Ilie awake worrying about the party all night, like it’s some crazed serial killer terrorizing our small suburban neighbourhood.
Anxiety has anchored itself to my stomach and sits like concrete on top of the cheese sandwich I ate twelve hours ago. From my waist down to my knees, everything has been twisted tight. It’s all the pain of getting your period without actually getting your period.
My mattress is made of bricks, and my sheets keep snaking up around my body. I’m almost certain they’re trying to strangle me.
At six-thirty, I stop trying to sleep and drag my frustrated bones out of bed. I wrap my duvet around my shoulders and head to the front door. Sometimes, seeing beyond the confines of these four walls is a necessary evil. For me, this means spending a lot of time sitting in the hall watching the world wake up through an open front door.
The morning smells like cut grass and honeysuckle. I ball up in a cocoon as the rising sun paints the sky various shades of pink, yellow, and purple.
The clock is just kissing 7.00 when an olive-green Volkswagen camper turns into Triangle Crescent. It crawls along the kerb, pauses for the briefest of seconds in front of each house on the other side of the road.
My mental camera is quick and candid.
I only have to look at it for a second, and every tiny detail about the foreign vehicle is embedded in my brain. From the license plate number to the burnt-orange rust eating away at the rear-wheel arch. It cruises around the dead-end bend and back up the road, this time surveying the houses on our side.
The man driving has a thick brown beard and a mop of dark curly hair. There are tons of stickers covering one of the side windows. Souvenir stickers. The kind that are shaped like famous landmarks. I recognize the Empire State Building and Disney’s princess palace.
The guy sees me, stops, and rolls down his window. He’s all smiles as I slide back on my butt, ready to retreat and slam the door shut, when someone shouts, ‘Dad!’
It’s Luke.
He’s standing by the boxwood bush, body on display, waving both arms in the air like he’s trying to park a plane. I look away, bite my bottom lip as the camper parks next door.
I didn’t know Luke had a dad. That’s dumb. I mean, obviously I knew Luke had a dad, I just didn’t realize he was still around.
They collide in the middle of the driveway and wrap each other in a solid embrace. It’s the kind of hug that makes me think I’m witnessing a reunion. I don’t mean to stare, but my no-touch rule is craving attention, and I’m trying to remember what it feels like to hold someone without worrying what kind of disease you could catch.
I’ve arrived at Ebola. I’m so busy considering the science of spreading that I miss the moment the pair break apart. I don’t have time to snatch my senses and look away before Luke sees me staring.
‘Norah,’ he greets me, looking all kinds of sheepish with his chin tucked into his chest. His dad looks at me expectantly, then back at Luke, then back at me again. But instead of offering an introduction, Luke scuttles into his house. His dad follows, but not before throwing a confused glance my way.
Interesting.
My mind is a rabbit hole that I fall down repeatedly for the next hour. I wonder why Luke got squirrelly at the idea of introducing his dad to me. I blame myself, being scrunched up in a blanket and sitting in my hallway like it’s the norm. What’s left of my fingernails pays the ultimate price for my feelings of inadequacy.
Sometime after eight, Luke emerges from his house, twirling car keys around his finger and carrying his school backpack. I turn away, fix my sights on a monarch butterfly that’s flirting with the flowers.
‘Hey, Neighbour.’ My head snaps around. Luke is standing by the boxwood, smiling at me, almost a different guy from the one who was here before.
I summon enough enthusiasm to smile back.
‘Hi.’
‘Don’t suppose you need a ride to school?’ He shakes his keys at me.
‘I’m good. But thank you.’
‘Any time.’ There’s a brief pause during which I attempt to braid my fingers. ‘Did you get my invite?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ It takes a huge amount of effort to stop myself from wincing. Or, you know, start weeping and begging him to cancel for the sake of my sanity.
‘You’re coming, right?’ He laughs, all nerves. ‘You have to come. Yours will be the only name I know.’ He plucks leaves off the boxwood. I pluck threads from my duvet.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to come.’ Awkwardness bleeds into my tone.
‘Ah. You have other plans,’ he concludes with a nod of his head.