Malaise Read online

  The spot is nature at its very finest, and every year teenagers celebrating the end of another school year trash it. Exams start next week, and for most of us, this is the last chance at living it up as young adults before plans for University or out-of-school jobs start us on the slippery slope to “adulting.”

  “Heyyyy.” A half-baked chick in a dress that looks small enough to belong to a Cabbage Patch Kid wobbles her way toward Jasper. She looks familiar, but with the tonne of heavy makeup and shitty lighting from the bonfire, I can’t be sure if it’s who I think it is.

  Everybody looks different when they’re given a chance to get out of the school uniform and show their true colours.

  Jasper locks the car and rounds the hood to where I stand ignoring the chick and planning out my safe spots for the night—those niches where people are few and far between and the dark of night will hide me from public humiliation.

  “Come pick what you want, Meg.” He gestures toward the boot of his car.

  I follow, aware that the kid is also tracking our movements. She barges past me in her one-woman crusade toward Jasper, as though I’m invisible.

  “Cassie, back up would you?” Thought it was her—Amelia’s mate. He gives her the kind of look I’ve seen my mother sport when she’s cleared the hair out of the shower drain, and shoves her away.

  “I’ll wait here.” Her legs fold like a newborn deer’s and she plants her arse on a patch of daisies. Not even two seconds later she’s collapsed backwards and is out cold.

  “Should we…?” I thumb at her uncomfortable looking position.

  “Nah.” Jasper pops the boot and rustles about in a plastic shopping bag. “Someone will pick her up soon.”

  Sure enough, by the time he’s re-emerged from the back end of his car with two bottles of pre-mixed JD, a member of the Catholic boys’ school rugby team has her under the arms and drags her back to a group sharing a joint.

  “I’ve got this for you,” Jasper says, holding out the JD, “or beer.”

  “This is great. Thank you.” I take the offered bottle and hold it to my chest. I didn’t grab a jersey before I left home, and the night air has already dropped a few degrees.

  “Cold?” His hand runs a path up and down my arm, warming me with more than his touch.

  “A little.”

  He holds up a single digit and disappears behind the car again, coming out moments later with a dark grey hoodie sporting a huge green marijuana leaf on the back. “I can get it off you later.”

  “Classy.” I chuckle. “Won’t you need it?”

  He lifts another jacket I hadn’t noticed in his other hand. “I’m sorted.”

  “Thanks.” His kindness humbles me and the damn tears I’d worked so hard to stave off on the way here edge back to the surface. No, don’t do it. I can’t make an ass of myself now. Not when I’m just starting to feel like I belong somewhere.

  “Shit, Jasper. Didn’t know we could bring our dogs.”

  And there it is—the love I’m so used to. I spin around and face our basketball captain, sucking in a breath between my teeth with a hiss. “Sheesh, Marcus. Pity huh? Maybe then you would have been guaranteed a shag if you’d brought Coco.”

  He grimaces at the mention of his mother’s prize German Shepard. “Fuck off, Andrews.”

  “You got somewhere you should be, Marcus?” Jasper steps up beside me, his forearm resting possessively on my shoulder.

  I fight the urge to beat my chest like an ape and bare my teeth at the arsehole who now backs away. Yeah, that’s right, motherfucker. He’s standing up for me.

  “Right where I need to be,” Marcus answers cockily. He moves his critical eye between the two of us and frowns. “Why’s she even here?”

  “I think she’s got as much right as the rest of us, don’t you?” Jasper steps forward, shoulders back and chest pushed out. His head cocks to the side as he finishes, “What exactly is it that makes you so much better than her anyway?”

  “Dude,” Marcus says with a laugh. “She’s a troll. When you’re finished playing martyr over here, we’ve got plenty of talent over by Damien’s ute.”

  I look across to Damien’s truck, and sure enough, there they are: the “talent.” It’s a code name for “hot chicks.” It shouldn’t bother me, the shit Marcus says, but when somebody calls you ugly there isn’t a single way to avoid the fact it stings.

  I step back and turn away to leave, but Jasper’s hand catches my arm. Satisfied I’m not going anywhere, he turns back to Marcus. “Best you get your arse back over there and liquor that talent up some more, hey, otherwise a cocky jackass like you won’t stand a chance with them.”

  “Fuck you, Jasper.”

  “Fuck you too, Marcus.”

  The two stare each other down and the grip on my arm gets a little tighter as Jasper’s frustration grows. Marcus steps away first, muttering something as he trudges across the grass to his posse, who has gathered around the member who’s chugging from a beer bong.

  “Anybody gives you shit, you let me know.” Jasper ducks his head to level our eyes.

  “Yeah, sure.” I don’t fully believe it, despite the showdown I just witnessed.

  He says he’ll be there for me now, but give him ten minutes and he’ll have a set of tits that hold more importance than the whole of me.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  He shrugs and passes his hoodie over for me to use. “I guess everyone needs a break now and then, right?”

  “Yeah.” I place the drink between my feet, still confused as to why he’s picked now to start giving a shit about a “troll” like me, and tug his hoodie on over my head.

  He reaches down and passes me the bottle of JD and Coke back, top removed, while I sling my backpack over my shoulder. An awkward beat passes with us staring at each other, hands touching as I take the drink from him. What is his deal?

  “Well, have a good one, yeah?” I take a couple of steps back, and then raise the drink in a toast. “And thanks again.”

  “No sweat.”

  I shake off the unease at what Jasper’s random acts of kindness could mean and melt into the crowd. People dance to the grunge rock that thunders out of speakers set up in the boot of somebody’s station wagon. The bonfire flames dance and lick at the sky, spitting hot embers out every so often onto the grass around the stone circle that contains the fire.

  A memory of the only time we went camping as a family when I was barely school age comes in thick and fast, of Den throwing sticks he’d collected into the fire while Mum pleaded with him to stop.

  I lift the bottle in my hand and press the glass neck to my lips, throwing my head back in an attempt to drown out the visual. The Jack Daniel’s is bitter on my starved tongue, burning as it hits my empty stomach. I should have grabbed something to eat from work at the very least before I headed out. Usually I have food left over from school, but today was a long-arse day and I ate every last scrap I took with me. If I’m lucky there’s a half-eaten muesli bar in the dark recesses of my bag, but I’m not game enough to check.

  I was supposed to eat at home. I was supposed to drop all my shit off so I’m not carrying this damn bag around with me at a fucking party. Most of all, I was supposed to be reminding myself not to drink too much so Den would be surprised how hung-over I wasn’t at our lunch date tomorrow.

  But things never work out as planned, and for what it’s worth, who really gives a fuck how much I drink now? As though to prove the point to myself, I stop walking and neck most of the bottle, ignoring the incessant burn that crawls back up my throat as I burp repeatedly. Fuck the pain—I need to get trashed. I need to forget why I’m here when I should be at home.

  Why were my parents so angry with me? What the fuck did I do?

  I shrug my bag off my back and riffle through it until I find my phone. Seven missed calls, all in the last fifteen minutes. Looks like Mum’s feeling bad after all. I clear the notifications and turn the damn thing off. Teach her some.
If they wanted me there with them while we grieved the loss of the best person I’ve ever known, they should have fucking shown at least a little support while they had the chance.

  Fuck them.

  Fuck Den.

  Fuck my life.

  I scull the last of the JD and toss the bottle on top of an overflowing recycling crate somebody’s been thoughtful enough to bring along. It crashes and rolls down to the grass with several others, but not a single head turns my way despite the din. I’m the invisible man when it comes to these preppy fucks. Nobody gives a damn about the punkish girl with the dark-coloured hair and even darker makeup. I’m not one of them, I don’t fit in, and so I’m not worth their time.

  Selecting a dark corner of the grove, I beeline for an empty log, snagging a new drink from some random person’s six-pack as I pass by. Alcohol is left unattended left, right, and centre. If I really wanted to, I could spend all night circulating the party scoring free drinks. In fact, I just might.

  I crack the top of the supersized can of beer and take a healthy swig, coughing at the bitter taste as the yeasty beverage coats my tongue. Fuck I hate this shit. But it’s release. It’s oblivion, and I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Whatever that beer did to upset you, I think it’s paying for it.”

  I swivel my eyes to the source of the voice as I down another healthy chug of the dirt-tasting cheap shit. Beer trails down my chin as I fumble with the can. Holy hell. I’ve seen the guy before, working at the auto shop down the end of town, but never this close. He’s a Carver, which means he’s also trouble. Still, I sit like a fool, blinking repeatedly as I take him in… all of him. He’s droolworthy at a distance through the workshop door, but he’s a fucking twelve out of ten in close proximity.

  “Shit day,” I explain, looking to the can in my hand in an attempt to shake my impending creeper status.

  “Shit drink, too.” He reaches between his black denim-clad legs and produces a Southern Comfort mixer. “Have this instead.”

  I eye the can in his hand, and then him. Jesus, he’s beautiful. Yet in a totally unconventional way: his nose is too sharp, his jaw too square, and he has tattoos on the side of his neck, framing his jawline. But the softness to his eyes, even in this light, makes up for it all.

  “Why are you giving me a drink?”

  I’ve heard rumours about my newfound drinking buddy; his family have a generations-old name as the troublemakers of our town. People have cited that anything from an illegal pot-growing operation right through to an amateur porn studio is run out of their heavily guarded property on the outskirts. People love to make up stories about what they don’t understand, and nobody understands the Carvers, or their eight-foot, razor wire-topped fence.

  “You look like you need it, and also, I can’t sit here and drink beside you knowing you’re suffering through that shit.”

  “Well,” I say, lifting the can. “This shit is getting me wasted, so that’s all that counts.” I take another large gulp to prove my point.

  He wiggles the can of Southern Comfort at me with a raised eyebrow as though to prove his point. “Come on. You know you wanna.”

  “Don’t know if I can trust you.” I spin around on the log so I sit with my back to him. “I’ve heard about your family, and as much as I don’t judge people on what others say, I can’t risk any of it being true.”

  “Any of what?” he asks with a hint of humour in his voice.

  “What if you’re trying to get me so drunk that I pass out and then I wake up in your sex studio, a brand-new Internet sensation?”

  He laughs, loud and rich. “Is that one still going around?”

  I hazard a glance over my shoulder at the guy and melt as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and runs his palms up the sides of his lengthy Mohawk. I’ve never seen his hair styled that way before; last I saw him, he wore it long and over his eyes. The look fits though. His jeans are torn, chains dangle from his hip, and his leather jacket has studs that run down the spine and around the cuffs. He’s as much a modern punk as a person can get.

  It’s fucking hot.

  My gaze drops to his eighteen-hole Doc Martens as he flicks the untied ends of the red laces around. He catches me looking, eyeing my choice of footwear also.

  “I see we have a few things in common.”

  “A few?” I kick out my right foot beside me. “Only one.”

  He lifts a tattooed hand to point out my side shave.

  I flick the longer lengths over the close-cut patch as heat peppers my cheeks. “Spur of the moment thing.”

  “It looks cool.”

  Seriously? Mr hot and mysterious thinks my unconventional hairstyle is cool? I guess…. I mean, given his choice of attire, it makes perfect sense. “I get teased about it.”

  “So what?”

  “So, it must look stupid.”

  “Maybe the people teasing you are the stupid ones?” He takes a casual sip of his drink and peruses the crowd as I swivel around to sit side-on to this intriguing guy again. “All I see out there are a hundred people so insecure in their own identity that they think the best idea is to copy the person next to them.” He chuckles. “Fucking sheep.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a hundred sheep against one lone wolf. Majority usually wins.”

  He slides along the log until there are mere inches between us. “Tell me, Loner Girl, why do you need to get off your face tonight?”

  Silence—it’s all he gets. I’ve been doing a pretty fine job of forgetting exactly how my world has just been irrevocably changed until now. Loner girl. Yeah, that’s just what I am now I don’t have Den in my corner. The creeping sense of shame at how selfish I’m being, sitting out here with the singular purpose of getting drunk enough to forget my own name, takes over. What would Den think if he could see me now? Fuck. I’d probably be hurting his feelings, keeping our family divided at a time when we should be united.

  Not my fault, though. I wasn’t the one acting weird in response to what happened; at least, not at the start.

  “Fair enough.” I startle at my buddy’s answer to my cone of silence. He slides away down the log and I find my voice.

  “My older brother, Den, died today.”

  He freezes. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” I chuckle. “It’s shit.” Tears follow, running in fat, slow rivers over my cheeks until they reach the point of my chin. Droplets fall to the grass below, indecipherable to anybody who might look on from a distance, but obvious as hell to my log neighbour.

  He doesn’t utter a word, just quietly places his drink down and twists it into the grass to ensure it won’t tip over, and then scoots close enough that our hips touch. His arm slowly snakes around my shoulders, and tentatively, as though giving me all the time in the world to protest, he pulls me into the side of his chest and completes the circle with his right arm across my collarbone, linking his hands at my shoulder.

  I cry silently, the tears flowing until the neck of Jasper’s hoodie is soaked and the rivulets tickle my neck. The whole time, this anomaly of society holds me to his chest, his breaths steady and sure as I quietly fall apart and pick myself up again.

  I ease out of his hold after what must have been a fair while, and give a small smile. “Thank you for that.”

  “You sure this is the best place to be right now?” he asks gently. “Do you have family who might be looking for you?”

  I shrug. “Mum and Dad are at home. Things were… tense when they broke the news. I walked out.” I duck my head in shame. The things he must think of me.

  “Maybe you’d be better off with them right now, not in a clearing full of drunken idiots.”

  Rub it in, why don’t you?

  “Maybe you should just let me grieve in my own way,” I snap, snatching up my backpack as I rise to my feet. “Thanks for offering the drink.”

  I march off toward the trees, intent on finding somewhere to hide, empty my fit-to-burst bladder, and then drink away my
misery in peace. The low twiggy branches scratch at my face as I push into the thicket. I’m so damn focused on the malicious little fuckers that I don’t realise how far I’ve gone. My foot slips on loose shingle, and the stones skitter down the short rock face into the river below. Damn it. I almost made my parents completely childless. The fall isn’t that far, but the river is shallow this time of year, and if the sharp rocks protruding from the water hadn’t have done me in, my half-inebriated state would have fucked me up when I tried to find my way back up to the river bank in the dark of night.

  I sink to my arse on a boulder covered in scrubby undergrowth and sob loudly, fresh out of tears but still so full of regrets. An overwhelming need to see Den grows in my chest, a living thing that claws at my ribcage until I’m forced to stand and do something to rectify the problem. The thicket tears new lines in my exposed skin as I push back towards the clearing after finally getting relief, hell-bent on finding Jasper so he can drive me home.

  I shouldn’t have left.

  I shouldn’t have been so selfish.

  Standing at the edge of the trees, I look around at the masses of people, but I can’t see Jasper anywhere. People pay no mind as I wander blindly through the crowd, doubling back on myself and losing track of where I am in the enormous space as I circle the bonfire over and over, trying to find my ride out of here. The flames hiss and roar beside me, lulling me with their warmth while I down stolen drink after stolen drink. Someone passes me a joint, and I take a hit, passing it back absently as I stumble forward again in a vain attempt at finding where Jasper’s gone.

  I can’t even remember what he was wearing; the guys all look the same out here in their dark denim and printed tees.

  I pass a girl I’ve seen at least four times now, and drop to my knees, defeated. Jasper’s probably off fucking some leggy bitch in his car, or somewhere deep in the forest. I knew I couldn’t trust him to keep his word. I felt it in my gut. Leopards don’t change their spots. If he wanted to make sure he could take me home when I needed to go, he would have kept himself visible, kept an eye on me. Wouldn’t he?