7
T HE sun belts through my blinds. It’s still ridiculously hot outside, and the heat of the day is fighting hard against my AC.
I’ve slept for hours, my face heavy and bloated, my head thumping with a dehydration headache.
My book is on the ground beside my bed, spine cracked.
It’s going to look a lot worse in a few more months once school is really humming with exams and assessments and all that – dog-eared, scribbled all over, assaulted with sticky notes, streaked with highlights.
I pick it up and take it downstairs to the kitchen where I stick my head under the tap to guzzle water.
I could drink the entire ocean and still be thirsty.
Although, given its salt content, I’d still be thirsty.
And dead, but whatever. Mum is rustling in the pantry behind me, peering into the depths of its corners.
She turns and spots me. ‘Seriously, Cat? You can’t stretch your arm just a tiny bit to pick up a glass?’
‘It’s all good.’ I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, more to annoy her than anything.
‘Lovely,’ she says. By the look of her hair, she’s had a nanna nap too.
Just to emphasise the point, Nonna lets rip with one of her famous snores from the living room below us, waking herself momentarily.
She looks around, dazed and wild-eyed, then her eyes droop, and her chin drops back down onto her chest. Startled, Matty and Tommy look up from their video game and then crack up laughing.
‘For such a tiny thing she has a shocker snore,’ I tell Mum. ‘When did she get here?’
‘About an hour ago,’ she answers. ‘We could hear you snoring from outside.’
‘Funny.’ I reach behind her for one of Nonna’s home-made lemon cookies.
‘Man, how hot is it? Is the air con even on?’ I lift my ponytail off the back of my neck.
A little river of sweat channels down my spine.
If I think about it, the metaphor would probably be a creek.
Or do I mean analogy? I’m already sick of searching for metaphors.
I look down towards the beach. The ocean’s like a millpond, and hello, there’s another analogy.
Ugh. Even from here I can see the tide’s edge a long way out, without a hint of waves.
Well, that explains why Paul was here, wanting to work.
The Neanderthals always seem at a loss when there are no waves, unsettled, like the entire purpose of their being has been swept away with the tide.
‘How weird are time zones?’ I wave my phone at Mum, notifications empty. ‘It’s the middle of the night in London. Em will wake up to messages from me and when she answers I’ll be asleep.’
‘Hmph,’ says Mum. ‘Well, that’s good timing with Paul, isn’t it?’
‘What “with Paul”? What are you implying, mother?’
‘Nothing, nothing, of course. It’s good that you have someone to hang out with.’
‘It’s hardly hanging out.’ I turn back to my book. ‘He’s working for you and Dad. It’s not like we’re friends. Until yesterday I’d never said two words to him.’
‘Well, you are going on a date with him tonight, that’s hanging out. You can get to know him more before he starts.’
‘A date? Hardly! It’s a party full of Neanderthals and deadshits, and I don’t even know why I said yes. I have far too much to think about to be surrounded by shitheads. If he turns up, which I highly doubt, you can just tell him I’m not home.’
‘I’ll do no such thing, Cat. If you don’t want to go you can give him the courtesy of telling him yourself. Anyway, why wouldn’t you want to go? You love parties.’
It’s true, especially school parties. My school is the only private school in a one-hundred-kilometre radius.
So, when there’s a party, we travel from all over to get there.
The collective vibe of parents is that it’s preferable for some poor sucker parent to host the kids.
We party, we go back to someone’s house in a big group to lie on their living room floor in sleeping bags.
We chat for hours, sleep for maybe twenty minutes, then the host mum or dad cooks us up bacon and eggs before our parents pick us up.
‘I love them when I have actual friends to hang with, not just some random here to make some cash with you guys.’
‘I think you’re being unfair, Cat. He seems like a nice guy, good manners, polite, and, well, there’s no denying he’s super cute. Speaking of which, what a meet-cute!’
‘A what?’
‘You know, when you meet someone and it’s sweet and romantic. Very Hollywood. Meet cute. Or is it cute meet? If we’re talking Paul, it’s cute meat, m-e-a-t, let’s get real, am I right?’ She holds up a hand for me to high five, and mock groans when I leave her hanging.
‘That’s objectifying, mother. I’m truly ashamed of you.’
‘You’re right, and while I might be your mother, I’m not blind, Cat. That boy is yummo.’ She bites her knuckle and winks at me. I can’t help but laugh.
‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘It will do you good to get your head out of a book for a while. You’re going to burn yourself out before you even begin.’
‘Ugh, Mum, again? You’ve been on my back about not overdoing it since the Information Night. There’s no chance of burning out when I don’t even have half my books, is there?’
‘Let’s worry about your books next week when the bookstore opens. Tonight, forget about Year Twelve for a while. Have some fun.’
She’s just getting warmed up, so I brace myself.
‘All right, I’m ready. Give me your speech.’
‘What speech? All I’m saying is, you’ve been invited to a party, you’ve said yes, your date’s a nice guy, you’re a beautiful, lovely girl, together you’ll have a fun time.’
‘Mum! Can you please stop calling him my date? It’s just a beach party!’
‘I used to love beach parties.’ A look of nostalgia washes across Mum’s face. ‘But be smart. Walk on the beach, not the bush paths. And don’t go off on your own, stay with your “date”.’
She uses her fingers as quotation marks with the word ‘date’.
‘You know the keep safe rules. Don’t have more than three drinks, make sure you open them yourself, if someone hands you an opened drink just say, “no, thank you”.
If you put your drink down, don’t pick it up again.
I had my drink spiked at uni. I woke up in your father’s car with no memory of getting there.
He could have had his wicked way with me but there’s nothing wicked about him.
Or nothing wicked that I can share with you, my darling daughter. ’
‘That’s a beautiful story, Mum, thank you,’ I hold her hands and stare into her eyes. ‘I genuinely have no words to describe how much I’m enjoying this conversation. This closeness between us? Can it stop? Please?’
Mum holds my gaze. ‘All I’m saying is don’t do anything that you couldn’t comfortably tell us. But if you do, make sure you use protection. I’m not talking about Paul, obviously, or tonight. Although, I hope you know you can tell me anything. Anything and everything, Cat.’
‘Okay, Mum, I think we’re done here.’ I pick up my book.
‘Cat, you’re 17-years-old,’ she says and walks to the kitchen. ‘You know we trust you, and you know our expectations of you. You have a whole summer in front of you to get ready for Year Twelve. Stop overthinking everything.’