This is Shyness (23 page)

‘You're brave,' I tell him.

He gives me a funny look. ‘You broke into Orphanville as well, remember?'

‘That's not what I meant.'

Wolfboy has to message Paul to get Ortolan's address.

‘How come Paul keeps in touch with her?'

‘Because he knows I don't.'

Wolfboy turns off the lamp, and leaves the chocolate bars for Paul and Thom. I rescue the pair of jocks from the milk jug and stretch them over the lampshade, just to mess with their heads.

Wolfboy turns to me at the door. ‘What did it say in the note?'

‘What note?' The lie is automatic. I don't want him knowing how close I came to leaving without saying goodbye properly. I'm not sure he'd forgive me for that.

‘The bit of paper you picked up off the coffee table and hid in your pocket.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' As always, once I've started a lie I can't stop it. I'm too ashamed to explain my reasoning from earlier. He'll think I'm completely neurotic.

He shrugs and walks out the door. I catch up quickly and link my arm through his.

We cut through the backstreets of Shyness, walking on unfamiliar roads. The moon has moved again to hide behind a blanket of clouds. Or the clouds have moved and the moon has stayed the same. Who knows how anything works here.

‘So you'll get to see the morning in Panwood.' I tug on Wolfboy's arm. ‘Are you excited?'

‘It's been a while.'

‘I'd lend you my sunnies, but I left them at your house.'

‘You left quite a few things at my house.' There's a pause. ‘So…when do I see you again to give them back?' ‘I thought you could deposit my stuff with some Kidds, and then I would try to break in to their secret hiding place and steal it back, and then escape, all without being seen.' ‘Nice plan.' He smiles but doesn't press me. I wish he would. I should have just said ‘soon' instead of making a joke of his question.

The low shapes of the residential area give way to larger industrial buildings with high brick fences and barbed wire. Some of the bigger buildings even have watchtowers and spotlights. We turn left into another never-ending industrial street. It's a long walk to Panwood from the gardens. I sigh. All the adrenaline has left my body. I might float away any second now.

‘Has it really been just one night?' I ask.

‘Does it really matter?'

‘It'll matter to my mum.'

‘I'm sure it's only been one night. Do you recognise where we are?'

‘No.'

‘Little Death is a street over that way.'

That makes sense. The street we're on is lined with miner's cottages like the streets around the club.

‘We've come almost full circle. Ortolan lives off Grey Street.'

I still don't get what he means.

‘Come on. You'll see.' He drags me by the arm. I need dragging. I'd kill for a cup of tea. Hot, sugary, milky tea. The backs of my legs ache. The miner's cottages end at a wide thoroughfare of empty shops and dead lampposts.

‘Is this Grey Street?' I ask.

‘Almost.' Wolfboy is rushing now, taking loping steps so that I can barely keep up. We reach an intersection with four wide streets running in each direction. ‘That's Grey Street. And look. The Diabetic.'

Across the road is the green pub I met Wolfboy in, all those hours ago. The neon sign is still on and there are lots of people milling around for this late on a Friday night. Or early on a Saturday morning. The pub looks different from how I remember it. I feel like I'm time travelling. I try to imagine myself walking through those doors, tipsy on cheap wine, desperate to forget. I had no idea what lay ahead. The sky above the pub is purple, not black.

‘What's going on?'

‘I don't know.'

There are three police cars parked outside and yellow tape over the entrance. A group of people sit in the gutter. A solitary Dreamer wanders in the middle of the crossroads like a drifting iceberg.

Wolfboy pulls me away. ‘Whatever it is, it's bad news.' I look over my shoulder as we leave. ‘I hope Neil and Rosie are all right.'

‘They would have left hours ago. They'll be fine.'

We stop a little way from the intersection, outside a costume hire place. I find myself dragging my feet more and more. All of a sudden I have too many things to say. ‘This is where I leave you,' says Wolfboy, facing me.

‘Okay.' I look down. I hate goodbyes. Nothing I say now is going to come close to describing how awful and amazing and crazy this night has been.

‘This is O'Neira Street. It's Panwood from this point. If you walk up here for a few blocks you'll see a shop that sells exercise equipment, and some restaurants. There's usually a few taxis waiting there.'

‘Got it,' I say, when really I took in only half of it. ‘Which way are you going?'

‘Back up Grey Street.'

Wolfboy hugs me tightly and I press my face into his shoulder. I try to record every little detail of the moment. The time comes when I have to pull away. I take the letter from my pocket. It says some of the things I want to say.

‘This is for you. Read it later.'

‘Is your phone number in here?' At least he doesn't tell me off for lying earlier. I fold his fingers over the letter, crushing it.

‘Just keep it.'

Wolfboy bends down and kisses me, only for a second, but it's long enough. I keep my eyes on his, taking a mental picture, then I turn and walk away.

thirty-two

The sound of Wildgirl picking tunelessly on her ukulele fades as she walks away from me. I wait until I can't see her sparkly jacket anymore, and then I turn onto Grey Street, only crossing over to the Panwood side once I'm well past the Diabetic.

There's not much happening on Grey. The only other people I see are inside a bakery, loading loaves of bread onto wide metal trays. I stop for a moment and check the directions Paul messaged me. I turn when I see the right street name and glimpse the first signs of dawn over the zigzag roofs.

My legs feel weak and I regret not bringing Wildgirl with me. Maybe I can't do this on my own. My fingers brush against paper when I put my hand in my pocket.

I sit against a fence and read her letter. Her writing is loopy and messy.

Dear Wolfie

If it wasn't for you I don't think I would have ever discovered my true calling as a ukulele player, or the unpleasant knowledge that pirates are not the world's greatest kissers, or the pleasant knowledge that Wolfboys are.

This has been some night.

I'm hardly the right person to be dishing out advice, but if you were to ask me what I thought, I would say this: be friends with Ortolan. It would mean a lot to her and it wouldn't be bad for you either.

Lecture over. Oh, STAY AWAY FROM KIDDS.

Lecture over.

This night was ours, just you and me.

The letter is signed
NIA
xx, and there's a phone number scrawled at the bottom. I put it back safely in my pocket wrapped around my lighter. I feel ready now.

The sky grows lighter by the second. Streaks of nectarine-coloured cloud litter the horizon. I look behind me as I walk down the middle of the road, at Shyness, and all I see is bruised night. I wonder if Ortolan is the same as me, if she chose to live here so she could stay close to Gram.

I stop when I see the narrow two-storey shopfront. The name, Birds In Winter, is spelt out in fairy lights in the front window. A corrugated-iron porch curves over the ground floor, and there's a window above, on the first floor. Ortolan and a little girl perch there with mugs and a blanket. Ortolan has already spotted me coming down the road. I realise I have no idea what I'm going to say to her.

I wave.

The little girl waves back impishly and then vanishes. Ortolan stands up as I cross to the footpath. The shop door is painted blood-red, with a sign in the shape of a dagger hanging above. There are excited footsteps behind the door. It clicks, and then swings inwards.

I look down at the little girl wearing sky-blue pyjamas dotted with fluffy white clouds. She has the same bobbed hairstyle as Ortolan, and a pair of very serious and very blue eyes. She smiles shyly, and opens the door wider.

‘Good morning,' she says.

acknowledgments

I'd firstly like to thank Mum and Dad for their unwavering support. Everything I am, I owe to them. Thanks to Carly and Jacqui, for being older, wiser and always interested in their little sister's strange antics.

Huge amounts of gratitude to everyone at Text, but especially to Michael Heyward for taking a punt on me, my lovely editor Alison Arnold, publicist Stephanie Stepan and rights guru Anne Beilby.

I'm very lucky to be surrounded by interested friends, work colleagues and family, all of whom have spurred me on for years with the simple question: How's the book going? Thanks particularly to Emah Fox, who always insisted I was a writer, even when I didn't believe it myself, and to Andrew McDonald for being my sounding board. Thanks to Carly, Amy Tsilemanis and Michelle Calligaro, who were very kind readers of my early drafts and, finally, thanks to my writers' week buddies, especially Jason Cotter for letting us invade his farm.