I’d like to call her, ask her how she’s getting on, ask how her nanna’s going, just listen to her voice… But the atmosphere around here at the moment is fragile. The closer I stay to the house, the better.
My clean sheets are soft from the laundry, and the breeze through the window is fresh. The scent of Ouyen, of wheat fields and dust, is gone: the aroma of car exhaust and suburbia has swallowed it up. But somewhere to the north of town Amie is breathing the same air. For now, that thought has to be enough to calm me.
*
I’m eating leftover noodles in the kitchen next morning when Steph clumps in, still in her leathers. Her black cropped hair sticks up from her head, and she dumps her motorbike helmet on the floor before making a cup of instant shit.
‘Business or pleasure?’ I ask, nodding at the helmet.
She glares at me over her shoulder. ‘Harris, it’s been a long fucking night, so if you’re only talking to piss me off –’
‘Jesus.’ I check out the set of her shoulders as she turns around with her mug. ‘Just making conversation, hey. My bad.’
She sighs, unkinks her neck. ‘Sorry. I’m tired.’
‘Sit.’ I lift my chin at the other plastic chair. ‘Drink your coffee.’
She flops in the chair, jacket unzipped in front, sipping slowly. Her face is sweaty from the helmet, cheeks flushed.
I eat my noodles, try not to look like I’m examining her. ‘You got a good bike?’
‘Yeah.’ She seems surprised by the change of subject. ‘I mean, it’s okay. Running a bit rough lately, I gotta spend some time on it.’
‘I could have a look, if you like.’
She turns the mug in her hands. ‘I usually do my own work.’
‘That’s cool. Whatever.’
Noise from next door – a woman yelling, a little kid crying – seeps through the kitchen walls. I scrape up cold noodles with my fork. ‘You’re studying, right? What sorta study are you doing?’
‘What do you care?’ She sees my expression. Makes a bit of effort. ‘Business management.’
‘Business management?’ I amend my tone quickly at the look on her face. ‘Okay, business management. Sounds all right.’
‘It’s just a diploma.’ She shrugs. ‘Something to do, hey.’
‘You like it?’
‘I got a brain. I like to use it.’
I think for a minute. ‘What sorta study would you do if you wanted to be a photographer?’
‘What?’
‘What would you study if you wanted –’
‘You wanna be a photographer?’ Steph stares at me.
‘No. I mean, I don’t wanna be a photographer. I just know somebody who’s… I was just interested, that’s all.’
‘Harris, has anyone ever told you you’re weird?’
Any reply I might’ve made gets shelved when Reggie gallops into the kitchen. He runs to the fridge and rummages for his Gatorade, spins around and slams the fridge shut with his arse. ‘Yo, what’s up? Whatcha talkin’ about?’
His green hood slides off and I see his head. He’s shaved off his hair. All that’s left is the skinny rat’s tail at his nape. It’s a crap shave job: there’s tufty-dark patches, bald patches, as well as red nicks here and there where the razor slipped. He looks hard-man tough and impossibly young all at the same time.
‘Just saying how Harris is weird,’ Steph says.
