i want a new body, one
which would walk me all the way to buy milk
as if i had no body at all. a body
which could disappear into the soft
blue depths of morning, or
the avenue’s bright spring,
forgetting itself. a body
which is like being upside-down, in the sense
that you are always upside-down,
but to notice, when there
are gang-gangs hanging with
their white-edged feathers, or
bougainvillea branches trailing the pool fence,
wouldn’t cross your mind; a body
which, like being upside-down, i would create
by rolling like a child until
i could see it, and i would know
its truth, even in
its strangeness.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
The clock mocks me, each tick like a tedious flash of what I was, what I could have been. My teacher’s voice reverberates and echoes in a hypnotising cascade through the classroom. Bored, I peer down at my phone and gaze over the folders of my life, a childhood and a world at my fingers. Stuck. Frozen. The comforting smile of my grandmother is hidden somewhere here, barricaded by metal and plastic, waiting to be displayed behind tempered glass. The reason for my existence, my knowledge and my place on this earth, all packed tightly into a human vessel, now held in my hands.
***
I was born into a busy place. In this world, smoke and gasoline smothered the air, the summer rain was my contentment, and the people spoke with loud voices. Motorbikes roared to and fro and in and out of the house, and aunties roamed about in organised chaos. Summers were scorching hot, and the humidity clung like moths around an open bulb. I lived in it for as long as I knew and to me, this world made sense.
But the idea of leaving it did not. The idea of why my world was no longer safe, didn’t make sense. The idea of why I had to leave my world by myself didn’t either, but the haunting plea in my grandmother’s eyes made it make sense.
This new place was upside down. A wonderland that I did not understand. The air was cool and light, absent of gasoline. The sun rose and set over the horizon, and I was able to see it. The birds sang in the morning mist and I was able to hear it. School was a foreign land of strange words and people I couldn’t decipher. People moved slower, walking through me as if I wasn’t there at all, as if I walked on the ceilings.
But eventually, I started adjusting and the outlandish became ordinary. Each conversation I held made a trophy in my mind and the slivers of sunlight I started to let in sparkled upon their surface. They built up, the bronze, the silver and the gold piling up. My memories and my grandmother, my world and my home, slowly lost its place in me. Being buried beneath much flashier achievements and westernised behaviours. Contained and locked away like forbidden treasures, its remains were plastered within the walls of my camera roll as it peeled off my mind like old paint. As more of this new world made sense to me, the place of roaring motorbikes and organised chaos became my new upside down.
***
Clicking on a photo of my grandmother, she unfolds from code. She is sitting under a struggling light bulb that is barely able to illuminate beyond the circular wooden table and plastic stools. Her eyes flash glimpses of doubt and desperate yearning. Each plea etches deep within the valleys of her face and ingrains a permanent gloss over her tired eyes which she masks with a loving smile. She holds me in her arms. My toothless smile, chubby arms and mischief, held in her lap.
Would she be happy that she is encapsulated in pixels? If she saw me now, would she recognise me? Would she recognise my disfigured face?
The clock continues to tick, the teacher continues to speak, and the children continue to laugh behind me as the bell screeches for the last time that day. Without realising, my hands are cramping, clinging onto my phone as if it was her face. My fingers are white and my palm patches with red and white spots. I let go, hoping to run away from this uncomfortable reckoning with myself. The reckoning that in her passing, she took the last bits of my world with her. The world that I didn’t hold onto, the world that I let become my upside down, the world that I was too cowardly not to keep. I hold her in both hands for another second before the screen goes dark, before the kids start running out of the classroom, and everything goes back to the way it was. I tell her how sorry I am that her hopes became buried and lost in me. I tell her before running out of the classroom just like the others.
It started with a few clicks on a flight booking site. Alisha stared at the screen, her fingers hesitating over the Confirm Payment button. The destination read Delhi Indira Gandhi International Airport. The departure: Sydney Kingsford Smith. A quiet thrill bubbled up — not the nervousness she remembered from three years ago, when she had booked her one-way flight to Australia with shaking hands and teary eyes. This time, there was something else. Something warmer. She clicked. The flight was real. The countdown had begun.
Packing began with a checklist, as always — but this time, it felt different. She didn’t start with clothes or toiletries. Instead, she opened a drawer filled with fridge magnets, postcards, Tim Tams, jars of Vegemite (which she still didn’t like), and tiny koalas wearing cowboy hats. The souvenirs were small, but they felt like pieces of her second life — the one she wanted to share with those from her first.
Shopping wasn’t for herself. It was for them — for Mama, for Papa, for her elder brother who always told her she’d always be his little one, and for her baby cousin, whom she would be meeting for the first time. She folded fewer jeans and more kangaroo t-shirts. Fewer earrings, more chocolates. This time, her suitcase wasn’t filled with things to start a life — it was filled with things to celebrate the one she’d built, and to bring it home to where it all began.
After so long, packing didn’t feel like a departure. It felt like a return to the place that shaped her, grounded her — her home.
The flight was long, but every hour passed with her heart racing — not with nerves, but with anticipation. She wasn’t leaving anything behind; she was retracing her steps, journeying back to the beginning — to memory, belonging, and the version of herself that had always lived there. When the captain announced the descent, her eyes welled up. As the clouds parted and the city came into view — the scattered lights, the familiar outline of her world — a wave of warmth rose within her. It wasn’t just an arrival; it was a homecoming. A piece of her that had been missing all these years clicked back into place.
After collecting her baggage, she took a deep breath and stepped through the arrival gates. And there they were — her parents. A little older, perhaps, a few more lines on their faces, but in that moment, they looked exactly as she had held them in her heart. Her mother’s dupatta fluttered like a flag of love in the warm air. They didn’t speak — they didn’t need to. Alisha melted into their arms, her eyes finally spilling over, breathing in the scent she had ached for: sandalwood, sun-dried cotton, and that unmistakable fragrance of home.
Everything was loud, alive. The honking outside, the chaos of luggage, the way her father kept glancing at her like she might vanish again. And as anticipated, the first thing her mother said was, “Look how thin you’ve become,” then a pause, her voice breaking just slightly, “My baccha, I love you.”
Then came the hugs.
Her mother’s embrace was like being swallowed whole by warmth, as if her love was the only thing in that moment that could hold Alisha together. Alisha buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, feeling the flutter of the dupatta — a light scarf draped loosely around her — against her skin. The hum of “I missed you” vibrated in every squeeze. It was the kind of hug that made her feel both small and infinitely loved — a safe cocoon, filled with everything she had missed.
Then there was her father. His hug was different — quieter, steadier. When Alisha wrapped her arms around him, it was like being enveloped by a warm, sturdy wall. The kind that didn’t bend, didn’t break. The feeling of being a tiny cub in the embrace of Papa Bear, strong, unyielding, and safe, a bear hug, literally. “You’ve come back to us,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Alisha could feel the weight of those simple words in the strength of his embrace — the three years they’d been apart, the longing, the quiet worry, and the anticipation. His hug was a promise, one she knew he would keep: “You’ll always be my little girl.”
The moment was pure, filled with all the things left unsaid. And despite the teary eyes and the quiet smiles, the embrace left her laughing softly under her breath. Because somehow, in their tight embrace, the world — with all its noise and chaos — faded into the background.
That night, lying in her old bed after a scrumptious homemade meal, enjoyed for the first time in years, the ceiling fan whirring above, Alisha looked around the room that had frozen in time. Posters she had outgrown. Sketchpads she had once filled with doodles and dreams. A photo of her family in the backyard on the corner table — slightly faded, still smiling.
She wasn’t the same girl who had left three years ago, unsure and afraid. She had grown — in strength, in dreams, in silence. But here, in this room, with the walls whispering old secrets and the scent of dinner still hanging in the air, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time.
Whole.
The city whispered his name—Vanitas, the painter who captured not just faces but souls. Some called it a gift; others feared it was a curse. Yet all agreed—his portraits did not lie.
Seraphine had sought him, drawn by the rumours. Now, in his dimly lit studio, the scent of oil and turpentine thick in the air, she stood before the legend himself. Shadows flickered along the walls, stretching and shrinking with the candlelight. Vanitas worked in silence, his brush gliding over the canvas with eerie precision, as though pulling something from her that had long been buried.
At first, the portrait was ordinary. Then, the shadows deepened, and the colours thickened like drying blood. The painted eyes gleamed—not just with light but with something else. Something knowing. A vial nestled in the folds of her painted gown, barely noticeable yet undeniable. Dark smudges marred her delicate hands, faint but damning. The pearls at her throat tightened, not as adornment but as a noose.
Her past bled onto the canvas—whispers in the dark, tinctures slipped into goblets, bruises that never had to heal. The saviour. The executioner. The reckoning in silk. Each stroke of Vanitas’ brush revealed another secret, another truth she had long kept hidden beneath civility and lace. The face in the painting did not accuse her, nor did it absolve her. It simply knew.
Her breath hitched; her pulse quickened. The weight of the painting pressed against her as though it, too, could see into the depths of her soul. She had not done it out of malice. She had not done it out of vengeance. She had done it because someone had to. Because no one else would.
Vanitas finally spoke, his voice a whisper against the suffocating silence. “The truth is not what you wish it to be.”
Seraphine’s fingers trembled as they brushed against the canvas. The shadow in the painting rippled beneath her touch, the darkness curling like ink in water. For a fleeting moment, she felt it might pull her in, drag her into the depths of her own making.
She took a step back, her breath steadying. The longer she stared, the more she realised it wasn’t a judgment of her actions but a revelation of the truth she had long hidden from herself. The darkness on the canvas was not an enemy—it was simply a reflection of who she truly was. The hand that had once trembled now stilled. She was not afraid anymore.
Vanitas watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. “You see it now.”
Seraphine lifted her chin. “I do.”
She turned, stepping away from the portrait and the truth that had nearly swallowed her whole—but she stepped away not in retreat. She walked with purpose, her silk gown whispering against the floor as she crossed the threshold and disappeared into the night.
The studio remained silent, the air thick with something unseen. And in the corner, the painting waited, its gaze unwavering.
Some said it vanished by morning. Others swore they saw it, still tucked away in the shadows of his studio—watching and waiting for its subject to return.
The sand absorbed heat throughout the day and released it after the temperature dropped. She could feel it on the back of her legs when she stretched out on her towel.
You should go swimming, he said. He stood in front of her, looking down, his sunburnt arms slack by his side.
I didn’t realise you were standing there, she said. He shrugged, his wet hair flicking droplets onto her towel. She shut her eyes and shook her head.
You’re missing out, he insisted. She shook her head again. She already knew how the water felt. She heard him sigh quietly, still standing there, and twisted to look at him properly, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of him watching without watching back, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore — a pack of teenagers had arrived carrying beer and a speaker pumping bassy music with German lyrics. They were clambering over the rocks that jutted out over the water at the beach’s far end. Reaching the top, one of them gave an indistinct yell and enthusiastically threw herself from the rock into the water beneath, to general approval and laughter. She emerged, flicking her short hair back in an arc, and swam confidently back to her friends.
He looked back down at her, eyebrows raised, like their observation proved a point, then turned away again, walking back towards the water. He didn’t slow down until it was past his waist. Then he started to swim, the skin on his back glinting in the sun.
Reckless, she thought. And he was a bad driver too; the more time they spent together, the clearer it became what things would look like if they kept this on. He’d nearly gotten them killed on the way here. A truck had swept past them while he’d been going faster than he should have been on the windy road, and their rental car had been pushed to the edge so that two wheels skidded on the narrow gravel shoulder. She braced one hand on the car door and one on the dashboard as the car tilted. Off the road was a sheer drop; she could see the beaches below them, the waves frozen like she was watching them from an aeroplane, the sharp green slope running from the edge of the road right down to where it met the sand hundreds of meters below. It would have been so easy for the car to slip just a little further, and then they would have been sent skidding over the edge, and her vision would be filled with flashes of sky and grass and crunching metal or, quickly, with nothing at all. For a moment, she wanted to reach across the centre console to grab his shoulder or to touch his free hand, but he’d brought it up around the wheel too, his knuckles taut with effort, and the car righted itself and continued up the hill.
He’d turned to look at her, apologetic, but the shock was still too fresh for her to get properly angry. They’d let out a shared exhale of laughter, the sound displaced, relieved more than amused, like the awkward chuckles that had passed through the small cinema they’d sat in the previous evening as the credits descended on Mulholland Drive. Instead, she’d told him to put on the radio, and he had. The knob was sticky with sand or rust, and he struggled with it for a moment, swearing. She kept her eyes on the road for him. The sound, when he got it to focus — two men speaking in rapid Italian — faded in and out as they wound around the hill, and the signal worsened.
Tomorrow, they would drive back to the train station. Next time, he would say. I had fun. Until next summer, if you’d like. She would nod, and then he would walk away from her, his body quickly becoming strange and anonymous amongst the rush. She would buy a lousy coffee and sit by herself for an hour before a different train came to take her away in the opposite direction.
In a week, her hair would smell like cafeteria grease and detergent. For now, it was dried out from the salt water and sun and smelled like the little plastic bottles of shampoo from the motel. She hadn’t really gone swimming, had only waded in to waist depth and then laid back and floated on the surface, waiting, letting her hair fan out around her. She wasn’t a swimmer. She wound her fingers through the strands, then let her hand fall to her side.
The teenagers were getting louder. One of them had turned up the music on the speaker, and the sound throbbed across the water, the sound staticky and indistinct. She wanted to go up to them and ask them to turn it down. She wanted to ask them if she could have a go at dive bombing from the rocks.
He was nearly at the other end of the beach now, close enough to the teenagers for their speaker to overpower the sound of his limbs slapping against the water. The light had started to soften; they would only have a few more hours before it faded completely. He turned around, treading water. He waved at her. She waved back. He yelled something that she couldn’t hear. She shook her head and laid back. They still had the rest of the afternoon and the next morning. Almost a full day. She dug her fingers into the hot sand and squinted into the sun.
Anna slouched back in her seat, desperate to remain hidden from view. She didn’t know what she would do if she was caught.
Tonight was one of her sleepless nights. Yearning to feel something, she had travelled to Peter’s house. Her car was parked inconspicuously outside, under the shield of the grand elm trees; the branches swayed majestically in the night wind. She had noticed the tulips dispersed on the front lawn; they had bloomed well this year, their petals revealing soft shades of red. There was a serenity in these suburban streets that Anna craved: white picket fences, freshly mowed lawns and family dinner at six.
A singular dome light faintly illuminated the inside of the car. Empty take-out containers, bottles of wine and plastic wrappers littered the floor. Scrunched-up tissues covered every inch of the beige seats, concealing the stains of the carelessly spilt drinks. Despite her efforts, Anna could never properly clear out the mess; it persisted like a bad memory that refused to leave. Yet, when she stared into Peter’s house, none of that mattered because her heart softened, and all she felt was a sense of completion.
She lifted her head discreetly to watch Peter drag an overflowing garbage bag outside. His daughter followed him swiftly; she skipped down the cobblestone steps and waved her drawing eagerly in his face. Peter crouched down and playfully examined the art piece. A smile tugged at Anna’s lips. She knew how much he wanted to be a father. At least he was happy, she thought to herself.
Anna’s eyes glanced at the time on the dashboard. It was already so late, but she couldn’t leave now. She hadn’t felt this alive all week. The breeze filtered through the open window, circling around the car. She shivered.
When the pair returned inside, Anna sat up properly to get a better view of the house. It was beautiful. A double-storey brick house stood proudly before her, with brightly lit glass windows offering a view into the family’s blissful life. Anna felt a pang of jealousy in her stomach and inhaled sharply; all she wanted was to be able to have this. She cradled a half-drunk bottle of wine in her arms and took a long gulp. She was sick of drinking alone. But Peter wasn’t.
Through the house window, she saw him and his wife pouring glasses of wine in the living room, basking in each other’s company in front of the homely fireplace. The carefully decorated and clean room made Anna chuckle softly as she looked down at the mess surrounding her. She watched on as they laughed together. Anna imagined being that woman — someone healthy enough to share a mundane life with someone. Then, she saw the couple kiss. With that, she slid down her seat, her skin prickling with frustration.
In her youth, Anna had loved Peter with the ferocity of a thousand fires. Yet, she always waited for him to realise she wasn’t worth all the trouble. She had told him about her mother and how she had this disease as well.
“It’s genetic. I’m scared that if I have a child, they’ll become broken like me,” she explained. He hugged her, assuring her it would be okay.
Soon, Anna learnt that loving him was too painful, like a knife twisting deeper and deeper. She couldn’t bear his tortured expressions when he found her crying in the bathtub in the dead of night, mascara streaking her pallid face and wine spilt around her. He made excuses for her when she couldn’t leave her bed for days and remained patient when she snapped at him. She was an open wound, bleeding uncontrollably and tarnishing every moment with her mere presence. She refused to pull him deeper into her tortured existence, not wanting to see him choke on the poison that flowed through her veins.
Blood rushed through her cheeks at the memories of him. Hot tears streamed down Anna’s face, and she shut her eyes tightly. She imagined a life where she had a family…a life where her mind wasn’t her worst enemy. It didn’t matter how hard she tried because she never got better. Now, all she had was this. Her late nights with Peter’s family. The closest she ever got to the real thing. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, slumping deeper into the car seat.
Anna wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep when she was awoken by the distant sound of sirens. Sprawled on the car seat, she rubbed her eyes to relieve her tiredness. As her vision cleared, she caught sight of Peter’s house.
Flickers of red and orange flames clung to the brick exterior. The tendrils danced in synchronicity as they surrounded the roof. Anna flung her car door open, stumbling onto the footpath. She stood frozen, basking in the embers of fire that pelted down on her like a thunderous storm. The roaring of the fire continued; it was a ravenous beast consuming the house and its inhabitants. Heavy smoke hung in the air, causing the neighbours who gathered on the sidewalks to break into fits of cough.
“NO!” Anna screamed, her throat burning from the intensity of her pain.
This couldn’t be happening. Her dreams were shattering alongside the glass windows that faltered under the heat of the blaze.
She couldn’t watch this anymore. A sudden shot of adrenaline pumped through her as she ran across the front lawn, her feet trampling the tulips. Anna stopped at the front door and drew a long breath. They were the closest thing she had to a family, a thin string of hope she held onto desperately. She knew she couldn’t lose them; this was her chance to be with them, to prove she deserved something good. Smiling, she raced inside. The flames reached for her, welcoming her to their fold.
She became ashes.
But at least they were all finally one and the same.
Alisha’s most cherished childhood memories sprouted from her backyard — a tiny, enchanting world teeming with wonders. Thinking of it now, she is nostalgic, conjuring vivid images of a place that once felt infinite. She can almost see it: the potato plants stubbornly rooted in the soil, the twisting bottle gourd vines that her mother miraculously incorporated into every dish, fiery-red and green chilli plants where she dutifully plucked a single chilli for every meal, and the slender okra stalks swaying in the breeze. However, reigning over all was the mango tree — the proud giant of the yard and a silent witness to her childhood.
What a mango tree it was. Alisha drifts for a moment, her eyes misting over with the tears of a feeling she can’t quite name — a mix of gratitude for those treasured moments and a deep ache of longing for the time that has slipped away. She remembers climbing the tree with her elder brother on blazing summer afternoons, their bare feet gripping the rough bark, sunscreen be damned. Their sole mission: the mangoes. She’d stay below, holding a makeshift quilt trap fashioned from sheer sibling ingenuity, ready to catch the golden fruit her brother plucked and tossed down. Never mind if a mango hit her square in the nose or if she stumbled — what mattered was keeping the mangoes safe from the earth’s gritty embrace.
After their triumphant mango haul, they’d sit cross-legged on the grass, greedily devouring their loot with sticky hands, ignoring their mother’s rule about having lunch first. Patience? Who’s she? The siblings’ gleeful disobedience was a summer ritual, punctuated by laughter and the occasional scolding over her brother’s scraped knees or the duo’s muddied clothes.
Her backyard wasn’t just about mangoes. It was a tapestry of moments: her mother meticulously tending to roses, sunflowers, and marigolds; the birds chirping songs of joy as they pecked at the sweet mango flesh; the serene simplicity of lying on the grass and gazing up at the sky through a canopy of green. It was a sanctuary, a place where peace wasn’t just an idea but a palpable feeling in the air.
Now, Alisha sits in her stark apartment, peering through a small window at the uninspiring side of a neighbouring building. Snapping out of her daydream, she pulls the curtains shut, suddenly self-conscious. She doesn’t want to seem like a creep staring into someone else’s life. A glance around her room only deepens the ache within her. The white walls, the narrow bed, the plain desk — it’s all so cold. Even the beloved family photo on her desk, taken in that very backyard, now feels like a cruel taunt.
Gone is the scent of roses carried by the breeze, replaced by the sterile air of the city. Gone is the boundless freedom of her backyard, traded for the constrictions of adulthood. Alisha sits at her desk, her thoughts wandering back to the swing under the mango tree and the board games she played with her father.
She’s struck by the irony of life: to nurture the home she loves so dearly, she had to leave it behind.
Is she unhappy? No. But she wishes she could turn back time, even if it is just for a moment. She wonders what has changed. Was it the weight of responsibilities? The pull of ambitions? Or was it simply the inevitable passage from childhood to adulthood? It seems a question that eludes an answer, one she doesn’t linger on for too long.
Instead, Alisha picks up her phone, engaging in the daily ritual of calling her mother. Her mother’s voice is the balm that soothes all her aches, much like the warmth of those lazy afternoons in the backyard. As they chat, her mother excitedly shares plans for the spring harvest, listing off vegetables and flowers she hopes to grow. Alisha closes her eyes, imagining the vibrant garden coming to life again.
With a bittersweet smile, she whispers, “This too, I will grow through.”
The backyard may be miles away, but its essence remains rooted in her. Its lessons of joy, resilience, and connection are woven into her being, a reminder that even in the bleakness of her current reality, the comfort of those memories will forever be her refuge.
It is tied there like a flag at the peak of a game, some sort of girls versus boys nonsense. The tree is thus claimed by the girl and her friend as their base. Because, of course, a tree with rough bark that cuts into the skin and with dense burgundy leaves that obscure any good view of the enemy is an obvious and strategic choice. The ribbon is vibrant with a silky sheen, taken from her friend’s ponytail.
The war ends in a stalemate, becoming irrelevant when dessert is mentioned. When the time comes to say goodbye, the two friends bemoan the separation, hardly able to wait for the next time they can play together in the garden. They are inseparable, and their parents get along swimmingly, so they won’t have to wait long.
But because the girl always forgets to take the ribbon from the tree and return it to its owner, it stays there as they play. Fairy make-believe, which somehow spreads beyond a backyard game on a warm Sunday afternoon and becomes a gimmick of collective self-delusion all the girls in their year two class are involved in. All but one, that is. The girl feels guilty for somehow gaslighting her whole class, desperate for their one last classmate to join in and for the alternate reality of going to fairyland at night to be true.
The little ribbon stays there even after its owner moves back to the other side of the world. It fades slightly; though it is sheltered by foliage, the harsh Australian sun will always have its way, no matter how gradual. It flutters in the breeze as the girl and her sister decide to gather snails in the garden and keep them as pets. But they are neglected, and most shrivel up in a matter of days; any survivors are sometimes recognised by the blue and red text marks on their shells.
The pink ribbon observes as the girl frees a young branch growing in between two others. The part that was stuck is mesmerisingly flat and smooth, smoother than any piece of wooden furniture she’s ever touched. She feels like a plum tree doctor. Her knowledge of the tree’s anatomy means she knows exactly which branches she can sit on comfortably and read.
The pink ribbon fades some more, yet is still the brightest thing in winter when the grass is brown from drought and the plum tree is devoid of leaves. Every morning, the sisters must go to the backyard and pick grass for the guinea pigs to eat for breakfast — a dreaded job when there is little green grass to be found and when their hands go numb from frost.
The pink ribbon is there still when one guinea pig is buried beneath the tree, wrapped in an old rag as a coffin. The girl and her sister fashion a crooked cross from fallen sticks found at the base of the tree.
The pink ribbon stays tied there, watching as the sisters discover the delight of jumping from horrific heights off their swings. By some generous miracle, they never quite slam into the low stone wall and break their bones.
The pink ribbon giggles as the currawong swooping low over the swings makes the girl screech in pure fright. In desperation and despite the spiders, she rushes into the cubby house. The swing outside is still creaking as she waits out the long-gone currawong.
The pink ribbon waits to see if it will stay or leave as the second guinea pig is buried beside its sister. It is very pale after so many summers, matching the colour of the blossoms scattered over the garden every September. The tree is older now, its fewer leaves less able at protecting the ribbon from the summer sun. The girl doesn’t forget the ribbon. After seven years, she reverently unties it from its branch, careful not to damage the frail material. Bursts of its original bright colour still exist, protected by the knot. She folds it carefully and tucks it in a box with her other possessions, ready for the new house.
The new house has no plum tree — rather a backyard with a pool and a wattle, and rose bushes with flowers in every colour imaginable. But the pink ribbon will stay and be tucked into a drawer. A little memento of childhood, of happy memories in the backyard, of plums making a mess of the footpath thanks to greedy cockatoos, of crimson and eastern rosellas eating seeds beneath the tree, of making gourmet dishes out of mud and flowers, of torturing snails, of jumping on the trampoline with a white-tailed spider and having to interrupt their dad in an important online meeting so he could squish it, of backyard cricket, of sage and sorrel, of mulberries and plums from the three plum trees, of white quartz pebbles, of rushing around playing tips with the neighbours after Minecraft sessions, of the setting for a three-year-old’s sweet dreams, of eleven years, of delightful childhood friendships.
The pink ribbon holds the memory of it all.
All Evelyn knows is that to wear white to someone else’s wedding is equivalent to a shootable offence. She puts on a green dress that reaches her heels, which she bought a year ago and has never had an opportunity to wear. Imogen says to wear gold jewellery with it instead of silver; Evelyn tries this and finds it suits her.
They sit cross-legged on the floor of Evelyn’s bedroom, knees pressed together, putting makeup on each other like they used to at sleepovers. It occurs to Evelyn that the last time they did this, Imogen ended up with a botched attempt at the cut-crease style of blindingly colourful eye makeup which was then popular on YouTube. Evelyn had almost an entire face of green: Imogen had gone a little too far with the eyeshadow, then decided to make the best of it by turning her best friend into a dinosaur.
Fortunately, they have since both learned the skill of light-handedness, and there are no such disasters this afternoon.
When they are finished, they stand side-by-side and look at themselves in the long mirror inside the wardrobe door. With a finger Evelyn traces the seam running down her side and is surprised to feel it against her own skin. There is a freedom in her limbs, as though she has been lately released from a performance in which she has been compelled to participate for a long time. She presses her nails into her palms and is struck to see the marks which are left there. She looks at her face—at her eyes and nose and chin—and at the slope of her shoulders, and the curve of her hips, and thinks: Oh, I know you.
The venue is an hour’s drive away, a late-19th century mansion which has operated as a luxury hotel since the ‘50s. They planned to take the bus, but Dave offered to drop them at the (significantly cheaper) hotel they’d booked to stay the night in, to which they said yes, thank you.
When they get out of the car Evelyn says goodbye to her father. He hugs her.
“Stay safe, guys. Don’t get too pissed.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
They check in at the front desk and are given a key and verbal directions to their room. It is small, but clean. There is a little bathroom, a wardrobe, and a double bed which takes up the majority of the space. The walls are pale yellow-green and the carpet is an unfortunate shade of vomit-beige, which Imogen calls food poisoning chic. But if not pretty, it is at least comfortable, and they have very few complaints.
They toss their bags onto the floor and leave the way they came, locking the door behind them. The ceremony starts at three—and there was traffic on the way, so it is already a quarter past two. Fortunately, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the venue, and after a short battle with Google Maps they find it easily.
The hotel is enormous and looks like something out of a Jane Austen adaptation. It is preceded by an expanse of flawlessly manicured green grass and shrubbery, cut up into geometric shapes by little cobbled footpaths and a driveway along the perimeter of the building, which must lead off into a carpark somewhere around the side. A wide stretch of lawn in the centre is being laid out with tables and lights.
At the reception they are directed to a great pillared room with polished floors and high chandeliers and tall arched windows overlooking the grounds. It has been made up like a particularly extravagant chapel, dozens of pews lined up in rows so that there is an aisle in the centre, and at the front a platform and a podium. They give their names to a tall bearded man with a clipboard at the door, and are ushered in.
They’d gone to a small school, with just over thirty people in their graduating class. It seems that almost all of them are in attendance. Evelyn guesses that there must be close to two hundred guests, seated or milling about, all engaged in smiling conversation. There are a couple of cameras set up on tripods near the front, which people dressed in black fuss over. She is reminded of the musicals the school used to put on.
“Do you reckon we’re just invited as props for Jess’ social media? You know, so the whole thing looks all big and glamorous?” Imogen says.
Evelyn hasn’t considered this. It’s true that she has only spoken to Jess, the bride, two or three times since graduation, and can’t remember talking to Bailey, the groom, at all. But to spend five days in a week for six years with little variation on the same thirty or forty people is to become something like family with them. You come to know them, in the way you might know cousins and second cousins and uncles and nieces. And so, seeing them after a couple of years apart feels more like a family reunion than anything. Perhaps you groan over the prospect, but it is inevitable, and it is an affectionate reluctance, after all. You know them inherently, if not completely, and it doesn’t occur to you to feel any more distant from them than you have the rest of your life.
But then, this is a big and glamorous wedding, and maybe Imogen is right.
Oh well, free food.
They are called over by a group of their old classmates to their right, including Areeha and Eliza.
“Imogen—Evelyn—I haven’t seen you guys in ages!” says Beckett, as fervid and redheaded as ever he was. Beckett has always reminded Evelyn of a young child, with his unbridled enthusiasm and constantly bruised knees.
“Hey, Beckett—hi, guys.”
There are exchanges of embraces and compliments, and Evelyn is pleased to see them all. Ben is asked about his promotion to manager at the café he works at, and Shreya says she is thinking of switching her degree from psychology to law.
She lets her gaze traverse the room, picking out familiar faces. There is Eugene, who sat next to her in modern history class. And there’s Bella, who in year eight shared a transient determination with Evelyn to start a book club. Idris, who asked her to a disco in year seven. Holly, who once told Evelyn after a particularly sunburnt summer that she was so freckled, she looked like a strawberry. Hugo, who she went out with for three months in year ten and who later came out as gay. And there is Spencer on the far side of the chairs, speaking to a pair of women—his mother, and someone else. He catches Evelyn’s eye and waves, but doesn’t come over.
The ceremony only goes for half an hour, and it feels like less.
How strange, how surprising, to see two people you went to school with at a floral altar, and a blue-suited celebrant beyond them. How astonishing that the striking woman in white and silver used to braid your hair at recess and confide giddily in you about the boy she kissed yesterday after PE. How confounding that the weeping, laughing man used to come to your house one afternoon a week to eat dinner and play video games with your brother while his parents worked late.
When they recite their vows, Evelyn can imagine that she is looking at a painting. The picture they make is so beautiful, so cohesive. In a way she can’t identify, they seem much older than they were at graduation.
They are pronounced husband and wife, and this seems so right, so unquestionable, that Evelyn cannot feel disturbed as she expected to. Afterwards, even Imogen has no sarcastic remark to make.
There is the recessional, and then the guests file outside to the lawns, now costumed with flowers and a white dancefloor and linen tablecloths. There is a little bar sheltered by a gauzy canopy and run by two bartenders whose movements are so fluid and easy they seem to dance. Servers dressed in black and white weave through the crowd carrying trays of appetisers.
The seating chart is displayed on a pair of white easels. She and Imogen have been assigned to table 12, with Beckett, Holly, Mia (another classmate, close friends with Holly), three people whose names she does not recognise, and Spencer. Imogen says, “great,” and makes a beeline for the bar.
A server offers Evelyn a feta pastry and she carries it to where Imogen is in line.
“Waste of time!” says Imogen, “Get on the free cocktails.”
“Fistful of food,” Evelyn says through a mouthful of pastry.
When they reach the front of the line, Evelyn asks for two piña coladas. These are made and placed on the counter extraordinarily quickly, and she wonders how many thousands of drinks the bartender has mixed and poured to become so precise and rapid. They take the drinks to their table, where Holly and Mia are already installed.
“Hey guys,” says Imogen, beaming with a note of dishonesty which Evelyn hopes they don’t detect. Imogen passively dislikes Holly, although she won’t say so. Holly is collectively understood to be blithely underhand, but she’s not hated because this is how she has always been, and she has always possessed the skill of making and remaking friends so that on falling out of favour with one set, she can slip gracefully in with another.
Mia is quiet and giggling in a way that first strikes you as nervous, but after three or four years you come to understand is her natural state. Evelyn was invited to almost all Mia’s birthday parties from when they were thirteen until they graduated, and still Evelyn cannot recall a time when Mia has spoken more than ten words together in conversation.
“Oh, my goodness,” says Holly, “It’s been forever. How are you both?”
They make small talk until Beckett and three partway-drunk men around their age drop merrily into four of the five remaining seats.
Beckett introduces his companions as Sam, Kit, and Abe, who were on the same football team as Beckett and Bailey through most of high school. They are as quick and uncomplicated as their monosyllabic names, and they make Evelyn think of more-than-usually charming ferrets. They grin and flirt and make nuisances of themselves, but are easy to laugh at.
Spencer doesn’t join them until it’s time for dinner. He is introduced to the ferrets and is welcomed energetically by Beckett and Imogen, who hadn’t known he was coming.
He slips into the seat beside Evelyn and hugs her.
“How’s Nethra?”
“Good, I think. Busy with her new internship at the art gallery.”
Spencer makes an exclamation about how well this suits her. Evelyn smiles and agrees.
“That’s right, you guys saw each other at that book launch,” says Imogen. “I’m incredibly jealous of you, Spencer. Nethra is so cool. Evelyn, you need to invite me to stay again.”
“Come whenever you like. It’s not as though I have classes to work around anymore.”
“Great. Go back, already, so I can follow you there.”
Over dinner, the table talks and laughs and laughs until they are breathless and the stars seem to dip low above their heads.
There are speeches, by turns heartfelt and farcical, and the cake is cut and served. The bride and groom dance to Frank Ocean, and then I Wanna Dance With Somebody comes on and the guests are enjoined to partake.
Imogen pulls Evelyn up from her seat and they are absorbed by the crowd of people flocking to the dancefloor. It is dark now, and there are white lights strung overhead so that everything is soft and loud and ethereal.
They are soon found by Spencer, then Areeha and Eliza. At some point Jess stands on a chair and tosses a pink bouquet behind her, which is caught by a woman Evelyn has never seen before. Familiar faces come and go, stopping to dance or chat over glasses of cold water each time Evelyn detaches herself from the throng.
It must be past ten when Jess appears beside her. Evelyn shouts and wraps her arms around the bride. Jess presses her forehead against Evelyn’s, and everything is a little unfocused, but they look each other in the eyes, as best they can.
“Are you happy?” says Evelyn above the clamour.
“Yes,” says Jess. “No one has ever been as happy as I am.”
“I’m glad!”
And then she is gone, whisked off by the fairies.
Sometime around twelve, Evelyn and Imogen call an Uber. Spencer walks with them to the front of the hotel, where they stand in silence, arms folded against the chill night air.
“That was fun,” says Imogen finally.
“Do you know,” says Spencer, as though something has just occurred to him, “I really thought it wouldn’t happen. I thought fate would intervene somehow. There would be a storm, or a problem with the venue, or one of them would change their mind, and it would all be a false alarm.”
Evelyn thinks that Spencer was right: it was a false alarm. When she received the invitation she imagined it blaring at her, warning of stagnancy and telling her to go, go, go, like the fire alarms in school. The phantom echo of it has been ringing in her ears, but slowly the ringing has dulled, and now all is quiet inside her skull. But there was no alarm in the first place, or if there was it didn’t come from anywhere outside her.
It’s okay, she thinks. There are infinitely worse things than to be twenty years and five months old, caught somewhere between knowing and not knowing, but with the time and space to feel around for a foothold.
“I’m glad fate didn’t intervene. It was good, I think.”
Their Uber arrives, and they say goodbye to Spencer. He says to stay in touch, and they agree readily.
“Good luck with the band,” says Evelyn.
“Good luck with the crisis,” says Spencer.
They climb inside and he shuts the door behind them. In the five minutes it takes to get to their hotel, Imogen falls asleep on Evelyn’s shoulder.
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