A guide to falling off t.., p.1
A Guide to Falling Off the Map, page 1
To Kiah
The crowd surges.
“Stand, Vinnie. We’re standing!”
“What? Oh.”
Lilah helps me up by the elbow. I clap along with the rest of the audience. At first, I’m a puppet. But soon, my head gets its act together and I’m in the room.
“That was Molly’s best performance yet,” I shout-whisper into Lilah’s ear.
“Agreed!”
My fingers make pistols in my mouth and my whistle pierces the applause. Lilah covers her ears, laughing, embarrassed.
“That’s so loud, Vinnie! Sheesh.”
“You know you love it.” Mum was a whistler too. But since missing her is a punch in the throat, I snap the memory closed.
The director, our drama teacher Ms. Montague, strides onstage in denim overalls and bright white sneakers to raise Molly’s hand. She grabs the Tin Man’s too because my ex-boyfriend, Jez, also kicked some serious Wizard of Oz butt.
Molly catches my eye and waves. I wave back in a cheesy fangirl way, because she’s the best actor and singer in our school. Also, this year’s Drama Captain, aka my Queen. I can’t believe this is her last performance at Murwillumbah High.
Lilah and I ride the audience wave toward the lobby.
“Let’s wait by the dressing room,” I say, yanking her through the throng. She thinks this is me being excited, which I totally am, but right now, I need her to keep me upright.
I’ve been wobbly ever since I woke up this morning. Tired too. Unreasonably so. Then the double vision kicked in at lunch time. It’s not my period, nor a cold, as much as I wish it were.
“But they’ll think we want to crash their cast party,” says Lilah, trying to hold me back.
“So? Don’t you want to crash their cast party? I want to crash their cast party.” Then I have an excellent thought. “I bet Freddie will be there! He’s never missed a party.” I kiss the back of my hand as if I am Lilah and my hand is Freddie.
“Oh, stop!” she says, but she’s laughing. She’s been in love with Freddie Sinclair since we started at Murwillumbah High. Not a bad choice, either. Freddie has Thor’s proportions. Also, he appreciates the dramatic arts. You can’t say that for every player in the Rugby Firsts.
Now that I’ve offered up Freddie, Lilah lets me drag her toward the dressing room door. When Jez opens it, I wrestle him in a bear hug.
“You were so great, Jezzie!”
“Thanks, Vinnie.” His grin reveals the big gap between his two front teeth. He pushes back his blond hair, streaked silver from colored hair spray.
“Are you guys coming to Lu’s?” he asks.
“Lilah?” I make prayer hands under my chin.
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s pleased. I would have been happy to gate-crash, but she’s the kind of person who likes things in writing. Gold embossed, preferably.
“I thought you’d never ask.” I hand him my phone. “Type the address in Google Maps for me? Thanks!”
I text my other best friend, Roo, on our way to Lu’s via Lilah’s place. I know what he’ll say, but I’m going to try anyway.
Party at Lu’s. Promise me you’ll be there and I’ll buy you waffles tomorrow morning. Plus whipped cream. Plus iced coffee! 26 Ostrich Avenue. Mwah.
His reply pings immediately.
No.
I reply,
Waffles?
Then …
Your commitment to parties is pathological, Vinnie Smith. Besides, I have this interesting thing happening right now called W-O-R-K.
I grin, imagining Roo in Brad Whitelaw’s photo lab, placing undeveloped negatives in a solution bath. His lopsided smile as images emerge. I’m glad he’s found his calling because school wasn’t his bag.
I send him a kissy face, which I know will make him want to throw his phone out the window.
He also hates parties. He thinks they’re second only to torture. I tell him he’s being offensive to torture victims and that he’s probably just an introvert, stop being so dramatic.
He says, Who’s being dramatic, exactly?
And I punch him in the arm. Kindly. A gentle, friendly punch. Because that’s how we roll, Roo and I.
Daniel Pavlović isn’t being nice. But because he’s my boss, I have to be polite.
“Scrub harder, Roo Bean,” he says, in his thick accent. He lights a cigarette and leans against the garage door.
I hate how he calls me that: Roo Bean. It’s Rueben. Or Roo will do. I really don’t care. Just don’t call me Roo Bean.
I dip the window squeegee in the dirty water, let it drip, then smack it on the windshield of Pavlović’s Prius.
“Careful!” he says. “You know how much this car costs, huh? You want me to dock the scratches you make from your pay?”
Yeah, funny, Pavlović. Of course I don’t want that. You know that. I know that.
I tenderly caress Pavlović’s precious Prius windshield with the squeegee, then wipe the excess liquid from the rubber with my sleeve.
Pavlović groans and presses his ciggy butt into the ground with his boot.
“Now your sleeve is wet. What are my customers going to think about being driven around by a kid in a wet shirt, huh?”
“Customers?” I say.
“Yeah, dumbo, customers. You know, the ones who pay to sit in the back of a taxi and be driven around Murwillumbah? Those ones.”
I’m quiet. Chew my cud.
“I can’t,” I say eventually.
“What do you mean, can’t?”
“I can’t drive.”
“I’ve seen you drive. You drive fine.”
“I mean, I can’t. As in, I can’t be seen driving your car.”
Now he’s quiet. He frowns, his graying brow so low his eyes are buried.
“You kidding me right now? Are you actually kidding me?” He’s a small guy, but his anger makes him bigger.
“Not really.” I almost call him sir, but that is one step too far. Even for me.
“So what? You embarrassed or something? Embarrassed to drive a Prius? You want something a little more fancy, huh? A Lamborghini?”
I shake my head.
“So, not embarrassed? Then good. Tonight, you’re my new driver. Mullins is chucking a sickie.”
Pavlović doesn’t get that I can’t drive his car because someone will see me. And someone will tell Mum, for sure. This town isn’t that big.
But he has me by the short and curlies—all ten thousand of them. Not that I’ve ever counted.
I put away the bucket and squeegee. When I return, Pavlović is waiting in the passenger seat.
“Oh. You want me to drive now?” I say.
“Sure. We do a block. I want to see your ability. Your cheery nature. Make sure you uphold the Pavlović brand. Roll up your sleeve.”
“Huh?”
“Roll it up. Your sleeve. So the customers don’t see the wet patch.”
I hold my sigh and do as he says. Short and curlies and all that. My wrist is skinny like a kid’s.
“Okay, okay. Now, give me a smile.”
Inside my head, my eyes are rolling. On the outside, they’re demonstrating a cheery attitude.
“Teeth,” he says. “Show your teeth. Be genuine. Yeah, that’s better.”
Oh, man.
I put the stick into reverse and check my mirrors. I drive Pavlović down Pavlova Hill. It isn’t really called that. But his house is all creamy and frouffy. A couple of years ago, he was a cleaner at our school. Now look at him. A house made of meringue and a fleet of cars. Nothing suspicious about it.
At the end of the drive, I go to do a U-turn, but he shakes his head at me.
“That was not a proper test drive. We go farther.”
I turn into Urliup Road and head into the countryside.
“Okay. You drive fine. Smile more, though. Ask about my night.”
“How’s your night?” I say, my tone flat.
He grins. Slaps the dash. “My night is good! And yours?”
I return the cheesy grin. “Really great! Thanks!”
I hope he doesn’t hear my sarcasm.
As much as I don’t want to drive Pavlović’s customers tonight, I don’t really have a choice. Because at the end of the shift, he’ll pay me a wad of cash, which I’ll give to Mum. Her shoulders will relax and she’ll feel less like covering that shift for Vicky or Rah or whoever. Instead, she might actually put her feet up and give her effed-up back a rest.
If I don’t play the Pavlović game, Mum will go back to feeling the bite, the one that makes you take every bit of work you can because you don’t want them to chuck you and your kid out of the only apartment in town you can still afford.
Lilah and I are going to Lu’s party Reputation-meets-Lover style. I’m dressed in a plaid crop top with hot pants and Dad’s work boots. Lilah wears a cute baby-pink sports coat with metallic shorts and heels she ordered online from ASOS. I give her hair a fluff, then bunch it on top of her head in a high pony. When we examine ourselves in her mum’s full-length mirror, I think we look pretty darn smoking.
“You sure you’re okay, Vin?” Lilah asks my reflection. “You look kind of tired.”
“Gee, thanks!” I stretch the skin under my eyes. Pat my cheeks.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it badly. I’m just worried.”
“I’m seriously fine. Couldn’t be finer.” I widen my eyes and shoot her some classic Vinnie sparkle.
But she’s right. I do look exh austed. She can’t see inside my head, thankfully, so can’t tell that the floor’s swirling and the mirror swims.
“What do you reckon Freddie will be wearing?” I ask, applying yet another layer of lip gloss. “My bets are on his usual: sleeveless tee. You have arms like that, you show them off.”
Her cheeks flare at the mention of Freddie’s arms.
“Come on, girls! I want to get back for the end of the game. The Wallabies are finally up on the scoreboard,” one of Lilah’s mums, Kathomi, yells from the front door.
When we arrive at Lu’s place, Lilah and I saunter arm-in-arm down the long driveway, which is lined with weeping birch. Lu’s place looks like it should be hosting a Gatsby event, not a Wizard event.
“I had no idea Lu’s family is loaded,” says Lilah. “Lu’s so understated.”
“Humble,” I agree. “And in love with Kmart sweatpants. They could wear pure designer if they wanted. Life’s unfair.”
“Should we steal a statue on our way out? For your dad’s garden?”
“Good plan.” I smile at her under the porch light. “Let’s take the Great Dane. I reckon Dad would appreciate it.”
I pretend to lift the stone Great Dane that guards the front steps. Fat lot of good is a guard dog made of marble. Still, it gives off the overall whiff of money and power, which is the point.
“Vinnie! Lilah! You came!” Molly is first to greet us and embraces us simultaneously. She smells of musk stick, which adds to my overall love for her.
“You were amazing, Molly!” I say.
“Aw, shucks. Coming from you, that means the world. Hey, guess what? You guys are doing Grease next year! I’m so jealous. Ms. Montague told me tonight. Are you going to try out for Sandy?” She looks at me but must feel bad so includes Lilah in the question.
“Vinnie was born to be Sandy.” Lilah hooks her arm through mine. “Look at you, Vin! All Olivia Newton-John in her prime.”
Technically, Lilah has a better voice than me. She started lessons when she was four. Plus, she’s got more natural talent and a wider range. But she prefers supporting roles because she needs to leave plenty of room for her psychology brain—the one she’s fine-tuning to help teenagers manifest their futures.
“I’ll try out, for sure,” I say.
“And Drama Captain, huh?” Molly looks first at me, then Lilah, knowingly.
I laugh. “Not yet! Announcements aren’t until Tuesday.”
“Totally. But Drama Captain!” She squeals and claps her hands. “I have had literally the best year. Like, what can I say? You’re going to love it!”
I glance at Lilah, who squeezes my arm. I try swallowing my excitement. I have been fantasizing about being Drama Captain ever since I played Matilda in Year Seven. I redirect my enthusiasm toward Molly, as this is her night, not mine. Also, I don’t want to put the cart before the horse, as Dad likes to say when he’s feeling old-fashioned.
“Oh, Mol, I don’t want you to leave!” I say. “I am going to miss you soooo much next year. When is your drama school audition anyway? What monologue are you doing?”
The twinkle in Molly’s eye fades.
“Ah, I’ve applied for Melbourne University,” she says.
“They do drama there? Or are you going to the Conservatorium?” The Melbourne Conservatorium of Music has a good reputation. Molly could totally focus on voice instead of drama. I’d respect that.
“Neither.”
Dua Lipa music pumps so hard that I barely hear Molly. It’s making me disoriented. If I am not mistaken, the floor is in the process of rising up to punch me in the nose.
“What?” I lean closer, gripping Lilah’s arm tighter.
“I’m applying for medicine,” Molly yells through cupped hands.
Lilah, too, looks shocked.
Medicine? But Molly’s amazing. At acting. At singing. Neither of those things are required to study medicine.
Molly shrugs. “I always wanted to be a pediatrician. Pretty sure I’m going to get the grades I need to get into Melbourne.”
I fix my disappointed face. “That’s great, Molly.” I hug her to show I believe my words. “You’ll make a great pediatrician.”
Molly’s ripped away by her girlfriend, Jayde, while a conga line weaves between Lilah and me.
I’d like to say I’m enjoying the festivities, but my vision is in the process of splitting in two. There are two Mollys. Two Jaydes. Way too many of everyone else. I squeeze my eyes, urging my head to get its freaky self together. This is neither the time nor the place.
It takes me a moment to register that Freddie Sinclair is asking me something.
“Sorry?” I murmur. “You’re looking for Lilah?”
Where is she? I need to find her too.
“You okay, Vinnie? You’re looking out of it.”
I squeeze past his giant shoulders and make my way through the throng. Not out of it. Fully with it. Need air.
I spot Lilah talking to Tiger Someone from Year Ten.
“There you are!” I clutch her arm and drag her away from the Dua Lipa fest, into the fresh night.
I get a pang of satisfaction at the lack of power Pavlović’s Prius has getting up his steep driveway. He’s so proud of this car. He keeps opening up the screen on the dashboard, which shows how much battery is being used and how much money he’s saving on gas. Fact is, his Prius is a wuss. Judging from his scrunched-up face, Pavlović is lamenting.
“Remember,” he says, getting out of the car, “take all the calls. Be polite. Chatty. More chatty than you were just now. Ask about weekend plans. That kind of thing. Don’t do that weird frown face you have going on. Give my customers a bit of cheer. And take off that damn cap.” He rips it off my head and flings it on the passenger seat. My glasses dislodge in the process. He slaps the roof, and I give him the cheesiest grin I can muster.
“That’s it, Roo Bean. Better.”
As he swaggers up the steps, the automatic lighting pings on and, for a moment, I marvel at his strange beauty, perfectly framed by a black background. His jeans slung around his hips. His gray hair patchy and thin. Could be a Gregory Crewdson photo.
Framed like this, he’s so small. Vulnerable. A kind guy, even. A character you feel sorry for and want good things to happen to.
His front door slams and I get my first ping of the night. Let’s hope they have no idea who I am.
Lorraine. I don’t know a Lorraine. That’s promising. Even so, I put my cap back on and pull it low before pulling up in front of Myrtle’s Laundry. Pavlović won’t like this look—doesn’t fit his brand. But hey, what Pavlović doesn’t know won’t kill him.
Mum, on the other hand, might kill me if she sees me driving this car. As far as she’s concerned, I’m busy studying Photography at vocational college. The only reason I was allowed to drop out of school was because she believed I had a chance to be some kind of hotshot photographer or something.
Myrtle’s isn’t a laundry, but probably was at some point. Now, it’s an award-winning restaurant. Murwillumbah doesn’t have a ton of fancy restaurants. There’s this and there’s a fancy-schmancy rustic thing set up in someone’s shed just out of town. Claremont, I think it’s called.
You’d barely know Myrtle’s was a restaurant. It looks like a shop with a few tables inside. Everything’s white, steel, and glass—more like a clinic where they cut up dead people.
I peer through the passenger window, looking for so-called “Lorraine.”
Oh crap. Lorraine is Ms. Parker, my ex-principal. I should pull away. But pulling away is losing my job.
Instead, I yank my cap lower as she opens the back door of the Prius.
She’s tall, for a lady. Nearly as tall as me. At school, she wears linen suits and a dozen rings on each finger. Here, out in front of Myrtle’s, she’s in a frilly dress. Looks like an oversized cupcake. Teeters on skinny heels, which make her tower over the guy she’s with.
“Good, you’re here.” She slides in, not noticing it’s me. Laughs her head off as she gets caught on the seat belt buckle on her way past.
“Shove over, Lorraine.” Her date is jovial. He could be a footballer or a wrecking ball. Broad-shouldered. Thick-necked.
You don’t often think about your teachers’ private lives, let alone your principal’s. Watching these two in my rearview mirror, I understand why.
