‘Only six of you? The elite! Seekers of celestial knowledge!’
He read our names off the roll. Bec, Iris, Mackenzie and me, Olivia Baxter and Emily Tan, also nerds, needless to say. Mackenzie Woodrow stuck out in this company like a lioness among a pack of alley cats. Or a shark in a school of goldfish. Even Glenn gave her a funny look. ‘You do realise this trek is about astronomy, not astrology?’ he said. ‘Strictly no discussion of star signs or any of that nonsense.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I’m a Virgo. We’re very sceptical about that kind of thing.’
Glenn barked a laugh; another instant member of the Mackenzie Woodrow Fan Club. ‘Let’s go.’
At first Bec and Iris and I walked together, but then the path narrowed – and got a lot steeper – and we slipped into single file. We soon ran out of breath for conversation.
I didn’t have to worry about Mackenzie talking to me; she strode off in the lead with Glenn, chatting away and making him laugh, while the rest of us, the unsporty, unfit, nerdy ones, puffed and panted and struggled up the trail behind them. I didn’t lift my eyes from my hiking boots (specially purchased for camp) for what seemed like hours, except when we paused to squeeze water down our throats and catch our breath.
The trail wound along Breakneck Ridge, and when we stopped, the slender gums stretched up all around us. A bellbird’s call chimed through the bush; the clean scent of eucalyptus rose around us in the afternoon warmth. It was lovely. It would have been even lovelier if Olivia Baxter had shut up about her blisters.
Slowly, slowly, we trudged up that mountain. We’d been bushwalking, but nothing so steep, or so far. The shadows were long and the sun slanted orange through the trees when Glenn, who’d got a fair way ahead of the rest of us (with Mackenzie), yelled out, ‘Coooo-eee! We’re here!’
We emerged from the trees onto a plateau near the top of the mountain. The view was amazing. The whole plain was laid out at our feet: the brown winding ribbon of the river, teeny black dots of cows on yellow paddocks, the distant blue of the mountains gently receding to our left. We clutched our knees and gasped, ‘Oh – wow,’ and other lame exclamations of wonder.
‘Looks like we’ll have a clear night,’ said Glenn. ‘Not a cloud in the sky.’
He lit a fire and we cooked dehydrated stew out of foil packets for dinner. Mackenzie made jokes with Glenn about how it was impossible to tell what kind of animal we were eating.
‘What a flirt,’ muttered Iris.
I didn’t say anything.
As we were wolfing down our chocolate bikkies for dessert, the sun set, and the darkness crept across the landscape below. First the sky was blue, then it went pale, almost white, and pink and yellow bands of colour glowed on the horizon; then slowly dark velvety blue washed through it, and suddenly it was night, and the flames of the campfire gave all our faces an orange glow. We toasted marshmallows, and Glenn made billy tea, which tasted rank.
Then Iris said, ‘For Pete’s sake, stop whinging about the tea, and just look at the sky!’
So we looked up. And right across the sky, so thick we could hardly see a space between them, were the stars. I’d never seen the stars like that in the city, so huge, and bright, and shining white. It was easy to believe they were distant suns. And there were so many. It was awesome – literally, awe-inspiring. If I were religious, it would have made me think about God; it made Iris think about the inevitability of aliens being out there somewhere.
Glenn let the fire die down. He passed round the telescope and told us where to look for Venus, and Sirius, and the double star of Antares, and the craters on the moon. Then he told us about nebulas, and dwarf stars, and black holes, and the Big Bang, and he and Iris had an argument about parallel universes. To be honest, I didn’t care about the possibility of a parallel universe. All I wanted to do was to stare up at the stars.
Mackenzie’s voice was quiet in my ear. ‘Too much talk. Let’s go.’ She slipped into the shadows. I didn’t even stop to think; I just followed her. It was pitch black, and away from the fire I couldn’t see a thing. I tripped over a log and banged my ankle. ‘Ow!’
Mackenzie giggled and out of the dark she grabbed my hand. ‘Come on.’
We stumbled along the path in the blackness until the fire and the flickering shadows vanished and we couldn’t hear the voices of the others. ‘That’s better,’ said Mackenzie, and she pulled at my hand till I sat down.
‘I swore a solemn oath never to hold hands with you,’ I said.
‘But I didn’t swear never to hold hands with you.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right then.’
We both lay back so we were staring straight up into the sky.
‘I feel dizzy,’ I said after a minute. ‘I think I’m going to fall in.’
‘Well, we would, if it wasn’t for gravity,’ said Mackenzie.
‘Doesn’t it make you feel small – we’re just tiny ant-like creatures, clinging to a little planet, spinning in space. Just specks on a paltry pebble. And if there wasn’t any gravity, we’d fly off into all that space . . .’
‘Mackenzie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Shut up.’
She laughed, and shut up. And we lay there in the silence and the vastness of the universe, looking up – or down – at those slowly wheeling stars, still holding hands. And the weird thing is that it didn’t feel strange. I didn’t want to let go; the feeling of being about to fly off, to fall into space, was so strong, I needed some kind of anchor to the earth. Maybe Mackenzie felt the same, because she didn’t let go either.
After a long time, Mackenzie whispered, ‘You can almost hear them singing.’
‘What would stars sing?’ I whispered back.
‘Radiohead,’ said Mackenzie in the same dreamy voice, and we giggled.
Then I did something I never, never do, not in front of other people. Maybe because it was so dark, and I couldn’t see her face, or because the magic of those stars was so strong, I began to sing. I sang a Radiohead song, and then I sang an old hymn we sing sometimes in assembly at school. I think I got some of the words wrong, but it sounded right somehow, singing in the dark, with all the stars flung out above our heads, in the middle of the bush.
And then I said:
‘The stars fall,
silent as the snow,
and we fill our hands
with drifting blossom.’
Mackenzie was silent for a while, then she whispered, ‘Is that a song?’
‘No, I – I wrote it. I write poetry, sometimes.’
I’d never admitted that to anyone before. In the cool dark my face felt like fire.
‘Jessica Martinic,’ Mackenzie said softly. ‘That was beautiful.’
And I knew she wasn’t going to laugh at me. Slowly my face cooled, and then we lay watching the stars for a long, long time without saying anything. And happiness – no, it was a feeling of absolute joy – swelled up inside my chest like a balloon, and I could feel myself smiling in the dark, for no reason at all. For once, I wasn’t worried about anything; I just knew everything was going to be fine. Better than fine: spectacular, marvellous, fabulous! The world was perfect and, at the same time, overflowing with possibility, and I felt I could hold it all in my cupped hands and drink – drink in the stars and fill up with light.
april
‘Maybe we knew each other in a previous life,’ said Mackenzie.
‘Maybe we were sisters. Maybe twins.’
‘Hm.’ Mackenzie sounded doubtful. ‘I can say whatever I want to you, and I know you’ll understand exactly what I mean. That’s never happened with anyone. Certainly not my sister . . .’
‘It hasn’t happened with me either.’ I laughed into the phone.
‘Are you thinking about Bec?’
‘Yes. How did you know? She never gets what I’m talking about. That’s amazing, how did you know I was thinking about her?’
‘I noticed at camp. She seems t
o be the queen of the wilful misunderstanding.’
I laughed again. ‘That’s so true. I love her though.’
‘Of course,’ said Mackenzie.
I didn’t feel qualified to analyse Mackenzie’s friendships. Anyway, I didn’t want to talk about Phillipa or Frances or Rosie Lee. I said, ‘Do you think it’s going to be hard?’
‘When school starts?’
We were both quiet.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mackenzie. ‘What do you think?’ ‘We’ll manage,’ I said. How hard could it be? We’d spoken on the phone nearly every day of the holidays; Mackenzie had come round to my place twice in a week. Sure, we weren’t ‘out’ as friends; we hadn’t hung out in any of the places where Mackenzie’s gang (or mine) would be likely to see us, but I had no desire to go to those places anyway. It was more fun to have Mackenzie come and take over our kitchen.
Already it was funny to think there was a time when I wasn’t friends with Mackenzie. I sat up and shoved my feet into my thongs. ‘I’d better go, dinner’s nearly ready.’
‘Wow, you eat early.’
‘What time do you have dinner?’
‘I dunno, eight, eight-thirty. Depends on Dad. I don’t know why we bother though. He’s hardly ever here for dinner no matter how long we wait.’
‘He must work hard.’
‘Yeah, he’s trying to get into politics. Lots of meetings.’
Mackenzie exaggerated a yawn.
‘Oh. Right.’ Politics was one subject I didn’t want to discuss with Mackenzie; I had a feeling we might be on different sides, and I wasn’t ready to tackle that just yet.
‘Enemies forever,’ she said, as if she’d read my mind.
‘Enemies forever.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, let you know how yoga went.’
‘Okay, bye.’
I hung up and wandered into the kitchen.
‘Mackenzie again?’ asked Mum.
‘Mm.’
‘It must be nice, having a new friend.’
‘Mm.’ It was true, I hadn’t made any new friends – proper friends – since Bec and Iris and Georgia and I got together in Year 7. ‘Do you want me to make the salad dressing?’
‘Ooh, yes, thanks, darling.’
‘Mackenzie says lemon juice is better than vinegar.’
‘Does she? Okay, try that if you like.’
‘What’s that face for?’
Mum laughed. ‘Sorry, I was just remembering . . . When I was your age I had such a crush on the girl across the street. She was so sophisticated. She was nineteen, her hair was so long she could sit on it, and she wore platform shoes. I wanted to be her. Deborah Wallace, her name was. I nearly called you Deborah, you know.’
‘I haven’t got a crush on Mackenzie Woodrow.’
‘I didn’t say you did.’
‘Good.’
In fact I had been considering getting my hair cut – not exactly the same as hers, but slightly similar. But after Mum said that, I thought I’d better not. Not that Mackenzie would care, but other people might think I was copying her. Anyway, my hair’s too curly.
The next morning, a letter arrived. A real letter, in a real envelope, in our real mailbox. Everyone’s excited by a real letter, right? It’s such a rarity. Even if it’s only a card from Nana, there’s still a frisson when I see my name on a real envelope. (Love that word, frisson. It’s French, for shiver.)
I took it to my room. I didn’t need to look at the bottom of the page to know who it was from.
To Jem
A season of stars
A green-eyed girl
The laughter of a river
The promise that things will be different now
Hope multiplying like stars,
Born in infinite emptiness,
Filling with light
Knowing you fills me with light
Ever expanding
Like the edge of the universe
One day, there will be only
Light
Yours, always
Mackenzie
I reread the poem a couple of times – okay, a couple of hundred times. Part of me was flattered, blown away; I nearly cried when I first read it, to tell the truth. I guessed I was supposed to be the green-eyed girl. And it was beautiful, a season of stars and everything.
But then . . . it was so extravagant, so emotional. Knowing you fills me with light? That was a huge thing to say to someone you didn’t know very well.
Because in spite of what she said about feeling as if we’d known each other forever (and it’s true, I felt like that too), I didn’t actually know her well enough to be sure I could trust what she was saying. I kept hearing Bec and Iris in my head: She’s just using you. Was Mackenzie messing with me? I was torn between feeling moved by what she’d written, wanting to believe it, and not wanting to get sucked in if she didn’t mean it.
And then there was the way she’d signed off. What was that comma doing between yours and always? Was that a mistake, or did it mean something? And if it meant something, what exactly did it mean?
I was still brooding about it when Bec rang and invited me over. For about a tenth of a millisecond I considered showing her the poem. But of course I didn’t.
Bec’s brother Richard was there. I hadn’t actually met him before. He was a couple of years older than us. This was the brother who’d just come back from India. He’d finished school really young, but his parents thought he wasn’t ready for uni so they’d sent him overseas for a year. We sat around chatting for a while, about India. He said it was full on, the smells, the noise, the poverty, but really beautiful too.
‘You were brave to go on your own,’ I said, and he and Bec yelped with laughter.
‘On my own! I wish! I had an uncle or an aunty or a cousin fifteen times removed with me every second!’
‘Oh, right, of course.’ I felt like a complete idiot.
‘I’m sick of hearing about India,’ announced Bec. ‘Let’s go to a movie.’
‘Flying the Kite’s supposed to be good,’ I volunteered.
‘Okay, whatever, I just want to go out. The best thing about having a brother old enough to drive is that he can take us places. Come on, Richard.’
‘She’s much nicer to me since I got my licence, in fact.’ Richard grinned at me.
I expected Richard to drop us off at the cinema, but he came to the movie, too. I didn’t tell Bec, of course, but I’d picked the film because Mackenzie had raved about it, and I loved it, though at times I did have trouble concentrating. Phrases from Mackenzie’s poem echoed in my head. How should I respond? Mackenzie had said she was going to ring tonight. I couldn’t ignore it. What should I say? Should I write her a poem back? God, I couldn’t do that . . .
‘Hello? Earth to Jem, are you receiving?’ Bec waved a hand in front of my face. The credits were over. ‘Do you want a juice or something? Or do you have to go straight home?’
Richard bought pancakes and hot chocolates and we talked about his course at uni, and his new part-time job with an aid agency. ‘It doesn’t pay much, in fact, but I think I’ll learn a lot.’ He had to maintain their website and put together their e-newsletter. It sounded interesting, but I was a bit distracted.
After the pancakes Richard drove me home. He parked in our driveway and I scooted out of the back seat. Richard wound down his window. ‘We should do this again, yeah?
Plenty of holidays left before you guys go back, aren’t there? What if I pick you up on Tuesday afternoon?’
‘Yeah, okay, that’d be good.’ I waved. ‘See ya, Bec.’
‘See ya!’ she yelled from the front seat.
Mackenzie rang at seven-thirty on the dot. I wondered as I answered the phone if she’d organised to ring and tell me about yoga as an excuse; she knew I’d get the poem today.
‘I got the poem,’ I said immediately.
‘Did you?’ For the first time ever, Mackenzie sounded shy.
‘It’s beautiful.’ br />
‘Really?’
We both fell silent; I couldn’t think what else to say.
‘So how was yoga?’
‘Oh, you know. Serene.’
We both laughed, and everything was okay.
‘I thought of the perfect job for you,’ said Mackenzie.
‘What?’
‘Editor,’ said Mackenzie triumphantly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Ye-eah? What does an editor do?’
‘Reads, of course. And corrects people’s mistakes.’
‘Perfect.’
‘It is perfect. It uses all your strengths. Don’t you think?’
‘Mm, maybe.’
‘You should try and get on the magazine committee next year, for practice.’
‘Let me think about it.’
‘Am I being bossy? I am, aren’t I.’
‘No, you’re not. If you were, I’d say.’
‘Would you? Jem, will you promise me always to tell me if I do something to upset you? Don’t let it . . . fester.’
‘Yeah, I’ll tell you, I promise.’ And I laughed: as if Mackenzie could ever upset me. Ye gods, as Peter Wimsey would say.
On Tuesday, Richard came to pick me up just after lunch. I heard him chatting to Mum while I was in the bathroom, and when I came out she said, ‘He’s waiting in the car.’
‘Okay.’ I kissed her goodbye.
‘Jem? Here’s twenty dollars. Just in case.’
‘Thanks – I should have enough, though.’
‘Just in case,’ she repeated, and I thought she gave me a strange look, but I didn’t realise why until I got in the car.
‘Hi, Jem.’
‘Hi . . . Where’s Bec?’
‘Bec wasn’t invited.’
‘Oh!’ It took me a minute to process this. ‘But – I thought we were all—’
Richard took his hand off the ignition. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
‘No,’ I said after a second. ‘I mean, I’m not changing it. I just didn’t realise . . .’ I felt weird even saying it, in case I still hadn’t understood. Had he really asked me on – a date? My first date, and I was too socially inept to realise I’d been asked?
‘Good,’ said Richard, and started the car.