Joshua’s eyes flicker over my face, his expression more baffling than is customary for me. He rocks back on his heels, widening the distance between us.
‘My dad, unfortunately, read about this thing in the school newsletter,’ he says offhandedly. ‘So I kinda got browbeaten into it. But then, like, only four other people showed up, and Peterson launched into this diatribe about the “cavalier attitude of youth”, which I think might’ve been a bit much even for my dad. So I ditched them. I was just checking out the Society for Creative Anachronism. It’s a medieval club. They have some awesome clubs and societies here. It’s like, the future leaders of Australia need to be prepared to drink beer in an organised manner, and, you know … joust.’
‘Juggling also seems to feature heavily,’ I say absentmindedly.
He glances at the juggling guy and chuckles. ‘Yeah. You’d be surprised how popular that is.’
Joshua is rocking on his heels, backwards and forwards, long fingers still tapping. I’m not sure if his movements have had some kind of hypnotic effect, but even though my stomach still feels sketchy, the fight-or-flight response has dissipated a little.
I hug my bags. ‘Okay, well, I should go –’
But Joshua is looking over my shoulder. His face contorts. ‘Uh-oh,’ he mumbles, that swish of colour emerging across his cheeks again.
The breeze has picked up, sending pamphlets careening past us. Joshua shifts his empty showbag from one shoulder to the other.
‘Look, I know this is a weird thing to ask, but do you think you could hang here for one sec? I could use some backup.’
‘Backup? What –’
An older guy, his windswept hair streaked with grey, appears from behind me. His hands are laden with course guides and bags.
‘Jeez, this place has changed. I was trying to find the spot where the gang used to play hacky sack, back in the day. Can you believe they actually have a KFC now? My friends would have been apoplectic.’
The man clasps Joshua on the arm with a big, bright smile. Joshua shoots me a look of desperation – one that I recognise only because I’ve seen it in my own face, most recently in the Drama room mirrors when I was forced to read Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The old guy beams. ‘Hey there! Are you a soon-to-be Augustine’s alumna too? We never get a chance to meet Josh’s friends.’
Joshua turns those pleading eyes on me. Christ. Like my own issues aren’t enough to deal with.
‘Yes. I’m Sophia. It’s nice to meet you, Mr, um …?’
The crevasses at the corners of the older guy’s eyes deepen as he smiles. He holds out a hand, not seeming too fazed when I look at it without shaking. ‘It’s Alex. Mr Bailey is my father.’ He winks. ‘Give me a heads-up if you see a misanthropic old man ranting about the Boer War in my vicinity.’
I look to Joshua for further direction, but he seems to have become fascinated by something behind my head.
Alex – Joshua’s father, I’m going to take a stab at inferring – glances around. ‘Gillian?’
Joshua gestures with his head. ‘Skulking in the art gallery. She said she’ll text me when she’s done.’
‘Right. Hope you confiscated her Sharpies?’
Joshua grins. It doesn’t seem forced or fake, as far as I can tell, but then his smile wavers as his dad passes him the handful of brochures. ‘So I’ve been checking out the Arts faculty. Do you know there’s eight different first-year History subjects you can pick from? How cool is that?’
‘Cool,’ Joshua answers. He shuffles his feet, two small scuffs for each foot. But then he smiles at his dad again, and his dad smiles back. I’m not picking up anything hostile; nothing to account for Joshua’s oddness, or the need for my presence.
‘So, Sophia,’ his dad says cheerfully. ‘What are you applying for?’
Joshua gives me a cryptic look.
I swallow. My standard answer is that I plan to study mathematical physics and then specialise in Riemannian geometry, which is generally a safe answer as hardly anyone I meet understands what that is. But when I open my mouth the words that tumble out are:
‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’
Joshua’s dad’s smile seems to dim. ‘Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll … figure it out.’
Joshua looks at me for a long moment. ‘That makes sense,’ he says simply.
I stare back at him. ‘Are you being sarcastic? I can’t really tell.’
He gives me a faint smile. ‘Nope. No sarcasm.’
His dad’s eyes bounce between us. ‘Well, I should go find my daughter before she incites a riot in the gallery. Nice to meet you, Sophia. Josh – meet you at the Law talk?’ He thumps Joshua on the shoulder before walking away.
I shake myself out of my daze. ‘Okay, I really need to go now. There’s, ah, a lecture in the Statistics department I want to catch.’ I have zero intention of attending a stats lecture. I do have every intention of going home and crawling into bed with Doctor Who, the Patrick Troughton years.
Joshua glances at his watch. I hadn’t noticed it before, though I don’t know how I managed to miss it. It’s huge, a thick leather band with a chrome face full of pulleys and gears. ‘I should go too. I guess Dad’s waiting. And I’m meeting some friends in a bit.’
‘From school?’ I say, scrambling for small talk.
‘Nah. Not from school. I don’t have friends at school.’ I don’t think he’s embarrassed or wistful. Just, like, it’s not a big deal at all.
The breeze picks up, and I’m suddenly enveloped by the cold that I seemed to have forgotten.
Joshua tips his hat, long hair billowing around his face. ‘And all Washoe managed was “hello” and “please give shoes”.’ He steps away. ‘See you later, Sophia. I think I heard your phone ring.’
I whip my mobile out of the pocket of my jacket, but I have no missed calls or messages. I slide the phone back, and my hand closes around something else.
It’s a coin, but not any coin that belongs in my pocket.
It’s large and bronze, and weirdly smooth, like someone has run their fingers across its surface over and over again. It’s American, if the Abraham Lincoln face and the word ‘Liberty’ are any indication, but it’s of no currency that I can decipher. I flip the coin over. The severe Lincoln face and the ‘Liberty’ inscription are mirrored on the other side.
I spin around, eyes travelling over the laughing, smiling people.
But when I turn to the space where Joshua last was, there is nothing but a lone girl in a soggy panda suit, and a giant pile of course guides stacked neatly in the mud.
CHAPTER FOUR
There is nothing worse than
good magic at the wrong time.