But then Daniel drags his feet to his manager’s rental, and Grady whips us into a cleaning frenzy before everyone finally scarpers to the farm, and the two of us head back to my place. Yes, I am a sucker for tradition, but our time-honoured post-Christmas-Eve-breakfast-at-dinner dinner dessert-fest is just about the only thing that can rescue me from my bewildering funk.
Mum’s gone all out this year, whipping up a spiced white chocolate and cherry cake that’s like a piece of Christmassy heaven in my mouth. Grady has clearly forsaken his one job, as Cleo has attempted an American pumpkin pie, which tastes like she scraped the bottom of a roast-beef pan and then added cinnamon sugar. My poker face is ruined when Grady bursts out laughing, covering Mum’s Santa statues with sprayed chunks of pie.
Then Anthony gives me a giant hug and Grady an affectionate head slap before he hoofs it to the Palmers’, and Grady and I leave our mums making cocktails in the bakery kitchen as we retreat to swap presents. I can’t remember how this tradition started. I think it was that time Grady bought me these wicked earrings with dangly Legos on them – Wonder Woman for one ear, and Spider-man for the other. For some reason he was way embarrassed for me to open them in front of our mums, and I guess our private gift-giving ritual just stuck.
We’re sitting cross-legged on my bed, Grady grinning like a maniac as I hand him the box that I know he knows has been hiding on top of my wardrobe for months.
I’ve gone for a themed present this year, scouring online for the perfect collection of stuff. On top, I’ve sketched a shadowy Cinnamon Girl on the steps of 221B Baker Street. Individually wrapped inside is this box set of the complete Sherlock Holmes stories with beautiful silhouetted covers, and a rubber ducky in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, and a T-shirt that says
Sherlock is my Holmesboy
on it, and a proper houndstooth deerstalker hat, which Grady unwraps with a delighted, albeit girly, squeal.
‘This is brilliant! I’ve always wanted one, but it was way too dorky to buy myself. You are the best!’
‘And you look like a tool,’ I say, laughing as I adjust the earflaps over his curls. ‘But it suits you. Very investigationy.’
He sits back and gives the Sherlock ducky a couple of squeaks in my direction. ‘Okay. Your turn.’ He reaches under my bed with one hand and emerges with his old Santa sack that I’ve been busting to get my hands on all evening.
‘Oof. It’s heavy!’ I say as I haul the sack onto my lap. ‘Lemme guess, you’ve bought me that very special concrete slab I’ve always wanted?’ I yank out a giant rectangle shrouded in glittery Christmas wrapping and tear frantically at the paper.
And then I freeze. Grady smiles shyly. The hefty present is Gil Kane’s
The Amazing Spider-man: Artist’s Edition
, which I have been salivating over for years. It contains the original artwork of the infamous LSD issues, and the first Morbius storyline, and one of the most classic Spidey stories ever –
The Night Gwen Stacy Died
. It’s amazing, and perfect, and it costs an absolute bucket-load.
‘Grady, you are insane!’ I say as I carefully peel back the plastic. ‘We said we’d stick to a budget!’
‘You don’t like it?’ he says innocently.
I leap across the bed and book and throw my arms around him. ‘It is the best present in the universe. You suck. How am I ever gonna top this?’
Grady gives me an awkward half-hug. I sneakily slip my phone from my side table and hold it in front of us before he can move away. Grady groans. Though, for a change, he doesn’t pull a face or attempt to squirm away. When I look at the photo, even though half his face is buried in my hair, I can tell he’s sort of smiling as well.
I shuffle backwards. Grady adjusts his hat. ‘The Eversons have pretty much given me a full-time job over summer, and all those odd jobs and tutoring at the primary school last year added up, and hey –’ He grins. ‘Who knows what the currency of the future might be, Alba? This might turn out to be our very last Christmas ever –’
He seems to realise what he’s said just as the words leave his mouth, because his smile disappears. He takes off the hat and runs a hand through his hair.
I glance through the window. The string of lantern lights is clouding the fields, giving the entire view a surreal glow. I can see shadows moving in the distance, but they’re vague and indistinct, the tops of ghostly heads swarming in the darkness. I’ve stared, daydreaming, out this same window since I was five years old, and the only things that have ever changed are the height of Dad’s plum trees and the formation of cows in the Palmers’ paddock.
From my living room drifts the croony voice of one of those old guys that Mum likes, filled with snow and fireplaces and loneliness. I never understood why anyone would want to sing Christmas songs so melancholic. It’s like, dude, the song’s called ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ – cheer the hell up. Tonight, though, I think I know how glum-guy feels.
I drag my eyes back to Grady. He fidgets with my bedspread. ‘I do have something else for you, Alba.’ He fishes through the back pocket of his jeans and emerges with a crumpled envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘Well, it’s two train tickets to Melbourne. I thought we could go after Christmas –’
‘Oooh, to see that Vali Myers exhibition? I read there’s a couple of unpublished drawings on display –’
‘Well, yeah, that, but also … I thought maybe we could check out some schools again as well? Melbourne Uni law faculty is having a summer session I’d like to go to, and I thought maybe you’d want to see the College of the Arts again? You zoomed out so quickly when you did your interview that I don’t think we saw more than the reception and, you know, you should look around before …’
I drop the envelope, my hands doing that clammy thingo again. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ I say quietly. I flip to a random page in my Spider-man book and stare blankly at a panel. In my peripheral vision, I see Grady cross his arms.
‘Because, up until a few months ago, it was all you could talk about,’ he says, just as quietly. ‘Because whatever it is you’re thinking about, it doesn’t hurt to look, Alba.’
When I glance up at him, he is staring at me with his stubborn-face, and though I don’t get my back up often, I feel my spine straighten.
‘Grady – stop pushing. It’s really starting to get old. You know – gah, I can’t even remember anything I said in that stupid interview, I was so freaking nervous! And you saw how many other people were there, all clutching their folios like hopeful morons … I don’t know why you just assume they’re gonna want me. And why can’t you understand … I don’t get what’s so wrong with being happy where you are. Why does everyone need to be in a super-mad rush to be somewhere else? I love it here, and I’m happy –’
Grady squares his shoulders. ‘You’re scared,’ he says, in this decisive tone that pisses me right off. ‘You’re afraid, and so you’re hanging on to what you know because you are terrified of what comes next. Okay, right now things are awesome as they are, but Alba, why can’t you see that things could be even better –’ He runs his hand over the back of his neck. And then he picks up his Sherlock hat and twirls it frantically. ‘I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do –’
‘It’s really, really not, Domenic,’ I snap.
His eyes fly up to mine. ‘Don’t first-name me, Sarah,’ he snaps back. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
‘And who says I need your help, or your advice? You are not my Alfred!’
Grady tosses the deerstalker onto the bed. ‘Don’t know if you’ve noticed,
Batman
, but I am not your butler!’
‘Then why are you acting like a know-it-all grandpa!’ I bark back. ‘You don’t know everything! You don’t know what I’m supposed to be, or where I’m supposed to go! You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do –’
Grady leaps off my bed. ‘So stay here!’ he yells. ‘You’ll end up marrying Eddie, since he’ll be the only guy left. Your kids’ll be born with five o’clock shadows and have, like, no necks, and you’ll move into the flat behind his dad’s milking shed and join the country women’s knitting club or whatever, and you’ll stop drawing and reading and smiling, and you won’t be
you
anymore. And you’ll forget all about me.’
I hunker against my wall, my blood not so much fizzing as boiling. ‘Cos they’re my only options, right? And who says I need to marry
anyone
! Maybe I’ll run the bakery with Mum! Maybe I’ll open a shop with Tia and start making my own dresses! Maybe I’ll build a studio and publish my comics right here in the Valley! Maybe I’ll be the first person to rollerblade over the Tanami Desert! You don’t know!’
Grady stops pacing and swings around again. ‘It really doesn’t bother you at all, does it?’ he says, glaring down at me. ‘I’m leaving, and you’re staying, and you couldn’t care less that
that
is going to be it. Because think about it, Sarah. Paulette isn’t going anywhere. Eddie’s brothers, and my brother, they aren’t going anywhere. Half our class has already hightailed it, and we’re probably never going to see them again. If you stay here, you’re stuck, and if I leave –’
‘You’re not coming back.’ Those stupid tears that have been threatening all week finally well and spill over. Grady freezes. His face becomes stricken. I hardly ever cry, and he’s never been able to stand it when I do.
‘Alba, I’m sorry … it’s all right. God, I’m an idiot. Don’t listen to me.’
‘You can be a real arsebag sometimes, Grady.’ I throw myself on my bed and attempt to wipe my tears with a ream of Christmas paper.
The bed dips as Grady sits beside me. I can feel my whole body trembling with angry tears, but I take a couple of deep breaths. Grady and I don’t fight. I
refuse
to accept that we are fighting.
‘I’m really sorry, Alba,’ he whispers. ‘I’d rehearsed this speech in my head, and I’m pretty sure it sounded less … toolbag-ish in there. I know it’s your call what you do. But you are
so
talented, and the thought of you wasting that …’ He touches my back tentatively. ‘Alba? I don’t get what’s going on in your head. I don’t know what’s changed. And it’s freaking me out because I’ve never not known before …’
I take another breath and haul myself up. I push my palms into my eyes, focusing on the sparks behind my lids. ‘Grady, listen to me. I don’t know what I want. I know what I’ve always
said
I wanted, but I haven’t had to properly think about any of it, and now that I do have to think about it, it’s just all too … big. Too much. Sometimes my head is so foggy with all the stuff I’m
supposed
to want, I can’t pick the bits that are me talking and the bits that are everyone else. Sometimes I can’t shut your voice out of my head, and it’s like, I can’t hear
me
over it. Does that make sense?’
I drop my hands. His cheeks are flushed, but I can tell that behind those stubborn eyes, he’s trying his best to rein it in. ‘I didn’t realise I was crowding you –’
‘No, shut up for a sec. I’m trying to make a point. Grady, sometimes it feels like you have fired this starter pistol, and, what, I’m just supposed to start running behind you? Even though I’m basically comfortable hanging around the snack bar in my pyjamas, and I don’t even know if I want to be on the track, and my shoes are somewhere underneath my bed, and hey, maybe swimming is more my thing –’
Grady shakes his head. ‘That … is a terrible metaphor.’
‘Yeah, okay, my metaphors are rubbish, but the point is – I need to figure it out on my own.
My
decision.’ I swipe my hands on my dress, but the icky tinglyness remains. ‘I’m … not your sidekick, Grady.’
He nods, but his eyes stay locked on his hands. I lean into his shoulder, aiming for a confidence that seems to have left me somewhere around boob pancakes. ‘Domenic Miles Grady – do not panic. Look, I know you’re scared.’ He snaps his head around. ‘But Grady, you are going to be brilliant. You’ll be a big fancy lawyer, and you’ll get to see all those places you’ve always wanted to. And whether I go or stay shouldn’t make any difference.’
He laughs, but there’s zero humour in it. ‘Yeah. It shouldn’t.’
He stares at the floor, and I stare at the sweep of curls near his neck. And, for just a moment, I allow a tiny crack in the compartment in my head where I store all the stuff I haven’t allowed myself to contemplate. For just a second, I imagine waking up in my bedroom, and looking out over the Valley, and realising that Grady is not in his yellow house. He’s not stretched out on my couch in his pyjamas, or waiting for me in his booth in the diner. He’s not hanging with his brother at the garage, or hauling boxes at the Eversons’. He’s not doodling stick men on my notebooks in our teeny classroom, long legs in his scratchy school uniform taking up too much space beneath our table. He’s not about to burst through my verandah door with a story about something he’s read on the internet. And then I slam a lid on the compartment, cos it feels pretty much exactly like someone is sitting on my chest.
‘We can’t do everything together forever. Maybe … we aren’t supposed to?’ I say, the words feeling wrong even as I’m saying them.
Grady’s eyes linger on the collage of photos I’ve hung lopsidedly above my bookshelves. ‘I know,’ he says softly.
He collapses backwards on my bed with a sigh. And then he reaches up and tugs at my wrist, pulling me down beside him. We used to play this game when we were little, lying like this and mashing our knees together until someone caved and
owwed
and called stop. We haven’t done that in a long time, though; Grady stopped wanting to play when his legs got big enough to leave a bruise.
I reach for his hand. His fingers twitch, before he links them tentatively through mine. For a long time, neither of us says a word. For the first time in my whole life, I have no idea of the right words to say to him. But it’s
Grady
. We don’t run out of things to talk about.
‘Do you really want to rollerblade over the Tanami Desert?’ he says eventually.
‘Should probably learn to rollerblade first, right?’
‘I’m guessing it would help, yes.’
‘And do you really think I’d marry Eddie? Our kids would have very giant heads.’