marks. I jump out of bed, dump the laptop onto my desk and flick off the movie. I drop into my desk chair.

  It takes a moment to sign in to Skype, and then Camilla’s face appears on my screen. She is trying to yank her hair up and type at the same time. She smiles and waves, her messy ponytail bouncing over her shoulder. She’s wearing a pale-blue summer dress and her face looks flushed with heat. Outside, the rain beats down on my window and the wind rattles the roof tiles. It feels like she’s on another planet.

  ‘Okay, so you think your life is bad,’ Camilla says before I can speak. ‘Look at this.’ Her face disappears, and then the webcam bounces kind of erratically. She has picked up her laptop and is slowly circling around the room with it.

  ‘Wow. That is … an awful lot of pink.’

  In fact, her room looks like an explosion inside a bubblegum machine. Her bedspread is pink, the cushions on her bed are pink, and the curtains are a different shade of pink. Her furniture is uniform, featureless white.

  ‘I know, right?’ I hear her disembodied voice say. ‘It’s like living inside Barbie’s campervan. And look at this.’

  She angles the camera upwards. A giant black-and-white picture hangs above her bed. It features a woman stretched out on a leather couch. Her head is thrown back over the armrest. She is not wearing a single piece of clothing.

  Camilla spins the laptop around and settles it onto her desk. Her face appears in the screen again. ‘That would be Simone, one of Mum’s clients. Apparently this is an appropriate piece of artwork to hang in your kid’s room.’

  ‘I’m … not sure I’m qualified to judge its appropriateness. Maybe I need to see it again?’

  Camilla laughs. ‘Those boobs have been airbrushed beyond recognition. I saw the real thing at a photo shoot once. They’re not so special.’

  I wonder if my blushing transmits over webcam?

  Camilla glances sideways. ‘Hey, Sam, wait a sec …’ She gestures wildly off-camera. ‘Mum! Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  I smooth down my T-shirt, suddenly wishing I had changed today. A woman appears over Camilla’s shoulder. I sit up a little straighter. Her mum looks like an older, harsher version of Camilla, except her hair is inky black and iron-straight. She has the same full lips and the same long lashes, and her eyes are exactly the same shade of hazel. But Gabriella’s face seems to be permanently frozen into an expression of disinterest. She peers at the computer screen.

  ‘Mum, this is Sam. Sam is one of my best mates. Sam, meet my mum.’

  ‘Um, hello,’ I mumble at my computer.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ Camilla’s mum says coolly, her clipped accent a couple of shades more English than Camilla’s. ‘You have a great face, Sam. Have you thought about doing any modelling? The feminine look is in at the moment.’

  ‘Mum!’ Camilla attempts to manoeuvre her mother out of the frame as I scramble to fix my bed hair. ‘Okay, enough with the intros. I’ll be down for dinner in a sec.’

  Her mother rolls her eyes at the camera. ‘I think that is my cue to leave. Goodbye, Sam. Maybe think about shaping those eyebrows.’

  Camilla smiles sheepishly as the sound of a door closing echoes in the background. ‘And that, Samuel, was my mother. Questions? Comments?’

  ‘You look exactly like her. Though she seems even scarier than you’ve let on.’

  ‘Oh, she is. We’ll run out of things to talk about in approximately four minutes.’ Camilla settles her dress over her knees. ‘Anyway, Gabriella will keep. How are you?’

  ‘I’m okay, I guess. I watched Say Anything.’

  Her face brightens. ‘And?’

  ‘It was fairly girly. But it did have some awesome lines.’

  She grins. ‘I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen?’

  I can’t help but smile back. ‘How many times have you seen it?’

  ‘This from the person who can recite Halloween backwards? No comment.’ She rests her chin in her palm. ‘But, really, Sam. How are you doing?’

  I focus on my desk for a moment. How am I doing? Do I even know? ‘I’m okay. It’s not like it was a surprise. Mum even seems relieved it’s finally done with. I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Sure. Wanna tell me why you’re still in your jammies?’

  I tug at my Superman T-shirt. It is starting to feel a bit gross. ‘Dunno. There’s no-one here. Didn’t see the point of getting changed, I guess.’

  ‘Sam –’

  ‘Hey, Camilla? I … don’t really want to talk about it. I … can’t. Okay?’

  She looks at my face for a long moment. I focus my eyes determinedly on this one tendril of her hair that is curling around her neck. And then she leans in towards the webcam. ‘Okay, Sammy, this will not do. I am going to be summoned for dinner in a sec, but – I am set
ting you two tasks. Failure to carry out either of them will result in the automatic severing of our friendship. Or maybe I’ll just Chinese-burn you when I get back. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Jesus, Camilla, what are you going to make me do?’

  ‘Nothing traumatic. Promise. Are. You. Up. For. It?’

  ‘Okay, whatever. What are these two tasks?’

  ‘Task one – shower.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I think I can manage that. Task two?’

  She chews thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek. ‘You need to go to my house. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. No excuses.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Argh! No buts! No excuses! Be at my house at nine! Or I shall be forced to speak in exclamations for eternity!’

  I laugh, even though I think it might sound more like a frightened sheep bleat. ‘Fine. Nine tomorrow. You won’t even give me a clue what I’ll be doing?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nope. And now I have to go. Mum’s dragging me to some art-show opening, which means I probably won’t be back till four a.m. And she’s scheduled a no doubt stimulating day of manicures and shopping for tomorrow. I’ll try to buzz you, if I can. But in the meantime – your task has been set.’

  ‘Should I be scared?’

  She gives me that evil smile of hers. ‘Depends on how big a wuss you are, Samuel Kinnison. I’ll talk to you soon?’

  ‘Kay. Have fun. Bye, Camilla.’

  Her Skype window goes black. I stare at the empty screen for seven seconds, that ache-thing settling into my throat again.

  My mobile beeps. Three times in a row.

  Her first text reads:

  9 a.m. tomorrow.

  The second reads:

  Or else …

  And the third reads:

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I am still laughing when I haul my depressed arse into the shower.

  •

  It’s two minutes to nine when I arrive on her doorstep. I don’t know whether to ring the doorbell or look under the rocks for a secret message. I hover tentatively for thirty seconds. And then I ring the bell.

  Henry Carter yanks open the door. He is wearing black jeans and no shirt. He looks like he’s still half-asleep, or maybe hasn’t been to bed yet.