Breathing Under Water Page 2

  Mia pulls on my skirt and I realise I’m still standing. ‘Do you have those almond biscuits your mum made on the weekend?’

  I sit cross-legged beside her.

  ‘Well do you?’ she asks.

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have any of the biscuits?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ I peel the cling wrap off the two biscuits and pass one to her.

  ‘Thanks.’ She shoves the whole thing in her mouth. ‘You’re such a weirdo sometimes.’

  I think of Harley Mathews, the boy from primary school who wore goggles and a wetsuit band around his ears in the water – the only kid we knew with grommets in his ears. Scrawny with coffee-ground skin, he was the boy who refused to venture into the deep end of the rock pool. The one with the runny nose who wet his pants on the oval. And then I look at this Harley Mathews …

  Munching on her biscuit, Mia talks with a full mouth, spitting crumbs onto her lap and mine. ‘Honestly, what does your mum put in these? I don’t think I’ll ever understand how a biscuit with no sugar can taste this good. And with no milk and none of that other stuff everyone’s saying they’re intolerant to … Gluten! That’s it – every hipster is getting on that bandwagon, aren’t they? Then again I did read this article about how it’s better for your gut – your mum would know. Regardless, yum! They’re delish – who even needs a gluten?’

  I’m looking at his hair – dark, probably shoulder length, pulled back into a low bun. I’m looking at his jagged middle part, his jet-black eyebrows.

  Mia snaps her fingers in front of my face. ‘Grace!’ She laughs. ‘You’re hopeless.’

  I’m looking at his crossed legs, his grey Converse, slender calves, his brown socks, the tan leather string around his wrist.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ Mia says, reaching over me. ‘I’m eating your one too.’

  Mia sinks her teeth into my apple, chewing loudly in my ear. I can feel the spray, tiny droplets of apple juice landing on my cheek, yet somehow all is quiet, all is still.

  Harley catches my gaze and with a slight curl of his lips, smiles as if he’s known me his whole life – as if he never left.

  Two

  FAT FRIDAYS AND VEGO PIES

  ‘It’s official, I am failing,’ Jake says, dumping his schoolbag on the ground beside me under the pine tree. With a melodramatic huff, he collapses in the Friday sun.

  ‘Well, what do you expect?’ Mia smirks. ‘You’ve spent the term sleeping with half the girls in the class.’

  I love watching the way Mia’s mouth bends around her words.

  Jake grins. ‘Certain sacrifices must be made for the betterment of humanity.’

  ‘That there,’ she waves her hand in the direction of his crotch, ‘will be humanity’s downfall.’

  ‘Maybe I need some tutoring.’ He leans across the grassy circle to Ben. ‘Mel wouldn’t mind a couple of hours after school with Jakey, yeah?’

  Ben takes a long, drawn-out breath.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ Jake retreats. ‘Settle, bro.’

  I overhear Harley whisper to Mia, ‘Who’s Mel?’

  ‘Ben and Grace’s mum. She teaches biology at that all-girls Catholic school in Port Lawnam.’

  ‘South, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, about twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘I remember Port Lawnam – Dad took me and my brother there a few times, fish and chips by the harbour.’

  Sitting beside Mia, in the shadow of the pine tree, I open my mouth to tell Harley the fish and chip shop is still there, but before I have time to join their conversation, Ben butts in.

  ‘Come over to ours tonight, Harley,’ he suggests. ‘For some beers and a feed.’

  ‘For sure. You still living in that big white house on the headland?’

  ‘That’s the one! End of Walker Street.’ Ben winks, basking in the supposed fame of living in a street named after your family.

  Our school bell sounds for the end of lunch. Standing, I haul my backpack off the ground, slinging it over my shoulder. Mia and I part from the group, dawdling around to the B block for our final class for the week, extension English. She complains about Mr Woodlow as we stroll, annoyed that he still hasn’t let go of Monday morning’s incident. I wipe my palms on my school shorts, wondering what Harley will think of our home, whether Mum will be there bombarding him with questions.

  ‘Grace.’ Mia pokes me in my side, a teasing wide grin on her face. ‘Why are you blushing?’

  With Oatley nipping at our ankles, we hurl our schoolbags over Mia’s picket fence. Late for work as usual, we sprint from Mia’s place down the Avenue to the string of shops that line High Street, the main drag in Marlow. Our leather lace-ups are heavy on the pavement. Beads of sweat collect under our arms, behind our knees. Weaselling our way through a crowd of little grey-haired ladies, we make it into the bakery, my hair falling out of its elastic loop.

  As we scuttle around the counter, Margie crouches behind the display cabinet, words sharp, voice hushed. ‘If I didn’t have customers lined up out the door, I’d give you two a right serving. Now hurry out the back and get changed.’

  Between the benches, cooling racks and ovens, we unbutton our blouses and wriggle into staff shirts. Neither of us really likes the way flour lines our nostrils out the back here, but the bakery and the butcher’s were the only places that would hire the two of us … and with Mia being a vegetarian, we settled for kneading dough and working an ancient till that all too often refuses to open and share its wealth. Plus Margie isn’t all bad. She loves every pie she makes, in particular the avocado, brie and chicken, the sour cream, pumpkin and potato, and of course the classic chunky steak. It’s a love that is evident in the wide curve of her hips. She wears gold bangles that turn white when she handles the dough and clatter when she kneads. We help out a few afternoons a week, and early on Saturday mornings, when the people of Marlow and farmers from the hills queue down the street, all the way to the bank, to buy warm loaves straight from the oven. Hers have a golden crust with a slight crunch and a heavenly soft centre. When we aren’t in trouble, I quite like working here. The skylight out the back is tinted, so I spend most of my time in blue shadows, while Mia stands at the counter dealing with customers. She is a kaleidoscope, and as she works, I watch the way she refracts light, the glorious way in which colours bend and twist around her.

  Mostly, I find myself slicing bread or icing cupcakes, dotting each with lollies or chocolate droplets. When Margie’s brother, a slow giant with a warm smile, is in making pastry, I help him fold it and put it in boxes to freeze. Other than that, I clean. Mia, on the other hand, chats, captivates, listens, learning the latest gossip from Marlow’s circle of pearl-necklace pensioners. Her world is loud with conversation, the bell tinkling above the door every time someone enters or leaves, the crunch of the till drawer when she forces it shut and the clink of coins emptying from purses onto the glass counter.

  Although mere metres away, my world is quiet. I slide between shadows with a wet rag in hand, wiping flour from cool surfaces. Sometimes I close my eyes and let my hand find its way across metal, letting the cloth glide along bench edges, curl around handles and stretch over fridge doors.

  When I glance at Mia packing sourdough into a paper bag and passing it over the counter with words on her lips, I think, maybe boring is easier. Back here, blind in silence.

  I check the mirror twice before changing my top. Navy seems to look better than emerald on olive skin.

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘What?’ My skin warms.

  ‘Harley.’ Mia grins. ‘You like him.’

  ‘I don’t even know him.’

  ‘You want to know him.’ She pinches my cheeks.

  I squirm, laugh forced.

  ‘Grace, you look fine.’

  The boys are in the fibro shed, playing Nintendo on couches that were once yellow but have been worn grey. Nestled in between surfboard racks, a lawnmower and wetsuit hangers, the old TV set lights up their faces as Mari
o and Peach race around pixelated tracks. Crossing the finish line, Jake yells, ‘HA!’ waving his controller. He jumps up for a celebratory dance and knocks over his beer.

  ‘You idiot!’ Ben pushes past him to grab a towel and mop up the mess while the others scramble to save the Nintendo box from the frothy tide.

  When the commotion settles, Mia pauses the game and steps in front of the TV, holding up a paper bag of bakery treats.

  ‘Presents!’

  Together, we hand out the leftovers Margie gives us every week to take home for Fat Friday. We dish out everyone’s favourites.

  ‘Ben,’ Mia says, throwing him two banana muffins and some white choc chip berry scones. I pass an olive roll and two ham and cheese rolls to Toby. Mia passes Jake a custard tart and a jam doughnut before lobbing a plastic bag of pink icing cupcakes at his head.

  Turning to Harley she says, ‘We didn’t know what you would like, so I brought you two finger buns.’ She hands him one with pink icing and coconut flakes and another with white icing and hundreds and thousands.

  ‘Thanks.’ He takes them. ‘You can never go wrong with finger buns.’

  ‘You’re going to fit right in.’ Mia laughs. ‘Is that your van in the driveway?’

  Mouth full, Harley nods, swallows. ‘It was my dad’s, but he can’t drive anymore.’

  Jake butts in, holding up two game cases. ‘Which one?’ Everyone votes for the game in his left hand. Jake, disagreeing, puts on the one in his right.

  Mia pops a bottle of sparkling wine that she’s bought for $3.99. She pours me some in a kid’s plastic mug and I take tiny sips, pretending I’m enjoying it. We’re barely into the first scene when Jake, already halfway through his bag of cupcakes, lights up a cigarette.

  ‘Do you have to?’ Mia rolls her eyes. ‘You’re going to die of cancer.’

  ‘Or will cancer die of me?’

  ‘That doesn’t even make sense.’

  ‘Think about it.’ He taps his finger to her temple and the boys laugh. I scrunch my face, smoke ruining the sweetness of the apple chunks in the Danish Mia and I are sharing.

  Above us, the tin roof is rusted from years beside the sea. Last week’s rain leaked through cracks and we’re sitting now on carpet that smells like wet Monty. On the walls are surfing magazine cut-outs and pictures from the mid eighties of Mum and Dad and their Holden parked on red earth in West Oz with boards stacked on the roof. On the shelves beneath the fishing rod rack are some surfing trophies, mostly Ben’s, and if a surface isn’t covered in dust, it’s covered in sand.

  Relaxing against a pillow that smells of vanilla incense, the one the boys light to mask the smell when they smoke, I look around the room. As they race, Ben’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth. Jake’s foot jackhammers the floor and he holds the controller in one hand, his cigarette in the other. Toby’s torso twists and turns with his character on the screen. And then there is Harley … wedged between them in the middle of the couch as if he’s been here with us since we were kids. His hands own the remote, thumbs and fingers sliding over the buttons as he edges forward on the lounge. On screen, characters emerge from a dark tunnel into an icy cave. The blue light bends around his jawline. He’s in the lead. He beams and says something I don’t quite catch, taunting Jake, who is chasing after in second place.

  Mia elbows me. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a bonfire tonight, on Tarobar Beach, just got a message. Heaps of people are going.’ Mia’s mouth races faster than the characters on screen. ‘It’s for some older guy’s birthday – don’t know who …’

  Harley. His eyes, as blue as the sky on the sea, catch mine. The TV becomes deafening.

  Suddenly, Jake takes the lead, crossing the finish line again in first place.

  ‘Grace!’ Mia elbows me again, I flinch and Harley looks away, leaving me in dead water. ‘It’s only eight o’clock,’ she says. ‘We should go. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure, see what the boys say.’

  Standing up, she turns the TV off to make the announcement. With a unanimous yes vote from all members, we go into the kitchen to fill our esky with ice from the freezer. Mum tells Mia she’s all class for purchasing the absurdly cheap bottle of bubbles.

  Giggling, Mia responds, ‘It’s a wise investment.’

  Embracing the two of us, Mum whispers, ‘Just be safe, girls.’

  Ben straps the esky onto a little wooden wagon we’ve had since we were kids, towing it as he rides on his skateboard down the street with the other boys. Mia mounts her bike, and I climb onto the back, arms wrapped around her stomach as she pedals behind the boys, down High Street and over the hill to Tarobar, the next beach south of Marlow Point.

  I’m curled up on the sand with tails of smoke and dancing flames. Grains stick to my skin, and shift as I move my legs, my bottom. Harley Mathews sits down next to me and the sand shifts again. The fire is blazing, radiating heat. It makes my skin raw and red, but I can’t pull myself away. Someone throws an empty wine cask into the flames and I watch orange and blue dance together.

  Mia is sitting across the circle from me next to a brawny guy with shoulder-length hair and a half-buttoned shirt. He’s at least a few years older than us with curls of brown chest hair. His arm is wrapped around her fine frame, his thumb stroking the side of her breast. Harley’s cotton sleeve brushes my forearm and my hand tightens around my plastic bottle.

  ‘How’s your night?’

  I take a slow sip from the bottle Mia had drained of water and filled with vodka and cranberry juice, waiting a moment to be sure he is talking to me.

  ‘Good,’ a girl says and I turn to see him facing a girl wearing a low-cut singlet on his other side.

  My next sip is a gulp. Vodka burns a hole in my stomach and when I burp, my eyes water. As he chats to her, I spy his hand from the corner of my eye. His beer snug in the stubby holder Ben forced him to use, which reads I remember my first beer.

  Her name is Lilly, she lives in Port Lawnam and it is her brother’s birthday bonfire. She asks why she hasn’t seen him round, saying his face was one she would definitely remember. Harley tells her his family has just moved from the far north coast. She makes some sly comment about him being hot up there. His laugh is awkward and strained.

  ‘Of all the places, why’d your family move to this shithole? Other than sunbaking, there’s nothing to do around here except fish, talk smack and step on cow poo.’

  Harley clears his throat, sips his beer. ‘I used to live here,’ he said. ‘I was born in Marlow. Moved up north for my dad’s job. Shit happened … He got paid out and we came back.’

  I wonder whether Lilly is listening, whether she cares, whether she can feel her heart beating in her throat.

  ‘Oh … Heavy.’

  She tells him she likes sunbaking and photography and has a blog. When Harley asks what she writes about on her blog, she admits she just finds pictures on the internet and reposts them, which makes me feel better because it seems less impressive. He says he has an old Pentax.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A camera … You said you liked photography.’

  ‘Oh!’ She flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘I knew that,’ she laughs. ‘I just forgot.’

  Harley tells her he loves working in the darkroom but his old school had shut theirs down because most of the kids in his class were using digital cameras and a darkroom was expensive to maintain. He says he likes reading, surfing, and used to play a lot of chess.

  I imagine for a moment that I am Lilly, soft-speaking, eloquent and effortless. I bet she knows how to kiss.

  Harley explains that when he was eight, he’d received a glass chess set for Christmas, and all of a sudden I can’t tell if she is laughing at him or with him.

  Harley leans back onto his elbows, distancing himself, and the sand moves again.

  ‘Grace,’ he says as he turns to face me and notices my hands choking the neck of the
plastic bottle. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, just a bit flustered.’ I shake the bottle. ‘Too much maybe.’

  With Harley’s attention no longer on her, Lilly gets up and leaves.

  ‘You don’t drink much, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me either.’ He smiles. ‘I’ve got these, though,’ he says, holding up a packet of marshmallows. ‘Jake and I bought them from that petrol station on the way here.’

  ‘I love marshmallows,’ I admit with a shy grin. ‘We need sticks.’

  Harley stands, brushes sand off his jeans, and then offers his hand to pull me to my feet.

  Slipping into the night, no one notices our silent departure. Drenched in moonlight, we wander over the sand dunes. Creatures of the darkness rustle in bushes and insects hum in the grass while silver waves lap against the shore. Somewhat intoxicated from Mia’s concoction, I follow him through shadows scented by burnt gumleaves, trying not to step on sand dune succulents as we draw closer to the forest. After several minutes of searching, a branch snaps beneath Harley’s shoe. ‘Here!’ Leaning down, Harley breaks two sticks off the fallen branch, handing me one before leading me back to the orange haze.

  Finding our place in the circle, Harley tears open the packet and we each skewer marshmallows onto the ends of our sticks.

  Hot embers fly. Bark flakes from blackened wood on a bed of white ash. We peel back charcoal skin, placing hot gooey marshmallow on our tongues. It sticks to the roofs of our mouths, and as we lick the pink leftovers off our fingertips, I can’t help but notice the way light flickers on his skin.

  I use my sleeve to get the vomit out of her hair.

  ‘I swear you didn’t even drink that much.’ Jake exhales a grey cloud and throws his cigarette in the gutter. Lying back, his shadow is stark. Haze from streetlights drown out stars.

  ‘It was that guy at the end’s fault. He gave me a swig of green something, green fairy.’

  ‘That’s absinthe!’ Ben laughs as she leans over to spew again at the road’s edge.