She sinks onto my bed and yanks the chip out of my hair. Then she grabs my face and squeezes. ‘Joshie, come on. Snap out of it, man. There’s only room for one depressed a-hole in this house.’
I force a laugh through mashed fish-lips. ‘I’d never peg you as depressed, Ms G. Infuriated, sure. Obstinate and uncooperative …’ I sigh. ‘What’ve you got to be sad about?’ My sister pats my cheek, a sting bordering on a slap. ‘Turns out I’ve got another emergency parent-teacher meeting-thingy this week. I dunno, you call the head of Humanities a “reject from the Mr Bean teaching academy” one time, and suddenly your “attitude is in need of adjustment”. Teach me something worth learning and maybe you’ll see my attitude improve. Right?’
And there it is again. The sharp wrench of guilt and responsibility, wrapped in a neat bow of self-loathing and shame.
I close my eyes, covering my foggy glasses with a forearm. ‘Gillian … I’m sorry. I am the worst. I’m a piss-poor excuse for a brother. Man, the only way you could have a worse influence is if you had one of the Manson family, or, like, Caligula for a sibling –’
‘Joshua – are you kidding me?’ she squeals. She shoves me over with her hip and flops onto the bed beside me. Her hair smells of baby shampoo and the chemical tint of new green dye. When she looks at me with her giant cobalt eyes, I find myself, mortifyingly, misting up a bit.
‘Josh – you’re the only reason I bother showing up to school at all. Ever since I was little … anything worth knowing, I know from you.’
Gillian’s face scrunches. Her eyes are confused, innocent, and yet anything but. I remember all the nights she spent right here when she was little, scared of shadows and storms. But now, as Gilly watches me uncertainly, I’m struck by this awful feeling of inevitability, like I’m fast-forwarding into a future that I’m not ready to see. Who is this turbulent person going to become? How will she shape herself into a real person with a place in the world? What if she can’t? The thought makes me feel shitty and dog-tired.
Gillian rests her head on my shoulder. ‘Josh, listen up, because I am never going to say this again. You are a doofus and, like, freakishly tall – seriously, dude, you look like a llama – and the magic thing is so dorky I can’t actually believe we were spawned from the same people.’ She drums black-inked fingernails on my arm. ‘But you’re also a good guy. You can be funny, and smart, when you’re not trying to pull a chicken out of my ear or something. You know a lot of really random stuff, and, okay, a lot of it’s about old dead people, but still, you’ve got this weird knack of making it all seem kind of cool and interesting. You’re nice. You deserve someone nice. And if this chick doesn’t get that, well then, screw her.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘You want me to run her over with the car? I know where Mum keeps the spare keys.’
I rest my cheek against her head. ‘No homicide, Gilly. It’s not Sophia’s fault. None of this is her fault. It’s just … crap timing. But, you know, thanks for the offer. Please don’t murder anyone on my behalf.’ I kiss the top of her hair. ‘You are a bit awesome, you know that? Scary, and unhinged. But awesome.’
I can all but feel Gilly rolling her eyes, even as she snuggles closer. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
I laugh, rubbing my eyes beneath my glasses. ‘I kinda hate myself a little bit right now.’
Gilly shrugs, her shoulder jostling my head. ‘You wanna help me design a tattoo? I’ve been reading up on how those guys give themselves prison tatts, and reckon I could do a decent job with a biro and a safety pin.’
I smack the back of her hand. ‘Pass.’
‘Well then … do you wanna watch Frozen? There’s leftover apple turnover in the fridge. Dad made it. It’s not, like, totally vile.’
‘Frozen? Do we even still have that? I thought Mum gave it to the Salvos. Unless someone rescued it from the bin …?’
She sits up, her cheeks a charming shade of red. ‘So?’ she snaps.
I sit up beside her. ‘Gillian Anna Bailey. If you wanna watch Frozen, just say so.’
She punches me in the arm. ‘Hey! I’m trying to be nice, you jackhole.’
I stare at her. She drops her eyes.
‘Yeah,’ she mumbles. ‘I wanna watch Frozen.’
The suckfest continues on Sunday, though I have made the heroic decision to remain in bed, semi-comatose, rather than confront the real world.
I’m trying to drown out my life with YouTube, headphones in my ears, my head shoved under a pillow, when I sense someone standing in my room. I’m hoping they’ll either go away, or maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll beat me to death with one of my broken clocks. I keep my eyes resolutely shut until an impatient hand swats me in the foot.
I reluctantly extract my head to see Sam standing at the end of my bed. He buries his hands in his hoodie pockets and rocks back on his heels, looking as uncomfortable as if he’d walked in on me splayed out naked, performing a Midas Touch.
I close my eyes. Music swells through my ear buds. I may have been listening to the same song on repeat, possibly for the last few hours, possibly longer. It’s torturous, but probably the karmic juju I deserve.
I feel Sam shuffling around to the side of my bed. He tugs out one of the buds and leans down, pressing it to his ear. And then, the giant tool-faced git bursts out laughing.
‘Jesus. Are you serious?’ he says through demented cackling.
‘Leave me alone,’ I mumble. ‘I’m busy. I am grieving.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he says between snorts. ‘What you are doing is lying on your bed, in the dark, listening to Air Supply and feeling sorry for yourself. You are being a twelve-year-old emo. From 1982.’
I yank the headphones out, music still blaring. A sudden fury whooshes through me as I bolt upright, smacking my head on the bottom shelf. Sam takes a hurried step backwards. He looks like he’s trying not to piss himself laughing.
‘What are you doing here, Sam? Shouldn’t you and Camilla be, like, brushing each other’s hair or, I dunno, picking out names for your future babies or something?’
He blinks a couple of times, then shrugs. ‘She’s put her foot down about Leia. I’m still working on it. As for what I’m doing here – Camilla made me come. Apparently, this is a guy situation. Although I’m not sure what sort of situation calls for two guys to hang out in the dark listening to eighties ballads, so Josh, please, can you turn off the music? I think some of my testosterone just evaporated, and dude, I’m not sure I have that much to spare.’
And despite everything – despite the fact that my heart feels like it’s been blowtorched – I laugh. It comes out as a painful croak. I flick off the music and toss my phone onto the floor. Sam clicks on a lamp, and dazzling light floods the room. I flop onto my back and peer at him through splayed fingers.