Chapter 28 Tangaroa, God of the Sea
tangaroa, god of the sea
Water is energy. It upholds life, and it can take it away.
From the road. To Grandpa. To school. Unease simmers inside me as we file into the hall and claim our places.
“Nobody brought popcorn?” John whisper-cries.
Grandpa sneaks a pack of six puddings from his bag and snaps them, handing one to each oldie with a plastic spoon. “We’d all choke on popcorn. Let’s not scare the kids.”
Trent wags a finger. “And keep your teeth in.”
We’re seated in the middle back, with about ten minutes before the play’s supposed to start. I rest a hand on Trent’s shoulder and murmur, “I’ll find Moana.”
He meets my gaze with a nod and I jog towards the ruckus happening in the sport-equipment area off the main hall. Thirty-odd kids are dressed in varying shades of blue and green with the odd orange spotted between.
Moana yelps. “Dylan! You’re here. Cindy got sick and I’m running behind.”
I wade through fish, seaweed, and shells, excusing myself. Holly leans against the wall at the back, in a turquoise tutu and tights. Glitter sparkles around her eyes and her lips have been turned blue to match the ribbons streaming in her hair.
“Help me attach these waves to the last six,” Moana says, and I hoist up cardboard waves that settle on with straps and rise over the heads of the kids. They need safety-pinning into place, and it’s fiddlier than it first looks.
Finally, only Holly’s is left. Moana is ushering the kiddos out towards the stage in a neat line.
Holly grins up at me as she slides the straps on. “You’re back!”
“Fun holiday?”
She nods. “Can’t believe it’s already back to school on Monday.”
“Still a whole weekend to go.” A clip falls out of Holly’s hair and a streamer comes off.
“Can you put it back in?” she asks.
I carefully slide the clip. “Oops, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got a mole there, Moana scratched it too. Said you have one right there as well. So does my mum. Funny coincidence.”
Coincidence.
Probably is. Moles can show up anywhere. Might be thousands of people with a mole just above their ear.
And yet . . .
Holly jerks a finger at me. “You have green eyes too!”
My hand shakes on the clip as I try again to place it. I chuckle. “If I were a girl, we could be twins.”
She snortle-laughs, and her gaze shifts behind me. I glance back, expecting Moana to be ushering us towards the stage, but it’s Trent. He stands between sport room and hall, watching us, a heaviness in his eyes. Like he overheard. Like he’s aching on my behalf.
“Okay, you’re all done.”
“Nervous,” she groans, moving shakily. “Mum will be watching.”
I still, and then nod. “How nice.”
“She promised she’d clap the loudest.”
A fist balls at my side and Trent is suddenly beside me, taking hold of my hand as Holly shuffles away. “Left Grandpa with John and Pat.” He blocks the view of the hall and rubs his thumb over my fist until it slowly loosens. But he’s upset.
It’s all messed up. Tell her.
She should know.
Confront your mum while you’re at it.
My jaw clenches; I try to rip my fist away. But he holds tight. Easy enough for you to say. This, whatever this is between us, is all messed up too. Tell him. He should know. Confront him about Ika while you’re at it.
Trent leans down. “I—” I honestly think for a moment Trent will grit out that he has. But then he glances away, swallowing. Some confrontations are too hard. His voice softens. “Do you want me to take you away?”
My throat hurts. I shake my head. Not the point. “I promised Moana. And . . . I’ve never missed any of Holly’s plays.”
“Want me to get Grandpa and co. here to hustle you into the hall unseen? Peek between our arms?”
I huff at the image and shuffle to the door. Actually, I can see the stage, and I can see the back of Mum’s head. She’s sitting near the front. I’m probably safe. “I’ll watch from here.”
I lean just far enough to glimpse Holly at the side of the stage, and freeze. Mum’s turning.
The slow tilt of her chin, the faint squint, the searching. Like some draft has curled over her and she’s trying to find where it’s coming from.
Move, my brain says, but my body forgets how.
Trent grabs my arm and yanks me behind the doorframe. My shoulder clips the wall; his body fills the space.
His pulse thrums against mine, breath quick against my hair.
I hear the scrape of a chair, and in my mind, it’s Mum’s. I can even hear her voice, a low rumble to someone beside her. Then a sharp laugh.
The moment moves on.
Only then does Trent whisper, “You okay?”
I nod, but my voice won’t come.
He doesn’t step back right away. Neither do I.
The space continues shrinking, leaving behind our signature silence. The hum that talks.
He still has my hand, holding tight, thumb resting over my pulse like he’s counting it. He shifts me so we can watch the stage at a safer angle—close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that if Mum turned again, he could fold me out of sight.
Behind the curtains, the kids hum their lines, a soft sea before the storm. Mum scratches the back of her head, painted nails glinting as they slide through her hair. Grandpa shuffles his chair into the aisle.
The lights go out.
For a heartbeat, everything holds.
Trent slides his fingers between mine.
I haul in a lungful of air, the first in minutes.
Electric.
The stage lights burst to life.
Whatever this is between us. Is this his answer?
A stolen moment alone in . . . a closet?
It’s laughable, and yet I cannot laugh.
All my senses have sunk to one point: the static slide of our fingers nestling. The clamminess of his palm bumping mine, strongest at the edges. Hot against hotter.
My breath suspends. The world narrows to pulse and heat.
A shiver races outward from where his hand brushes my outer thigh.
My knuckles graze his shorts, the seam of a pocket, a fleeting spark of contact that feels almost deliberate.
This touch. It shouldn’t exist between us. Safer that way.
I lock my fingers firmly around his.
In the dark, even the tanline at my wrist is non-existent.
Keep holding me. Keep tethering me. Keep wanting me.
The play carries on, steady and bright, the world pretending nothing’s happened.
Until the end.
When the wave is supposed to bring the boat of kids safely back to shore, the first of eight in the wave trips, knocking the second. The second falls into the third—a domino effect. A suddenly crashing wave.
The audience laughs.
The ‘wave’ groans; in parts, cries.
The kids in the boat scramble ashore and act like it was always meant to be this way.
The lights go down.
My hand unlaces from Trent’s, slowly. I’m peeling away a secret just in time to clap. The hall lights flare. Grandpa turns, searching for us in the crowd.
The kids bow.
I clap harder, louder, trying to drown the pounding of my heart, the screaming questions in our silence.
Moana steps up, still laughing. “Like life, eh? Waves don’t always go as planned.”
She laughs.
We laugh.
Mum stands.
Her head turns, scanning the rows.
Trent moves, instinctively, sliding in front of me until she and Holly are gone.
Ten minutes later, Trent and I wave off the oldies in their van and walk Grandpa home. Grandpa walks in the middle. Me to his right, pretending not to notice the wide space Trent puts between us.
The night hums with leftover applause and my right hand tingles. “So. Thoughts, Grandpa?”
“Wish I were ten again.” He smiles. “When falling over is something to cry about.”
“I dunno—take away your cane, you can cry about it now.”
Grandpa swats me.
Trent, ahead, unlocks the door and corrals Grandpa away from inflicting any damage.
I stroll down the hall of photos after. The birthday dress-up Grandpa and Dylan Polaroid is framed and up on the wall.
A little apart from the crowd of others.
Like the extended hall is a timeline and we’re on a new part of it.
Trent and Grandpa laugh from the kitchen-dining room and I turn in, scanning that wall of postcards for mine.
“Fridge,” Trent murmurs as he passes me.
And I pivot.
My postcards, pinned with silver-fern magnets.
I let out an easy breath, then drift into the living room, where three suitcases are open and stuffed full of clothes and games and a badly concealed flask. Grandpa slides another pack of puddings beside a shoebox.
Trent confiscates them.
And Grandpa dives on the rest of the luggage. “It’s all coming to the farm.”
“Let’s put perishables in the food bag,” Trent says. “They’ll burst over all your clothes in there.”
I stare at the chaos, blink, and look over to Trent. “How many days will we be gone?”
“Two nights,” Trent says, grimacing.
“Three days,” Grandpa says proudly.
I snort. “Grandpa. Who knew you were so high maintenance.”