The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl Page 9

  ‘Fecking. Hell,’ Eddie says. ‘It’s Original fecking Ned.’

  The arrival of the psychic has the same effect on Eden Valley as the Joker setting up shop in Gotham. Someone starts a Twitter account for Ned’s moustache, and by Sunday morning, it has twelve thousand followers. His moustache seems to be preoccupied with Beyoncé and Doctor Who. I decide to stay away from the internet for a while.

  The news people, who seem to be springing forth like so many anonymous comic-book henchmen, forget about stalking us locals and begin stalking Ned Zebidiah instead. Though he’s been all over the place since his dodge TV broadcast, Original Ned refuses to grant a single interview. He parks his caravan on the outskirts of the Valley and rarely appears in town. For a guy who should be relishing the attention, Ned looks put out by the fuss. I catch a glimpse of him Monday morning as he’s hurrying past the bakery, and I could swear he looks terrified.

  I don’t know what’s going on with me. Since that night at the Junction, my thoughts are all slushy, and glummer than I ever allow myself to indulge. I stick on my brightest smiley face, but inside, everything is whirling. I spend my spare time hiding in the shade of Dad’s plum trees while doodling Fiona Staples-style sketches of the distant scene. Half the Thunderdome has collapsed now, but shouty laughter still echoes from the remnants. I know my friends have all ventured out there. But from my yard it’s like being on the outskirts of a giant, steamy monkey enclosure. And as curious as the wildlife is to watch, I’m just not game enough to get within poo-throwing distance.

  I know some of this stuff should work its way into my comic. But every time I turn on my computer, I find myself staring at Cinnamon Girl’s anxious, restless face, looking through her warehouse windows to a world that I can’t seem to fill, and I’m overwhelmed by a throat-squeezy panic.

  Luckily I don’t have time to sink into a full pity-party, as spare moments are almost non-existent. The bakery is booming, with lines forming down the bluestone path from the time we open till we run out of food. It’s as if Albany’s has fallen through some bizarro dimensional crack, where Rosie Addler and the mouth-breathing Albert boys have been replaced by their alternate-universe doppelgangers – an old woman in a see-through fishnet vest, and a bunch of frowny emo kids who look like the end can’t come soon enough. I try to channel my boldest She-Hulk as I bustle around the packed diner, but I still feel besieged, smaller in my space than I ever have before. Mum is chuffed by the booming business, but I suspect that a teeny part of her subconscious might be mulling over the possibility that the end is indeed nigh, cos she spends an awful lot more time hanging with Cleo in the diner after-hours, swapping giggly stories of their university-day shenanigans.

  And still, the people keep coming. The Palmers’ farm looks like the last campground at the end of the universe, with tents and cars and manky furniture swallowing up the dry fields. Surprisingly, the mood among our visitors is generally chilled; our bewildered cops don’t have a lot to do, other than rescuing Rosie Addler’s poodle, Mr Frankenstein, from the back of a pot-smoke-filled van, where he’d been coopted as a mascot. Kites are flown, hacky sacks are tossed, and a spontaneous nudie run through the fields transpires, guaranteeing that wobbly sunburnt flesh will be seared on my brain for the rest of my days. Poor Eddie just about has an aneurysm. I suspect he may never be able to look another girl in the face again.

  Ed’s dad is one of the few locals who is happily on board with the crazy. He welcomes this group of beardy English guys who show up in a Unicat, with a trailer of guitars and amps in tow. Mr Palmer hires a couple of generators and some cans of stage lights from Merindale’s community theatre group, the Merri Men. After a bit of kerfuffle with the council and the CFA – boom – just like that – the north paddock is transformed from a dusty cow-haven into the centre stage of Glastonbury.

  Penny-Farthing Man seems determined to get his arse kicked by me, as he sets up his ‘bike’ as an ‘installation’ on our front lawn. I see him perched atop his stupid oversized wheel, and despite my most fearsome scowly faces, he does not budge. I take some comfort in the fact that as soon as I get Cinnamon Girl back on her feet, she will be destroying an obnoxious one-wheeled mutant with a cascade of lava from her eyeballs.

  I’m too busy to catch up with my friends, but it doesn’t matter since everyone else is flat out as well. The Eversons practically beg Grady for full-time help at the fruit-and-veg; I see him for about twelve seconds on Monday as he sweeps by to drop off some boxes, though we spend the rest of the day swapping texts on the various weirdos who bustle through our doors.

  I do, however, manage to spend some time with Daniel. In between photo ops, he installs himself at Albany’s, playing catch-up with Mum and flirting with Paulette. Talking to him after all these years is the strangest thing; as if I’m flicking through a favourite comic, only since the last time I looked at it, all of the panels have been redrawn by someone new. Seeing him here – on the same stool he used to sit when he was little – is just too weird. Not least because his nose wrinkles in repulsion at our baked deliciousness. He even refuses to be tempted by Mum’s salted caramel slices, his favourite snack in the universe when we were kids. I remember Grady’s observation – it’s Daniel, but not Daniel. I can’t really name it, but reliving my stories with him doesn’t make me as buzzy as I first thought it would. And my stomach seems to knot whenever his curious blue eyes fix on mine.

  Daniel seems to be taking the apocalypse business in his stride. The only moment I see his confidence falter is when I drag him inside to give him a tour. He glances at the artwork stuck on my walls and ceiling, and makes some predictably dodgy comments on the underwear scattered over my floor. But when his eyes land on my bookshelf, where his Spider-man PEZ dispenser lies nestled between volumes of Birds of Prey, his ears turn red, and his smile becomes less smug and sort of charmingly shy. It only serves to make my wobbly thoughts even wobblier.

  Christmas feels like a millennium away. But before I know it, I wake up on Tuesday to find the Palmers’ red gums draped with toilet paper and beer cans, and the bakery chirping with carols as the crew gets ready for Christmas Eve. By the time Paulette ushers a few strays out the door, my feet are achy and my back feels like it’s been kicked by a horse. But it’s almost time for our traditional Christmas Eve breakfast-at-dinner dinner, and for the first time in days, I feel a little of the old cheery me resurface.

  I shower and change into a new dress I bought online, kind of as a joke for Grady; it’s green and flared and dotted with teeny strawberries. I’ve just skipped into the diner with my picnic basket when Paulette bursts breathlessly back into Albany’s.

  ‘Alba, I’m so sorry! I was cleaning up outside … it’s terrible, and I really don’t want to be the one to tell you –’

  I grab her arm. ‘Oh my God, Paulette! Are you okay? What’s happened?’

  She gives me a fierce hug, and then tugs me outside.

  I follow her down Albany’s steps. We’re partway down the bluestone path when Paulette comes to a dead stop. She motions to the ground, at a flat spot of dry dirt right beneath Mum’s favourite purple rose bush –

  ‘No!’ I gasp. ‘Not Frida!’ I stare at the empty place where my beloved garden gnome lived.

  ‘She was here earlier – I’m sure of it, cos she always gives me the heebies,’ Paulette says sympathetically. ‘It’s the monobrow … she always looks so judgemental …’

  I whirl around, frantically checking the rest of my gnome family. Prince Ferdinand is standing watch over the mailbox with his crown and sceptre, and Dead-eyed Derrick, the zombie gnome Dad found on Gumtree, is peeking his bloodied little face through the grass; Mooney Mac Mooneyeton with his naked backside pointing up in the air, and Herman the Gay Biker, in his leather chaps and gnome hat, are right where they’re supposed to be. Big Grant is still chilling in his blue floatie, and I almost pluck him from his dandelion bed to give him a hug. I do a quick headcount, but the rest of my gnomes are all accounted
for.

  Penny-Farthing Man peddles his bike unhurriedly across the lawn.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ I call up at him.

  ‘I’ve seen lots of things,’ he replies as he munches on a muffin. ‘I’ve seen the golden light of the divine –’

  ‘Oh, shut it!’ I yell. ‘You are useless! And hello, a penny-farthing’s only supposed to have one back wheel – you’re basically riding a giant tricycle –’

  He shrugs. ‘Little lady, perhaps after an age of being embedded in this one spot of earth, she decided to choose a journey of her own? Who are you to hinder her plans?’

  Just as I’m visualising myself soaring into the air with a backwards tumble and punching Penny-Farthing Man in the neck, Daniel appears through the crowds on the street. He peers at me over the top of his aviators.

  ‘Sarah, you look ravishing. Though you also look like someone just flushed your goldfish. You all right?’

  ‘Someone pinched my gnome!’ I moan.

  Daniel frowns. ‘Is that a … euphemism? It sounds kinky –’

  I stamp my foot and point, wordlessly, at our collection of little people, and then at the space where Frida used to be.

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ He looks at me with something like sympathy. ‘Was it a sentimental gnome?’

  I sigh. ‘Sort of. Not really. We bought her from eBay … but she was Frida.’

  ‘Well then,’ Daniel says as he pockets his glasses. ‘The world is a dangerous place for a garden ornament out on her own. Not everywhere works like the Valley, Sarah.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the mansplanation,’ I growl. ‘Any other lessons for this wide-eyed farm girl?’

  Daniel grins. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to lecture. But you have to admit – you do have a bit of a naïve streak.’

  I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Naïve? Me? I seem to recall that you were the guy who refused to share a seat with a girl on the school bus for months, cos Deb DeLuca told you that that’s how you make babies.’

  He laughs. ‘Yeah, all right, my bullshit radar was a bit off when I was seven.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Though you know, Sarah, I’ve totally caught up on the whole baby-making process now.’

  I take a step towards him as well. ‘Are you trying to make me squirmy, Daniel? I’m not seven anymore either. You should spend some time with Eddie – I’m immune to bad sex jokes.’

  He shakes his head, his eyes all mirthful. ‘I’m sorry, Alba. I guess I’d just forgotten how much fun it is to tease you. But okay, maybe naïve was the wrong word.’

  I take another step down the bluestone path, till there’s nothing between us but a solitary rosebush and Herman the Gay Biker. ‘What would be the right word then?’

  He is silent for a moment, his eyes on mine. ‘Oblivious,’ he says.

  Penny-Farthing Man, whom I’d temporarily forgotten about, dings his bell. Paulette chuckles, and Daniel gives me that giant, silky grin. It’s all I can do not to add them all to my brand-new list of people to be punched in the neck.

  I grab my picnic basket. ‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ I say dryly. ‘Let’s just go.’

  •

  At the west end of town, where Main Street becomes dirt again, lies Grady’s house. The yellow weatherboard and white-trim bungalow is snug between a thicket of beech trees, and has always reminded me of gingerbread and vanilla frosting. The farm fencing that divides their block from the Ridleys’ canola fields is a bit saggy, but, in spring, the view from Grady’s bedroom is an amazing swaying sea of yellows. His springtime bedroom view is one of my favourites in the whole world. Right now, the summery farmland is flat and empty.

  Daniel pauses. ‘Wow. It’s exactly the same. The basketball hoop, and his mum’s crazy birdbaths … Jesus, Alba. This place. It’s like the land that time forgot,’ he says wistfully.

  I glance at the house as well. ‘Sometimes I think that in a bazillion years, when the spider monkeys have taken over, Eden Valley will still be standing exactly as is.’ I sigh. ‘Mrs Garabaldi might give those monkeys a run for their money, though. When marauding bandits are wandering the earth and whatnot, she’ll still be holed up in the hardware store in her dressing gown. It’s kinda comforting, in a way.’

  Daniel seems to snap himself out of his daydream. That melancholy expression vanishes, replaced by his usual unreadable grin. ‘And will you still be serving coffee in your cute dresses? I suppose those monkeys might have some strudel needs. But Sarah, I’m guessing the rest of the world might have moved on.’

  I let myself into Grady’s without responding.

  Music blasts my ears. Cleo’s old aircon always struggles in summer, and inside it’s thick and muggy. I squeeze between the boxes of craft supplies that line their tiny hallway. The sizzly smell of bacon wafts from the kitchen as I clomp inside.

  Tia and Petey are bustling near the grill, matching reindeer hats on their heads. Tia’s lobes flash with Christmas-light earrings, making her grey eyes sparkle with festive colour. I can’t hear their conversation, but whatever joke they’re sharing must be hilarious, cos Tia is doubled over in breathless giggles. When we were kids, that was a sure-fire sign she was one step away from peeing her pants.

  Caroline has her bare feet kicked up on the table with Grady’s laptop on her knees, lost in whatever she is looking at on-screen. Eddie is hunched at the stove, flipping misshaped orbs onto one of Cleo’s good plates. I have a sneaking suspicion he is attempting to make boob-shaped pancakes.

  Grady swings himself out of the fridge with a carton of juice in each hand. He’s ditched his customary T-shirt for a short-sleeved button-down shirt, which must be new, since I’ve never seen it before. The dark blue fabric looks soft, and really nice on him. His curls even seem to be behaving; for a change, Grady’s hair doesn’t look like it’s just lost a fight with a forest.

  I stand back and let the sunspots fade from my eyes. Christmas Eve breakfast-at-dinner dinner originated a few summers ago, when Eddie had to have his tonsils out. It was, of all people’s, Caroline’s idea – since Ed’s always been obsessed with breakfast food, she suggested that eggs and pancakes swimming in ice-cream would be a fair substitute for a proper Christmas Eve dinner. And, as Eddie said, when he eventually regained his voice, getting his tonsils ‘fecking scalpelled out’ was almost worth it since it gave us an excuse for dinner pancakes.

  And before I can rein in my woolly emotions, my eyes fill with tears. Damn it. I love Christmas. I don’t cry at Christmas. I am the fricking queen of Christmas cheer.

  ‘Hey! There you are!’ Grady says as he dumps the juice on the table. I brush my hands over my face before my stupid tears can spill, but Grady is busy rearranging glasses and thankfully hasn’t noticed my weirdness. He waves a flippant hand in my direction. ‘So she badgers and bullies us into preserving tradition, then she moseys in late while the rest of us toil in the kitchen like minions …’ He grins at me. ‘I was about to send out a search party. Busy day?’

  Daniel is hovering on the edge of the kitchen. ‘Sorry. Gnome-related crisis,’ he says distractedly.

  I reach into my basket and pull out my Santa hat. ‘Yeah. Someone stole Frida,’ I say as I shove the hat sullenly onto my head.

  Grady stops pottering and gapes at me. ‘Oh no! Really? Not Frida! Arsebags!’

  ‘And that was the right reaction,’ I say, punching Daniel in the arm. Though I can’t help but laugh a little bit too, the ridiculousness suddenly just too much for me and my jumbly brain.

  Grady reaches for my picnic basket, a thick bandaid wrapped unevenly around his left hand. I grab his arm. ‘What did you do?’

  He grimaces. ‘Um, tried chopping tomatoes without supervision? I know I’m banned from knife duty, but given that you also banned me from frypan duty, there wasn’t much else for me to do. It’s not bad. There may be some blood in the omelettes.’

  ‘Domenic! How many times do I have to tell you? Knives are not toys! Gah! No-one wants a three-fingered lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, m
a’am,’ Grady replies with a smile. ‘I will endeavour to make it through this Christmas without the need for stitches or surgery.’

  I tug out my phone, but Grady pokes his tongue at me before I can snap him in non-face-pulling mode.

  ‘You guys are hilarious,’ Daniel says dryly. ‘Want me to take one with both of you?’

  I pocket my phone again. ‘There’s a reason I resort to sneak-attacks, Daniel. Unless you’re talking mug shots or photos of a crime scene, Mr Hard-boiled here doesn’t see the point in, and I quote, “capturing every sneeze”, unquote. His Facebook pic is a movie poster of The Maltese Falcon.’

  Daniel laughs. ‘Domenic! Dude, a bit of sentiment is mandatory at Christmas.’ He gives my hair a cheeky tug. ‘And how could you not want a photo of this girl?’

  I nudge Daniel back. ‘Grady, if I’m abducted by an evil space-monster tomorrow, your only evidence of my existence would be some strudel crumbs on your bedroom floor.’

  Grady glances between Daniel and me. ‘I know what you look like,’ he says mildly.

  Grady’s labrador lopes across the kitchen and sniffs at Daniel’s feet. Daniel steps hurriedly backwards. ‘Jesus, is that … Clouseau? Man, I thought that dog would have died years ago.’

  Grady cups his hands over Clouseau’s ears. ‘Easy, dude! She has feelings.’

  Daniel laughs, but then he catches the look on Grady’s face and quickly wrestles it into a spluttery cough. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to … offend the dog. She looks good?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Grady says firmly. ‘Her best years are still to come, aren’t they, girl?’

  I drag Daniel by the arm and shove him in a seat at the table as Grady launches into one of his in-depth conversations with his dog.

  ‘Alba!’ Tia chirps, waving tongs in the air. ‘Okay, so we have bacon and eggs, sausages, hash browns – a feast of greasy goodness.’

  Pete giggles. ‘And possibly the breast pancakes in the universe. Right, Ed?’

  Eddie spins around triumphantly with his plate of dodgy pancakes in hand. ‘Uh-huh. Fecking works of art right here on this plate.’ He picks up a floppy boob pancake with an off-centred nipple, and he waves it in Caroline’s face. ‘Whaddya think, Gresham? Am I not, like, the Picasso of lady parts?’