Head First

Chapter 1

‘Can you believe this?’ Millie thrusts her phone closer to my face.

‘Believe what?’ I ask, squinting at the screen, attempting to decipher the scientific garble she’s pulled up.

We’re sitting on my couch while The Bachelor is paused in the background.

‘Him!’ Millie exclaims with a huff. ‘Hugh Harris!’

‘Oh,’ I say, realisation dawning on me. Like Millie, Hugh Harris is a marine biologist, but he’s based out of Sydney and he happens to disagree with everything Millie publishes. He’s a know-it-all. Millie never shuts up about it.

She inches closer to me on the couch, as if bringing the phone as close to my face as physically possible will make me sympathise with her faster. I take the phone out of her grasp and zoom in on an article titled ‘Coral Bleaching Is No Longer the Biggest Problem Facing the Great Barrier Reef – and the Butterfly Wrasse Can Prove it’.

I haven’t read The Marinist since I studied marine biology in college, but I proofread all of Millie’s stuff, so I know this article. For the past two years, she’s been on the hunt for the butterfly wrasse, a little purple fish with a yellow stripe and a nubby fin on its belly. I thought it sounded cute at first – kind of like Millie’s own Finding Nemo , but after listening to her drone on and on about how she thinks the species survived its supposed extinction, and what that means for coral regeneration in the Great Barrier Reef, I don’t think it’s cute anymore. If I have to hear her say one more time that fund-raising efforts to stop coral bleaching should be redirected to stop fertiliser runoff from banana farms, my head will explode.

Millie heaves an impatient sigh, tired of waiting for me to validate her annoyance, so I scroll to the problem area — the comments section.

@HughHarris As a marine biologist with a university degree from the top marine biology programme in the world, I do not agree with Millicent’s claims. Considering the rate at which staghorn corals were bleached, there is almost a zero per cent chance the butterfly wrasse has survived. Regardless, the severity of coral bleaching should not be dismissed. Also, @milliepaxton, you missed a comma in the second sentence.

@santabarbaraecowarriors21 If biologists @millie-paxton @hughharris can’t even agree on basic facts – like, let’s say, SPECIES EXTINCTION, how do they have the right to tell us what to fund-raise for?!

@greatbarrierreefscuba818 They don’t. And

@millie-paxton lives in Ohio. How would she know?

My mouth falls open. ‘I didn’t miss a com—’ I start to say, scrolling back up to the second sentence of the article. I stop short because, unfortunately, Hugh is right. There is not a comma where a comma should be.

‘That’s beside the point,’ Millie says sternly, swiping her phone back out of my hands. ‘He is undermining me in front of everyone . And touting his university degree like I don’t have the same degree !’

‘You’re right,’ I agree, although it takes a herculean effort for me to shake off my wounded pride.

‘Not only did he call me Millicent , which he knows is not my name — we’ve been in the same Zoom meeting before — but he’s wrong! Coral bleaching isn’t the biggest threat to marine wildlife — pollution is!’

‘He’s completely undermining you.’ I bob my head in agreement with her. ‘Which is a shame, considering you have equivalent degrees and the exact same job title.’

‘I know!’ Millie yelps, startling my dog, Murphy, who lazily raises his shaggy head off the couch and opens a big brown eye at Millie. ‘Sorry, Murph,’ she says, scratching him behind the ears. She settles back into her seat.

‘He also didn’t need to say he has a degree from a top marine biology programme,’ I snort. ‘What does he think you have? A certificate from www.makemeabiologist.com?’

Millie laughs and then starts typing furiously. ‘How about – when I find this fish you can kiss my wrasse,’ she mumbles under her breath, her fingers jabbing at her phone.

‘Millie!’ I cry, grabbing the phone out of her hands before she spontaneously presses ‘send’. ‘You can’t say that! Isn’t this something you wrote for work?’

‘Fine.’ Millie huffs. She crosses her arms across her chest. ‘You do it then. You’re better at this kind of stuff.’

I raise an eyebrow at her. ‘What kind of stuff?’

‘The boring stuff,’ she answers automatically. She flushes red when she sees the dismayed look on my face. ‘You’re better at being a professional. And you’re better at grammar,’ she corrects sheepishly.

‘Usually,’ I mutter under my breath, still smarting at Hugh’s comment about the comma. But Millie is right. I am a self-proclaimed grammar snob. And I happen to be excellent at being boring. I sigh and type out a draft of a respectably passive-aggressive comment.

@HughHarris Just because the butterfly wrasse has not been spotted does not mean it is extinct. I’m not sure what you learned while at university, but I think we can both agree we should not engage in inaccurately creating quotable statistics with no proof to back them up.

Millie reads it, nodding viciously, and gives the OK to send. I feel a wave of pride. Take that, Hugh Harris! I think as I press play on The Bachelor . We both turn our attention to my small TV, where we have been dutifully watching for the past five seasons. Tonight was the first night ever that we almost cancelled even though both of us were in town. I felt weird watching a reality show while we waited for Millie’s results, but she insisted.

We haven’t been watching for more than five minutes before Millie heaves a great sigh.

No, Millie , I think, panicked, don’t think about it . After a minute or two of silence, I get up the courage to pause the show and ask, ‘What are you thinking about?’ I hold my breath. I don’t think I want to hear her answer.

‘That Mom had the nerve to name me Millicent , and you got to be named Anderson,’ she huffs. I almost cry with relief.

‘Shut up,’ I respond, laughing. ‘That is the only good thing from Mom that I got. You got her ass.’ I twist my neck to glance at my behind, which is stubbornly small in comparison to my thighs, no matter the amount of glute bridges I force myself to do at the tiny gym in my apartment building.

‘And you got her hair.’ I press my hands to my scalp to try to tame the frizz. Millie and I both have curly brown hair, but she manages to keep hers sleek, and mine is an unruly, untameable ball.

I joke about it, but sometimes I think Millie’s inheritance of our mother’s best traits — her dark curly hair and strong nose — were the first indicators of my sister’s first-born personality. She unapologetically takes what she wants.

‘Don’t say what you always say,’ I warn Millie, as she opens her mouth to speak, her full lips forming an O shape.

‘But everyone says we look like twins!’ both of us repeat together, although I’m using a mocking tone and Millie is deadly serious. I’ve never told Millie, although I suspect she knows, that being told I look like her is the nicest compliment I get. I could do a lot worse than being a softer version of her, a version with frizzier hair, thicker thighs, less-defined cheekbones and lighter-coloured eyes.

We have this back-and-forth all the time, and only once it’s over do I realise that this week, it could have gone much differently. I feel a crushing wave of guilt that I just complained about my hair when Millie discovered a lump in her breast last Thursday. The lump, which Millie, true to form, nicknamed Sal, is the reason I suggested we cancel tonight, but here she is, inhaling a glass of Pinot Noir, insisting there’s nothing to worry about.

Millie waves her hand at me, mimicking pressing a button on a remote, impatient for us to continue watching the show.

I press play. The bachelor is laying out a blanket for a beach picnic, and a contestant is popping champagne. She’s either blissfully happy about being on a date with the bachelor or someone slipped her mushrooms – I can’t tell which. Either way, I feel a twinge of jealousy that there are people out there experiencing that much emotion. Even during my last relationship, sometimes it felt like my dog, Murphy, was the only thing that could pull my heartstrings. Well, except Millie’s breast lump, Sal, which has shredded my heartstrings into oblivion.

After a few minutes Millie’s phone dings again.

‘OMG.’ She sits straight up. ‘Hugh already commented back.’

‘Isn’t he in Australia?’ I ask, thinking back to what Millie has told me about Hugh Harris. Millie says his accent gives him an ‘unfair and unearned’ advantage when they both go up for lecturing opportunities on the same circuit.

‘It’s morning for them,’ she informs me, furrowing her brow at her phone. ‘Look!’

@MilliePaxton Contrary to your belief, I learnt not to ‘create statistics’ while at university. If you read closely, you would see that I said ‘almost’. Your logic needs work. And, just so you’re aware, ITLOS plans to certify that the butterfly wrasse is extinct in 2026. Good luck finding one before then. Especially considering, as one savvy commenter pointed out, you live in Ohio.

‘He did not,’ I gasp. Murphy barks at my tone. ‘He criticised my grammar again! Learnt?! That isn’t a thing!’ I’m infuriated.

‘Technically,’ Millie reminds me, ‘he thinks he’s criticising me. And he’s gonna wish he never opened his mouth when I find that fish.’

For months now, Millie has been planning a trip to the Great Barrier Reef over her Christmas break. I tune out her rant about the boat she’s booked – it’s small and nimble, stopping at the reefs that had the highest rate of butterfly wrasse sightings in 2018.

Instead, I click on Hugh’s Twitter handle to pull up his profile. His picture is fuzzy – a crop of shaggy blond hair, glasses, and a strong jaw is all I can make out.

‘Is he cute?’ I ask Millie. I’m irked at Hugh’s condescending and haughty tone, but I’m also curious . . . I can’t remember the last time I saw someone get under Millie’s skin.

‘Finally back on the prowl?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows.

‘As if,’ I reply, doing my best to give her a withering glare. I broke up with Zach three months ago, effectively imploding my entire life, and for the past two weeks, Millie hasn’t stopped hounding me to see if she can set me up with her new co-worker. She claims two months is ‘standard break-up mourning period’. And even though I’ve tried to explain to her that turning down a proposal is a lot different than a normal breakup and that I don’t want another version of the guy I just broke up with — born and raised in Columbus, obsessed with football, hates trying new restaurants, timidly nice — she won’t take no for an answer.

Millie snorts. ‘Whatever you say. Technically, I haven’t seen him in person, just online. But if you’re into pompous jerks, then I guess he is.’

I give her a sideways glance. ‘Well, shouldn’t we respond?’ I reach for her phone, ready to defend my honour as a self-proclaimed grammar snob, but it’s wedged firmly between her thigh and the armrest of the couch.

‘We don’t need to,’ she says. ‘Now do you see why this trip is so important to me? Spotting the butterfly wrasse will be the best comeback there is.’ She folds her arms defiantly and leans back into the couch. ‘Fourteen days until he’s proven wrong.’

When I turn the TV off, Millie stretches out her arms and nudges Murphy’s head off her lap. She winces as she stands, a reminder of the procedure she had done last week. The doctors are sending in her sample to determine if the lump in her breast is benign and the results won’t be back for three more days. The wait seems excruciatingly long to me, but Millie took it in her stride.

‘Andi?’ Millie asks, turning to face me. ‘I want to ask you something . . .’ She wrings her hands and immediately, I’m consumed by nerves. Millie is never hesitant, and I don’t like seeing her this way.

‘What’s up?’ I as k, as nonchalantly as possible.

‘Well . . .’ Millie pauses and starts petting Murphy’s head. ‘Well, you know my trip?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod, like Millie’s given me the chance to forget it. We were talking about it no less than ten minutes ago.

‘I was just thinking that if I can’t go . . .’ She trails off and looks at me, her eyes pleading.

‘You’re going to be able to go. Didn’t the doctor say he thinks, based on the location and stuff, that the lump,’ I correct myself, ‘that Sal is benign?’

‘Well, yeah, but I was thinking today that, just in case, if I can’t go, you could maybe go instead of me?’

My mouth falls open slightly and I blink at Millie. ‘I can’t do that. I’m not a marine biologist. Also, everything is in your name.’ The more I think about it, the crazier it sounds. Millie has had some insane ideas in the past – dyeing Murphy’s hair green for St Patrick’s Day, convincing our dad to eat a weed brownie, but this takes the cake.

‘But you got a bachelor’s degree in marine science – and you know how to take photos! It’ll be easy! And you’re scuba certified!’ Millie counters, her eyes gleaming, clearly prepared for the argument. ‘And everyone says we look alike, and the visa only takes, like, two days to process, you have plenty of time. Plus, it’s over Christmas break anyways, so no one at work will know that I didn’t go. I’ll get a fake tan and pretend that I went . . .’ She pauses and swallows. ‘Don’t tell me I told you so, but a lot of the trip is non-refundable. It was so much cheaper to do it that way. All that money shouldn’t just go to waste . . .’

‘Millie—’ I try to erase the annoyance in my tone ‘—this is crazy. And . . .’ I hesitate because my voice starts to break. ‘I don’t even want to entertain the possibility that you can’t go. Why are we talking about this now when we don’t know anything?’

At this, Millie softens. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘We don’t have to decide now. It just could be nice for you to . . . you know . . . get out there. And you’d be doing me a huge favour . . .’

I huff. ‘I know how to get myself out there, I’m just not ready.’

‘Andi, I’m not asking you to be ready for anything romantic , I just think it could be good for you to get out of Columbus for a little. So much of your life has changed lately, maybe a vacation will help make sense of that!’ she says excitedly, clearly attempting to lighten the mood.

‘Ugh,’ I groan. ‘I don’t need a vacation. I’m doing fine.’ I gesture at my apartment. ‘My house is clean, Murphy is fed. I’ve hardly cried. I’m fine.’

Millie raises her eyebrows at me in an expression of disbelief that only older sisters can truly master. ‘Right,’ she says, her voice sharp, ‘because all I dream for your life is one that’s fine. Not great, not good, but fine.’

I raise an eyebrow at her.

She grins. ‘So, you’ll think about it? Just in case?’

‘Yes,’ I lie. No way , I’m thinking. Not a chance. I’m good here. In my apartment with Murphy . But as Millie scoots out the door into the freezing Columbus November, I can’t help but think about the sun of the South Pacific on my skin.