Like really, spectacularly, Hindenburg-exploding-in-a-fireball-level suck. I open my mouth and the words that I memorised months ago pour out; they might be in English, but with the speed that I am vomiting them, it’s hard to tell. Perhaps my subconscious has absorbed more than I knew through my time at Elsie’s, because at some point I realise that I have adopted an accent that sounds faintly, and possibly offensively, Indian. Midway through, when I calculate that my seven-minute monologue will probably be done in one minute and thirty-five seconds, I will my voice to slow. But at the same time I experience what I can only describe as a complete mental collapse, and forget if my character is supposed to be happy or dejected, so I end up racing through a section about a dead grandmother with a perky voice and a smile on my face. At some point I glance over at one of the adjudicators, only to see him doodling what looks like a semi-pornographic sketch in his notebook. And when I turn to walk down the stage stairs, I trip over a lighting cable and fall into the orchestra pit.
I can’t be certain, but I think I detect a collective sigh of relief when I mumble a ‘thank you’ and stumble out of the building.
I pause beneath the Arts Centre sign, blinking into the daylight. A couple of my classmates are milling nearby, Romy Hopwood and her friends frantically practice-emoting in the sunshine. I see Damien Pagono, looking relaxed and unperturbed. He gives me a grin and a thumbs-up.
I suck in a few mouthfuls of air, my body still trembling. I remove my wig and the too-big dress that I’d hastily shoved over my school uniform. I breathe. And I wait. The tangled feeling in my stomach doesn’t abate. But strangely enough, it seems that I am not dying today.
I turn towards the main path and hurry across the lawn, through the covered library walkways and around to the front of the main building, following that inexplicable, GPS-like homing signal that I am fairly certain I will never be able to explain.
He is perched on the back of the park bench, wearing his black glasses and his old-man tweed cap. His hands are buried within the pockets of his blazer. I’m pretty sure it’s no magic trick, and it’s certainly no phenomena of physics, but the light appears to bend around him. Some unknown singularity seems to make him glow.
He stands when he sees me, whipping off his hat. He takes a few tentative steps in my direction.
‘So?’ he says.
‘So,’ I reply.
He shuffles his feet on the grass, two even scuffs for each foot, that unconscious tic that appears when he’s nervous. He adjusts his glasses, and I can tell that he’s fighting hard against the desire to just blurt out everything that’s in his head.
I take another step towards him. ‘I’m done. The Drama exam, I mean. It’s over.’
He seems to be holding his breath. ‘And …?’
I flop onto the bench and massage my aching shoulders. ‘And, it was bad.’
He swallows convulsively and sits down beside me. I notice that he leaves more than a handspan between us, carefully angling himself so our knees don’t touch. It makes something in my chest ache.
‘Uh-oh, really? How bad?’ he says. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you did better than you thought? I mean, I totally thought I bombed the Bio test but –’
I cross my arms and lean backwards, breathing in the dry air. I ignore the hitch in his voice, the remnant of his lisp that’s back in full swing. ‘Joshua, you know that I’m incapable of hyperbole, right? Keep that in mind when I say that I’m fairly certain my Drama exam may have been one of the worst things to ever happen in the history of everything.’
His eyes widen. A small smile starts to play at the edge of his lips. He rests against the bench, turning to face me. I match his posture, tucking my legs beneath me. ‘Was it worse than the time Mr Finkler opened the swimming carnival with that “Eye of the Tiger” banjo solo?’ he asks.
‘Oh, it was so much worse.’
Joshua laughs, though he still looks confused. ‘Okay. But, Sophia, you don’t seem to be freaking out.’ He runs his eyes over me. ‘Oh boy, you’re not, like, repressing, are you? Tell me you’re not waiting for a quiet moment to … well, you know …’
‘Have a gigantic meltdown? No. I don’t think so. I guess I’ve had time to think about things.’ I force my eyes to meet his, almost afraid of what I’m going to see there. But he’s looking at me with the same soft expression, a little bit concerned, and maybe just a tiny bit hopeful. It will never cease to amaze me how clear his face is to me. I may not be brilliant at it, but I think I can read this person. His shuffling feet, his ceaselessly moving fingers, the catch in his voice that appears whenever he is uncertain. It sort of breaks my heart that I might be the cause of those things.
I reach out and touch the cuff of his blazer. ‘I’ve been thinking about lots of things,’ I say. I’m sort of proud that my voice comes out steady. Inside, my atoms feel like they’re shifting and crashing.
‘What did you think about?’ he whispers.
I shuffle forward, my knees connecting with his. My skin tingles at the point of contact, and part of me still hesitates at the touch. I don’t think I’ll ever be the sort of girl who can throw herself with abandon into the arms of another person. I will probably never be effusive or demonstrative. And I doubt I will ever be the sort of girl who belongs inside a romance movie.
Joshua’s eyes widen. He leans towards me, slowly, his hand curving tentatively around the back of my neck. It’s trembling, but not moving to draw me any closer. I know he’s holding back, waiting for me to meet him halfway.
I move inside the circle of space that separates us. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking.
It’s not a proper kiss; more like the suggestion of a kiss, a faint brush of his lips against mine. I stay still, his face so close that I can feel the radiating heat of him. It’s not entirely comfortable, but I think, with time, and practice, maybe it might be.
‘Joshua?’ I whisper, my lips not quite touching his.
‘Yeah?’ he breathes.
‘I think I may have failed. Like actually, properly failed. I tried really, really hard. I did everything I knew how to do. And I still sucked.’
He moves back slightly. His eyes flicker between mine. ‘And …’
‘And, I’m still here. It was awful. I feel, well, kind of mortified. But I’m still here.’
His eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘Yeah. You are.’ He swallows, his thumb brushing lightly against my neck. ‘And … this?’
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs till they feel like bursting. And then I exhale, slow and steady.
‘Okay,’ I say decisively as I lean in to kiss him again. ‘This.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Be natural, and use your head.
– DAI VERNON
Somewhere in the distance, music is playing. It’s coming from Mr Grayson’s Mazda; he’s locked himself in for his lunch break, and is blasting Beyoncé. Rumour is he’s quit St Augustine’s; apparently he’s off to volunteer at a sloth sanctuary in Costa Rica. It doesn’t matter. His music may as well be a bloody great hallelujah chorus.
Sophia is kissing me. She is kissing me. It’s delicate, and cautious. It is, without exaggeration, the most awesomely perfect thing to have happened in the history of everything. But I know I need to rein in at least some of my excitement. I can practically feel the effort it’s taking her not to bolt.