The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl (2 page)

‘The Original Ned Zebidiah. Prognosticator. Seer. Diviner of Ancient Mysteries.’

And below that in tiny letters:

‘And Frank.’

‘Have you seen this guy?’ Grady says. ‘He has a show on Channel 31. It’s on at, like, two in the morning. I watch him when I can’t sleep, and he’s usually good for a laugh, but this – is beyond cool.’

I choose not to comment on the return of Grady’s insomnia. It’s not something he wants to talk about, and besides, he says it’s nothing to worry about. Though, ever since we were five and he managed to break his arm playing minigolf, worrying about Grady has been kinda routine.

‘The Original? Is there more than one?’

Grady snorts. ‘Yeah, it’s a pretty dodge moniker. But seriously, Alba. Watch.’

He turns the volume up over the chatter and the
White Christmas
soundtrack burbling through the bakery. The clip has forty-five views and a bunch of comments I can’t read because Grady’s big hand is clutching the screen like he’s crazy Mrs Garabaldi from the hardware store, and his iPad is the last cherry slice at the end of cherry season. He touches the screen, and the clip starts to roll.

Original Ned peers at the camera, his Fu Manchu wiggling as he swallows uncomfortably. ‘Welcome friends,’ he says, his voice oddly high-pitched for a guy who looks like an
X-Men
villain. ‘It’s, uh, another Friday, and, uh, the universe is once again speaking to those with the power to, uh, listen …’

He glances at the guy next to him, a skinny, wide-eyed dude. Presumably the ‘And Frank’.

‘Grady, does anyone actually watch this?’

Grady points at the screen. ‘At least forty-five people on YouTube. Though I’m guessing that’s forty-four views from Ned, and one from Frank’s mum. Hang on … I’ll skip the boring stuff …’

Grady’s finger trails across the screen. Original Ned is somewhat stressed-looking now, beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead.

‘… some call it the Rapture,’ he mumbles. ‘But I have seen it, friends. Ned Zebidiah understands the planetary alignments and the … ancient codes of Revelation and the … uh … Aztecs …’

‘Jeez. This sounds credible.’

Grady laughs. ‘I know. Talk about covering all your bases. But keep watching.’

Ned straightens. ‘I have peered through the veil and … stuff. But now, the universe has chosen to speak to Ned Zebidiah.’ And then he leans towards the camera. ‘The End of Days,’ Ned whispers. ‘I have seen it. And friends – I have seen the salvation.’

I giggle as Ned’s eyes roll back and his body shakes like he’s trapped in a giant blender. Skinny guy shuffles his chair away with a start. And then Ned rattles off a list of numbers. Frank frantically scribbles in a notebook.

I can see Rosie Addler waving from the booth where she’s parked with her poodle, Mr Frankenstein. I reach for a plate of donuts. ‘So what? He’s predicting Powerball?’

Grady leans precariously towards me, his long legs holding him in place. ‘Nope,’ he says with excited eyes. ‘The comments say they’re map coordinates.’

‘I have seen through the illusions!’ Ned bellows, causing Frank to almost fall out of his chair. ‘The calendar will end with the turn of the New Year.’ Ned flops backwards. ‘And I have seen those who will be saved,’ he says in this portentous whisper. ‘Pray to whatever gods you believe in, friends. The end is upon us. And only the chosen ones will be spared.’

Grady pauses the clip. ‘The rest is pretty boring. People call in for advice on, like, speaking to their dead cats. And then Frank sings. It’s not exactly HBO.’

He leaps down from the counter and leans over it again. I push back the brim of his baseball cap, cos I know his mischievous eyes are twinkling beneath it.

‘Fascinating, Grady, but I gotta get back to work –’

‘So get this,’ he says. ‘Those numbers he gave? The map coordinates?’ He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘They’re here.’

I brush my hands on my apron. They’re suddenly all weird and tingly. ‘You mean –’

‘Right. Here. Apparently, when the crap goes down, Eden Valley is the only place on the planet that’s going to survive. We are the Ark, Alba. The – what’s the name of the last city on earth from that weird-arse comic you like?’

I giggle. ‘Pythonopolis. But you’re not serious. Is this guy for real?’

‘I googled him. His real name is Alvin Smith, and he used to work in real estate.’ Grady flashes his cheeky grin at me. ‘I would say his information is possibly suspect. But then again, Alba, if you can’t trust a community-TV prophet …?’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘So the end of the world is nigh in what, seventeen days – and little ol’ Eden Valley is gonna be the last outpost? Very cool.’

Grady grimaces. He flicks a glance over his shoulder at the dusty, empty span of Main Street. ‘Jesus. Can you think of anything more depressing than that?’

I busy myself rearranging the macarons I’d pain-stakingly sandwiched with Christmas-coloured ganache this morning. ‘It’s not
depressing
,’ I say eventually. ‘There’d be worse places to spend eternity. We’ll have everyone we love in the one spot … but, okay, it means we’ll have to repopulate the planet. I suppose that might be inconvenient.’

When I glance up, Grady seems to be focusing on a cloud of sugar on the countertop. And then he picks up one of my menus. He grabs a napkin and swipes at a jammy smudge. ‘People have no respect,’ he mutters.

I flick his arm with my dishcloth. ‘They’re supposed to be used. Utilitarian, remember?’

‘It’s not Pizza Hut,’ he says, his eyes on the menu. ‘It’s art – not that anyone in this town would know the difference.’

My latest menu is a new style I’ve been experimenting with, sort of the wicked inventive layouts of the last
X-23
meets the linework of Faith Erin Hicks, but with a palette of old-school Marvel colours, all reds and blues and limey greens. I’m trying out a new character in this one as well. Her hair is styled a bit like mine, with a thick eye-sweeping fringe, but instead of my longish brown boringness I’ve given her masses of red curls streaked with blue. I’d played around with different outfits before settling on a style that I currently love, a scarlet gingham rockabilly dress with navy stockings and giant red heels. She’s not
supposed
to be me, even though she dresses like me and has my height and, okay, maybe my solid thighs. I think she looks pretty kick-arse. In honour of her hair Grady dubbed her Cinnamon Girl, and I guess his name stuck. Our menu is embedded in the comic’s panels, in the lettering and word balloons that litter her little streets. I’m sort of proud of this one.

Grady drops the menu. He peers at me from beneath his cap, hitting me with the full force of his stubborn Bambi eyes. Instinctively, I feel myself bristle.

‘Alba … I don’t know why you’ve suddenly become subject-change girl, but – you know, you’ve barely told me anything about your interview. Did they like your folio? Of course they liked your folio, your stuff is bloody brilliant …’

He tugs his cap down and gives me a bright smile. ‘We’re a few short weeks away from getting the hell out of this dump, and I am
kinda
counting on the fact that the rest of the world will still be standing –’

‘
You
are a few weeks,’ I say, my eyes on the macarons. ‘I’m not sure … I mean, I don’t know now …’

Grady picks up his lemon slice and devours the rest in one theatrical bite. ‘Seriously,’ he says, dabbing a smiley on the back of my hand with his icing-y fingers, ‘I cannot witness the results of Eden Valley inbreeding without seeing New York at least once.’

I shuffle in front of the counter and nudge his hip with mine. Subject-change girl I may be, but I suspect that neither of us is in the mood for this conversation right now. ‘Grady, I think you’re probably safe. Hasn’t the end of the world been predicted, like, a thousand times? What is the plural of apocalypse anyway? Apocali?’

‘Apocalypseses?’ he says, nudging me back with a grin. ‘And picture this – if we do turn out to be the last people on the planet, someone we know will actually face the prospect of breeding with Eddie.’

‘Eww … poor Eddie,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I’m not sure Judgement Day will be calamitous enough to snag him a girlfriend. He
may
be the first one sacrificed when we’re forced to turn to human-burgers for sustenance.’

But Grady’s eyes are back on his iPad, and he doesn’t seem to be listening. ‘Huh.’

‘What?’

He shakes his head, left hand kneading the back of his neck like he always does when he’s thinking. ‘Nothing. Just, well – look at this.’

He turns the iPad around and points at the view counter.

The view counter reads: eighty-nine.

I peer at the screen. ‘Maybe Ned has more fans than country-boy insomniacs and Frank’s mum?’

‘Maybe.’ Grady snaps his iPad shut. ‘Anyway. You almost done?’

‘Need to help with the rush. Another hour?’

‘Cool. I promised Mr Grey I’d help fix that dodgy table at the pub, but I’m gonna pass out if I don’t find proper lunch first. Unless you want to get some drawing done?’

‘Nah. Food’s good,’ I say, my mouth watering at the thought of the Nguyens’ Sunday calamari special.

Grady picks up his sports bag in one hand, and reaches over with the other to adjust the flower I’ve stuck in my braid. ‘Kay. I’ll wait.’

He weaves through the tables, waving at various people, and settles in his usual booth with a slice of banana bread. He buries his head in a John Grisham novel, his iPad propped in front of him, presumably with some random video playing.

Then Paulette drops a tray of forks with an almighty
clang
, and I’m distracted by serving Rosie Addler her third pink-iced donut, so two seconds later I promptly forget all about YouTube and Original Ned and that view counter that seems to have ticked over a little too fast for a clip from a dodgy nobody television prophet.

Okay, I know I said that I am rubbish at remembering details.

In hindsight? That was one detail I should probably have paid attention to.

So remember I said my story would not be tell-able without two boys? Bear with me, I am coming to that part. My boys may be indispensible to my origin story, but nothing – apocalypse or otherwise – will make any sense without some prefacey panels of my other Smallville sidekicks.

On any normal Monday, my friends will shuffle into Albany’s for breakfast, school uniforms all skew-whiff, before we walk down the road to catch the bus we share with the primary school. But school turfed us out for the last time weeks ago, so – for as long as everyone is still here – I insist we meet as normal like every other Monday.

Tia barges through the side gate pulling a yawning Caroline by the hand, just as I’m laying a picnic mat on the springy fake grass.

‘Happy no-school Monday, Alba!’ Tia chirps. ‘Nice pink shirt. Is that ModCloth?’

I half-spin in my best pin-up girl pose. ‘Yup. Like it?’

‘
Love
it!’ Tia says. She nudges Caroline. ‘See? There are more styles in the world than jeans and stuff from Jetty Surf.’

‘I’ll remember that when I get my Oscar invite.’ Caroline drops onto the mat and folds her long legs beneath her. ‘Christ, it’s hot. I feel like my eyeballs are sweating. Does someone actually want us to burn in this hell?’

I hand her a croissant and snap a sneaky photo with my phone before she can flip me the bird. ‘Oh boo, Caroline. The sky is clear, the birds are singing – I think it’s a small improvement on homeroom and that cloud of Mr Baxter’s pit-sweat.’

Tia sits, her floaty dress pooling on the picnic mat. ‘Besides, it’s only eight sleeps till Christmas, and we’ll never have to sit through another Monday assembly on drugs or, like, the dangers of tractor joyriding again –’

Tia grimaces. She glances at me. For a befuddled second, I find myself wondering why she’s not in her stripy school uniform. I think I can live without Principal Bairnsworth’s eager Monday pep talks, or her one-woman sex-ed puppet shows. And yet, the mental flash of our teeny school quad, empty in the summer sunshine, fills me with a fleeting, throat-squeezy sadness.

Caroline squints up at the almost-midday sun. She shoots us a grin. ‘If the two of you burst into song, someone is gonna get punched.’

Tia gives me a weak smile. Tia’s real name is Tiahnah, cos her mum is – well, let’s just say that Mrs Holbrook is a big fan of the reality-TV school of child-naming, giving her daughters the uber-classy monikers of Tiahnah, Brihannah and Khahliah.

I kid you not.

Brihannah scarpered to the city years ago, and Khahliah dropped out of school and moved to Perth to hook up with a guy she met on the internet. But Tia is ace, and reminds me of Josie from Dad’s Archie Comics, except, you know, with chestnut hair and way better fashion sense.

Grady stumbles in a few minutes later, his labrador, Clouseau, trailing wheezily behind.

‘You’re late,’ I say as I give Clouseau a cuddle. ‘We had plans, Grady! Big plans! I’ve been sitting by my phone, worried sick, while you’ve been gallivanting around town with your no-good pals and that floozy from the hairdresser –’

‘Hey, woman!’ he says in his old-timey movie voice. ‘You’re not the boss of me. Guess I’m just not a one-gal sorta guy.’ Caroline snorts as Grady gives her and Tia a wave. ‘And yeah, I promised Rosie I’d fix the gate on her chook pen, but I spent most of the morning stopping her mutt from humping Clouseau’s head. Totally not worth twenty bucks. I’m starved.’