Fins 4 Ur Sins (2 page)

4

THE DOCTOR’S WORDS echo in my mind.

It’s
things like this that drive my nightmares. I groan, rolling onto my back to
hate-greet the bright sunlight streaming through the open window. Warm rays
hone in on my eyelids. The terror of darkness and deep water slips away, and I
breathe in the ocean’s wonderful, salty tang.

My new bedroom is on the other
side of the house, and the morning sun is hot enough here so that I can’t go
back to sleep. Grumbling, I stumble disorientated from the room and then dive
under a hot shower. It takes longer than I anticipate, mostly because when I
bend over to wash and shave my legs, my chest makes a horrible wheezing sound.
So I just stand there, panting and brushing the hair from my face, trying to
control my utter panic. Suck in small amounts of air. Nurses helped me with
this back in the hospital. But I need to hang on to the glass until my breath
returns.

Mum must be at work; otherwise
she’d be helping me.

The steam helps loosen the
tightness in my lungs, but the act of getting dressed drains me—it’s
exhausting. When I finish, I wander into the kitchen dressed in tracksuit pants
and a shirt and then open the fridge door. Stare at the contents, grab a bottle
of chocolate milk and then switch on the desktop computer in the study. My gaze
lands on the date at the bottom of the browser, and I yank the open bottle away
from my mouth. Snap. I’ve missed three weeks of school.

Poof.

So this is what people mean by
the saying, ‘Don’t blink or you’ll miss it’.

With a grimace, I rub the tender
spots on my chest, and breathe shallow, but my stomach rumbles so I set about
making breakfast, anticipating eating food from home for once, rather than
hospital meals. Toast done, I power on the TV in the dining room and relax at
the kitchen table.
Yum, strawberry jam.
Sugar free, lots of butter.
The real stuff too, not
margarine. I slather on that stuff.

After the ads play out, channel
eight news comes on, and two reporters smile behind a wide desk in a media
room.

“Wynnum College has had to cope
with the news of yet another student’s death,” the anchor says, and then she
briefly turns to her co-host before looking back at the camera. “A twelfth
grader passed away in hospital, and he is the third Wynnum College student to
pass away in a particular set of circumstances that have shocked the entire
community. Rachel Thompson, how are the staff and students coping?”

My stomach drops, and I stare at
the screen in horror. I want to turn up the volume, but I’m frozen on my seat.

Another reporter appears on screen
with some editorial magic, and she gives the low down on how the parents and
students are devastated by the loss of yet another young life. “Each time this
happens, the news becomes harder to bear.”

Wynnum College’s entrance appears
on the
screen,
and a reporter talks in a voiceover
while footage rolls. “Tragedy has struck four times at this school in South
East Queensland. Only one student has survived the ordeal. Students and staff
have spent the day grieving over a boy whose name has not yet been released.”

The principal, Mr. Hardin,
explains how hard it is for the students while he chokes back tears. He talks
about counselling and the methods the school will utilise to help the students
cope with their feelings.

Picture after picture emerges of
the dead students. One is in a gold-plated photo frame—I swallow hard at the
obvious cherished memory—another is a boy with wild red hair and freckles, and
the last wears goggles and a swim cap, ready to race.

“The seventeen-year old was on
the fast track for competing in the Districts until his body was found washed
up on shore in Manly.”

The front screen door bangs shut
against the jamb, and then Mum hurries in from the hallway, her heels
click-clacking across the floor. “Oh, turn that off! You shouldn’t be watching
it,” she says, clamping her handbag tight over her shoulder. A frown ripples
her brow as she flicks off the set.

The piece of toast still hangs
from my hand, halfway to my mouth. My stomach flip
flops,
and I feel dreadful. I want to tell her everything the psychiatrist told me,
because I need to have someone else to talk to about why the other teenagers
died and I survived.

She sighs and hooks her bag over
a chair and then smiles so wide, tears pool in her blue eyes. “Honey, oh, it’s
so good to see your face.” She leans down and then wraps her arms around my
shoulders. She feels so soft and familiar.
So real.
“You’ve been sick with the ‘flu.
Slept for days.
The
doctor came by to check you over. He said you had pneumonia and needed to
rest,” she mutters into my shoulder.

I squeeze her back. “I figured.”
She hugs me tighter, and I fight back a moan of pain. Her gesture is full of
love, I know, so I hang on until she lets me go. She’s obviously been scared to
death about me.

She smells of the days I would
hunt through her dresser drawers looking for makeup. I smile, and she lets go
and then asks me how I’m feeling.

Everything comes at a strange
distance, and although my body hurts, all I can concentrate on is the fact that
teenagers are dying, but nobody knows why. Nobody knows if I will end up on
that cliff again.

All right, I eventually mumble
around my breakfast, because I can’t talk loudly anyway. My rib isn’t as sore,
my shoulder a bit stiff, my back tender, but I don’t even want to mention my
lungs. If this is what pneumonia feels like, then I have sympathy for all those
who have ever suffered from the illness. I want to separate myself from the
pain.

Not being able to breathe is
terrifying. To have the one basic act of life snatched away from you. Think
about it. Imagine not breathing.

Just. Stop.

You may last minutes.

Your throat closes up, and then
you totally freak out. It’s like sucking air through a blocked tube. I suck and
I suck. Harder and harder, until I feel like I’m going to breathe my ribs up
into my mouth. But I will not dwell on that or how I strolled over the grass in
my nightie, stood on top of the cliff and then leaped off.

The jam on my toast looks like
blood.

5

I’VE BEEN
A
student of Wynnum
College, which is a preparatory to grade twelve high school, for six weeks
before the start of the school holidays. And I feel like I’m an alien who got
shot straight down from outer space where I crash landed in a ditch on an
extremely hostile planet. There are backstabbing girls who giggle and gossip
about boys, relationships, jobs, parties and money. It’s handy if you have no
idea what you’re in for with a boy. Us girls, we
gotta
stick together, except when we backstab each other to death. Don’t ever turn
your back.

Mum says I’m all set for school,
and I nod, knowing I may as well get it over with. I’ve been away for over
three weeks.

The next morning = FAIL.

My hair sticks up in puffy tufts,
the straightening iron can’t do zip, and the bottom of my shoe peels off,
flopping around on the pavement like a giant black tongue. I hobble off to
school since I miss the bus and then climb over a few fences to take a
shortcut. But a loose bit of steel rips the butt of my tartan skirt.

R-
i
-
i
-
i
-p.

I really can’t win.

Terrific.
Ms.
Wrendel
, the
headmistress, will turn my liver into pate, especially since I’m wearing hot
pink underwear. I giggle and hunch over, panting for breath.
Flash
here, flash there.
At least my bra is neutral. I’m not crazy enough to
have pink show through my white blouse.

Can things get any worse? Maybe I
better not tempt fate to think such a thing.

Ms.
Wrendel’s
strict policy of beige and white underwear is
feral. She keeps a stash in her office for those who prefer bright colours. Is
there anything as gross as a teacher giving students underwear? Talk about the
stuff of
nightmares,
never mind what happened to me at
the cliff.

The woman wastes her talents at
Wynnum College. She should have been a president of some war-torn country or a
general in the army. In no time at all, she’d have the people conquered, beaten
and loving their slavery.

I drop my school bag right there
on the pavement, open up my pencil case, twist my skirt around to get to the
back and then staple up the rip from the inside. I have to stick my hand down
the front of my skirt to do it, but I don’t care who sees me. Thankfully
afterwards, I make it to school with no other mishaps.

Form room starts out with
everyone gawking. Maybe the staples haven’t held, and I’ve been walking around
like a total idiot with my underwear on show. It’s similar to that horrible
moment when you notice your zipper is undone and you’re meeting an insanely
gorgeous guy. I want to look down at my skirt to check, but I can’t, that will
make it obvious.

My best friend, Bethany, isn’t
even in my home class so I don’t have her to talk to. Everyone knows something
happened to me. I’ve been away for so long, how could they not? The news on the
TV will fill in most gaps.

My chest squeezes, so I breathe
shallow and slow and then slide into a vacant seat.

I want to say, “Yeah, I’m the new
girl who fell from the cliff. Ha, ha, ha. Stare all you want.” Heat climbs up
my cheeks, and I smile at the teacher, Mr. Whicky. Everyone calls him Wacky
behind his back. He’s asking me a question about . . . life.

His face jumps into focus.
Round.
Pudgy.

He asks, what’s the meaning of
life, Eloise? Why are we here?

“For the ride,” I say.

He studies me with eyes that look
like a cat’s before it sinks its claws into a mouse.

My lungs tighten and throb.
Surely, I will die on the spot. Maybe fall right out of my chair. I can’t
breathe. The cold linoleum will feel like a kiss against my skin.

“Not everyone feels that way,” he
says. “People have been trying to figure out the answer since time began. You
might not know the answer now, or want to know, but when you’re older you
will.”

“Great.” I turn to face the
collection of snide looks. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Wacky frowns at me and then tells
everyone to open their diaries.

Maribel Barker shifts in her
chair across from me and says, “We have Bible studies in the library at
afternoon lunch if you’re interested.”

She’s sweet, really.
Never a bad word for anyone.
Maybe my
salvation?
My comeback hadn’t been directed at her, but I politely
decline her offer as I intend to find out what others know, so then maybe I’ll
figure out what happened to me.

6

AT MORNING TEA, I spot Bethany hurrying at her usual insane
pace down the concrete footpath.
Quick steps, a flurry of movement.
Her brow furrows, mouth drawn at the edges, but people twist to get out of her
way. She’s lost in her own little world again.
On a mission.

I stand in front of her and cop a
face full of heavy backpack, almost tripping over my loose sole. “Damn girl.”
If she let go of her bag, no doubt it would put me back in hospital. It weighs
a ton. “How many books do you have in there?” I croak.

She shifts from side to side with
her bag slung over her shoulder, trying to redistribute the weight. Her curly
black hair frizzes from the heat, escaping her high ponytail. Obviously, she
forgot to straighten her hair, because I’ve never seen her with curls. She
pushes her glasses higher up her nose to study me through the lenses.

“Ellie, so
sorry.
Did I hurt you? I’ve been looking for you
everywhere
. Is
it true? Did you . . . really . . .” she looks around and then grabs my blouse
to drag me off to one side of the walkway, “jump off that cliff to kill
yourself?” she hisses.

I roll my eyes. “No. Don’t
believe everything you’re told. Wait. Is that what everyone’s saying I did?”

“Yes. Don’t believe everything
I’m told?” Obvious confusion flickers in her green eyes. “I had the funniest
sensation in my stomach when you said that. What happened?”

“Once you figure it out, will let
me know?” I lean against one of the steel supports on the undercover walkway
and munch on my jam sandwich. “The only thing I do know is that I didn’t want
to kill myself. I wouldn’t.”

She inches toward me with a slow
nod. I can tell by the rapid blinking of her lashes her brain is in
hyper-drive. “Once I know?
Funny.
I thought you could
tell me, but with what they were saying on the TV this morning about that boy’s
death along the coastline, it reminded me of a report I heard a while back.
I’ll see if I can find it on my
iPad
. I’m sure I
saved the page.” She rummages inside her bag, cursing at the thick textbooks.
“Wait a sec.”

The sandwich in my mouth tastes
like petrol, and I dry retch, but swallow the mouthful,
then
throw the rest in the trash. I grab a hank of my hair, twisting the rope around
my fist.
My stomach aches and heart races.
The
tightness in my chest is enough that I have to rub at the spot to ease the
pain. “You heard about him?
About the deaths?”

Bethany peers up at me. “Sure.
All three of them were on the news. But he was in grade twelve, parents are
suspects. They found his body near an inlet, up on the sand at Manly. They’re
not giving out his name yet though.” She plants herself down on the far edge of
the concrete and brings up newspaper articles on her
iPad
.
After she scrolls down the information, she enlarges an article and then turns
the device toward me. “This is what I wanted to show you. Another girl died.
But they haven’t reported it.”

“What?
When?”
Oh, God. No more, please.

“Last year. Her name was Melanie.
The same thing that happened to . . . you also happened to her. But, you . . .
well . . . you didn’t die. She did.”

No. That’s a lie. I did die.
Briefly.

“Look here.” Bethany taps a link
on the screen and brings up another window. “The first one was Melanie, but
then there’s this other girl. Sarah Jenkins was found dead on the beach, two
kilometres from her house that overlooks a cliff in Manly. The cops found Sarah
two weeks after Melanie’s Watt’s death. Seaweed wrapped around her feet.
Unsolved, apparently.
They figure she jumped.”

“Why?” My heart thumps, and bile
rises in my throat. “Did you say seaweed was around her feet?”

“Yeah, your mum told mine that’s
how you were found. It’s the kind of creepy detail you don’t forget.”

“No matter how hard you try,” I
murmur.
The office grapevine.
My mum works with
Bethany’s mum at the local real estate agents, and Bethany and I met at one of
Mum’s work barbeques for families.

“You
were
found a few
kilometres away from your house on the beach.
Seaweed on your
feet.
Right?”

My fingers tingle so badly, I
unclench my fist and then rub my hands down my skirt to encourage blood flow. I
shake out my hands and then clear my throat. “So I was told. What else do you
have on Melanie?”

Bethany taps, swipes the screen
again and then pulls up the original story.
“Melanie Watts,
fourteen years old.
Dead, four kilometres away from
her house at Oyster Point.
All injuries indicate she jumped from the
cliff near her home. Police couldn’t find any other clues. She was dead when
they found her on the beach, naked, with seaweed twisted around her ankles.”

A cold finger of terror trails
down my spine. I shiver, heart beating double-time. I pivot and then bolt
toward the trees in the sun-baked garden, hiding behind a plant’s spindly
branches to puke. Seconds tick by in silence. I can’t move from the spot, and
the sunlight is a hot paw on my back. My stomach clenches tight, and my ribs
and chest sharply contract.

“What the hell, Bethany?” A
thousand things appear with razor-sharp focus. My breathing picks up, and it
hurts like hell. “So it’s three boys from this school and two girls from the
Redlands area? How did you find out so much?
The Internet?”

Bethany’s a super computer all on
her own. Girl reads newspapers and current events as if she’s the CEO of a
corporation evading taxes. She’ll be a millionaire before she hits twenty-five,
I’m sure. But how could she get information the reporters hadn’t discovered
yet? She struts over, palms her iPhone out of her skirt’s side pocket, taps a
few buttons and then brings up a photo.

“Not exactly.
I’ve got relatives over that way.
A cousin.
He sent me
a picture of the girl at the time. I never got rid of it.” She holds up her
phone. “Check it out.”

I blink. Then blink again. Against
my better judgment, I wipe the back of my trembling hand against my mouth, step
into the shade and take a closer look.

Melanie lies face down on the
grainy sand. Little shells sparkle around her limp form while murky water laps
the edge of her bloated stomach. Seaweed snarls around her waist, but tightly
binds her ankles and feet. Her straggly, long, brown hair is sand-logged and
pushed off to one side. She has a dolphin tattoo on her left shoulder. Her arms
are spread out, fingers clenched into claws on the sand.

I hiccup and
moan,
my hand still over my mouth.

“Sorry.” Bethany frowns and shuts
off her phone, then tucks it back into her skirt pocket. “I should’ve given you
some warning, I guess.”

My lungs protest at the intake of
oxygen. Something tears up and then pulls apart inside my chest. I cough,
trying to slow my breathing.

“What do you remember?” she asks.

“Not much.
Less
than that.”
But I’m shaking so hard I’m not sure she hears me. “I
remember a song and my dad’s face. I woke up in the hospital. People think I
jumped. My mum thinks so too because of the evidence, even though those other
boys have died.”

“Yeah, no one knows what
happened. But all the authorities
believe
they jumped. If you remember
nothing . . .” Bethany exhales loudly and looks up to the treetops swaying in
the breeze. “That’s super troubling, Ellie. I don’t ever want to read about you
like I have those girls. I don’t think that guy’s parents killed him, no matter
that they’ve hired a lawyer.”

“I can’t believe more have died.”
I sit down, pull up my knees, and hug ‘
em
tight,
lurching backward and forward. The tight pressure helps confuse the pain in my
chest. I will not cry.
Not cry
. Like everyone at school doesn’t already
have enough to talk about. I will not give them more.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” My
teeth scrape together. I suck and chew at my thumbnail that’s almost bleeding.
One type of pain to help distract the other.

She taps my wrist. “Don’t do
that. Hell, how far have you chewed down? You jumped, but you don’t know why,”
she says, perplexed. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you have any history
as a sleepwalker?”

“No, and I just can’t handle not
knowing anymore.” I throw up my hands. “It’s like I’ve lost a day of my life. I
need to know why on Earth I would’ve been on that cliff.” Where can I go for
help? No one here knows me like they did back in Sydney. I’m lost in a sea of
strange faces.
Just lost in the sea, period.
“For all
I know, it could happen again.” And there it
is,
my
greatest fear. I scrub my face with shaking hands. “Call up your cousin, I want
to meet him. See what he knows.”

“Really?”
She smiles, taps the screen of her iPhone and then presses the device to her
ear. She waits a second or two.
“Hey Cal.
Can I come
over to your place this afternoon? I
wanna
check out
the beach where you found that dead girl last year. Why? Oh, just because I
have the best cousin in the world, that’s why. And I’m bringing around a
friend.” Beth laughs into the phone. “You know I’d think it odd if I met a guy
who didn’t smell like fish guts. See you then.”

The bell rings. We brush down our
skirts, trudge back to our bags, but Bethany spins to me with wide eyes. “Oh,
can’t believe I forgot to tell you. There’s this new guy. Have you met him
yet?” she bursts out. As I shake my head, she smiles. “He’s hot!
Total mint.”

I raise my eyebrows and choke a
bit at the change of subject. Remnants of liquid acid coat my mouth. He must be
if Bethany has that reaction, but I head toward the water bubblers, my stomach
soft and queasy at the memory of the dead girl’s picture. It could’ve happened
to me.

It
did
happen to me.