The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl (6 page)

And I can’t be sure, but in between I think I dream about Grady’s wide-awake brown eyes peering forlornly at me through the dark.

The cars start arriving the next morning.

Gosh, that sounds dramatic. Like, it should be accompanied by crisis-music or something. But really, at first – despite Twitter and trending and thousands of people on YouTube – Tuesday morning begins no differently from any other.

As usual I’m wide awake and out of bed before six, leaving Grady face-planted on my green couch, one long leg dangling over the floorboards. I skip into the bakery in my jammies and kimono, my hair held back by my sleep mask.

The morning crew is already bustling as trays are piled in and out of ovens. Cleo is perched on a bench, eating cookie dough straight out of a bowl.

‘Hey, Second Mama,’ I say, giving her a cuddle.

‘Hey, miss,’ she says, hugging me back. ‘My son still sleeping?’

‘Uh-huh. He really is a lazy no-good layabout. I blame the parents.’

Cleo swats me with her spoon. ‘So I have Angie to blame for your mouth?’

Mum flings a wad of gingerbread dough onto the counter. ‘Not my fault. God only knows where she learnt the sarcasm.’

Cleo laughs. ‘It’s a mystery. And our Modern Art tutor suffered a breakdown cos some
other
blue-haired chick kept hassling him about the lack of female artists on the syllabus?’

Mum narrows her eyes as Cleo serenely shoves more cookie dough into her mouth.

If I’ve inherited all my genes from my dad, then Grady is like a boy-clone of his mother. He has her chaotic dark curls and mischievous eyes, though Cleo is a head and shoulders shorter than both her sons. Today she’s wearing the sensible slacks and soft grey shirt she’s adopted for work at Doctor Lucas’s office, with colourful strings of that chunky wooden jewellery she was all into making a few months back.

‘Where’d you disappear to last night, Mum?’ I say as I nudge her out of the way and bury my hands in the dough. ‘Busy digging a fallout shelter?’

Mum catches Cleo’s eye. ‘I wanted to debrief … Hey, I’ve seen
Armageddon
. Just checking that Mrs Garabaldi wasn’t bunked on her roof with a shotgun.’

Cleo pauses, mid-chew. ‘Bruce Willis was yummy in that movie,’ she says dreamily.

I work my fingers into the dough. ‘Please. Isn’t he, like, seventy?’

Cleo bumps Mum with her foot. ‘And bald. Still though. Wouldn’t say no.’

‘I doubt you’d say no to a ficus at this point,’ Mum mutters.

‘Gah! No old-man sex talk! Go away, both of you, before I yak into this perfectly delicious gingerbread dough.’

Mum drags a giggling Cleo away by the arm as Mrs Doyle shoots me a disapproving glare, her papery hands swirling icing onto a tray of cupcakes.

As stories go, I’m fully aware that my world is probably not the most riveting of narratives. I could yammer for ages about the routine in the bakery, cos it’s the story I’ve known for most of my life: the morning light that hits the pots hanging above the centre counter, the particular blend of smells and sounds I’ve loved ever since I was big enough to hold a spoon. When I’m sifting and stirring, my hands can be on autopilot and my brain in whatever world I want to be. It’s the only time – apart from when I’m drawing – that I can be right here, and a thousand other places all at once. It’s the only place in the universe that’s ever felt one hundred per cent like
me
.

Still. Comic-book worthy, Albany’s is not. And besides, as I may have mentioned – there are far more interesting things afoot today than cupcakes.

So I help out, then skip back to the house. At some point Grady has crawled from the couch and into my bed, so I tiptoe around the lightly snoring Grady-mound as I throw on a tartan skirt and one of Dad’s faded Bonds T-shirts. I twist my hair up in an animal-print scarf, chuck on boots and my favourite red lipstick, and skip back to the diner.

The first thing that catches my eye is beardy-man and bikini-girl, inhabitants of the mysterious Kombi. They’re huddled in a booth, lips smooshed together like they’re studying the terrain of each other’s tonsils. At the counter, Tommy Ridley is gaping at them like they’re one of those Amsterdam porn shows he insists he’s going to see one day. I think PDAs are sweet, but still, it’s disconcerting seeing strangers here, weird little cracks on the edge of my known universe.

The second thing that catches my eye is this: through the French windows, some unfamiliar cars are parked along Main Street. There’s a battered Corolla, and a sedan I’ve never seen before. Across the road, the pump at the Wasileskis’ service station has two cars backing up to it – a girl is leaning through a window to snap pictures of the ‘Eden Valley General Store’ sign. The Wasileskis’ shack is cute as, but I can’t remember it seeing this much action since that time Merindale’s truck stop shut for a week after poisoning people with dodgy sausage rolls.

Paulette hurries over just as Mum bustles in from the verandah. ‘Alba, have you seen what’s going on outside?’ Paulette says breathlessly. ‘There’s, like, a dozen crazy hippies wandering around Main Street – some guy’s even pitched a telescope in front of the Eversons’ store.’ She tugs at her pigtails. ‘How stupid are people? What are they expecting is gonna happen
here
of all places?’

Mum glances through the window. ‘I’m not sure that’s the point. People want to be where things are happening. Suppose it doesn’t matter
what’s
happening, does it? Or where …’ Outside, Julian Ridley, our lone police officer, is scratching his head as he peers at the Corolla.

‘Excuse me, kids,’ Mum murmurs, hurrying out the door again.

I haul myself on a stool. ‘Suppose some people just gravitate towards weirdness?’ I say vaguely. ‘And a handful of tourists is no big deal. Didn’t Merindale get a bunch of visitors when that stoner-guy said he saw a panther on the football field?’

Paulette laughs. ‘Yeah. Same guy who swears he saw the face of Jesus in a meat pie. Like I said, people are idiots. Look at them, Alba.’ I follow the direction of her hands. Some guy is posing for a selfie in front of our mailbox. ‘They look so cheerful,’ Paulette says with another laugh. ‘Like, hello, people? You’re preparing for Judgement Day. Least you could do is be a bit sedate.’

Paulette Barry graduated high school a few years ago, in the same class as Grady’s big brother. I love her to bits, partly cos she’s never felt the need to hook up with hot-but-somewhat-man-ho-ish Anthony. Paulette has vague plans to go to uni ‘at some point’, but right now, she’s just happy hanging around home. She’s super-fun and has zero angst about the future.

We should all be so lucky.

I peer at the street again. Scattered between the roses that line our path is the family of garden gnomes Dad and I had been collecting for years. Dad’s favourite was the gnome he’d named ‘Big Grant’, a happy little guy in a bathing suit, giving a thumbs-up from a ceramic lilo. Every so often some drunk-arse local rearranges our gnomes in gross sex poses, but mostly, no-one who knows me would dare touch them. The Kombi couple are sitting on the steps now, the girl nestled in beardy-man’s lap. They’re laughing at the gnome I’ve dubbed ‘Frida’, due to the gnomey monobrow I painted on her one day when I was bored. Haughty Frida is my favourite of all our gnomes. Right now, I think she’s looking a little pissed at the attention. I resist the urge to run out and defend the poor girl’s honour.

So I realise my capacity for dealing with reality may not be sound. Still, as I watch a few more unfamiliar faces making their way into the bakery, I can’t help but think that, comic-book-wise, this whole episode would probably fill nothing but a couple of interlude frames; like that moment where a character has a sepia-tinted dream before crashing back into their real story.

‘A few sightseers are no big deal,’ I repeat.

Paulette makes this
mhmhmm
sound, then wanders off to refill the sugar bowls.

•

Though I try to discount what’s happening outside, our routine is rudely interrupted by the shenanigans. Caroline texts to say she’s perving on a carload of boys near Anzac Park, and Eddie and Pete swing by to grab warm muffins before dashing down the road. Only Tia sticks to schedule, showing up with her sketchpad as planned.

Tia’s fashion designs are pure awesomeness, but her bandy-legged stick figures are probably not going to get her a look-in at Chanel or wherever. I’ve been trying to help her for ages, but since I’m basically self-taught, I’m not sure I’m being much use.

‘Hey, where’re your pencils?’ I say as Tia drifts into my backyard.

She sits on the grass next to my banana lounge. ‘Had a crappy sleep last night, and I got woken up by Petey calling to tell me about – well, all this.’ She waves her hand nervously at the Palmers’ fields, where the Kombi has been joined by a handful of other cars.

Tia shudders. ‘Mum’s having a freak-out, too. She watched that Ned guy and then spent the night online buying camp stoves and snuggies … I can’t be bothered working anyway, Alba. I think I used up all my creative juices for my folio and … I’m just not feeling all that inspired lately.’

‘Oh?’ I say carefully. I drag my eyes away from the farm and stick a eucalyptus bookmark in my copy of
Persepolis
. ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain wannabe ninja, would it?’

Tia’s eyes linger on the fields. ‘No. Maybe. I dunno.’ She sighs and kneads her temples. ‘I’ve never had a boyfriend before, Alba. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with one. But it’s nice having Pete around, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing next year, so …’

‘So now you’re not sure what you’re doing either?’ I say gently. ‘But your folio was so ace … never thought you’d consider ditching design school for a guy who thinks detachable track pants are the world’s greatest invention.’

Tia rests her cheek against my chair, troubled grey eyes blinking up at me. ‘Is that really pathetic? It’s really pathetic, isn’t it. God, can you imagine what Caroline would say if she knew what I was thinking?’

As much as I know Caroline loves Tia, I also know she shares Grady’s particular tunnel vision when it comes to this stuff. And I totally get where Tia is coming from. Why is it that we’re supposed to just want to merrily zip away on the first bus out of here? Why is it that the second we graduate, people and history and
home
suddenly aren’t supposed to matter anymore?

I swing my legs off the lounge and plop onto the grass. ‘Nah. It’s not pathetic,’ I say, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Just, well … isn’t being in love supposed to make you
more
inspired? That’s what I keep hearing in songs, anyway.’

Tia grimaces. ‘I never said the L-word. But I like Petey a lot, and us getting together – it’s changed things. That’s supposed to happen. Right?’ She stares out over the hills beyond the Palmers’ farm and smooths her bob. ‘Am I still supposed to want to move to Paris and work for Isabel Marant if Pete wants to hang out here and, I dunno, invent the world’s first hovercraft shoe or whatever?’

I’m not really sure what to say, except that this conversation is taking far too serious a turn for a sunny day. I push my sunglasses up my nose. ‘Well, if Peter achieves his goal of becoming a ninja, maybe you could design his costumes?’

Tia chuckles. ‘Right. Spandex undies. In boys’ extra-small.’

We’re still laughing when Grady stumbles out of my room, bleary eyes blinking into the sun.

‘Nice jammies,’ Tia says with another giggle.

Grady glances at his Christmas-elf boxers. ‘Don’t diss the clothes,’ he croaks. ‘Alba bought me these.’

Grady drops in front of me with a giant yawn. I drape my arms lazily around his neck, his skin too warm from sleep. ‘Aw, I think they’re cute. Santa’s little helpers – they reminded me of you, Grady.’

Grady leans against me, his hair tickling my chin, his thumbs tapping at his mobile. I snatch the phone and squish my head over his shoulder, and I click a photo of us; partly cos I’ve become kind of obsessed with recording everything, but mostly cos I know Grady hates having his picture taken.

‘You can’t do that with your own phone?’ he grumbles.

‘Oh boo, Scrooge. One day, you’ll be sorry there isn’t more evidence of the time when you were so pretty.’ I’ve managed to cut off half of Grady’s face and most of my forehead, but the photo’s still cute as. I message it to myself and then, for good measure, I set it as Grady’s wallpaper.

Grady flicks the phone back from my hands. ‘So. Guess the word is out,’ he says cautiously. He flashes his phone at Tia. ‘Your boyfriend seems to be convinced that rumours of the world’s demise are not at all exaggerated, judging by all the texts he’s sent me. Any reason why Pete’s so excited about the apocalypse?’

‘I think Petey’s just waiting for his chance to bust out the superhero moves,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I mean, that oil fire at the fish-and-chip shop doesn’t count. Even though Pete was awesome. Apart from that unfortunate peeing-himself business –’

Grady tenses. My heart does a weird double-time before my brain takes in what I am hearing from the street out front. Something I hardly ever hear around Albany’s.

The roar of a motorbike engine.