Silver Tides (Silver Tides Series) (6 page)

After school we drove along the waterfront to go to Baskin Robbins; it was the long way to get there considering the school was just down the road, but John seemed to enjoy watching the many moods of the blue bay.

John found a car park directly in front of the shop, and I began to wonder if good luck followed him around as we entered the shop. The fluorescent lights made everything in the ice cream parlor too white. The floor was still slick from recently being mopped, a fact attested to by the yellow and black warning sign with the man who looked like he was doing the hokey-pokey.

"Mya, right?" exclaimed the overly excited ice-cream girl without taking a breath. "I totally saw you on TV! You're like a hero! And you must be the guy… wow, total hottie! So I read you've lost your memory. That's so sad. I guess you're here to rediscover what ice cream you love. You can taste all the flavors and choose a sundae on the house. My parents will be totally cool with it."

"I'm happy to pay for the sundae if we can have the free samples," I replied, politely.

"Puhlease," she rolled her eyes. "Learn to accept kind gestures. Let's get tasting! Vanilla is a good place to start; it's surprisingly one of our most popular flavors." She gave us each a small pink spoon of vanilla ice cream to taste.

"I personally think if you're going to get professional ice cream like BR, you should get something more fancy than vanilla," she told us as if she was sharing a secret conspiracy. "Vanilla is such a supermarket ice cream."

"I like the cookie dough," I said, trying to get a word in through her endless chatter.

"Good choice," she enthused, offering us samples of the cookie dough.

"Can you eat raw cookie dough?" John asked dubiously.

"If it tastes this good, I think yes," I replied, savoring the crunch of the chocolate chip in the firm dough.

"I don't like it," he replied, grimacing.

"Fortunately, there's over thirty flavors," the bubbly girl assured. "You're sure to find something you like. Try the chocolate mousse royale; it's chocolate mousse ice cream with chocolate flakes."

John put the spoon to his lips, working the ice cream around his mouth so that he could experience the full flavor. "That's almost as delicious as you, Mya," he teased.

"Thanks." I blushed, perpetually embarrassed by the ease with which he showered me in compliments. "But if I was an ice-cream flavor, I'd be hazelnut gelato; it's dependable no matter where you get it. Plain old hazelnut flavor. I don't really like chocolate ice cream."

"That doesn't make sense," John contradicted. "You love chocolate."

"In every format except ice cream." I shrugged.

"You're just a walking contradiction," he said, amused.

“I have to maintain some kind of mystery,” I teased.

“Trust me, you’re a total mystery to me,” John replied with unveiled admiration, causing me to blush.

We tried most of the flavors before John decided on his favorites. John ordered a chocolate mousse royale and rocky road sundae with all the sundae trappings, including hot fudge, cream, nuts, and a cherry on top. I opted for the love potion flavor and cookie dough ice-cream sundae with the works.

We shared our sundaes, teasing each other and laughing, and it made me miss how close Jaimie and I had been before Tim. But if Jaimie was as happy with Tim as I was with John, then I could understand why she spent so much time with him.

John took a big spoonful of my sundae, shoveling it hungrily into his mouth.

“You’re wrong,” he challenged.

“About what?” I asked, surprised by his passionate declaration.

“You’re not hazelnut gelato,” he stated like he’d spent lots of time thinking about it. “You’re more like love potion flavored ice cream. On top it seems like it’s just another run-of-the-mill vanilla ice cream, but when you dig in, you find swirls of color and flavor and a delicate raspberry chocolate heart that is irresistible.”

“That’s maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I said genuinely, then added, “You still owe me a lifetime of servitude,” to lighten the tenderness of the moment.

“You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he joked. “So, what flavor am I?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Rocky road.”

“Thanks,” he said, sarcastically. “I’m not that bad.”

“What I meant was, it’s the only flavor of chocolate ice cream that I like,” I replied, “because it’s full of surprises.”

“So, you like me?” John asked suggestively, raising his eyebrows and fixing me with his blue eyes.

"What's not to like?" I replied, noncommittally.

"So that's a yes?" he teased.

"You're a good friend," I affirmed.

"So are you." John smiled, poking me in the ribs.

Time had a way of disappearing as John and I experimented every day after school to see if any food or pictures or songs or smells jogged his memory. We gathered travel brochures from the travel agent and made a poster of the places we wanted to go. The Sydney Opera House triggered John's memories, but he couldn’t remember the details, except that he knew he’d been there.

We sniffed the different colognes and perfumes, between coffee bean palate cleansers at Myer, where John remembered that he'd kissed a girl who wore Ralph Lauren's Romance perfume.

"It'd be more helpful if you remembered your name and address," I said, exasperated as he related the memory of the kiss.

"Is that a hint of jealousy?" he teased, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"I've sampled the goods," I retorted, alluding to the resuscitation. "I'm not missing out."

"Ouch—harsh," John replied, putting his hand over his heart in mock pain.

Despite all the teasing we rarely disagreed on important things. We enjoyed watching movies together despite having divergent tastes.

Hungry Hungry Hippos became a staple pastime until we played with Jaimie and Tim. John playfully taunted everyone till he won the game. Then he proceeded to call us all losers as he did a victory dance around us.

"You're a bad winner, John," I told him, dismally.

"You have the uncanny ability to make losing suck worse," Jaimie agreed.

"It's a stupid game anyway," Tim pouted. "Are we like 7-years-old that we're playing Hungry Hungry Hippos?"

"It was fun till John ruined it!" I sighed.

John's inability to be gracious in the face of victory combined with my competitive spirit, led to the demise of any games being played again.

I managed to convince John to keep reading
Twilight,
we spent most our time trying to make each other laugh. The crazy comments and weird observations from a guy’s point of view made the whole saga so much funnier.

I'd spent most of my high school career wishing away the time, pining for university. Even weekends were a total drag, but with John around, school was fun and I lived for weekends. It gave us two solid days to hang out.

One Friday night we laid blankets in my backyard and listened to Vivaldi's
Four
Seasons
playing on a boom box. We watched the sunset and the stars emerge onto the darkened stage of night.

"You used to do this with your mum?" John asked, sounding jealous.

"Yeah," I replied, enjoying being so close that the whole sides of our bodies were touching. "Mum thinks that nature came with a soundtrack before the fall of man; it’s a spiritual thing I think she learned from
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Sometimes we'd listen to Handel's
Messiah
or Beethoven; it's just a nice touch."

"You know that you'd be booed out of school for this?" John teased.

"I can only hope," I answered. "I can't wait to go to university and study literature."

"You'd be good at anything you set your mind to," he complimented.

"Thanks," I mumbled, enjoying the crisp air and the beauty of the stars.

John lay beside me in companionable silence. I let my mind wander to what it would be like to kiss him. I dispelled the idea as quickly as it arrived, reasoning that we had a good relationship that I didn't want to jeopardize. That explanation hurt less than admitting John would never date a girl as socially awkward as me.

"Have you ever been in love?" John asked randomly. We had discussed the limited memories he had of past loves, but nothing had stood out.

"I've never really dated, so I don't know," I replied, my heart quickening at the feelings I fought so hard to hide from both John and myself.

"You don't have to date someone to be in love." He groaned like it was obvious.

"I disagree," I challenged. "Wanting to jump someone's bones is not necessarily being in love. You can be attracted to heaps of people, but being in love is wanting the best for someone, even if it hurts you."

"So, under that criteria have you ever been in love?" he asked again.

I turned my face toward John to find his face millimeters from mine. The closeness combined with the question filled me with apprehension. I told the truth most of the time; I could count on two fingers the times I’d lied to a friend. John was my closest friend, but the thought of telling the truth and having him ask who I'd been in love with was overwhelming.

Despite my best attempts to maintain purely platonic feelings for John, I was failing miserably. I had tried to heed everyone’s warnings and remain unattached, but I was already too attached.

John’s eyes searched mine hungrily as the unanswered question hung in the air over us. John moved closer till the movement of the air from his lips tickled my mouth. He leaned closer as the back door slammed.

"It's been years since we've done this," Mum interrupted, bringing a blanket of her own and plopping down beside us.

"The more the merrier," I enthused, glad for the interruption.

John looked somber as Mum launched into pointing out the constellations. I wanted to imagine that John had feelings for me, that if Mum hadn't interrupted we could have kissed.

At the same time I was too realistic to accept that John would have feelings for me. I understood how difficult it was for him to be without his family. Until his memory returned my focus was friendship, no matter how much my heart fluttered when he complimented me or how I ached till he'd take my hand. I was grateful for what we had, and I wasn't going to lose it because I was feeling amorous.

Family

A few weeks later I was running around trying to get dressed for school, late and frazzled as usual.

“Mum have you seen my shoe?” I asked, tension causing my neck to ache.

“It’s beside the door,” Mum called from the kitchen.

I slowly spun in a circle surveying the jungle of shoes around the front door, there was no sign of my shoe.

“Mum…” I called exasperated, walking toward the kitchen. She met me in the living room, anticipating my failure.

In the miasma of morning madness, the heavy thwack of Dad falling into the couch caught both Mum and my attention. Dad slumped forward, head in hands and began to sob. Mum and I rushed to his side, my AWOL shoe forgotten in the light of Dad’s weeping.

"What happened?" Mum asked, trying to stay calm.

"Is it Grandma?" I suggested.

"Are you sick?" Mum fished

"I let you down," he sobbed.

"You never let us down," Mum disagreed. "Please tell us."

"I lost my job," he admitted, keeping his head buried in his hands from shame.

"When?" I whispered, immediately realizing the magnitude of Dad’s assertion. Mandy Pickle’s Dad had been laid off earlier in the year; they had foreclosed on their mortgage and lost their home. Rumor had it that Mandy’s family was living with her grandparents now. I had no grandparents in Australia, and there was no way we could move to Russia. I kept my face calm while freaking out internally.

"A week ago." He looked up, tears mingled with shame in his eyes.

"Where have you been going all week?" Mum asked, surprised.

"To look for work," he cried. "But no one wants an old wog."

"It's fine," Mum reassured. "Unemployment will float us temporarily, and you'll find something."

"There's nothing for a B-grade electrician." He shook his head.

"Then you'll get your A-grade license," Mum told him. "You can start your own business … 'Old Wog Electricians.'"

Dad laughed. "You funny women," he said affectionately.

I hugged my parents, trying not to show how much it had scared me to see my dad break down. I stayed home with them to make plans on how we would survive. Mum and Dad both put on brave faces, but I knew it was serious. Though no one said it,
 we could lose the house and have to move away. I was angry with the company that had the power to tell my dad he was unwanted when he'd given them twenty years of his life. Suddenly the future was scarier than before.

At three-thirty the phone rang; John was crazy worried about me. I’d forgotten that I’d texted him in the morning to tell him not to pick me up. He’d assumed I’d make my own way to school; when I hadn’t turned up he’d freaked out.

I felt a surge of hope that my absence had sent him into such a panic; I squashed the feeling, knowing that my attraction to him was not reciprocated. I assured him that everything was fine and I'd see him at school the following day. I couldn't bring myself to share what had happened, despite John being my closest friend; some things were family business only.

First-term holidays started the week after Dad was laid off. I started looking for work to help out at home. With winter approaching, our seaside village was slowing down; employers kept telling me to check back with them in the spring.

Without work or job-hunting, I agreed to take John clothes shopping.

"This is St Vinnie's," I introduced as we walked into the funky-smelling shop. "You can buy designer wear for a fraction of the cost, if you can find it."

"I thought we were going to the mall," he said, wrinkling his perfect Roman nose.

"We are," I replied, "but this is the cheapest place to start. They have new stuff and pre-loved stuff..."

"Pre-loved as in used," John clarified.

"It's not like we're buying underwear," I told him.

"Well, there's some here," he offered, picking up a basket of discolored jocks.

"If you’re happy to share your banana hammock with another dude, go for it," I encouraged supportively.

He laughed that magical laugh. "I'll pass."

I pushed the clothes along the rack, enjoying the clack of the coat hangers meeting, as I searched for suitable clothing. I liked the thrill of finding a bargain. Mum was a firm believer in recycling, and op-shopping was part of supporting the environment. It made me sad to think of the clothes being abandoned after being loved.

Some of the clothes were relinquished brand-new; their tags never removed having spent years in a closet. Those clothes were the best find and the most sad, as they'd never really been appreciated. The op-shop smell was the smell of abandonment, the last stop before being discarded into the garbage. I tried to rescue as many clothes as I could, while remaining realistic about what I would actually wear.

John found a suit for ten dollars that he loved and looked retro trendy on him. We found three brand-name shirts and the ugliest checkered pants in the history of fashion, which John fell in love with.

John piled the clothes onto the counter, where a lady as old as the earth added up the total. Her wrinkled hands shook as she put them in a bag, mesmerized by John's flawless features.

"You can just take these," she warbled, generously.

John looked ready to accept when I interrupted.

"No," I disagreed. "Tell us how much."

"Twenty dollars," she replied, surprised at my abruptness.

John handed over the red twenty-dollar bill, amused by the exchange.

"Thank you," I told her kindly, but she was staring at John.

We exited the shop. John took the wooden steps by two; I joined him on the grey stone driveway. Cars whooshed by sending sprays of water into the air. I pulled my coat around me fighting off the cold as we made our way toward the Blue Bomb.

"What was that about?" he asked, inquisitively. "We could have got this stuff for free."

"And you would have been OK with that?" I asked, incredulous.

"They got it for free." He shrugged.

"Twenty dollars is a lot for us, but it's a lot more for them. It helps pay the electricity, the water, and the rent. It helps keep the shop open and gives geriatrics a place to go so they don't step off into the great unknown from boredom. For some of the truly lucky ones they get to ogle the likes of you and have an extra special day," I replied comically, making John laugh.

"So we just performed a civic duty?" he said with false pride, as we meandered across the driveway toward the Blue Bomb.

"Definitely," I agreed, matching his joking tone.

“You genuinely care about everyone, don’t you?” he asked, amused. “You care about the op shop owners and the people they help and nature...”

“And cats up trees,” I replied, my insides shaking as I thought about one of my most embarrassing moments in recent history. It felt like it was time for John to know what I was really like.

“Cats up trees?” he asked, curious.

“That’s how I broke my arm; I thought the cat was stuck up the tree, so I climbed up to get it. The cat jumped down and distracted me. I lost my handhold and fell.... onto my own arm and broke it,” I confessed, filled with shame. “I told my parents I fell out of the tree; I never told them the other part. I was too embarrassed.”

John threw his head back and laughed. I’d hoped for empathy, or some kind of encouragement, but his laughter felt like burning coals. I turned to leave, genuinely in pain from the depth of my shame.

John grabbed my hand. “You are a funny girl.” He smiled, pushing a stray lock behind my ear. “You’ve got to see the humor in that story.”

“It’s still too fresh,” I replied, shaking my head.

“When was this?” he asked.

“The cast came off about a month before I pulled you out of the sea,” I admitted.

He slapped his leg and laughed harder. “I thought you were like ten or something.”

Tears began to well in my eyes. “I get it. It’s funny. I’m funny. I care about stuff; I cry in touching commercials. I feel sorry for the bad guy, even when he deserves justice. I’m that softhearted Jell-O girl, who survived high school by being invisible. Now everyone can see me, because I pulled you out of the water. That’s the kind of stupid stuff I do, because I care. Jaimie and Mum are constantly telling me to not care so much. Why am I the weird one for caring? Why does that make me the freak?” It made me as angry as it made me sad, that my empathy was seen as a weakness, when that was part of what defined me.

“I have to go,” I said, wiping away a vagrant tear.

I managed to get a good five paces ahead of John before he caught me. “I’m sorry,” he apologized seriously. “If you didn’t care so much, I’d be at the morgue, not here with you. I didn’t want to make you feel stupid; it’s what I like about you. You see everyone, but you don’t want anyone to see you… I see you.”

He put his hand on my cheek, guiding my face toward his. My breath caught in my throat and my heart fluttered in my chest. The look in John’s eyes made my legs feel shaky.

“Am I interrupting?” gushed Tammy loudly and much too close.

“No,” I stepped away, wringing my hands.

“Yes,” John grumbled.

Tammy laughed. “You’re so funny; that’s like irony, right?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked lightly, before John defined irony for her.

“I was totally going to catch a bus to the mall to meet Miranda," Tammy giggled. "Where are you guys headed?"

"The mall," John replied, deadpan.

"Can I catch a ride with you?" Tammy asked hopefully.

"Sure," I replied, before John crushed her enthusiasm.

Tammy was a borderline friend at the popular table. She was the default friend in the group whom Miranda could love or hate at whim. If Julia and Miranda were fighting, Julia and Tammy were best friends. After Julia would reconcile with Miranda, Tammy would be the hated scapegoat for a few weeks. Tammy put on a brave face during those times, but she had spent numerous lunchtimes crying and eating lunch in the toilet. My rising popularity had given her an escape from the cycle of being loved or hated, cherished or tormented. Miranda's hatred for me trumped her need for creating drama, so Tammy had been safe for one whole term.

Miranda had realized the element of mathematics to the situation. If Tammy became my other best friend, the numbers would be even, three against three. John was my winning ballot. If Tammy aligned herself with me, I could challenge Miranda’s position as most popular girl at school. Miranda was keeping Tammy close for that reason. I liked Tammy for the most part; the worst thing about her was her allegiance to Miranda, who was a lackluster friend.

John and I sat in the front of the Blue Bomb, while Tammy sat in the middle of the back seat so she could lean forward and talk to us. John’s face was impassive as he drove the car, but I could tell he was not happy for Tammy’s intrusion.

“Did you see the front of the newspaper, John?” Tammy enthused. “There was a leading story about you. Your face is the front page.”

“I missed it,” John replied, disinterested.

“I hope your parents find you,” she sighed. “I’d be so sad without my parents.”

“Me too.” I tried to participate in the conversation, so Tammy wouldn’t feel ignored.

“It’s been over two months, and my parents have made no effort to find me,” John replied darkly, ending the strand of conversation.

“What are you shopping for?” Tammy tried.

“John needs a few items of clothing,” I told her.

“My foster parents have been kind,” John added, begrudgingly, “but I wanted stuff that I picked myself.”

“Target’s having a menswear sale,” Tammy volunteered.

“You’ve been to Target.” I laughed, turning to look at Tammy.

“My Dad says you don’t have money if you spend it all,” she shrugged. “I know all the bargain stores, including the op-shops; just gotta hit them at the right time.”