‘If I thought it would work – absolutely.’ August raises an eyebrow. She has ridiculously thick and wild eyebrows that quirk with every expression.
Beck gives a long-suffering sigh. ‘Is there a reason you’re still here?’ At least he could drink to fill the black hole in his stomach. Water or water. Life is so full of fun options like that.
‘Actually, yes.’ August stuffs her wrapper back into her bag and rummages through the chaos of folders and papers. ‘I’ve decided to contrast our music tastes for the paper.’
Music.
Why
would
she
choose
music?
Beck’s mouth is dry. ‘How is that political or moral?’
August has a sly look. ‘And here I thought you weren’t paying attention. But! Since you asked, it’s religious. I’m going from the angle that some people worship musicians and bands get cult followings and I’ll outline the difference between enjoying music and being obsessed with it.’
Sounds complicated. ‘Well, great. I have a five-year-old sister who is addicted to bawling the Hokey Cokey all hours of the day. You can contrast that with – what do you listen to? They-kiss-they-break-up-they-kiss-again kind of stuff?
August fishes a notebook from her bag, flips to a clean page – most of them are covered with doodles – and taps a purple pen against the spine. ‘I listen to indie rock, actually. Ever heard of Lemon Craze or Twice Burgundy?’
‘What kind of name is Twice Burgundy?’
‘I don’t know. Once Burgundy was taken? It has a nice ring to it. Tell me you’ve at least heard their song “Falling Into Technicolour”?’
They sound like idiots who compose lyrics out of weed and vodka. ‘No.’
August slaps the notebook against her forehead. ‘You’re such a disappointment, Keverich.’
He ignores the knot in his throat.
‘They’re glorious.’ August raises her arms like she’s going to hug the sky. ‘They’re weird and most of their lyrics sound like they’re high –’ ha! He knew it! ‘– but they have soul, and I’m in love with one or both of them.’
Beck manages a strained smile. When will the bell ring and save him?
‘So –’ she’s back to tapping the pen against the notebook ‘– names of your crappy rock bands that scream and howl?’
Wait while he just rolls out a list of Liszt, Grieg, Chopin and Bach. Wait while he explains how much better Steinway pianos sound over Yamahas. Wait while he explains that playing Rachmaninoff makes him feel powerful.
‘Um, yeah.’ Beck racks his brain for a name, any name. ‘All of them really. So long as it’s – um, loud.’ If she presses for details, he’ll just make a run for it.
August looks at him long and hard, then shrugs as if he’s such a loser and scribbles notes. She’s actually silent for a minute and Beck finds his fingers tapping a string of Chopin’s notes absently. He stops and balls his hand into a fist. Can he explode from being such an idiot?
‘You’ll owe me, by the way.’ August pauses and pokes the purple Sharpie dangerously close to Beck’s nose. He lurches away. ‘I haven’t decided exactly, but it’ll probably be you giving me chocolate every day for a month.’
‘I’m pretty sure “no” is the only way to answer that.’
Maybe he would buy her chocolate as a thank you – if he had money. But if he had money he’d buy Joey an ice cream or get himself some jeans that aren’t too short.
‘Or,’ August says, ‘you agree to a friendship truce.’
‘But “friendship” implies we’re friends –’ and we’re not ‘– and “truce” implies we’re fighting.’
‘We aren’t fighting?’
‘I would call it “stiff acquaintance with a touch of hate”.’
‘I’m not stiff.’ She flings an arm around his neck. ‘And I don’t hate you.’
Beck peels away. ‘You will. Give it time.’
‘Then cut class with me.’
Beck stares.
‘Oh, don’t act righteous.’ She pulls a hairband from her wrist and knots her hair into a thick bun. ‘You showed up to school, so that’s half the battle, and I think you and your purple face could use a morale boost. I could use a mental health day.’ She stuffs her notebook back into the satchel. ‘We’ll go on a quest to find cake.’
She bounces to her feet and stretches a hand to him.
Beck Keverich doesn’t act. He fantasises. He longs. But he does exactly what he’s supposed to do.
Until he takes her hand and she yanks him upright and he somehow says, ‘It better be a big cake,’ and they abandon education and sneers and presumptions that he’s a punch bag and she’s a tree hugger, and they escape to be different people entirely.
It should be an impossible task. Finding cake? Leaving school grounds? Wearing a uniform? Beck is entirely certain someone will point and shout ‘THEY’VE ESCAPED THEIR PRISON!’ and haul them back.
Either August doesn’t share this fear or doesn’t think it’s impossible.
August probably exists in an alternate reality where nothing is impossible and no one is too mean and the sun doesn’t stop shining.
They cut across the football oval and battle their way through a small patch of scrub to the road. From there it’s a stroll to a nearby shopping complex. It’s nothing fancy. Most of the shops have bars on the windows and the ones with the most business are cheap one-dollar shops and McDonald’s. It’s excruciating bypassing the smell of hot chips and cheesy burgers. He’d eat just about anything by this point.
But August leads him to a coffee shop in a poky corner that has exactly zero customers but them.
None of the tables and chairs match, and daffodils sit in beer bottles as centrepieces. One wall is a chalkboard with a million scribbles in every colour and the other is crammed with mismatched photo frames. Dreamcatchers hang across the entrance so thickly, one smacks Beck in the face – and then swings around to smack him in the back of the head as well.
‘What exactly do they sell here?’ Beck rubs his skull and stares at a pile of bongo drums, which might be for decoration or for spontaneous costumers to thump.
August wags her finger at him. ‘When a person buys you cake, don’t question anything.’
‘Can I question the cake’s ingredients?’
‘No, you ungrateful whelp. You eat it, even if it’s made of chia seeds.’
What – what are chia seeds? Are they even a real thing? Is this his last meal on earth—
‘Beck,’ August says patiently, ‘this is an alternative café. Just sit down and keep your mind open.’ She points to a table that is probably an antique and a chair that is probably from the dump. ‘And please don’t make horrified noises.’
‘Alternative as in how?’ Beck’s voice is pitched a little high. ‘They sweeten the cake with human hearts?’
‘Um, more like alternative-as-in-the-cake-is-sweetened-with-stevia.’
Beck sits down. ‘Is the death short and easy?’
August swats him.
She slips around the register – Beck is pretty sure that’s not how you order – and disappears through a curtain of beads to the kitchen. There are distant pots clanging and panpipes droning from a single dilapidated speaker. August is only gone a heartbeat before shouts and greetings explode from the kitchen and someone bawls August’s name like they haven’t seen her in nine years.
Beck wants to regret coming – it’s just too weird – but he’s so hungry.
August reappears, clearly pleased with herself. ‘My mum’s best friend’s cousin works here. Everything is half price for me. Also he won’t tell the school or my parents.’
‘Aren’t we lucky.’ Beck’s voice is dull. ‘I have to get my sister at three.’
‘We have time.’ August’s ocean eyes settle on Beck’s face with a serious and piercing look that makes him uncomfortable. ‘I’m almost entirely certain it’d take you less than ten seconds to demolish a cake, anyway. Do you ever eat?’
‘I eat,’ Beck says, defensive.
‘My dad would take one look at you and try to fatten you up.’ August shakes her head, smiling.
It’s strange to Beck how she mentions her parents offhandedly, lovingly, like they don’t rake her over the coals on a regular basis or spit out how much they loathe her.
‘You’ll meet them when you come over,’ she says.
‘What?’