Eleven Weeks (7 page)

Pull yourself together, bitch!

“Last time I saw you, we were friends. The time before, you basically called me a tramp. Now you’re accusing me of having some dumbass boyfriend? I don’t know where you get your information from, but I’m not seeing anybody. Snap out of it.”

“So who’s sending you texts full of grammatical errors that say they love you?”

I frown. What is he—

Oh God. Seriously?

“My mother, you idiot.” I step around him and keep walking.

Feet shuffle in the gravel and soon he’s by my side again. “Your mum texts like that?” He screws up his nose, his pace easily matching mine. Hell, the man has beanpoles for legs. Jack could climb those things and find a giant at the top, and—

Heat flushes my cheeks again as the image of a potential giant organ at the top of Michael’s legs forms in my brain. Since when did I become so sex-obsessed?

“Why didn’t she stay till the end?” he presses, and all thoughts of his potential appendage fly from my brain. I’m used to people picking on me, but people don’t insult my family. It’s just not what they do.

“Shae’s buying a house and moving out of home, and getting married, and has a promotion at work. Steve is moving out of home and who knows what promotion Sean has now. Scott is off saving the world somewhere still, and Mum doesn’t have time to text in complete words, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand them.”

To prove my point, I bring my phone up to my face and type a few quick words.

Me:
Thanks again for coming. Meant a lot to me.

“So, what are you doing?”

“Hmm?” I stop walking when we reach my car. It’s a hand-me-down from Shae, of course, but I know I’m lucky. Hell, not everyone my age has wheels.

“What are you doing? Your sister and brothers are ruling the world … what are you planning on doing?” Michael leans up against the door of my Corolla.

“Graduating?” I shrug. “Trying to get boys who follow me to stop blocking the entrance to my car?”

“I mean, next year.” Michael gives this easy smile. It’s not enough to calm the panic in my body, though. I hate this question; I hate it with a passion. Especially from
him
.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It’s the year of Stacey; I’m going to live it up.”

He shakes his head. “You must be doing something aside from partying. Kate’s going on tour with us—you’re not jetting off for a gap year? Or working somewhere glamorous?”

He means well. I can hear it in his tone, see it in his smile. Something in those small things breaks me, cracks me open just enough to let seven tiny words spring free from my mouth. “I just haven’t sorted it out yet.”

I must sound as pathetic as I think I do, as suddenly Michael’s hand is on my shoulder, his large chest right in front of me again.

“Hey.” He gives the top of my arm a rough stroke. “You’re not supposed to have it all sorted.”

“Yeah, well, everyone else kinda does, right?” I shrug his hand off. Even though I want nothing more than to let his comfort soak in.

“Yeah, but you know … you don’t have to want to do anything.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to do anything—it’s that I kind of want to do everything.”

“Of course you do.” Michael laughs, his face breaking into a smile, and I instantly feel some relief. Relief about what, I don’t know. That he doesn’t think I’m a drop kick? “Remember that time in tenth grade when you took on every elective possible?”

“I forgot about that.” I giggle along with him. “Who volunteers to do sixteen units when you only have to do ten?” I silently add
and then fails six of them.
I was always good at dreaming; at making plans I couldn’t necessarily follow through.

“But that’s just you, Stace. Hell, even two weeks ago. We were only doing one round of shots, then you had, like, seven …” As he says the words, something flashes over his features. He’s not smiling anymore. He drops his hand.

My phone vibrates and I check the message.

Mum:
U don’t need 2 thank me. Not like I have 2 go 2 ur college grad. Lol.

Silence.

I blink. Look again. But the message is still there.

It shouldn’t surprise me. Hell, my own parents sometimes make “dumb blonde” jokes about me. But knowing hurt is coming, knowing that there’s likely to be pain, doesn’t make you prepared for it.

It doesn’t numb the sting.

Michael’s jaw drops so low, I can practically see his tonsils. I shove my phone in my pocket, desperate to hide the offending item from his view.

“That’s not very supporti—”

“Just leave it.” I put up one hand, using it as a barrier between Michael and myself.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. Those damn eyes are boring into my soul again. How’d he get so good at that? “It’s just that it seems kind of an odd thing for a mother to say.”

“She’s joking. She wrote
LOL
.”

“She probably thinks it means Lots Of Love.”

This time, I give him a look that I hope is somewhere between the Wicked Witch of the East and Cruella de Vil in intensity. “Can I please hop in my car now?”

Michael steps forward, and just as I think he’s finally doing something nice as I asked, he grabs my cell from my pocket and starts rapidly typing into it.

“Give it back.” I lunge for it, but it’s no use. The guy is practically a giant.
With beanstalk legs and a large fictional package …

“Please?” I jump up to try and wrench it from his hands, but all he has to do is subtly shift from his left foot to his right one to keep me from reaching my goal. I grab onto his arm and pull, trying not to notice how good he smells—like pine and soap and man—and wondering if he’s always smelt like that.

“Here.” He hands it back to me.

“What’d you say?” I scroll to the messages section of my phone, but the conversation with Mum isn’t there. “Where … did you delete that conversation?”

“Joke or not, you don’t need something toxic like that in your life.” He’s all serious again. “You shouldn’t let people drag you down, Stacey.”

“Just one more reason why I need you to step away from my car.” I try to lighten the mood. Neither of us is laughing.

“I put my number in your phone”—Michael folds his arms across his chest— “not that I expect you’ll need it. But in case you ever can’t get in touch with Kate while we’re on tour. Or if you need a birthday bacon and egg roll, or something.”

Or if I need a guy to give me a lift home after I have sex with some stranger I can’t remember.

“Thanks.” I pull open my car door and slide into the seat, the engine turning over easily once I start her up. I am fairly sure I’ll delete the number as soon as I get home. I can’t have Michael. He’s more than I deserve.

I wind down my window and wave to him. “It’s been nice knowing ya.” I wink. I know I’ll see him again. Hell, he’s in a band with my best friend’s boyfriend. I have tickets to their show next Wednesday. I’ll be lucky to avoid him.

I accelerate and slowly move away when he raises his hand in the universal
stop
gesture. I slam on the brakes, even though I’m not really going fast enough to justify it.

Michael does a slow jog and halts at my window, resting his hands on the door.

“For the record, I know however many things you do, you’re gonna be great at ’em.”

“Things?” I blink.

“Anything. Everything.” He smiles, and the grin says it all. No matter what career I choose, Michael thinks I can do it. “All the things.”

Warmth floods me, from head to toe.
But they’re only words …
My subconscious is a doubting bitch, apparently.

I smile and dip my head. “Thanks.”

“No worries.” He takes a step back and pats the roof of my car, sending me on my way. I accelerate once more, but I don’t miss his parting words as I pull out of the lot.

“Who names five kids all starting with the same letter, anyway?”

I keep driving.

“And congrats on the drama score!”

When I get home, I go through my car, taking wadded up notes from class and walking them into the garage to throw them in the bin.

It’s dark in the garage, and the smell of metal with a hint of garden permeates the air. I lift open the garbage lid to throw my never-to-be-needed-again notes in, and that’s when I see it, sitting on the top shelf beside a giant box marked
Christmas Decorations
. A small metal tin, covered in black marker, my name scrawled in shaky print on the front.

Memories flash through my mind. Camping down the south coast. Chasing Thunder, our old pet dog. Playing dolls with Shae.

I pull the box down, then wipe the thick layer of dust from my hands on my school skirt.
Not like I need to keep it clean anymore.

I know exactly what’s inside. The letters our teacher, Mrs Harris, made our twelve-year-old selves write to our eighteen-year-old ones. I smile, remembering the big deal Mum and Dad had made of me then. Back when everything was easy and simple, when Dad wanted to keep this memory trapped in a box. I wonder if they even knew we still had it.

The box creaks as I open it, and I pull the yellowed paper out. It smells like crayon, and something else—age, perhaps. I step outside, leaning up against the car to read my words, a smile playing on my lips.

Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Stacey,

Hi! You’re such a grown-up now. I hope you’ve gotten a heap taller, ’cause if not, you’re never going to be able to reach the biscuits Mum keeps on the top shelf of the pantry, and that’d suck.

I also hope you’ve gotten boobs like Shae’s. She has good boobs. All the boys say so.

More than that, I hope you and Shae are still best friends and that you hang out all the time. You won’t make up worlds anymore, or play tip, but maybe you’ll do grown-up things together—go to the movies, or visit cafes and stuff.

You’ll be finished high school, and about to go to uni, like Scott, and maybe you can be a lawyer or something. Something that will let you buy whatever house you want, so you can stay close to Shae and Sean and Scott and Steve. Or, maybe you could just buy a really big house so we can all live together, but so that Shae and you don’t have to share a room anymore. Then you could have sleepovers.

I don’t think you’ll be married, but you’ll have a boyfriend. He’ll be handsome and he’ll kiss you and your knees will feel weak, like Shae says hers do when Danny kisses her. You won’t fall over, though.

I can’t wait to be Eighteen-Year-Old Stacey!

Love,

Twelve-Year-Old Stacey

My heart is lead. It
tick-tock
s like a pendulum inside my chest, a heavy weight pulsing inside me. I bite down on my lip to stop the stupid tears from falling.

I’m not going to university. I doubt I’ll ever earn enough money to buy a house, let alone one big enough for the whole family—but why would I want to? Shae barely speaks to me, and the rest of them I only see on special occasions. I sure as hell don’t have a boyfriend—in fact, the guy I’ve like had a girlfriend, and then got a gig touring the country. Plus, he’s everything good.

I am nothing but trouble.

I crumple the letter up and open my car door, shoving it in my glove box. That one piece of paper is hurting me so much, and yet I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s a reminder that once I thought I could be something.
Do
something.

I grab my bag from the floor of the car, and that’s when I see I see it: a small cardboard box sitting on the floor.

“Shit,” I curse and snatch it up. With shaking hands I lift the lid. A quick tilt south and the silver foil packet comes flying out. On one side, there’s a popped hole where a pill once had been.

On the other, there’s one very-much-still-intact, not-consumed pill.

The one that in my sleep-deprived state, I clearly forgot to take.

Double shit.