The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl Read online

  Paulette Barry graduated high school a few years ago, in the same class as Grady’s big brother. I love her to bits, partly cos she’s never felt the need to hook up with hot-but-somewhat-man-ho-ish Anthony. Paulette has vague plans to go to uni ‘at some point’, but right now, she’s just happy hanging around home. She’s super-fun and has zero angst about the future.

  We should all be so lucky.

  I peer at the street again. Scattered between the roses that line our path is the family of garden gnomes Dad and I had been collecting for years. Dad’s favourite was the gnome he’d named ‘Big Grant’, a happy little guy in a bathing suit, giving a thumbs-up from a ceramic lilo. Every so often some drunk-arse local rearranges our gnomes in gross sex poses, but mostly, no-one who knows me would dare touch them. The Kombi couple are sitting on the steps now, the girl nestled in beardy-man’s lap. They’re laughing at the gnome I’ve dubbed ‘Frida’, due to the gnomey monobrow I painted on her one day when I was bored. Haughty Frida is my favourite of all our gnomes. Right now, I think she’s looking a little pissed at the attention. I resist the urge to run out and defend the poor girl’s honour.

  So I realise my capacity for dealing with reality may not be sound. Still, as I watch a few more unfamiliar faces making their way into the bakery, I can’t help but think that, comic-book-wise, this whole episode would probably fill nothing but a couple of interlude frames; like that moment where a character has a sepia-tinted dream before crashing back into their real story.

  ‘A few sightseers are no big deal,’ I repeat.

  Paulette makes this mhmhmm sound, then wanders off to refill the sugar bowls.

  •

  Though I try to discount what’s happening outside, our routine is rudely interrupted by the shenanigans. Caroline texts to say she’s perving on a carload of boys near Anzac Park, and Eddie and Pete swing by to grab warm muffins before dashing down the road. Only Tia sticks to schedule, showing up with her sketchpad as planned.

  Tia’s fashion designs are pure awesomeness, but her bandy-legged stick figures are probably not going to get her a look-in at Chanel or wherever. I’ve been trying to help her for ages, but since I’m basically self-taught, I’m not sure I’m being much use.

  ‘Hey, where’re your pencils?’ I say as Tia drifts into my backyard.

  She sits on the grass next to my banana lounge. ‘Had a crappy sleep last night, and I got woken up by Petey calling to tell me about – well, all this.’ She waves her hand nervously at the Palmers’ fields, where the Kombi has been joined by a handful of other cars.

  Tia shudders. ‘Mum’s having a freak-out, too. She watched that Ned guy and then spent the night online buying camp stoves and snuggies … I can’t be bothered working anyway, Alba. I think I used up all my creative juices for my folio and … I’m just not feeling all that inspired lately.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say carefully. I drag my eyes away from the farm and stick a eucalyptus bookmark in my copy of Persepolis. ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain wannabe ninja, would it?’

  Tia’s eyes linger on the fields. ‘No. Maybe. I dunno.’ She sighs and kneads her temples. ‘I’ve never had a boyfriend before, Alba. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with one. But it’s nice having Pete around, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing next year, so …’

  ‘So now you’re not sure what you’re doing either?’ I say gently. ‘But your folio was so ace … never thought you’d consider ditching design school for a guy who thinks detachable track pants are the world’s greatest invention.’

  Tia rests her cheek against my chair, troubled grey eyes blinking up at me. ‘Is that really pathetic? It’s really pathetic, isn’t it. God, can you imagine what Caroline would say if she knew what I was thinking?’

  As much as I know Caroline loves Tia, I also know she shares Grady’s particular tunnel vision when it comes to this stuff. And I totally get where Tia is coming from. Why is it that we’re supposed to just want to merrily zip away on the first bus out of here? Why is it that the second we graduate, people and history and home suddenly aren’t supposed to matter anymore?

  I swing my legs off the lounge and plop onto the grass. ‘Nah. It’s not pathetic,’ I say, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Just, well … isn’t being in love supposed to make you more inspired? That’s what I keep hearing in songs, anyway.’

  Tia grimaces. ‘I never said the L-word. But I like Petey a lot, and us getting together – it’s changed things. That’s supposed to happen. Right?’ She stares out over the hills beyond the Palmers’ farm and smooths her bob. ‘Am I still supposed to want to move to Paris and work for Isabel Marant if Pete wants to hang out here and, I dunno, invent the world’s first hovercraft shoe or whatever?’

  I’m not really sure what to say, except that this conversation is taking far too serious a turn for a sunny day. I push my sunglasses up my nose. ‘Well, if Peter achieves his goal of becoming a ninja, maybe you could design his costumes?’

  Tia chuckles. ‘Right. Spandex undies. In boys’ extra-small.’

  We’re still laughing when Grady stumbles out of my room, bleary eyes blinking into the sun.

  ‘Nice jammies,’ Tia says with another giggle.

  Grady glances at his Christmas-elf boxers. ‘Don’t diss the clothes,’ he croaks. ‘Alba bought me these.’

  Grady drops in front of me with a giant yawn. I drape my arms lazily around his neck, his skin too warm from sleep. ‘Aw, I think they’re cute. Santa’s little helpers – they reminded me of you, Grady.’

  Grady leans against me, his hair tickling my chin, his thumbs tapping at his mobile. I snatch the phone and squish my head over his shoulder, and I click a photo of us; partly cos I’ve become kind of obsessed with recording everything, but mostly cos I know Grady hates having his picture taken.

  ‘You can’t do that with your own phone?’ he grumbles.

  ‘Oh boo, Scrooge. One day, you’ll be sorry there isn’t more evidence of the time when you were so pretty.’ I’ve managed to cut off half of Grady’s face and most of my forehead, but the photo’s still cute as. I message it to myself and then, for good measure, I set it as Grady’s wallpaper.

  Grady flicks the phone back from my hands. ‘So. Guess the word is out,’ he says cautiously. He flashes his phone at Tia. ‘Your boyfriend seems to be convinced that rumours of the world’s demise are not at all exaggerated, judging by all the texts he’s sent me. Any reason why Pete’s so excited about the apocalypse?’

  ‘I think Petey’s just waiting for his chance to bust out the superhero moves,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I mean, that oil fire at the fish-and-chip shop doesn’t count. Even though Pete was awesome. Apart from that unfortunate peeing-himself business –’

  Grady tenses. My heart does a weird double-time before my brain takes in what I am hearing from the street out front. Something I hardly ever hear around Albany’s.

  The roar of a motorbike engine.

  Okay, yes, people ride the stupid things. But not often around me. Not Eddie’s brothers, who stick to the top of the south paddocks with their dirt bikes, or the guys from Anthony’s garage, who salivate over pictures in Harley mags when they think I’m not paying attention, or Lucy Albington, who traded her Ducati for a battered Honda Civic seven years and four months ago now.

  Grady spins around on his knees to face me. He glances over his shoulder at Tia and gestures with a curt nod of his head. Tia stands and hurries out the side gate. A few moments later, the rumble of the bike engine splutters, before disappearing into the distance again.

  I clear my throat. ‘Sorry. I’m fine.’ The growl of the bike echoes in my head, until Grady gently squeezes my arms. I focus on him – my best friend in his Where’s Wally? pyjama T-shirt and Christmas boxers, his sleep-hair curling in every direction, with a handful of people in the field behind him who are patiently waiting out the end of the world – and involuntarily, I giggle.

  Grady’s grip on my arms relaxes. ‘Okay?’
>
  ‘Yeah. Okay. Well, I’m a little concerned about the toilet situation on the Palmers’ farm, and, you know, someone is definitely gonna get punched by a kangaroo, but –’

  ‘Alba –’ he says softly.

  I leap up. ‘Hey, Grady? For once, something might actually be happening in Eden Valley. Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? What are you doing sitting here in your jammies?’

  I hold out a hand. He grabs it and lets me pull him to his feet. ‘Should probably put on clothes, I guess,’ he says, running a hand across the back of his neck. His dark eyebrows are still knotted. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, though?’

  I smile. ‘You know me. I’m always fine. No need for an intervention.’

  He smiles back. ‘Course you are. I’ll be back soon. I wanna fix that loose rail on your verandah as well. It’s been driving me crazy. Save me some breakfast before you’re cleaned out of scones?’

  ‘Verandah. Breakfast. Righto. See you soon.’

  Grady scarpers up the verandah stairs as Tia emerges through the gate. She pulls me down on the fake grass again, nattering about the Dean Quinn collection she’s seen online. Tia knows better than to comment on my little episode, and I love her all the more for it.

  The motorbike thing? Not part of my story that I want to talk about right now.

  •

  By Wednesday, things have gone from slightly strange to downright bizarro-world. With only a week to go till Christmas, I undertake a heroic effort at maintaining normal: working in the bakery, tinkering with my comic, and trying to corral my friends who are scattered all over town, annoyingly distracted by the commotion. The cars keep coming as if a beacon is flashing over the Valley like some demented Bat Signal, drawing every moonchild and hippy and stoner towards it.

  But by Thursday? I am forced to admit that this episode might be slightly more significant than a singular panel in the story of my life. The reality smack is impelled by two events:

  The first is that Mr Palmer, in what Eddie describes as ‘my dad’s retarded Woodstock fantasy’, sticks up a sign at the entrance to the farm, announcing, ‘Everyone Welcome! Best View of the Apocalypse Inside!’ Within days, half their north paddock is dotted with cars and tents, and the scene from my window shifts from a bucolic Fred McCubbin painting to something out of a Vertigo comic.

  The second is that the national media, in what has got to be the slowest news week in the history of the universe, pick up the Eden Valley story and devote an inexplicable amount of airtime to us. My friends and I watch from my suddenly too-teeny living room as newsreaders chuckle at each other while using phrases like, ‘Well, at least the post-apocalyptic world won’t run out of Akubras,’ and other condescending stuff. Countdown clocks appear on screens; one station even does this montagey history of the Valley, obtaining a pic of Mrs Garabaldi in her nightgown, waving a broom at the camera like a frenzied yeti. Alvin Smith, aka Original Ned, finds himself at the centre of the stupidest story in the history of everything, his bald head and Fu Manchu suddenly ever-present every time I look online.

  And then, the news crews start arriving.

  The six of us wander through town in a daze as our peaceful streets become jammed and chaotic. The Garabaldis inexplicably snub the boom in business and hastily board up their store, but at the other end of town, Mr Bridgeman throws open the Corner Arms with gleeful enthusiasm and a new, goat’s-cheese-heavy ‘End of the World’ menu. Cops are shipped in from Merindale, blustering about like they’re from S.H.I.E.L.D. or something, but honestly? I don’t think they quite know what to do with a bunch of people whose only goals seem to be pitching wonky tents and getting drunk as quickly as possible.

  On Saturday, I haul arse out of bed to find Mum and Mrs Doyle in the kitchen frantically googling recipes for vegan muffins. Grady is in his blue booth in the diner, picking at a plate of yesterday’s apple strudel. He’s staring wide-eyed through the windows at the line of people forming on the verandah.

  ‘Stealing food again? I told Mum we need to start padlocking the fridge.’

  Grady shoves the last of the strudel into his mouth as I squish in beside him. ‘I’m a growing boy, Alba. And I would’ve eaten at mine, but I just couldn’t decide what to make with a jar of tahini and Cleo’s homemade mustard. Her mustard tastes like socks. I love my mum, but there is a line.’

  His T-shirt this morning is a soft cocoa with I Survived the Zombie Apocalypse & All I Got Was This T-shirt on it. I jab him in the chest and he looks down with a grin. ‘Forgot I owned this. Seems appropriate though, right?’

  I peer blearily at the verandah. It takes me a second to register the sound that’s been buzzing in my head since I woke – a low hum of voices like the gabble of warbling geese. The familiar bird-and-cattle song is all but drowned out by the clamour.

  Grady hands me his mug. ‘Had to get up early anyway – the Eversons got a heap of extra veggies trucked in and they needed help hauling boxes. And anyway, as if I could sleep. Jesus, Alba. You don’t find this even a bit exciting?’

  I take a sip of coffee. ‘You have a weird definition of exciting. Exciting is … a new Best American Comics. Whenever school closed on account of bushfires. Maybe a really perfect salted caramel slice. Not sure exciting is how I would describe this … instalment.’

  Grady nudges my arm. ‘Don’t be such a party pooper.’

  ‘Hey! Have you forgotten why we’ve become as popular as scuba gear on the Titanic? You really want me to be excited that the planet might only have a week and a bit left?’

  Grady waggles his eyebrows playfully, but even through my sleep-haze I can see the challenge in his eyes.

  ‘Well, suppose that depends on what you think you’re going to miss out on. Never seeing New York or Paris or that giant ball of twine in Kansas … never trekking through Nepal or driving a Kombi across Romania –’

  ‘Your dreams, not mine.’ I’m starting to regret getting out of bed this morning.

  ‘Everyone dreams of seeing Paris,’ he replies with his stubborn-face. ‘You used to –’

  I squish down the sick feeling building in my belly. ‘Aw, Domenic, I thought we had something spe-cial,’ I whine in my best soap-opera bimbo voice. ‘Here I am, hopelessly devoted to you, and all you wanna do is skip town and leave me all by my lonesome –’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he snaps.

  I flinch. ‘I was kidding. Jeez … lighten up.’

  ‘Well, just … stop saying that.’ He grabs the mug and finishes the coffee in one gulp. ‘You keep doing that, Alba – giving me crap about leaving – but I’m not the one who seems happy to just wave goodbye. I’m not the one who’s refusing to talk about it, or acknowledge what it’ll mean. I’m not the one who’s so … indifferent.’

  I bristle. ‘That’s what you think? Wow, so nice to know that my best friend in the world thinks I’m a callous cow –’

  Grady rounds on me in the suddenly too-small booth. ‘I never said that, Sarah. Don’t put words in my mouth –’

  ‘Yeah, well, you don’t put them in mine! And don’t first-name me, either! Gah, why do all our conversations lately feel like they’re stuck in the same boring groove?’ I lean forward and grab his ears, shaking his head like I used to do when we were kids and he was being a complete pest. Grady grimaces as I tug him by the ears until his nose is right up against mine. ‘Stop being a pain in the arse, Domenic. I’m here. You’re here. The Rapture might be here, but at least we’ll have strudel. All is right with the world, at least for a little while longer. I just want to enjoy my summer, Grady, and if the sun gets devoured by a giant evil space monster, then this conversation is gonna be pointless, so can we please just … forget about the other stuff for now?’

  Grady unhooks my fingers from his ears. For the briefest moment, he holds my hands on the sides of his face. I don’t think he’s shaved this morning; the barest scratch of stubble is rough beneath my palms. Surprising, though I can’t exactly place why. Grady’s eyes flicke
r between mine. Maybe he thinks if he looks hard enough, he can find all those answers that seem to have deserted me.

  And then he flips my hand around and thumps my palm against my forehead. ‘Fine,’ he says with a laugh. ‘All is right with the world. Even if there is a guy outside wearing a fez.’ He gestures over my shoulder, where a guy is, indeed, peering into the diner with a fez perched lopsidedly on his head.

  ‘Man. Does it not bother you that these people might turn out to be the sole survivors of Armageddon? Cos I am not feeling all that hopeful about the future of humanity.’

  The slap of the kitchen doors ricochets through the diner, and I turn around to see Eddie and Pete making their way over.

  ‘You were saying?’ Grady whispers with a chuckle.

  ‘What the feck is in these muffins?’ Eddie growls, frowning at the dung-brown lump in his hand.

  ‘We’ve had a run on requests for vegan stuff,’ I reply, untangling my fingers from Grady’s. ‘Not sure it’s really Mum’s strong suit though.’

  ‘They taste like dog’s balls,’ Eddie says definitively.

  Pete shoves him in the arm. ‘Ed, how would you know what –’

  ‘Argh! Too early for dog’s balls!’ Grady barks. ‘Can you two tone it down?’

  I clear my throat pointedly. ‘Boys, please, it’s never a good time for dog’s balls. And Petey, where’s Tia?’

  Pete scoots into the other side of the booth, his thumbs tapping out a text. ‘Family stuff. Her mum booted me out cos Tia’s sister’s back. She came up on the bus last night with a bunch of her friends. Apparently, and I quote, Brihannah didn’t want to miss “the only awesome party the Valley is ever gonna throw”, unquote.’

  Eddie glares outside. ‘Jesus. Tommy said that a bunch of guys from his year level have shown up as well. So much for getting the feck out and never looking back.’ He leans against the counter. ‘We had to come in through your house, Alba. Might wanna consider locking up from now on. These losers are gonna riot if they don’t get their soy lattes or whatever –’