Chapter 15 Razor Clams
razor clams
Bury themselves deep in the sand.
By midday Sara’s gone, and the house smells of toast and retreat.
Grandpa claps his hands like we’re about to set sail. “Right! We’re taking the chicken for a walk.”
I blink at him.
He’s already hobbling towards the back door. “Grab the leash.”
That makes Trent freeze mid-dishwasher-emptying. He shakes his head, then busies himself stacking plates, his gaze straying towards the pantry, to me, and quickly back to the dishwasher.
I glance between him and Grandpa. Both are making me frown. “What on earth’s going through your mind?”
Grandpa answers, “I’m going to be that eccentric old bugger people talk about fondly when I’ve carked it. You can be my handler.”
“I’d rather be the chicken.”
“You’re that already. I’ll walk you both.”
What did that mean?
I shake it off, and by the time I find the leash (a repurposed dog lead, faded pink, bejewelled clip), Grandpa’s coaxing the chicken from under the deck with bribes of cornflakes. Trent keeps pausing at the pantry.
“Coming?” I call to him.
He shakes his head without looking. “Sorry, Ika. Got some work to finish.”
I rock on my heels, hard. That Ika was defiant. Like there’s a message there. I swallow. “Ah, urgent paperwork. The noble coward’s excuse.” I pause. “To avoid chicken-walking.”
That earns me a quiet frown. I sigh and let him linger in it.
I turn to Grandpa. “Let’s start the poultry parade.”
The walk starts with dignity. Ends without it.
Grandpa sets a slow shuffle pace, cane in one hand, leash in the other, until his back twinges and I inherit the leash.
“Grandpa,” I hiss, “people are staring.”
“They’re jealous.”
“They’re debating whether to call the animal police.”
He beams. “Something to remember!”
The chicken struts, quite happy with this strange arrangement. Especially when her leash tangles with my legs.
I narrow eyes at her.
She narrows eyes at me.
Grandpa hums some Zeppelin to go with his shirt. I’m halfway between mortified and hysterical when the beach comes into view, and just when I’m ready to smuggle the chicken into my jacket and bus home, two of Grandpa’s daycare mates materialise.
Of course, he wants to pause there a minute to chinwag.
“Clara’s scared of anything with feathers. If you could . . .” Grandpa urges me further along the beach. I mutter, but he’s already deep in reminiscence. One concrete block of stairs and a stretch of sand away, the chicken jerks, flaps, and bolts. The leash yanks my fingers before slipping free.
“Shit—”
The chicken barrels towards the dunes.
I spin, phone out, calling Trent before I can talk myself down.
“Emergency,” I pant when he picks up. “She’s gone rogue.”
“What? Who?”
“The chicken, who else?”
A pause. “You’re serious.”
“Do I sound unserious? Bring the truck. And maybe breadcrumbs.”
The chicken sprints around me in circles.
When I’m dizzy and she’s done with that, she darts past a couple of kiddos on a picnic rug, flapping her wings like she’s trying to take flight. Sand goes airborne, along with some chippies. The seagulls go feral.
The kids crack up laughing.
“Come back here. Honestly, McChicken nightmare!”
The leash trails behind like a streamer of my shame. I’m halfway across the sand when my phone buzzes. Trent. “Where are you?”
“Halfway to a heart attack!” I puff. “Dog-beach end, follow the kids’ squeals.”
Two barefoot boys shout, “Get her, get her!”
“I’m trying!”
The chicken veers up into the dunes. An area that’s supposed to be left untouched. Great. Now I’m an environmental criminal too.
By the time Trent’s truck screeches into view, there’s a small cheering section forming.
He jumps out, takes one look at the situation, and decides to watch with the kiddos. Laughing. “To your left, Ika.”
I growl.
“Behind you, Ika.”
“You better watch out.” I’m not just talking to the chicken.
Trent finally kicks off his boots and joins the chaos.
“Divide and conquer,” he orders. “You go wide.”
“What does that even mean?” I shout, stumbling through soft sand.
We circle. The kids fan out, herding the chicken like sheepdogs. For a glorious second, it looks like it might work . . . and then she jukes between us with professional agility.
“I give up,” I gasp, but lunge again and puff up sand.
Trent, panting beside me, grins, then he lunges and gets a hand on her tailfeathers—
She explodes in a spray of sand and feathers; he straightens slowly, empty handed and covered in sand.
A little boy passes him the leash she’s wrangled free of. “You’re being bested by a bird.”
Trent takes it, nodding gravely. Then his gaze flicks over to me. “I really want to catch her, but I’m not sure I can.”
I can’t help laughing, loud, stupid, but also frustrated. “Going to let her go, then?”
“Can’t. Grandpa loves her.”
We stare at one another.
The kiddos laugh around us and one boy manages a perfect tackle—he comes to us, holding her out like an offering.
I whisper, “Be gentle.”
Trent whispers back, “Talking to the kid, or to me?”
The tension shifts, light, dangerous. We move in together, both reaching. Our hands meet first. Then feathers. Then success.
A chorus of small cheers goes up along with some disappointed squawks from seagulls.
The kids scatter back to their parents, leaving us alone by the tussocky dunes. I can feel the burn in my legs, the pulse in my throat, and the weight of Trent’s hand still brushing mine as he steers the leash back on.
“Why?” I blurt.
He looks over at me and reads the rest of the question in my eyes. Why is he acting like this? Distanced, but not. Like he wants to let go of any Dylan, but must cling tighter to Ika. Why hasn’t he mentioned the fake boyfriend act all day?
His lips press together and he lowers himself to the sand with the chicken. He pets her feathers as he considers his words, and then looks over at me where I’ve crouched beside him.
“I like you. I’m attracted to you.”
It’s a flurry of punches that rob me of breath.
Then the biggest punch:
“And I don’t want to cross that line.”
I feel something unspooling inside me. It feels raw and messy, and I’m close to a hiccup.
I swallow it down and hold his gaze. My name slipping from his mouth, his whispered confessions, my photo in his wallet.
I whisper croakily, “But you were already crossing it.”
It wasn’t just me.
Trent looks towards the turquoise ocean and nods. “But this morning I realised things were getting . . . If I mess this up, Grandpa loses his smiles and you lose your studio. I won’t be the reason for either.”
My throat is thick and aching. But I can’t even curse him for it because Grandpa . . . I want his smiles too, no matter how eccentric.
I get it. Totally.
Maybe I even encouraged this. My warning: Careful you don’t make a mistake that’ll cost you Grandpa.
I meant it. I mean it.
Grandpa’s voice has us both jerking to our feet. “What’s all the commotion! I could hear you screaming from the rockpools.”
Grandpa, Trent, and the chicken bundle into the truck.
“Sure you don’t want to ride back with us?” Grandpa says, half hanging out the passenger window. I urge him back inside.
“Friend just messaged. I’m going to meet her.”
Trent looks over Grandpa at me and I drop my gaze, pushing back from the curb. “Later, I guess.”
But I don’t go back later. There’s work to do, reading through the play Moana wrote for the school holiday production. I tell her it’s best if I crash on her couch and work on it all night.
She shakes her head. “Whatever it is, staying here won’t solve it.”
She feeds me dinner and brings me a blanket anyway.
I use her laptop to read through the play.
It’s about a fictionalised Tangaroa, God of the Sea, reborn as a boy who’s forgotten where he belongs.
A group of beach kids take him out on the water and introduce him to his ocean kin until he remembers—only for the children to find themselves lost at sea.
Moved by their kindness, Tangaroa summons a storm, and a giant wave lifts the kids and carries them safely home.
“What do you think?” she asks, handing me cookies.
“You should become a writer.”
She snorts. “That pays as well as acting.”
“The only thing . . .”
She winces, readying herself for it.
“I mean, it’s basically a tsunami that carries them back home. Aren’t we supposed to be afraid of big waves?”
She thinks about this a moment and leans in to nab a cookie for herself. Her eyes shift to mine. “Maybe not all waves.”
This . . . I can’t sit still. I curl a finger towards the wine bottle on the table, and Moana pours. Cling-cling.
I don’t go back to Grandpa’s the next night, either.
I head to another mate’s place, and perfect the ancient art of Not Being There: arrive home after midnight, leave before dawn, and develop a passionate relationship with the creaky side gate.
Once, I catch a glimpse of The Flooder through the kitchen window, head bowed over his laptop, one hand curled around a mug. He doesn’t see me. I don’t let him.
It feels . . . childish.
Like stomping on a sandcastle because it’s not perfect enough, the walls crooked, the moat not holding water.
I regret it.
But I also can’t help it.
Because he could read me from first sight. And I’d started to want that.
To be read. To be seen.
He hadn’t finished seeing me.