The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl (11 page)

Grady looks at me with a raised eyebrow, but I see his confidence stumble. Man. How had I forgotten that Daniel could put Grady on the back foot like that?

‘Well … sure
Sarah
and I can rustle up some stuff to keep you entertained,’ Grady says. ‘Though it might involve navigating more cow poo than you’re used to –’

‘Anyway, our holidays plans have gone out the window, what with the invasion of the moon people,’ I add. ‘Stay, Daniel. We’d love that. You can get to know our friends – I could even be talked into hosting an
X-Men
marathon and cookie-fest. It’ll be just like old times. Except you’ve probably ditched the Buzz Lightyear jammies?’

He winks. ‘I’m strictly an undies-only guy now.’

Grady grunts. ‘Nice mental image. Sure
Sarah
was desperate to hear about your jocks.’

In my memory, my boys were always like Spider-man and Superman to my Wonder Woman. I guess I’d forgotten that they were more like the duelling halves of Bruce Banner and the Hulk; sort of half in love, half one step away from poking each other’s eyeballs out.

I stand. ‘Actually, Sarah would really like to dance. You guys coming?’

Daniel sits back. ‘Nah. Happy to hang here and admire the view.’

I grab Grady’s hand and drag him onto the swarming floor, ignoring his bewildered face. He swings me into his arms and loops one hand lightly around my middle.

‘So … Dan seems to have slotted right back in? Then again, he never had a problem fitting in,’ he says as my feet move easily alongside his. Cleo did rope Grady into taking dance classes with her when she was going through her ballroom phase, but secretly – and he would die before admitting this – I think he loved it. Either way, my boy has
rhythm
.

‘It’s weird though,’ Grady says thoughtfully. ‘It’s Dan, but not Dan.’ He smiles wryly. ‘I dunno, Alba. Abs or no abs – maybe this whole trip down memory lane thing is kinda pointless?’

I’m only half-listening, because now that Daniel’s twinkly eyes aren’t focused on me, I’m replaying our conversation and my thoughts are getting all … jumbly.

‘So what’s wrong?’ Grady says.

I look up at him with a start. ‘Nothing. Why?’

Grady taps his forefinger between my eyes. ‘You have frowny line. Which you only get when you’re annoyed, or when you’re doing algebra. And I’m guessing you’re not puzzling out quadratic equations, so …?’

Through the crowd I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. The feathery sweeps of eyeliner are visible even in the hazy reflection.

‘Hey, Grady?’

‘Yeah, Alba?’ he says distractedly.

‘Do you think I wear too much make-up?’

He frowns at me. ‘No. It’s just your thing. Why?’

‘Nothing,’ I say sheepishly. ‘You just never say anything about how I look. Was just wondering, is all.’

His rhythm sputters slightly. ‘I never say anything about how you look because you always look great,’ he says carefully. ‘And I know you don’t care what I think. Does that … bother you?’ He clears his throat. ‘I mean, do you want me to tell you –’

I give his side a poke. ‘Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. You’re just a closed book sometimes. You know, this chick was giving you all sorts of eyes earlier, but you didn’t seem to notice. I’m just curious what goes on in that curly head of yours.’

He shrugs. ‘Boobs, cars. The catastrophic destruction of humankind. And she was? You need to point these things out, Alba! You’re a useless wingman otherwise.’

‘Right – suppose I should take my wing-person duties more seriously now that there are
real
girls in town.’

He laughs. ‘And girls who haven’t snogged my brother. That’s a nice change.’

Pete’s song changes to something breathy and slow. I’ve finally noticed a theme to the music; pretty sure Petey has spent the last week crafting his very own end-of-the-world playlist. I forget about Daniel, and the itchiness in the back of my skull that our conversation stirred.

I glance up at Grady. ‘Maybe this is your chance to test some moves?’ I nudge my head towards a crowded booth behind him, where trilby-girl is propped on a tabletop.

Grady glances over his shoulder, and she smiles and waves at him. He gives her a shy wave back. ‘Ah. Yeah. That’s Jess. We … sort of met earlier. She’s from Melbourne.’ He grins at me. ‘I oughta have more sense than to take chances with strangers, Veronica,’ he purrs in his husky old-movie voice.

‘Aw, but I would’ve thought strangers would be just your bag, G. No mess, no fuss – no ol’ ball-and-chain tying you down. You should talk to her. Say something smooth. Come on, man! You must have some moves. Practise on me if you like.’

Grady stops moving. He squints at me. In the dim light, his eyes are vaguely amused, and mildly terrified. ‘Um … I like your dress, Alba. It’s very blue. And, ah … shiny?’

‘Man, you are
hopeless
,’ I say with a giggle. ‘I said be smooth, not be weird robot-guy.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Well, maybe I should be taking pointers from Daniel? He seems to have the smooth thing sorted.’

‘Please. Daniel is all talk. Or don’t you remember that either?’

‘Yeah, I don’t know about that,
Sarah
. Pretty sure I was detecting some moves. Not that I’m judging. I mean seriously, woman – he’d have to be blind not to notice you in that dress.’

I slap his arm triumphantly. ‘See,
that
was a line. Aim some of that at hat-girl and you’ll be set.’

He shakes his head with another laugh, and he pulls me towards him again.

In the DJ booth, Pete is bleating something into his microphone that I think is supposed to be rousing, though he really doesn’t need to pump up the crowd; the Junction already looks like a circus, and smells like an explosion in a BO factory.

Caroline shuffles across the floor, steering some random guy towards us. She gives me a thumbs-up behind his back. Random-guy is just Caroline’s type, all muscle and slightly confused vacant eyes.

‘Heya all,’ she says. ‘This is Raymond.’

‘Randal,’ random-guy says sullenly.

She gives his arm a pat. ‘Sorry. Randal’s mates have driven all the way from Brisbane. And they’ve brought nothing but gas masks and Bear Grylls DVDs with ’em. How stupid is that?’

Eddie and Tia appear beside us, Tia dragging him into a rigid, half-hearted sway; in her silver dress she’s what I imagine a fairy might look like trying to dance with an unwilling side of beef.

‘Alba!’ Tia yells. ‘How’s Daniel? Is he having fun? Why isn’t he dancing?’

‘Maybe he’s holding out for the stripper music,’ Eddie grumbles. ‘Bet he’s busting to get his shirt off.’ He scowls at random-guy, who gives him a pained look back.

Caroline spins around so Randal is forced to shimmy on the outside of our circle. ‘Okay, I’ll say it. This apocalypse totally rocks! Is it wrong that I’m starting to look forward to it?’

Grady laughs. I’m still squished against him, and I feel his laughter rumbling right through me. ‘Don’t get too excited, Caroline,’ he says. ‘It’s still Eden Valley. The post-apocalyptic world is going to be less of a giant party, and more like a rotary lunch with a handful of stoners and a couple hundred confused cows.’

Petey lands breathlessly on the dance floor, black hair clinging to his face in sweaty strands. ‘Guys, this is awesome!’ Pete yells. ‘There are more than four people dancing! Some chick puked in the deep-fryer! It’s the best night
ever
!’

He grabs Tia’s hand and hauls her into his arms. ‘Like, when we’re ancient, it’ll be
this
story that we bore our grandkids with!’

Tia giggles hesitantly. ‘Petey, maybe your grandkids will be more interested in hearing about life with electricity and, you know, deodorant and stuff.’

Random Randal wanders off, and my friends close in on his space. I tug Grady’s phone out from the back pocket of his jeans – only before I can snap a photo, out of nowhere, I’m enveloped by this sweeping sense of
ending
that makes my breath stick somewhere behind my tongue. Grady seems to realise that I am having a freak-out, cos the hand that’s resting lightly on my waist tightens around me.

‘Alba?’ he whispers. ‘What’s the matter?’

I look up at him and I try to smile, but I just know it comes out all wavy and wrong.

The first time the six of us hung out here together was just after year-eight graduation. Grady and I got totally sugar-highed on green jelly and spent the night making beer-coaster hats for all of Mr Grey’s ducks on the walls. It was the first time Eddie worked up the courage to have more than a monosyllabic conversation with me. It was the first time Petey shyly asked Tia to dance, though it would take him years to make another move. It was the first time Caroline kissed a boy – I remember that she left him in the carpark as she pulled me and Tia aside to give us a report of how gross it was.

Maybe the earth will continue to spin, and the stars won’t implode for a bazillion more years, but I know, with a certainty my stupid brain has done its best to ignore, that this moment – right here, with the people I love most – is not going to last.

My back is to the door, my cheek resting against Grady’s arm. But I’m suddenly trapped in one of those tingly moments, like the hairs on the back of my neck know something the rest of my brain hasn’t caught up on. The atmosphere in the pub has changed, too; there’s a weird hushy hum beneath the babble.

‘Oh. My. God,’ Caroline says. She grabs Grady’s arm from my side and points both their hands in the direction of the door.

I spin around, and almost fall sideways off my heels.

The crowds near the entrance have parted, allowing a man into the pub. He’s of mid-height and medium build, unremarkable except that all pairs of eyes near the door have glued themselves to him.

He’s wearing pinstripe pants, and suspenders over a shirt the colour of rain-sky. He glances around, nonchalant, like he’s just a regular who’s popped in for a pot-and-parma. Then he saunters to the bar, seemingly unaware of the kerfuffle following in his wake. I can tell he’s trying his best to appear nondescript.

But the bald head and Fu Manchu? He may as well have walked into the pub wearing a spandex onesie, or a Batsuit.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I whisper.

Daniel appears beside us. ‘Well. This is unexpected,’ he says cheerfully.

‘Fecking. Hell,’ Eddie says. ‘It’s Original fecking Ned.’

The arrival of the psychic has the same effect on Eden Valley as the Joker setting up shop in Gotham. Someone starts a Twitter account for Ned’s moustache, and by Sunday morning, it has twelve thousand followers. His moustache seems to be preoccupied with Beyoncé and
Doctor Who
. I decide to stay away from the internet for a while.

The news people, who seem to be springing forth like so many anonymous comic-book henchmen, forget about stalking us locals and begin stalking Ned Zebidiah instead. Though he’s been all over the place since his dodge TV broadcast, Original Ned refuses to grant a single interview. He parks his caravan on the outskirts of the Valley and rarely appears in town. For a guy who should be relishing the attention, Ned looks put out by the fuss. I catch a glimpse of him Monday morning as he’s hurrying past the bakery, and I could swear he looks terrified.

I don’t know what’s going on with me. Since that night at the Junction, my thoughts are all slushy, and glummer than I ever allow myself to indulge. I stick on my brightest smiley face, but inside, everything is whirling. I spend my spare time hiding in the shade of Dad’s plum trees while doodling Fiona Staples-style sketches of the distant scene. Half the Thunderdome has collapsed now, but shouty laughter still echoes from the remnants. I know my friends have all ventured out there. But from my yard it’s like being on the outskirts of a giant, steamy monkey enclosure. And as curious as the wildlife is to watch, I’m just not game enough to get within poo-throwing distance.

I know some of this stuff should work its way into my comic. But every time I turn on my computer, I find myself staring at Cinnamon Girl’s anxious, restless face, looking through her warehouse windows to a world that I can’t seem to fill, and I’m overwhelmed by a throat-squeezy panic.

Luckily I don’t have time to sink into a full pity-party, as spare moments are almost non-existent. The bakery is booming, with lines forming down the bluestone path from the time we open till we run out of food. It’s as if Albany’s has fallen through some bizarro dimensional crack, where Rosie Addler and the mouth-breathing Albert boys have been replaced by their alternate-universe doppelgangers – an old woman in a see-through fishnet vest, and a bunch of frowny emo kids who look like the end can’t come soon enough. I try to channel my boldest She-Hulk as I bustle around the packed diner, but I still feel besieged, smaller in my space than I ever have before. Mum is chuffed by the booming business, but I suspect that a teeny part of her subconscious might be mulling over the possibility that the end is indeed nigh, cos she spends an awful lot more time hanging with Cleo in the diner after-hours, swapping giggly stories of their university-day shenanigans.

And still, the people keep coming. The Palmers’ farm looks like the last campground at the end of the universe, with tents and cars and manky furniture swallowing up the dry fields. Surprisingly, the mood among our visitors is generally chilled; our bewildered cops don’t have a lot to do, other than rescuing Rosie Addler’s poodle, Mr Frankenstein, from the back of a pot-smoke-filled van, where he’d been coopted as a mascot. Kites are flown, hacky sacks are tossed, and a spontaneous nudie run through the fields transpires, guaranteeing that wobbly sunburnt flesh will be seared on my brain for the rest of my days. Poor Eddie just about has an aneurysm. I suspect he may never be able to look another girl in the face again.