The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl Page 2

  I shuffle in front of the counter and nudge his hip with mine. Subject-change girl I may be, but I suspect that neither of us is in the mood for this conversation right now. ‘Grady, I think you’re probably safe. Hasn’t the end of the world been predicted, like, a thousand times? What is the plural of apocalypse anyway? Apocali?’

  ‘Apocalypseses?’ he says, nudging me back with a grin. ‘And picture this – if we do turn out to be the last people on the planet, someone we know will actually face the prospect of breeding with Eddie.’

  ‘Eww … poor Eddie,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I’m not sure Judgement Day will be calamitous enough to snag him a girlfriend. He may be the first one sacrificed when we’re forced to turn to human-burgers for sustenance.’

  But Grady’s eyes are back on his iPad, and he doesn’t seem to be listening. ‘Huh.’

  ‘What?’

  He shakes his head, left hand kneading the back of his neck like he always does when he’s thinking. ‘Nothing. Just, well – look at this.’

  He turns the iPad around and points at the view counter.

  The view counter reads: eighty-nine.

  I peer at the screen. ‘Maybe Ned has more fans than country-boy insomniacs and Frank’s mum?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Grady snaps his iPad shut. ‘Anyway. You almost done?’

  ‘Need to help with the rush. Another hour?’

  ‘Cool. I promised Mr Grey I’d help fix that dodgy table at the pub, but I’m gonna pass out if I don’t find proper lunch first. Unless you want to get some drawing done?’

  ‘Nah. Food’s good,’ I say, my mouth watering at the thought of the Nguyens’ Sunday calamari special.

  Grady picks up his sports bag in one hand, and reaches over with the other to adjust the flower I’ve stuck in my braid. ‘Kay. I’ll wait.’

  He weaves through the tables, waving at various people, and settles in his usual booth with a slice of banana bread. He buries his head in a John Grisham novel, his iPad propped in front of him, presumably with some random video playing.

  Then Paulette drops a tray of forks with an almighty clang, and I’m distracted by serving Rosie Addler her third pink-iced donut, so two seconds later I promptly forget all about YouTube and Original Ned and that view counter that seems to have ticked over a little too fast for a clip from a dodgy nobody television prophet.

  Okay, I know I said that I am rubbish at remembering details.

  In hindsight? That was one detail I should probably have paid attention to.

  So remember I said my story would not be tell-able without two boys? Bear with me, I am coming to that part. My boys may be indispensible to my origin story, but nothing – apocalypse or otherwise – will make any sense without some prefacey panels of my other Smallville sidekicks.

  On any normal Monday, my friends will shuffle into Albany’s for breakfast, school uniforms all skew-whiff, before we walk down the road to catch the bus we share with the primary school. But school turfed us out for the last time weeks ago, so – for as long as everyone is still here – I insist we meet as normal like every other Monday.

  Tia barges through the side gate pulling a yawning Caroline by the hand, just as I’m laying a picnic mat on the springy fake grass.

  ‘Happy no-school Monday, Alba!’ Tia chirps. ‘Nice pink shirt. Is that ModCloth?’

  I half-spin in my best pin-up girl pose. ‘Yup. Like it?’

  ‘Love it!’ Tia says. She nudges Caroline. ‘See? There are more styles in the world than jeans and stuff from Jetty Surf.’

  ‘I’ll remember that when I get my Oscar invite.’ Caroline drops onto the mat and folds her long legs beneath her. ‘Christ, it’s hot. I feel like my eyeballs are sweating. Does someone actually want us to burn in this hell?’

  I hand her a croissant and snap a sneaky photo with my phone before she can flip me the bird. ‘Oh boo, Caroline. The sky is clear, the birds are singing – I think it’s a small improvement on homeroom and that cloud of Mr Baxter’s pit-sweat.’

  Tia sits, her floaty dress pooling on the picnic mat. ‘Besides, it’s only eight sleeps till Christmas, and we’ll never have to sit through another Monday assembly on drugs or, like, the dangers of tractor joyriding again –’

  Tia grimaces. She glances at me. For a befuddled second, I find myself wondering why she’s not in her stripy school uniform. I think I can live without Principal Bairnsworth’s eager Monday pep talks, or her one-woman sex-ed puppet shows. And yet, the mental flash of our teeny school quad, empty in the summer sunshine, fills me with a fleeting, throat-squeezy sadness.

  Caroline squints up at the almost-midday sun. She shoots us a grin. ‘If the two of you burst into song, someone is gonna get punched.’

  Tia gives me a weak smile. Tia’s real name is Tiahnah, cos her mum is – well, let’s just say that Mrs Holbrook is a big fan of the reality-TV school of child-naming, giving her daughters the uber-classy monikers of Tiahnah, Brihannah and Khahliah.

  I kid you not.

  Brihannah scarpered to the city years ago, and Khahliah dropped out of school and moved to Perth to hook up with a guy she met on the internet. But Tia is ace, and reminds me of Josie from Dad’s Archie Comics, except, you know, with chestnut hair and way better fashion sense.

  Grady stumbles in a few minutes later, his labrador, Clouseau, trailing wheezily behind.

  ‘You’re late,’ I say as I give Clouseau a cuddle. ‘We had plans, Grady! Big plans! I’ve been sitting by my phone, worried sick, while you’ve been gallivanting around town with your no-good pals and that floozy from the hairdresser –’

  ‘Hey, woman!’ he says in his old-timey movie voice. ‘You’re not the boss of me. Guess I’m just not a one-gal sorta guy.’ Caroline snorts as Grady gives her and Tia a wave. ‘And yeah, I promised Rosie I’d fix the gate on her chook pen, but I spent most of the morning stopping her mutt from humping Clouseau’s head. Totally not worth twenty bucks. I’m starved.’

  I’ve laid out food on one of the tiny ornate tables that dot the yard. He reaches for a cupcake, but I slap his hand away. ‘Can’t. Strawberry.’

  He drops the cupcake like it’s a live landmine. ‘I knew it. You are trying to kill me. I don’t even get a warning?’

  I spin the plate and point to the giant pink post-it stuck right in front. It reads: STRAWBERRY BIOHAZARD. HANDS OFF D.G.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Everson donated a box and Mum didn’t want to waste them. But, see, I drew you a picture. It has your hair, and look, even a teeny chalk outline, right here.’

  Grady wrinkles his nose. ‘You couldn’t have used them for compost? Why didn’t you just draw him convulsing in anaphylactic shock?’

  But I don’t have a chance to respond, because a hulking arm grabs Grady around the neck from behind, while its meat-mallet counterpart punches him in the ribs.

  ‘Yo, butt-face. How goes it, G-man?’

  Grady grimaces. ‘Eddie, get off me man,’ he growls.

  ‘Aw, not in the mood for shenanigans, Domenic? Not what you said last night –’

  Grady throws a cupcake at Eddie’s head. ‘Ed, I know you can’t keep your hands off me, but could you at least try when we’re in public?’

  ‘Will do my best. I can’t help it that you’re so fecking cute.’ Eddie grins at me. ‘Aloha, gorgeous,’ he says in his rumbly baritone. ‘You are looking especially hot today. Remind me again why we never went out?’

  I hand him a Danish and a coffee, four sugars, his usual beverage for his usual conversation. ‘Thanks, Ed! And I never went out with you because, well, a) you never asked and, b) I love you, but you’re kind of an arsebag.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Eddie says as he polishes off half the Danish with one bite.

  If he were a character from an American movie, Eddie would be that meathead linebacker with a name like Biff or Chud. If he were a comic-book character, he’d most likely be surrounded by minions, or swanning around seeking indiscriminate revenge with half his freckly face melted off. But since he
was born and raised in Eden Valley, Francis Edwin Palmer is neither a supervillain nor – despite what he would have us believe – a total meathead. If the universe worked the way it’s supposed to, then Ed should be hanging with the thick-necked boys from Merindale football team, or the workers from his parents’ farm. But deep down, Eddie is a sweetheart, and he’s been our friend forever. He does tend to use the ‘f’ word a lot – but since I am telling this story, and I really don’t want to drop it every seven seconds – I’m gonna use ‘feck’ instead.

  ‘Fecking hell, it’s hot as feck,’ Eddie says as he slumps on the ground. He glances at Caroline with a start. ‘And what the feck have you done to your hair, Gresham?’

  Caroline smooths a hand over the awesome violet streaks in her blonde hair. ‘Shut it, Ed. I’m finally free from twelve years of uniform hell – the only reason I haven’t got my tongue pierced is cos Dad threatened to use Gran’s graduation money to redo the driveway if I did. Anyway, I didn’t ask for your approval. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

  ‘Maybe you should’ve asked for a mirror?’ Eddie says, ducking away before she can punch him.

  ‘Well, I like it!’ I say, stretching out on my banana lounge next to Grady, who is devouring a cinnamon scroll. He shuffles over to make room. ‘Add some spandex and you’d look just like a character from X-Men.’

  ‘Who’s wearing spandex?’

  Pete pushes through the gate with his bike in hand. He drops it with a thud and heads straight for the food.

  Eddie gives him a two-fingered wave. ‘Petey! So Mum was watching Water for Elephants on TV last night. It was fecking shithouse, but it made me think of you. Circus tents, acrobats – isn’t that, like, porn to your people?’

  Pete’s face turns scarlet. ‘Eddie, are you ever gonna let that go?’ he whines. ‘And can we please stop talking about it in front of my girlfriend?’

  Eddie bursts into howly laughter. Even Grady fails to hide a chuckle. ‘Sorry, man,’ Eddie says with a dismissive wave. ‘Just trying to support your lifestyle choices.’

  Grady and I had always half-suspected that Peter Nguyen was gay, until the summer after year nine when Pete tagged along with Ed and his brothers on a camping weekend. Which happened to coincide with a certain circus-training weekend at the same campsite. Apparently, as Grady informed me, Pete was caught – ahem – entertaining himself after watching the girls’ juggling. Needless to say, I’ve never been able to look at Cirque du Soleil in quite the same way again.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Petey,’ I say, flashing him my sweetest smile. ‘You can’t help how you were born.’

  ‘Dude, the love between man and clown is nothing to be ashamed of,’ Caroline adds innocently.

  ‘I hate you all,’ Pete mumbles as he grabs a muffin and slumps besides Tia.

  Nothing much grows here. The only living things are the eucalypts, and the plum trees Dad planted along the wire fence that separates our yard from Ed’s farm. The real grass is gold and crunchy like straw, impossible to sit on with bare legs. But a couple of years ago Mum and I saw this picture in a magazine, some city bar decked with fake grass and plastic palm trees. So we decided to replicate it, even adding some pink flamingos on sticks and strings of little lanterns between the verandah trellising. I know people around here think it’s tacky, but I love it – sort of a kitschy, tropical Secret Garden.

  ‘So get this,’ Eddie says as he slurps coffee. ‘Guess who showed up at my door last night?’

  Pete groans. ‘Eddie, is this one of your bogus sex stories –’

  ‘Naw, unfortunately your mum was busy,’ Eddie says with a wink. ‘No – Baxter came to see me.’

  I pick up my sketchpad from the grass. ‘Mr Baxter? Ed, maybe you should give the poor guy a break. Let him have a summer of peace before you make him cry again.’

  Eddie looks out over his farm. ‘Yeah, well, that’s what he wanted to talk about. I’m not going next year. To year twelve. I’ve been thinking about it and … yeah. Thought of being stuck in class for another year makes me break out in hives. So I’m leaving.’

  Grady bolts upright. ‘Eddie. You cannot be serious?’

  Eddie shrugs. ‘Why not? It’s not like I’m heading to Mensa. Feck, thought Baxter’d be the first one throwing a party.’

  ‘Mensa isn’t a place, Ed,’ Grady says carefully. ‘And come on. You’ve only got one year left – the rest of us managed it – how can you think about quitting?’

  ‘Yeah, well, not all of us are gonna be brainiac lawyers. And ’sides, there’s plenty of work on the farm and … it’s not like I was ever gonna go anywhere else. Right?’

  Pete looks curiously at Eddie. Tia looks uncertainly at Pete. Grady and Caroline stare, horrified, at Ed. I drop my eyes to my sketchpad.

  ‘Francis Edwin,’ Caroline says slowly. She picks up a stray branch and jabs him in the arm. ‘Are you seriously saying you’re contemplating a future in Eden Valley? You’re really thinking of becoming one of those morons we’ve made fun of for years? You planning on losing your hair and your teeth and spending every Saturday for the rest of your life at the Junction Pub?’

  Grady leaps out of the banana lounge. ‘Yes, thank you, Caroline! Eddie, I’m sorry, but this is so stupid! Even Caroline’s made it through year twelve, and she only punched two people during exams –’

  ‘Three if you count that cardboard Jamie Oliver at the grocery store,’ Caroline says flatly. ‘Smug tool. What the hell is a courgette –’

  Grady glares at her. ‘The point, Eddie, is that you’re smart enough to graduate. Then who knows, there’s uni and Melbourne and –’

  ‘What, we’re all gonna move to the city and live in one house and throw dinner parties or whatever like some shite sitcom? Dude. You’ve met me, right?’ Eddie glances out over his parched farmland. ‘Anyway. Only reason I stuck it out this long was cos of you losers …’ He clears his throat. And then he throws a stick at Grady with a grin. ‘Bit pointless now, but. Isn’t it?’

  Grady sits heavily on the edge of the banana lounge. ‘Alba! Help me out here!’

  I focus on my sketchpad. Pete’s been trying to get me to draw him for ages, though I’m not sure I have the skills to do what he wants. I’m taking some inspiration from Sara Pichelli’s Spider-man, but honestly? It might take abilities beyond mine to transform scrawny Petey into a ‘kick-arse ninja warrior’, as was requested.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see that Grady is still looking at me. Though I’m not sure why he thinks I’d have anything useful to say. Once upon a time, all Eddie wanted to be was a pilot. When we were kids he even had a whole mess of model planes hanging from his bedroom roof, though the planes are long gone now. But once upon a time, Tia wanted to be an astronaut, and Caroline dreamed of having her own show on the Disney Channel. I think Pete still dreams about being a DJ, or a ninja – though since his less-than-stellar results came in, he just mumbles ‘business or something’ whenever anyone asks about his future plans, and then changes the subject.

  And me? Apart from abandoning my pubescent ambition of becoming Wonder Woman, my dreams have always been solid, and unshakable. Until recently anyways.

  ‘Eddie can do what he wants. Not everyone is destined to go to uni,’ I say as I run my pencil over the page. My fingers suddenly feel stiff. A finished action figure is only as good as the structure beneath it, and right now my skeleton of action-Pete looks like it’s in the middle of a largish stroke. I tear out the page and scrunch it into a ball.

  ‘Mr Baxter won’t know what to do without you, Ed. You’re the only person on the planet who can make his face turn that shade of burgundy.’ I glance at Grady, who is glaring at me. ‘But Eddie, if that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you should do,’ I say firmly.

  Tia picks at the fake grass. ‘Alba’s right. People are allowed to change their mind about their plans –’

  Grady scowls. ‘Right, because you’re going to be a famous designer here in the Valley? Hey
, if you’re lucky, the guys from Anthony’s garage might let you design their overalls –’

  ‘Easy, Grady,’ Tia says lightly as Pete reaches for her hand. ‘Don’t take your issues out on me.’

  Grady looks desperately from her to Pete. ‘Sorry, Tia – but Petey, come on man! Tell Eddie he cannot drop out of school to work his parents’ farm. If for no other reason than he can’t be such a dodge cliché.’

  Pete snorts. ‘Dude, you’re talking to the Asian kid whose parents own the fish-and-chip shop. No comment.’

  I drop my sketchpad. ‘Grady, leave it.’ I give him the other half of my cinnamon scroll. ‘It’s a beautiful day, and I’d rather not spend it watching you and Ed go at it. You know Eddie’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.’

  Eddie grins. ‘You know it, gorgeous.’

  Grady slumps onto the grass and gives his snoozing dog a rough pat. ‘Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.’

  Caroline scowls. ‘Even if what you want is retarded, Eddie.’ She and Grady share a look, but thankfully neither of them says anything more.

  No-one on the planet is as well acquainted with Grady’s stubbornness as me; the last thing I need is for him to be fixating on this all summer. And sue me, but I hate this conversation; who’s staying and who’s going and who’s doing what when. Not least because it makes my stupid hands feel all seized up and icy cold.

  The only sounds in my backyard are the familiar warble of magpie song, and the munching of my friends who are all finding the distant hills and empty sky fascinating. From somewhere in the ether, a lone cow moos.

  Just to break the silence, I’m about to launch into the story of the time when Tia and I watched The Sound of Music and then tried to redesign Caroline’s wardrobe using her mum’s curtains, when we’re rudely interrupted by the boom of a backfiring engine. Foghorn honks echo through the air from a car that I don’t recognise.

  ‘Feck was that?’ Eddie mutters as he heaves himself to his feet.