Life in Outer Space Page 7

  Mum frowns. ‘You’ve been working hard. Eat with us and I’ll drive you home later.’

  Camilla looks at me again. I shrug. I’m not exactly sure what else to do. ‘You should stay. If you want,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Well, okay. If you’re sure …?’

  Am I sure? Of what exactly?

  Routine is a weird thing. I don’t know how one is formed, or how one manages to stick. All I know is, Camilla wanders into the kitchen chatting to my mother about London, and suddenly my routine has morphed, seemingly without me having any say in it, to include Camilla Carter having dinner at my house on Fridays after study group.

  Of course, on this Friday, I have no idea that my routine has been irrevocably altered. On this Friday, all I am aware of is that a Vessel-adjacent girl with Princess Leia hair is helping my mum make a goat’s cheese salad in my kitchen.

  I am finding this just a little bit unprocessable. So I help her chop tomatoes. It seems like a reasonable thing to do.

  Camilla nudges my shoulder. ‘Then I get to see your room. I want to be able to say I knew the next Hal Hartley way back when.’

  ‘Who?’

  She looks at me in mock horror. ‘Sam, seriously. You need to expand your horizons.’

  ‘Um, I think my horizons are plenty expanded, thanks.’

  She grins. ‘We’ll see. Remind me to lend you a DVD sometime.’

  ‘Okay, fine. If you’ll give The Evil Dead a shot.’

  ‘Kay, deal. Let me borrow it. But be prepared for a grouchy talking-to on Monday if I have nightmares.’

  I drop the tomatoes into the salad bowl. ‘Okay. Deal.’

  She smiles at me. I smile back. It feels strange on my face.

  Routine is a weird thing.

  Camilla Carter is having dinner at my house.

  And our group, apparently, has expanded from four to five.

  Proof that maths and meat cleavers will only ever be metaphorically useful

  We are now going to the Spring Dance. I am still not entirely sure how this happened. After some intense discussion of the kind I was hoping to make it through high school avoiding, we have concluded that Mike is taking his cousin Gemma, and Adrian is taking his sister Roxanne, who has only promised to come if Adrian washes her car for the rest of the year, and also if he agrees to shave the fuzz.

  For some reason, Allison found it offensive that Adrian called dibs on her. It therefore seemed logical for her to go with me. Apparently, I was still expected to ask. I don’t understand the purpose of this ritual since the six of us are going together anyway, but, after some prompting from Mike and Camilla, I cornered Allison at her locker after school one Thursday. I did not rehearse the conversation. But when I mumbled something that had the words ‘Spring’ and ‘Dance’ in it, Allison’s face lit up in a way that made me feel all twitchy and nervous.

  Allison seems to have taken a small break from reality since then, because her conversation shifts from Robin Hobb books and Japanese movies to what dress she should wear and if we should hire a limo. She flashes magazine pictures in my direction and asks my opinion on colours and cleavage-appropriateness. Apparently, I am now supposed to have an opinion on cleavage-appropriateness. I grunt at random intervals and hope it passes for intelligent comment. Allison doesn’t seem to notice.

  Camilla is now a key member of the Spring Dance decorating committee, which I learn is one of many subcommittees within the main one. It means she will be working on the day of the dance and so will be meeting us there. She coos over dresses with Allison, and ribs me about having to wear a suit, and creates a countdown calendar for Adrian’s diary with a picture of Johnny Depp from Sweeney Todd stuck to the date of his scheduled shave. She makes us watch Sweeney Todd one afternoon after school, which is a musical about a serial killer barber that actually proves to be somewhat cool, despite all the singing.

  In maths, we learn about outliers – statistical anomalies that lie outside the main data set. The outliers don’t fit the pattern the rest of the figures are trying to make. They tend to throw all the other figures off balance.

  I realise that Camilla is our very own statistical anomaly, an outlier that no-one seems to know where to place.

  Sometimes she hangs out with the scary girls from the volleyball team, and she’s friends with Victor Cho and those guys from the chess club, although she has admitted to me that she kind of sucks at chess. She seems to be part of the A-group, but she doesn’t spend a whole lot of her time around them.

  The group that she seems to spend the most time around is us. I don’t know what planet she is from, but she is simply immune to crap. And because she has decided that she is our friend, we somehow find that we are immune too.

  She makes us eat lunch in the dining hall. We now have our own table, not too close to the Vessels, but not in the middle of the shivering year sevens either. We sometimes take advantage of the last warm days and eat outside in the quad. Surprisingly, no-one tries to kill us. I feel a bit bad for Alessandro, so we still spend a couple of lunches a week in the IT office. Camilla occasionally shows up to play poker. She might suck at chess, but I think she is some sort of poker genius. I cannot read her face at all when she is playing. I find this a bit intriguing.

  Justin Zigoni looks somewhere behind my head whenever he sees me, but he hasn’t breathed a comment to us in weeks. Susan/Sophie/Sandra, whose name it turns out is actually Veronica Singh, sits next to me in biology one afternoon, complaining about Miss Geramondi’s latest test and asking me questions about our homework like she hasn’t spent the last four years ignoring me.

  I do not know what is happening to my life. My theory is that Camilla is some sort of reverse demon-spawn, like the Candarian resurrected from The Evil Dead, only instead of inspiring homicide and face-eating, she’s spreading – well, whatever the opposite of demonic face-eating is.

  I mention this theory to her one Friday after everyone else has left my house.

  The Friday routine has quickly settled into a pattern: study, food and a conversation about something pointless that everyone will have a resolute opinion on. Then Mike will leave, and somehow everyone else will leave with him. Mike does not eat at my house on Fridays, despite me asking more than once. I’m getting more and more worried about him, but I’m also starting to get pissed off with the whole secretive thing. I haven’t decided how to deal with it yet.

  Camilla stays for dinner since her dad is always out on Friday nights. I know she likes music, but she doesn’t seem keen on tagging along with her dad to gigs; when I asked her about it, all she would say was that they have different tastes. I got the feeling she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Sometimes she brings her laptop and we spend a couple of hours playing Warcraft. Sometimes she disappears home without explanation – presumably for marathon Skype-sessions with guitar-playing, poetry-writing, probably motorcycle-riding Dave the Boyfriend. Sometimes, she just hangs out and watches movies with me.

  If Camilla notices the weirdness between my parents, she chooses not to comment. Anyway, she’s always so chatty that the weirdness is hardly noticeable when she’s around. Even Dad finds her interesting enough to ask her stuff about her life, which is more than me and Mum ever get from him. If I really stop to think about it, the only time my house fills with proper conversation anymore is when Camilla is around.

  This Friday, Camilla is sitting on my bed, flicking lazily through my latest Total Film.

  ‘So, I have developed a theory that you are some sort of reverse demon-spawn,’ I say. I’m at my desk burning Drag Me to Hell onto DVD for her. She’s working her way through Sam Raimi’s movies, though I think I have yet to convince her of his genius.

  She tosses the magazine aside. ‘Is that so? Explain.’

  The first time she walked into my bedroom, admittedly, I had a minor freak-out. She sat on my bed, and the only thing I could think was, Jesus, there’s a girl on my bed, which I understood only as the catalyst scene in a wh
ole subgenre of horror movies. Then Adrian suggested I just consider her a non-gay girl Mike, which, surprisingly, did help. But as with lots of things in my weird new universe, Camilla Carter perching herself on my blue bedspread after dinner has become just – routine.

  The DVD is going to take a while to copy. I spin around in my chair. ‘Well, basically, in any possession movie you’ve got an evil spirit released from a cursed book or wacky piece of gypsy jewellery – whatever. And said evil spirit’s sole purpose is to cause carnage and destruction, right?’

  ‘Okay. This relates to me how?’

  ‘Well, put it this way – a couple of months ago, Justin and those guys would have caused us actual, physical harm if we dared stray into their territory. But now, it’s like someone has waved fairy dust over their eyes or something. Reverse evil. I think that might be you.’

  She swings her legs off my bed. ‘Sam, seriously. You don’t think that maybe you’re overestimating my superpowers?’

  ‘I never said superpowers. I said reverse evil.’

  ‘Look, I know you’re not the biggest fan of Justin and those guys, but, you know, none of them are all that bad. D’you think you might be just a bit biased?’

  I snort and snigger and make a bunch of sounds that I hope transmits my scepticism. ‘I’m not biased. They are, objectively, knobs. No reason, no conscience, not even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil –’

  ‘Wait, I know this one. Halloween?’

  ‘Aha. Very good.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘All your speeches have a Halloween quote in them. Justin isn’t exactly a knife-wielding psychopath.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Anyway, I still haven’t figured out why you would want to be friends with them.’

  ‘Sammy,’ she barks.

  ‘Millie,’ I respond.

  She knows I hate Sammy. I know she hates Millie. We seem to have fallen into this pattern.

  Camilla rubs her hands over her eyes. ‘Look, the thing you have to realise … I’ve been to so many schools, Sam. And there are Justin Zigonis at every single one of them.’ She smooths her hair back with a sigh. She is wearing it loose today, which means that I will be finding errant strands of it around my bedroom for days after she leaves. ‘You know what Michelle Argus asked me yesterday? Could I get her the phone number for any of the guys from Twilight. Not one specific guy – just anyone would do. I mean, seriously. Do I think she would give a toss about me if my dad didn’t get photographed with celebrities? I’m not that dumb, Sam. But for as long as I’m here, I can’t do anything about the people I’m stuck with, so stressing about it is useless.’

  She stands up and perches herself on the edge of my desk with another sigh. I find that I’m staring at the faded knees of her jeans.

  ‘I’m not that naive, Sam. I know why people are nice to me. But as soon as I stopped being so hung up on it – well, everything just became soooo much easier.’

  Camilla isn’t big on speechifying. And she rarely says anything without a mischievous gleam in her eye. I’m concerned that I’ve genuinely pissed her off. Or worse, that I’ve upset her. But then she looks at me, and she smiles.

  ‘Sam, you guys are so great. You have no idea how nice it is to be around people who aren’t obsessed with which D-grade celebs I might have bumped shoulders with once. But you, it’s like … well, like you’re the scared blonde chick at the start of every horror film. She spends most of the movie freaking out, but then she picks up a meat cleaver and goes after the monster. She runs face-first into him, because the movie doesn’t work if she spends the entire ninety minutes hiding in a cupboard, does it?’

  ‘I’m … not sure who my monster would be in this scenario, Camilla.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not sure either, Sam.’

  ‘But I am, just, extremely impressed that you worked a horror movie metaphor into that speech. Even if I did have to be the scared blonde chick.’

  Camilla stands and bows with a flourish. The smile is back on her face. ‘Thanks. I thought that was not bad at all for a speech on the fly.’

  ‘I should have taken notes. I could have borrowed some of it for my movie.’

  She laughs. ‘Which reminds me – am I ever going to see these screenplays?’

  I glance at the desk drawer containing my red notebooks and movie mags and vintage porn that I should really throw out at some point. ‘They’re not ready,’ I mumble. I may be okay with her sitting on my bed, but I am so not ready to show her my movies.

  ‘Sam …’ She peers at her feet. Her feet shuffle for a moment. ‘It’s just that …’ She looks up and shakes her head. ‘Never mind. I should go.’

  ‘You don’t want to wait for the disc?’

  She yawns. ‘Nah. Tired. I can’t watch it tonight anyway. Have a hot date on Skype with some friends in the States. Give it to me tomorrow.’

  I’m momentarily distracted by an inexplicable flash of shirtless Dave the Boyfriend reclining, Adonis-like, in front of a webcam, but when I open my mouth the only thing that comes out is:

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Right. Beach party? Post BLS arse-kicking of Shaleford Grammar? It’s going to be warm, and I’ve been promised that there will be beverages of some kind.’

  I laugh. I can’t help it. ‘Really? Justin Zigoni’s beach party? As much faith as I have in your powers, Millie, I am not willing to test them out in any scenario that involves Justin Zigoni and a large body of water.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Sammy! Scared little blonde, remember?’

  Sometimes I forget that Camilla Carter is relatively new to my universe. ‘Camilla, I can’t. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not even invited.’

  She frowns and gives me that wide-eyed innocent look of hers. I’ve learnt, surprisingly quickly, that this look is in no way innocent. ‘But I’m inviting you.’

  You’d think I’d know better by now. I focus on my desk, where the Freddy Krueger doll that Allison bought for my last birthday sits. Its little finger-knives gleam in the light from my computer screen.

  ‘Camilla, the thing is, maybe I do need to pick up the meat cleaver – metaphorically – but I don’t need to run into an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods that’s decked out with wind chimes made of human ears. That’d just be stupid.’

  She shrugs. ‘Fine. Guess it’s just me and Adrian then.’

  ‘What? Adrian is going to this thing?’

  Camilla picks up her bag from the floor. ‘Uh-huh. He was completely up for it when I asked. Said he was going home to dig out his boardies.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Camilla, those guys … you have no idea the sort of torture they’ll have stored up for him.’

  She doesn’t answer, but she starts humming something. It takes me a moment to figure out that it’s a song from Sweeney Todd. I think it goes something like: Nothing’s gonna harm you. Not while I’m around.

  Admittedly, I have never felt all that tough. However – having a girl hum a song from a musical at you that implies she will be watching out for you at a party you are too scared to attend is a new level of feebleness, even for me. I am pretty sure my manhood does not approve.

  When I open my eyes, she’s giving me that reckless grin again. ‘Jesus. Okay, fine. I’ll come.’

  ‘Great! You should ask Mike. He said no, but I told him you’d be calling.’

  Camilla disappears from my room. I hear her rapid conversation with Mum from the place where I am temporarily frozen to my bedroom floor.

  ‘I’ll be here at ten-thirty,’ she yells up the stairs. ‘Call Mike! Pack sunscreen! Bye, Sam!’

  Apparently, I am going to a beach party.

  I really need to learn how Camilla does that.

  When the theme music from Jaws is completely inadequate

  I wake up feeling like a very small person has been punching me in the chest from inside, repeatedly, for most of the night. The sun is streaming through the gaps in my curtains. I can already tell that it�
�ll be way too hot today.

  I extract my feet from my tangled sheets and grab my phone from the nightstand. It is 9.07 a.m., which means I have one hour and twenty-three minutes to develop a hospital-worthy disease, or for my parents to decide that we need to move, immediately, to Peru. I fear that neither of these options is going to be viable.

  I drag myself out of bed and face the wardrobe situation with a sense of doom. I do not own anything remotely beach-appropriate. I mean, I’m not exactly scrawny, and I’m tall, which I think sort of balances out the lack of bulk, but the idea of being in any kind of flesh-baring scenario with Justin and those guys makes the few muscles I do have wither.

  I take off my T-shirt and face the mirror inside my wardrobe door. If my muscles could talk, I think they would be shrugging and saying something along the lines of, Seriously. Dude. Whaddaya expect us to do?

  I shower, and after twenty-seven minutes of deliberation, settle for a pair of jeans, a faded grey Transformers T-shirt, and a dark blue hoodie. If Justin doesn’t kill me, I am probably going to die of heat exhaustion. I will accept that as a viable outcome to this day.

  Mike sticks his head in just as I’m double-knotting my Converses. ‘Hey. Maybe we’re gonna have a big earthquake. They say things get really weird just before,’ he says, deadpan.

  ‘Really? You think a Nightmare on Elm Street quote is going to help my mental situation?’

  Mike throws himself onto my bed. It actually takes me a moment to remember the last time he was in my bedroom. ‘Probably not,’ he says. He’s wearing army-style cargo pants and a brown hoodie zipped to the neck. He looks me up and down blankly. ‘So. No Speedos?’

  ‘I left them in my other bag with my muscle shirts and tanning spray. You?’

  He shrugs. ‘Figure the extra padding might come in handy.’

  I slump into my desk chair. ‘Mike, what the hell are we doing? I know things have been bizzaro lately, but still.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s probably not gonna end well. But this was your call. I’m only coming for moral support. Or whatever. You know, you could always back out.’