“Thank you.” She had hugged her mother.
“I just want you to be happy.”
It was, Kim told Rohan later, the worst day of her life.
“Give her some time,” he’d said gently. “She’s confused and upset. It’s not like she’s chosen Charlie over you.”
It was, though, Kim thought as soon as he said it. That was exactly what it was like.
Zara had stepped seamlessly back into Marralee life, the transition easy and effortless, and it turned out she wasn’t confused and upset there. She was happy and she had friends, and as teenagers they all wanted nothing more than to go to the festival opening-night party by the reservoir. The longest conversation Kim and Charlie had in more than a year was whether to allow Zara to go.
“What do you think?” Charlie said.
It was a good question. What did Kim think?
I actually do remember what it’s like being your age, Kim had sometimes told Zara when they were still living under the same roof. Believe it or not.
But Kim didn’t remember what it was like to be sixteen at that bushland party.
She remembered wanting to go. She remembered the crushing disappointment of missing it the year before because she’d been on holiday with her parents, returning to the gossip and buzz and the distinct feeling that she’d been left out of something special. She remembered fizzing with the anticipation of being part of it this time.
But when the day came around, Kim and Charlie had been arguing. She remembered that, too. He’d kept her waiting for ten minutes at their meeting spot in the park, and when he’d finally arrived she was brooding and angry, and he couldn’t seem to understand why, because it was only ten bloody minutes, after all. And okay, it was only ten minutes, but the week before that Charlie had completely forgotten they were supposed to meet at all. Kim had hung around for a whole hour then before giving up and walking home alone, brushing away hot, furious tears. She hadn’t told him, mainly because she was embarrassed at having waited for so long.
They were still arguing over those ten late minutes when they’d reached the campfire at the clearing. The party had already started and they’d looked at each other, and it had occurred to Kim that if they were going to call a truce, this was the moment. If Charlie had moved first, with a gentle touch or a whispered apology, she would have responded. She was certain he would do the same. But the seconds passed, and neither of them budged. Instead—Kim remembered this bit very well—she had turned her back on her boyfriend and opened her first beer of the night.
There were bits and pieces after that. Snatches of chatter around the fire, laughter at a joke she couldn’t follow. Charlie didn’t come over to her. Someone took a photo, and the flash was blinding. Charlie was standing next to some girl she didn’t know. A drink slipped from Kim’s hand and splashed all over her shoes. She was holding a new drink, and her shoes were still wet. Charlie was talking to a different girl. Then: blackness.
The campfire had gone out. No, not out. Kim just wasn’t near it anymore. The bushland felt very still. She was lying down. Why was she lying down? Twigs and leaves were scratching her skin. She wanted to sit up. Her head spun, and her ears rang in the silence all around.
“Relax.”
The word came from somewhere in the dark. Kim’s heart lurched, snatching her breath away. She wasn’t alone. Who was there? She tried to ask but couldn’t find the words. She could taste vomit. The trees formed inky patterns that spun against the night sky. A hand on her leg. Her skin crawling under its clammy weight. Blackness, again. She could hear someone talking now. Or whispering? Fast words that she couldn’t catch. They sounded angry, Kim thought. They sounded angry with her.
And then it was morning. The light was so sudden and bright it was painful. The sharp sticks and leaves had been replaced by cool, soft sheets. Kim was at home. Lying in her own bed. She pushed back the blanket. She was wearing last night’s clothes. They reeked of vomit and alcohol.
When Naomi had arrived midmorning, Kim had wanted her to laugh and say it was all no big deal. That Kim was being silly and that it was all nothing to worry about. But as they’d sat together on the fuzzy pink bedroom rug, Kim’s whole body pulsing with a hangover and her mouth sticky and dry, they had looked at each other and Kim could see Naomi was in fact worried. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t just nothing.
Naomi filled in the blanks—some of them—but not one that Kim had been waiting for, and eventually she’d had to ask.
“Who else was there? There was someone else, right?”
A pause. “There was someone else?”
“Yeah. Were they with you when you saw me?” Kim could hear the bright, false optimism even as she spoke. “Helping, maybe?”
“No. Kim, no.” Naomi’s voice was odd. She sounded scared, Kim realized. “No one was with me. Was someone there with you?”
“I thought so.”
“You saw them?”
“Heard them.”
Relax.
Kim could almost feel the breath of the word against her skin. She sucked in the stale air of her bedroom.
“Maybe not, then.” The backs of her arms and legs were patterned with faint red crisscross scratches from the ground. “If you didn’t see anyone. I could be remembering wrong.”
Naomi didn’t say anything to that. She just looked at Kim, who was wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair dripping from the shower. “Your clothes from last night were a bit—”
“Disgusting? I know. I’m sorry. They’re in the washing machine.” They weren’t. Kim had dropped them into the laundry basket, then fished them straight out, scrunched them in a ball, and stuffed them into the bin instead. There was no point keeping them. She already knew she wouldn’t wear them again.
“Oh.” Naomi fell quiet again. “How are you feeling now? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Was she okay? Kim didn’t allow the question to settle. “Yes. I’m fine. Embarrassed, you know?”
“It’s just—” Naomi had paused. “I was thinking you could tell someone. If you wanted to. The police or someone. If—”
“No.” Kim’s reply was quick. “Naomi. No. What would I even say?”
No answer.
“I don’t want anyone to find out. How messy I got, you know?” At the words, the icy trickle of a completely different type of fear began creeping through Kim. Their school was small. The post-party gossip was notoriously brutal. The gleeful buzz of rehashing what went right and what went wrong was only fun when it was about someone else. “Naomi? Okay?”
“I know. But, what? Not even Charlie?”
He’d be upset, Kim knew immediately. Not with her—even during their stupidest fights he never got angry with her—but he’d blame himself. For being late to meet her at the park, for carrying on their ridiculous argument past the point that either of them wanted to, for not looking out for her. Charlie wasn’t perfect, Kim knew, but neither was she, and whatever this was, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t hers, either, a tiny voice whispered, but she pushed it aside. What she needed and wanted right then, more than anything else, was for everything to be back to normal.