Ruth Etting woke me at 6am, my back screaming to be bent out of the awkward position I’d left it in. Looking down at my arms, I realised I’d fallen asleep wondering when the photo was taken. They were asleep, the kind of asleep that meant when you tired to move, they didn’t. So I waited, flexing my fingers slowly and wondering where I’d left my phone. Etting crooned from under my pillow, near my toes.
I debated for a short minute, just leaving it there, but sense got to me and I threw myself toward my feet. Bad move; my head hit the floor with a veritable thump, my feet weren’t far behind, though they brought the pillow with them, my phone teetered on the edge of the mattress. Again debating, I decided that a swift kick should have it landing near my nose. So I smacked the mattress, another bad calculation on my part. The phone returned with a resounding slap on my forehead and nose. It had stopped ringing.
Without even attempting to get up, I flexed my fingers and arms until I could feel them again. Then, slowly, I started moving, sitting so that the phone slipped down into my lap. One Missed Call stared out at me, mocking me. Letting my head rest against the bedside table, I closed my eyes and drifted for a little while, ignoring the bright chatter of the lorikeets outside, and the slow orange of the sun. Ten minutes later and I was up and moving; shower first, get dressed, and debate breakfast. It was a system I’d had since before boarding school.
Collecting my things together, I wondered about what the day would be like, hot or cold, bright or cloudy. Glancing out the window, my face scrunching at the nose, hot and cloudy was the verdict. Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and ready for crumpets, making my way down the silent corridor, phone in hand. I hadn’t checked the call yet; it could be anyone from work, to uni, to Peter from the Rojas wondering if I would come down for breakfast. The idea of breakfast at the Rojas won out, and I flipped open the phone; with two clicks I knew the time, caller and statistics of the call.
I got up from the table, breathing quietly against Daryl’s door, in case I could hear his breathing, though that was as stalker-like in my brain as it would have been to anyone else. I couldn’t, anyway, so I slipped into my room and collected my bag together. Two minutes later and I was swearing at Daryl again, stomping back inside and up to his door.
With a sharp rap of my knuckles, which hurt more than I expected it to, I heard stirrings. The door opened not five centimetres, and Dar stared at me, blinking with a blank, pale look. He waited, and I waited, suddenly at a loss as to why I was there, why we were both there not talking. Looking me up and down, he smirked, and started to close the door in my face.
“What?” Perhaps I should have started with something a little less accusatory.
“Nothing. Go away.” My foot was in the door – that hurt a lot more than I’d expected, as well. “What do you want?”
“You parked me in.” I was back to being furiously angry with him and his stupidly smirking face. “So get your arse out of bed and un park it.” He was laughing at me, though he didn’t make a sound, I could see the short rise of his chest and the way that his smirk twisted into a grin. “Fucking insane to be so damned happy this early.” His grin fell back into a smirk.
“Oh, Mella, you have such a beautiful mouth.” His fingers danced over my lips. I think I was stunned by his audacity; otherwise I’d have levelled him. “And you use such befitting language for it.” Fuck oath, I’d have levelled him. As it was, he’d floored me, and he got to turn his back and strip off his shirt in front of me, as if I wasn’t there. He won.
Snarling, I ripped down the hallway, collecting my bag and keys along the way. He was out in twenty minutes, looking like a fresh poppy, as if he’d never roughed it a day in his life. Tongue in check, I waited for him to reverse and park on the street before clicking my belt on and starting up. He watched from the lawn, with a raised eyebrow. Lowering my window, I looked at him. “Ta.”
I could feel his grin half the way down the street, and then some. You'd think I hadn't upset him the night before; the way that smile followed me as I left. The shiver of being watched was gone by the time I pulled up at Rojas.
Peter stood outside, waving at me, and even before I'd turned off my engine he was at my window, talking a mile a minute. It was too early in the morning, and I'd yet to have any food, so I ignored the low hum of his words and collected my bag. Stepping out of the car, he hugged me hard, arms wrapping around my waist. With a pleased grunt, he lifted me up in the air, twirling me around like he always did, and I couldn't help but laugh. He was always such a fool, playing the part of the sparky, bright friend, always cheery. I appreciated it most on days like today, that'd gone wrong from yesterday onwards, and I think he could tell.
Maybe Daryl had been here last night, smoking and drinking until he couldn't walk again, stumbling upstairs. I could see him wandering with a hand planted firmly on the wall, stepping slowly up each step, and collapsing on the creak of bed.
Squeaking as Peter pretended to drop me, my feet touched the ground and I smiled at him. He never failed to make me feel better. With my arm in his, he led me toward the café and a finely mixed milkshake.
“What’s for breaky, Pet?” He laughed lightly and waved his hand to the signs over the counter.
“Dunno, what do you want?” The chocolate syrup and tall glass were already waiting for him, and I slid onto a stool as he reached for the ice-cream. “We’ve everything you’ve ever dreamed of.” I watched his hips wriggle with delight as I laughed. Of course they had anything I’d ever dreamed of, I’d help make the place. Two years of hard work and lots of fun and I was still sitting at the best café around.
“Pancakes! Or maybe a muffin. I’m getting fat.” I stuck my tongue out at him, and he laughed over the crunch of the mixer. “Seriously, though… I’ll have both.” His laugh burst out with a jolt, the glass threatening to slide from his hands.
“Lord, woman, I’m so glad I’m used to you.” The glass clunked down in front of me and the straw slid into the froth.
“Hah. You’re just glad you didn’t drop the glass, how much do those things cost?” His index finger stole some moisture off the side of the glass, and he touched it to his lips with a murmur of approval.
“Too much.” He turned away with a swish of his hips again and strode into the back to arrange my breakfast.
Rojas was a beautiful place; climber vines covered the black latticework, outlining the windows and door with dark leaves. The tall jacaranda pilfered light and dropped lavender flowers on the iron wrought tables outside. In spring, when they began their flowering, the wind lifted those flowers and threw them across the streets; it was as if the sky and ground was dyed purple. Some days I’d stand and try to catch a bloom, without letting one land on me. I always wanted the luck, but none of the superstition.
Mum always said that if a jacaranda flower landed on my head, I'd get bad luck. Of course, if you caught one before it hit the ground, the bad luck would go away, or you'd get better luck. And now, at Rojas, I never knew whether I believed or not. So some days I'd dance in and out of those fluttering flowers, trying to catch without touching. Others I'd walk right through, and shake them off on the mat. It delighted Peter, he said, to see me covered in purple, like a mottled blanket. He loved to see me dance among the blooms. Like some Aboriginal dreamtime, that's what you remind me of. Then he'd laugh and send a milkshake my way.
I could hear the giggle of Peter’s newest waitress, and I turned to move back to my seat. I’d hardly realised I’d walked to the window where the jacaranda was most clear, but I couldn’t help smiling at how lovely it all was anyway.
She was perky, her hair tied in a high pony tail with her notebook tucked into the waist of her skirt. Frankly, I was surprised it could fit; the girl wore skirts like they were a second skin; natural and just as tight. She wandered over to me, this slowly seductive movement that distracted me from the pool of water surrounding my glass.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The girl tilted her head and smiled a patronising little grin. “We’re not actually open just yet.” I don’t know if she was just ignoring my glass, but her eyes were glassed over my figure. “If you’d just like to –“
“What’s the problem, Cas?” Peter walked up behind her, a plate in either hand. I could see the rise of smoke from the pancakes, and smell the thick combination of chocolate and golden syrup.
“This lady’s here and...” She’d noticed the plates, and was staring at him. He just grinned and bent around her to put down the plates.
“Oh, thanks Pet, it smells delicious. Is Rob out back this morning?” I could hear the shouts from the back and the clutter of knives against a breadboard. “Hah, Rob is totally back there.”
Peter grinned while Cassie stepped away from the counter, scowling slightly. “Yes, he is, and he picked the biggest muffin for our favourite customer.”
“I’m sorry, who is she?” Cassie cut it, sticking her chest out in my direction. “I’ve never seen her here before.”
Peter snorted. “That’s because you’re new, Cas. This is Mella. Mella helped us make the cafe. She’s the red in Rojas.”
Cassie shrugged and turned away. “I’ll go see if Robert needs anything.”
My eyebrow rose slightly, even as I cut another piece of pancake and smothered it in melting syrup. “What’s her issue, aye?”
“Jealousy for our favourite one.” He ruffled my hair and walked around to sit next to me. “So. What’s wrong, gorgeous?”
I looked over at him, then back down to my pancakes and started to cry.
