I rush to my bedside table. Under a pile of ankle-length socks is a single photograph lying face down. I flip it over and take a quick look, though I know this photo by heart.
The boy is ankle-deep in the water, tanned and barefoot and months overdue for a haircut. His smile is huge, revealing two missing front teeth. The happy little girl is in his arms, naked except for a nappy. Hanging from her fists is the tail of a massive King George whiting, its tapering head bumping her ankle. She can’t be more than a year old. Mum took that picture of Heath and me nearly thirty-five years ago.
I place it gently in the front bag pocket, dump my socks and undies in, and zip it up.
And then Jessie and I run. Out the bedroom, past the lounge room with its smoke-gray couch, and straight to the front door. I wrench it open, peer out, heart fluttering more with excitement than fear.
Coast is clear.
“Let’s go, Jess!”
And we’re off! Running wild down the street, my backpack slapping against my shoulder, Jessie bounding beside me. It hits me that she’s never left this house without a lead on. Funny how much I relate to that.
I yank the car doors open, throw my backpack in, and harness Jesse into the back seat.
Seeing her so excited, I pull her into my arms, holding on tight as the weight of everything crashes over me.
I know damn well that I’m fired. And homeless.
But it’s strange…because here, with my arms wrapped around my dog, I feel like I’ve gained more than I’ve lost.
I climb into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and speed off, flipping the house off as I drive away.
It’s barely 6:30a.m., but Northton’s already bustling. Cars doing illegal U-turns, wealthy millennials power walking to the office, lost in the success flex like Oliver. His mum’s the senior editor of agardening magazine, and his dad, a Qantas pilot. Meanwhile, my mum worked at the general store on the weekends, and Dad ran a fishing charter. Only I never told Oliver this. I never told him anything at all about my past. So he made one for me. “From now on, your parents owned a dental practice, okay?”
I nodded, complicit as always, because when I left home at eighteen, I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I was lost for years, drowning. And when I met Oliver, confident, assertive Oliver, I pulled myself aboard his life raft and let him steer.
Northton. I shake my head and flip it off, too. I don’t belong here. It’s time for me to scurry back to the dirty streets where I was born.
Goodbye, Northton, with your trendy terrace houses and lunchtime lip fillers. I always hated you.
Goodbye, my fiancé, who walks like the world owes him applause. Who doesn’t lead but dominates, because winning isn’t enough for him. He needs you to lose.
I glance in the overhead mirror, inspecting myself.
Goodbye, Melanie Holmes.
Chapter 3
My real name is Minnow, like the fish. Minnows are small and silvery, typically used as live bait. If we were quick enough, Heath and I scooped them out of the shallows with our bare hands. We’d cup them gently, marveling at their silver bodies, squirming in the sunlight. One morning, Dad snatched a minnow out of Heath’s palm, plunged a hook through its bottom and upper lip, sewing its mouth shut, and cast its bloodied body back into the water. He couldn’t understand why we cried.
I’ve been driving for almost three hours. Here on the East Coast of Victoria, the land is flat and thirsty and the color of straw.
Jessie wags her tail at a cluster of Friesians sheltering under a ghost gum. It’s hot already and it’s only 10a.m.I count the roadkill as I drive,eight, nine, ten. Kangaroos, mashed and meaty on the side of the road.
There’s no sign sayingWelcome to Kangaroo Baybecause the truth is, you’renotwelcome. This is a grizzled-old-man town, run by our filthy fathers, and they hate you so much it gives them ulcers. They want to stomp through their streets, animal-like and mean, smelling of rage and beer. They want to gather in pissed-off groups at the pub, complaining about thefarken tourists,and overcharge you for tickets to their snapper charters, smiling like they’re doing you a favor.
Our fathers are hot blood, heavy stomachs, heavier fists. Our mums, exhausted and desperate. Dads remain, mums flee, but I never thought mine would. My mum was soft hands, vanilla fabric softener, andI love my girlandYou’re so clever, Heath!
We used to collect wildflowers for her on lazy Sundayafternoons, then rush home to present them, wilted and crushed in our fists. You’d think we’d given her the whole world.
I pass a group of teenage boys in knee-length wet suits, surfboards tucked under their arms. Sporty tourist cars are parked carelessly on nature strips, and there’s a long, snaking line in front, desperate to get to the five beaches ahead. I tap my finger on the wheel thinking about this morning’s news report:Beasts from the Deep: Another Shark Spotted in Kangaroo Bay.
Beaches only close for an hour after a shark sighting, and it hasn’t seemed to put the tourists off. But then, nobody thinks it’ll be them.
Until it is.
I slow the car as we cruise through the main street. You can spot the tourists, because they’re the ones smelling like sunscreen. The rest of us just burn.
