Remind Me How This Ends Page 9

  I gulp down the rest of my water. I can’t tell if she’s serious or trying to distract us, but without a script I’m following her lead and side-stepping any triggers that might upset her. Anything to stop me saying or doing the wrong thing.

  ‘Alright,’ I say. ‘But we’re leaving by eight in the morning.’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘No way. Nine.’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Nine fifteen. We’ve gotta get back for your training in the arvo.’

  She swears at herself. ‘At least you remembered that. Hey, any word from Sal?’

  I glance at my phone out of habit, but know there’s still nothing. I shake my head. The only thing that’s changed is the battery has dropped down even further. As I turn off my phone to try to save it, I resist the urge to ask Layla why she didn’t call Kurt.

  * * *

  I lie on my stomach on the car roof and watch Layla rifling through the boot.

  ‘Boring,’ her muffled voice says. ‘There’s just boxes of books.’

  ‘Funny that, in a car owned by a bookstore.’

  I hear laughing, then, ‘Jackpot!’ She pokes her head out of the boot and waves around a Little Bookshop shirt. ‘There’s a whole carton of them in here. All sizes and everything.’

  She passes me her water to hold, then unzips her jeans.

  ‘Er, whatcha doing?’

  ‘Dress-ups.’

  She rolls up her top, baring her stomach, then tugs at her jeans until they’re over her hips. I look away. I’m still recovering from the first time black lace made a surprise appearance.

  ‘Dude, chuck me your belt.’

  ‘Huh?’ I’m still not letting myself look.

  ‘Just face me, dorkatron. You’re safe.’

  Her boots are off. Her jeans are in a heap in the dirt. The top swims on her frame, touching the top of her knees.

  ‘Your belt?’ she says, holding out her hand.

  I roll up to a sitting position, unhook it, then pass it down to her.

  ‘Nearly there.’ She wrestles my belt around her waist, fashioning the top into a dress. A very tiny dress. She leans against the car as she yanks on her boots, then swipes more red onto her lips. ‘Ta da!’ She puckers her mouth and flings her hands into the air, causing everything to ride up. ‘Friggin’ hell. I guess sudden movements are out.’ She readjusts her outfit, then notices the nametag pinned to the pocket. ‘Veronica?’

  ‘Our old weekend manager. She’s in Wollongong now.’

  ‘Veronicaaaa,’ she rolls the word off her tongue. ‘I can be a Veronica.’

  ‘Veronica would never do this. Any of this.’

  Layla ruffles her hair, making it as frizzy as she can. ‘Sure she would. This is such a Veronica thing to do. Now, let me get into character: I’m Veronica, a busy mum with three kids. I’m into scrapbooking, baking wedding cakes for bridezillas, and, when my husband Enrique is at work, knitting sweaters for our sixteen Scottish terriers.’

  ‘Your imagination terrifies me.’

  She grins. ‘Or how about this: I’m Rach, a perky straight-A student who falls for the biggest jock at school, but one day — one seemingly ordinary day — when I’m tutoring him in maths — no, wait, in modern history — at the library, I take off my —’

  ‘Perve.’

  ‘I was going to say glasses, perve. Anyway, I take off my glasses, and then we have an epic pash-off in the history section in front of everyone.’

  Maybe it’s because she looks ridiculous with her puffed-up hair and smudged lips, maybe it’s because she said ‘we have an epic pash-off’, that my brain almost explodes, or maybe it’s a little of both. Whatever it is, my mouth slides into a smirk. I try to hide it before she sees.

  ‘Just be you,’ I say.

  ‘Fine. I’m Layla and I remember when you weren’t so afraid of having fun.’

  I gesture at the trees and the twinkling sky. ‘This isn’t fun? Well, considering the circumstances …’

  ‘It’s getting there,’ she says, kicking at the dirt before closing the boot and climbing up next to me. ‘But remember when you stole your nanna’s false teeth and put them in your mouth? That was fun.’

  I cringe. ‘I’d blocked that out. Don’t you have any good memories of me?’

  ‘All of it’s good,’ she says, squeezing my knee. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this ’cos your ego will grow to the size of the sun, but Mum kinda wanted us to get together one day.’

  My guts somersault.

  ‘Not your dad, though?’ I joke, letting out an awkward snort. ‘It was probably ’cos your mum thought I was boring — a safe option.’

  ‘Please. I wouldn’t be in the middle of friggin’ whoopdee-knows-where if it wasn’t for you. This isn’t like a normal Friday night for me. You’re not as boring as you think you are, MD.’

  ‘Ah, thanks. I think.’

  ‘I never agreed with her, you know? With Mum. About ending up with you.’

  ‘Yeah. Imagine that.’

  ‘Oh, I have.’

  That’s new information.

  ‘Kinda anyway. But back then, I’m pretty sure I imagined marrying every boy I met.’

  ‘Picky, much?’

  ‘The pickiest.’ She laughs, suddenly interested in the scuffs on her boots. ‘I guess I wondered back then if a Dark would be my first one day.’

  ‘First what?’ Then it hits me. ‘That? You did?’

  She bumps her shoulder against mine. ‘Maybe. Too late now though.’ She mouths oops. ‘Don’t tell Dad. He’ll murder Kurt in his sleep.’

  ‘Too late, I’m Snapchatting this conversation.’

  ‘Quiet, you. So have you and Sal …?’

  I nod. Barely enough times to fill a hand, but enough for that answer to be the truth.

  ‘Well. There you go.’

  ‘There you go.’

  Layla scuttles down from the roof and onto the car boot. ‘You were always too scared to kiss me.’

  ‘No way. I mean …’ Jesus. What do I mean? ‘That came out wrong —’

  ‘Hello, spin the bottle six years ago,’ Layla says, coming to my rescue. ‘I ended up making out with Toby that night, remember him? He went in with the tongue and everything. Ballsy move, but I guess it made up for your very public knockback.’

  Okay, she’s not saving me after all.

  But then she smiles. ‘Yep, you were in my museum of hurt or whatever after that. And don’t look so surprised, MD. People always remember the ones who turned them down.’

  Shit. How much longer are we stuck here alone together?

  Layla

  The night has cooled off so we venture into the back seat and push the front seats forward for space.

  ‘Your turn,’ Milo says with a mouth full of Cheezels. ‘Truth or dare?’

  I take the Cheezel looped over his left thumb and pop it in my mouth. ‘Truth.’

  ‘Again? I’m running out of questions.’

  ‘Can’t be bothered moving.’

  ‘Fine. Truth … truth …’ There’s a pause then he clears his throat, building up to asking me another question. ‘So … truth: why’d you really come back? When you left, you were just gone and … I guess I never thought I’d see you again.’

  Just gone. He says the words like I vanished out of existence, and in a way I guess I did. The old me did anyway.

  I can still remember Dad’s fingers digging into my shoulder, shaking me awake. His voice croaked, ‘We’re leaving — not in the morning, right now’, then he told me to get up, move it, get my stuff, stop crying. I was still wrapped in my bedsheet as I screamed for him to let me stay in Durnan, but he continued to tear through the wardrobe, ripping my clothes off hangers and tossing them into suitcases laid open on the carpet. Kneeling on the doona, tears streaking my cheeks, I threatened to run away to my friends, to get Jen, to call the police, but Dad didn’t stop. He was like a machine as he grabbed and threw my belongings into the cases.

  I stopped shrieking when
I realised he was crying too, but I refused to help him pack up our stuff. I clung to every extra minute in Durnan I could. We left most of our belongings behind for removalists to move into storage later, only taking what fitted in the car. Turns out there’s only so much of a life you can fit in a car. As we left town, Dad told me he couldn’t stand one more night in the house where she’d lived. There were too many memories trapped within those walls. He didn’t understand that I needed to spend every second of every minute of every hour of every night in the house where she’d lived. But what I wanted didn’t matter any more.

  Milo clears his throat again. I remember I’m supposed to be answering his question. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Not my business.

  ‘It’s fine … I’m here ’cos … ’cos I have to be. Until I work out what’s next anyway.’

  He nods.

  ‘And yeah, Dad and I left in a rush, but you wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me. Not how I was.’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘One truth at a time, dude.’ I bite my lip, suddenly feeling like I’m playing with my old best friend in the treehouse again, like I can tell him anything. ‘Okay, you want to know why you wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah, ’cos I can’t think of a single reason.’

  Oh, Milo.

  ‘Well …’ I hesitate, realising I’m not sure if I can explain this without sounding bonkers. ‘I … I kinda stopped being me five years ago … and turned into someone else. That must sound weird.’

  I wait for him to scoff or laugh or shift uncomfortably in his seat, but he only waits for the rest to be filled in.

  When I don’t, he clears his throat once again. ‘Who did you become, Lay?’

  I shrug off the sudden thumping in my chest. ‘The girl with the dead mum.’

  His hand edges closer to mine but he doesn’t link our fingers.

  ‘Believe me, no-one knew how to talk to or be around that girl — me — whatever.’ I shrug. ‘And Dad … wow. For him, not being here in Mum’s places and with her people … that was the only thing that worked. So we stayed away and we stopped remembering. Then, years later, he met Shirin.’

  ‘And he came back,’ Milo says, his voice almost a murmur. ‘And so did you.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Couldn’t resist Durnan’s charms, huh?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very charming and almost impossible to resist.’

  I pluck a Cheezel from his hand, then quickly look away. Are we being weird again? Is this flirting? Or have I simply forgotten how to be a normal functioning human and I’m reading way too much into a situation? The latter, I tell myself, always the latter.

  ‘Anyway,’ I add in a rush, ‘you cheated in this game by asking me too many questions and now you have too many answers. So here’s a question for you: is there chocolate somewhere in this car?’

  Milo holds up a block of caramel chocolate, and tears it open to snap off a row before passing it to me.

  ‘Hey, remember that slice we always had at barbecues?’ he says. ‘So good. Caramel, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Cherry.’

  Slice was always Mum’s speciality at those gatherings.

  ‘Right, cherry … so good,’ he repeats as he climbs out of the car. I hear him release a long whistle, then he pokes his head through the window. ‘Hey, come out here for a sec. You’ve gotta see this.’

  I follow him around to the boot. The white moon carves a perfect arc in a sky sprinkled with stars. It’s crisp, tranquil and almost spectacular enough to make me forget we’re stranded off the highway and hundreds of kilometres from a warm bed.

  ‘Here.’ Milo raises a half-eaten row of chocolate to the sky and elbows me to do the same. ‘As promised … to our little mate Skippy, wherever you are. Hope you’re having, or have had, a life packed with great times … and, ah, fingers crossed you’re at peace out there in the bush again. Cheers, champ.’

  ‘You did good.’ I shuffle towards him, closing the gap.

  I rest my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t move away.

  We watch the moon.

  * * *

  Milo’s knee digs into mine. ‘Oi, MD. That hurts.’

  ‘Sorry. Why aren’t you sleeping?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Same.’

  I sit up and gaze out the window. The moon is still burning a white hole in the night. I don’t want to bring up the crash, but the words are building up inside me.

  Milo uncoils himself until he’s sitting next to me, legs stretched out wide. I notice he has chocolate crumbs on his chin, so I lean forward to wipe them off, but he pulls away, the skin near his eyes crinkling with confusion before I even touch him.

  ‘You’ve got stuff on your … doesn’t matter.’

  He clears his throat. ‘Hey, Lay?’

  I sit up a little straighter. ‘Hey, MD?’

  ‘I’m so freakin’ sorry about this — the drive, the car … getting stuck here. We wouldn’t be on the side of a highway if it wasn’t for me. You can’t deny that so don’t even try.’

  I’m so stunned by his vehement apology that I almost laugh. ‘Dude, I’m the one who drove us off the road and towards a tree.’

  ‘But I made us do this … you’ve been through enough.’

  Knew I shouldn’t have told him about me and Dad.

  ‘I was driving us. Chill.’

  ‘I just … everything can fall apart, like in the worst possible way, so fast.’ He hangs his head. ‘Like, when your life changed overnight, in seconds really, I don’t think I got it. I had no idea.’

  ‘MD, we were kids.’

  ‘I thought we’d go back to hanging out normally after a while, you know? Like I hadn’t realised everything was different, even though everything was different. It is so obvious now. What an idiot.’

  I nod, not ’cos I think he’s an idiot, but ’cos I’ve been there too. It took me ages to admit Mum wasn’t paying bills on her laptop in the home office, or outside in the backyard weeding the garden behind the treehouse. Even now I sometimes expect to see her face peeking around the door to my room, especially on birthdays. She always greeted me on my birthday with cupcakes in bed. Cupcakes with rainbow icing.

  ‘I shoulda been there more,’ Milo continues. ‘Maybe you could’ve stayed in Durnan with us, at least for a bit longer. Not that I think you needed rescuing or anything! You’re strong — stronger than anyone I know.’

  That makes me smile. ‘Even more than your boy Murph? Those guns of his are strong.’

  He laughs. I’ve got him.

  ‘I’m being serious! And you know what I mean … or maybe you don’t realise how tough you are. It’s pretty amazing. You’re amazing.’

  Nightfall hides whether he’s managed to say it without blushing. I bet he hasn’t.

  ‘Now who’s being cheesy? Well, if it is amazing then I guess I learnt from someone amazing. Mum was supercool when she caught us digging that tunnel to the North Pole, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, she didn’t tell your dad, even though we’d stuffed up the lawn around the lemon tree.’

  I’d forgotten that part. ‘Did she blame it on the neighbours’ dog? I dunno … but Santa got me an extra present that year for being so enthusiastic about Christmas.’

  ‘He didn’t get me one.’ Milo elbows me. ‘Suck-up.’

  ‘Always.’

  I don’t know if it’s the stolen hours in the night, or the feeling that this strange moment in time between Durnan and Canberra is barely real life, but I suddenly don’t want to forget anything. I’m drawn in. I want to remember.

  ‘Hey, MD?’

  ‘Yeah, Lay?’

  I curl up a little closer to him. ‘Tell me something else about Mum.’

  Milo

  Her head is on my shoulder when she asks me again for a story. I heard her the first time, I’m just light on stuff to say.

  Well, the right stuff to say.

  ‘I’m thinking.’
<
br />   She smiles. ‘Think faster.’

  It’s hard to think fast when she’s close enough to hear my heart thumping in my chest.

  ‘Alright. Got one.’ I clear my throat. ‘Remember when your mum came to parent–teacher interview night dressed as Wonder Woman?’

  Her mouth opens. ‘Do I? How could I forget? She wore Dad’s blue Speedos over her stockings. She had a wedgie … in public.’

  I crack up. ‘I remember.’

  ‘And they were all baggy and saggy from the wash,’ she shakes her head. ‘Oh my God, that’s why we never should’ve dared her to do anything! Shameless. She’d do anything for a laugh.’

  ‘Sounds like you.’

  ‘You didn’t see me strutting around Durnan High in budgie-smugglers.’

  I tug at the uniform clinging to her body. ‘True. But you’ve got potential. Genetics.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She smirks. ‘I liked the time she filled your family’s mailbox with chocolates.’

  ‘Ah, the melted chocolate incident.’

  Layla snorts. ‘She didn’t realise you’d all gone away for the weekend! She wanted to surprise you guys.’

  ‘She did. And they still tasted good.’

  ‘She knew you loved them.’

  I nod, transported back to the day of discovering the soft, squishy bars of chocolate stacked high in our mailbox.

  This is the problem with peeling back the lid on old memories — everything spills out in all directions. Because now when I remember our mailbox, I also remember the Montgomery’s mailbox.

  They sat side by side. They were matching.

  Mum was the first to notice the Montgomerys’ mailbox was heaving over with junk mail. It could’ve been days after the funeral. Maybe weeks. All I know is Dad realised their sedan was missing, too.

  The warning signs were wasted on me and Trent — Layla had become a ghost since the funeral. One minute she was stretched out on the strip of grass between our driveways with her friends, flipping through magazines and listening to music on a portable speaker; the next, she’d disappeared into her house and shut the curtains around her and her dad. I rarely saw her come and go any more, and I never saw him. When she stopped showing up at school, I didn’t question it; just figured I’d skip class too if the same thing happened to me.