Sad Girls

“Hi, gorgeous,” said Freddy, sneaking up behind Lucy and planting a kiss on her cheek.

  “Gross, you’re all sweaty,” she said pushing his face away.

  “Hey,” said Duck.

  “Hi,” Lucy and I said in unison.

  “Are you two going to join us?” asked Freddy, picking up Lucy’s beer and taking a swig.

  “Maybe later,” said Lucy. “We’re going to have dinner.”

  “Okay. I’m kicking Duck’s butt. Three strikes in a row.” He made a bowling motion for emphasis.

  “You’re amazing, babe,” said Lucy dryly. He grinned at her proudly, pounding his chest, Tarzan style. He took another swig of Lucy’s beer before turning to Duck.

  “Ready for round two?”

  “God, he’s so embarrassing,” groaned Lucy. “I can’t take him anywhere.”

  “He’s got a sweet side to him, though,” I said. “Like the other day when you stepped in dog poo and he spent the afternoon scrubbing your sneaker in the courtyard.”

  “That was really nice of him,” she agreed.

  “Anyway, the two of you are disgustingly cute.”

  “I know. We even make ourselves sick sometimes.”

  I laughed.

  “I’ll have the puttanesca.” Lucy shut her menu and put it down on the table.

  “Pepperoni pizza for me.”

  “Are you going to have some wine?”

  I shook my head. “No, I want to stay off the alcohol tonight.”

  “You’re such a nerd.”

  “Says the girl in the T-shirt with a math pun on it.”

  Lucy grinned.

  We heard a shout of glee and turned our heads to see that Freddy had just scored another strike. He gave us the thumbs-up sign as Duck grinned at us and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Duck looks happy,” said Lucy.

  “He is. Things have been really great between us.” Duck’s mood had improved dramatically once Rad was out of the picture. For him, it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t that simple for me, but that was something I kept to myself.

  “Well, he deserves it; he’s a great guy.”

  “I know. I’m lucky to have him.”

  Later, the boys joined us at our table, and Freddy helped himself to some of my pizza.

  “Did Audrey tell you? She got her first feature story.”

  “No kidding?” Duck said. He put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. “Way to go!”

  “Congrats, Audrey,” said Freddy. “We should celebrate!” He flagged the waiter down for a new round of drinks.

  “I’m not drinking tonight.”

  “Why not?” Freddy asked.

  “She wants to stay sharp,” said Lucy, her eyes brimming with laughter.

  “So who’s the feature on?” asked Duck.

  “Some up-and-coming writer. I have to interview him about his new book on Monday.”

  “Well, you have the entire weekend ahead of you,” said Freddy. “A drink’s not going to kill you.”

  “I suppose not,” I said, caving in. “Maybe just one, then.”

  Later that night, I found myself lying wide awake in bed. Duck was fast asleep. I always envied how he could do that. Sleep was like clockwork for him.

  I crept out of bed and went in search of my brown leather satchel. I found it lying on the kitchen table, reached into the front pocket, and pulled out the copy of A Snowflake in a Snowfield. I made a cup of tea and settled myself on the loveseat with the book on my lap.

  It was a chilly night, and I drew my favorite woolen throw up to my chin and curled my legs under my body. I breathed a sigh of contentment and reached for my tea. After taking a sip, I flicked open the book and turned to the first page.

  An unnerving feeling settled over me as I began reading. It grew in intensity as I progressed further. The book was set in 1920s Wisconsin, a story about a woodcutter’s daughter that read almost like a fairy tale. There was a dark undercurrent of abuse and neglect I found deeply disturbing. In the closing scene, Emily, the protagonist, trudges across the snow toward her favorite ironwood tree, a length of rope clutched tightly in her hands. In the last few moments of her life, Emily’s thoughts play out on the final page in a series of flashbacks that felt strangely familiar to me.

  I snapped the book shut and realized my hands were shaking. I got up to get myself a glass of water. I barely made it to the kitchen sink when my legs gave out under me and I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. For the first time in a while, I reached for my rubber band, but I didn’t have it on. I pinched as hard as I could at the skin above my thighs. The pain was excruciating and I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out. Tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.

  After a few agonizing moments, the tension in my body began to ease and I clutched my knees tightly to my chest, rocking back and forth.

  I had no idea why the book had been so triggering. Somehow, it was written in a way that mirrored many of the feelings I had kept buried since Ana’s death—the sorrow, the regret, the overwhelming guilt. It was as though this writer had understood me in the most intimate way.

  Taking a deep breath, I picked myself up and walked to the kitchen table. I withdrew my laptop from my satchel and flipped up the screen. With trembling fingers, I typed “Colorado Clark” in the search box. It was such an unusual name that I had no trouble finding a photo of the author. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as image after image flooded the screen. Colorado was the boy I had met the night of Ana’s funeral who was still on my mind all these months later. “Rad,” I whispered.

  Fourteen

  I arrived at the café where April had arranged for me to meet Rad. I found a corner booth and sat down, staring out the rain-splattered window where intricate letters spelled out the words “Callisto” in reverse. Every so often, drops would burst onto the glass like newly formed stars on a flat, translucent galaxy.

  I checked the time on my phone. He was ten minutes late. I drummed my fingers nervously on the table. It felt like a lifetime since we last spoke. A teenage girl with frizzy brown hair walked by with a handful of dirty plates. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said before disappearing behind the counter. She came back a few minutes later with a menu. “Give me a holler when you’re ready.”

  “Sure, I’m just waiting for someone.” Just as the words left my mouth, I saw Rad outside the window, pulling up his coat collar against the rain. Moments later, he was through the door. His eyes scanned the café as I stood up.

  “Hi, Rad,” I said, as he strode toward me.

  “Audrey?” he said with a jolt of recognition. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m with See! Sydney. I’m here to interview you,” I explained.

  He broke into a grin and shook his head in amazement. “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “But you’re barely out of school. How did you become a journalist so quickly?”

  I shrugged. “You know, slept my way up.”

  He laughed. “God, what a strange coincidence.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said. “Congratulations on your book, by the way. I had no idea your name was Colorado.”

  He grimaced. “Mum is the only person who calls me Colorado. To everyone else, I’m just Rad.”

  “You know, I had this poster of Colorado stuck on my wall when I was a kid. Come to think of it, that’s probably what started my fixation with snowcapped mountains in the first place.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that weird? It’s like something out of a novel.”

  “Well, that supports my theory—you know the one about us being characters in a book.”

  “I can’t argue with you there.”

  The waitress walked by our
booth and threw us a look. “Do you want a menu?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Rad said.

  Rad slid into the booth opposite me, and the waitress came back with a menu. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Rad took off his dark blue coat and put it on the bench beside him. His hair was wet from the rain, and he reached up and ruffled it with his fingers.

  “Nice day, huh?”

  “Not so much,” I said, a small smile crossing my lips.

  “Parking was a nightmare! How did you manage?”

  “I caught the bus.”

  “Really? In this weather?”

  “I’ve been meaning to go for my driver’s license, but things have been so hectic over the last few months.”

  He nodded. “I can imagine.”

  “So, I have to ask. How did you wind up with a name like Colorado? There must be a story there.”

  “Well, my mum was obsessed with the book On the Road—do you know it?”

  “Yeah, by Kerouac.”

  “That’s the one. She was saving up for a big road trip across America, but then she met Dad. Soon after, she was pregnant with me.”

  “So she never went?”

  “No, though she still talks about it sometimes. She had this affinity with Colorado. It used to be a running joke with Dad—the closest she ever got to Colorado was me.”

  I smirked. “Very funny.”

  “My dad used to think so, but he was probably the only one.”

  “So are you still living at home?”

  “No, I moved out a few months back. I just needed a change of scenery. I couldn’t walk down the street incognito. Everyone I bumped into would give me that look. You know, that ‘There’s the guy with the dead girlfriend’ look.”

  I nodded.

  “So I got a job stacking shelves at the supermarket and signed a lease for a shoebox apartment in Paddington.”

  “Oh, that’s not too far from me.”

  “You moved out too?”

  “Kind of. I’m house-sitting with Lucy at her uncle’s place. We’re in Surry Hills.”

  “Really? Hey, that’s great! How’s Lucy?”

  “Really good. She’s studying business at Sydney U. Freddy’s there with her—they’re enrolled in the same course.”

  “I have to give Freddy a call. I owe him a beer,” said Rad. “I’ve literally been a hermit while writing this book. It’s time to come out of hibernation, I suppose.”

  “What was that like? Hibernation, I mean. A lot of writers talk about this creative vacuum when they’re busy working on a project, and I’ve always been curious about it.”

  “You kind of lose perspective after a while. At least, it was that way with me. You become insular. I barely left my apartment the whole time I was writing Snowflake. I kept odd hours. I was stacking shelves at night, so I would sleep in during the day. There’s a café downstairs, which was handy. Sometimes, if I felt up to it, I would walk up to Centennial Park, feed the ducks.”

  “It sounds perfect, actually.”

  “Oddly enough, I did enjoy it, but only because I was working on something I cared about. I think I’d go crazy if I was just doing time.”

  “I can’t believe you talked about doing something and actually accomplished it. I mean, not only did you write a book but you also got the Elliott Tate nomination.”

  “It was a nice surprise,” he said, with a shrug. “But the biggest thrill was getting the publishing deal.”

  “How did it happen? Take me through it.”

  “I didn’t have an end goal in mind when I was writing Snowflake. It was something I was compelled to do—I felt like I would go mad if I didn’t. Writing was cathartic for me. Before I knew it, I’d finished the book, and I parked it to one side for a few weeks. Then, one night I was surfing the web, and I came across a competition that Geidt & Ekstrom was running. Do you know who they are?”

  “I’ve heard about them. They’ve only been around a few years, but they’ve published a string of hits.”

  “Yeah, they’ve had a good run.”

  “I wasn’t aware of the competition, though.”

  “I don’t think it got any media attention, probably because it was the first year they ran it.”

  “That makes sense. So how did it work?”

  “They were on the lookout for a novella. The prize was a publishing deal and a decent sum of money. Kind of like an advance.”

  “My editor, Sam, was telling me that novellas are coming back in vogue.”

  “Yeah, there is definitely a trend, which is great. Some of the best classics are novellas.”

  “I know. Animal Farm is one of my favorite books.”

  “Same.”

  “And I’m guessing you won the competition?”

  “I did.”

  “Amazing,” I said, sitting back in my seat and shaking my head. “So what happened next?”

  “I quit my job as soon as the prize money came in. It’s kind of neat that I can focus all my attention on writing now. At least for the next year or so. What about you? How did you get this gig? I know some graduates who are still struggling to get their foot in the door.”

  I told him all about Angie and Sam, my internship, and then my full-time position.

  “Wow, lucky break.”

  “I know. Things are going so well for me at the moment.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks. I’m crossing my fingers for the Elliott Tate Award. I think Snowflake definitely has a good chance of winning.”

  “So I’m guessing you’ve read it?”

  I nodded. “It’s part of my job description. I loved it by the way.”

  “You know, some of our conversations went into Snowflake.”

  “Well, I had no idea you were the author, so you can imagine how freaked out I was when I was reading it.”

  “Sorry.” He looked sheepish. “I actually didn’t think it would ever see the light of day.”

  I waved my hand at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re not going to sue me?”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  The rain outside was slowing down to a patter. We ordered coffee and a basket of fries. The café was now almost empty on account of the bad weather. It was also an odd time of day—too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The dull light from the gray sky lending a quiet ambience to the room, a slow, lazy tempo punctuated by the faraway clatter of plates and cutlery.

  “So I suppose we should start the official interview.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you mind if I record this?”

  “Not at all.”

  I pulled my phone from my bag and placed it on the table between us. Then I tapped the Voice Memos app and sat back in my seat.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about the book? Why did you choose Wisconsin as the setting? Have you ever been there?”

  “No, I haven’t been there. I always imagined a stark backdrop, and I suppose Wisconsin automatically puts you into that landscape. I liked the idea of setting it in winter, the bleakness of it.”

  “I really love the ending. It was poetic. That sense of isolation Emily felt walking into the snowstorm. She thought that everything she had done would be covered over by the snow and her footprints would disappear from the world along with everything that had ever validated her existence. Then—and you wrote this beautifully—we follow the single snowflake as it makes its slow, hypnotic descent down to land on Emily’s cheek and melt into a single teardrop. It felt like at that moment, every snowflake in that field was a teardrop and the whole world was crying for her.”

  “I knew you’d get it. When I finished the book, I wanted to call you. I would have if I hadn’t deleted your number from my phone
.”

  “I would have liked that.”

  “I’m glad we’re here now. It feels important somehow.”

  We were quiet for a few moments.

  “Are you still with Duck?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  I flushed at the obvious disappointment in his voice. There was an awkward pause, so I hurried back to the interview. “You have many powerful scenes in Snowflake. Aside from the ending, I love the scene where Emily finally stands up to her father. I mean, it was heart-wrenching, but at the same time—triumphant.”

  Rad sat back, a small sigh escaping his lips. “When Ana died, it was like a rupture. You know those scenes in the movies where something tears through an airplane and everything gets sucked through the void? Well, that’s what it felt like, only I was the plane, trying to keep my insides from spilling out. I know it sounds weird.”

  My hand, resting under the table, reached for my rubber band. I knew Ana would come up in our conversation. It was inevitable since there was so much of her in the book. I had been steeling myself for this moment, and I gave myself a couple of sharp tweaks.

  “Not at all.” He had just described exactly how it felt for me, the perfect analogy. But, of course, I couldn’t tell him that. Not without revealing my lie. It was something I had pushed so far down that I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Not even Ida.

  “Grief is such a potent thing,” he continued. “That’s what I’ve learned. It’s like a hot iron; you can barely stand to hold it. But you don’t have a choice. The only way you can set it down, even if it’s temporary, is to refocus the energy elsewhere. I’ve only been able to do that through writing.”

  “It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.”

  “That reminds me of a story. A fairy tale, actually. It’s about this king who has three daughters. He was trying to work out whom he should leave his kingdom to, so he rounded them up and asked them to describe their love for him. The first daughter said she loved him like the way she loved her most precious jewels. The second described how much she loved him by referencing her most beautiful dresses. The third likened her love to salt, which pissed off the king because in comparison to fancy dresses and diamonds, salt is kind of underwhelming. So he sent her away. I don’t really remember what happens next, but I think somehow she begins working for a neighboring kingdom, catches the eye of the prince, and, then, as luck would have it, ends up marrying him. One day, she hosts a royal banquet, and her father is the guest of honor. She instructs the cooks not to use any salt in their cooking. So the king is sitting at the dinner table. He doesn’t recognize his own daughter because, well, it’s a fairy tale.”