likely to yell at you.’
‘No, I’ve changed my mind, don’t tell her it was me.’ I must maintain my status as Mariella’s favourite.
‘I backed into the garbage bins the other day. It’s fine. She has three more sons who will be driving this car. It has many scratches in its future. Especially with Zach behind the wheel.’
Zach is an especially terrible driver, even worse than me. He got pulled over by police when he was on his L-plates for going too slow, which is now one of his family’s favourite stories.
‘I think it’s okay,’ I say, standing up.
‘Good.’
‘Okay, I’m going now.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I walk to my gate and then turn back. He’s sitting in the car. He hasn’t started it. He winds down his window and waves me back to him.
‘You can text me next time you need a ride, if you want.’
I have no idea what he means. ‘Are you an Uber driver on the side?’
‘No! I mean I can maybe pick you up if you’re coming to my house and you need a lift and you have no other way of getting there. Like, as a favour. Or whatever. Don’t even worry about it.’ Now he looks flustered.
‘Okay,’ I say.
What is happening?
Later, I sit on my bed and look at my phone and will a text message from him to appear on my screen, but it doesn’t.
I text Zach and Lucy and apologise for being dramatic and awful. Lucy texts me back rows of hearts, and Zach sends me the thumbs up. I then hide my phone in my cupboard for an hour, to stop myself from checking whether Alex has texted me (even though he has no reason at all to text me), and then after the hour is up, I rush to look at it.
Nothing, of course.
I hate that desperate clutch of hope before you turn your phone over and then the feeling of sick disappointment when nothing is there.
8
Sun and Sand and Girls in Bikinis
‘This is going to be so much fun,’ Lucy says, for maybe the tenth time.
‘I know.’
It’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re at Zach’s family’s beach house. It’s a ramshackle two-storey weatherboard in Queenscliff, inherited from a great aunt, and Zach’s family share it with a bunch of other family members. They’ve spent a week here every summer for the last ten years.
I’ve never been to the beach house before. Last summer, I was invited, but I made an excuse not to go, in part because I was working most days washing dishes in the kitchen of a local cafe and in part because I hate the beach. Of course I hate the beach. It’s the next logical step after hating summer, and I hate summer. It’s not a blanket hatred. I like sunshine. I like looking at and walking alongside the ocean. I can appreciate that some people like sand. I understand that it’s nice to be warm. I sometimes even like being in the ocean (not over my head, and not if there is any seaweed or waves). But hot weather and the beach means wearing bathers, which means revealing my body, with all its scars and stretch marks and other flaws.
I hate the beach because I hate being the only person wearing a T-shirt in the water.
Winter is my season. Long coats, boots, big jumpers, puffer vests, beanies, giant scarfs, jackets with hoods. These are the safety blankets for anyone who is uncomfortable in their skin. On a really cold, wet day, you can hide everything but a sliver of your face. It is a joy. A freedom that people who aren’t anxious about their bodies cannot understand. Only people with nothing to hide love summer. Plus, when it’s cold and raining, no one questions why you want to stay inside and read.
But this summer I don’t have a job. The cafe I worked in closed down and, despite me dropping my resume into every shop and cafe within walking or public-transport distance, no one wants to hire an awkward eighteen-year-old with dishwashing experience and not much else. I have no money, no commitments and no excuses.
So, here I am. If nothing else, I’m away from my parents, and that’s becoming a major plus. I can’t stand the way they talk to each other now. All faux-politeness, careful discussions, phrases straight from therapy and looking at me with concerned eyes after every conversation to gauge how much they might be damaging me, even while they congratulate each other on having such