Cemetery.
I lead the way. Thereâs one floodlight near the street but the further in among the graves we go, the more the darkness buries us.
Hot nights bring out snakes so I warn Kayla to be careful.
Immediately she shrieks, âTiff! Tiff! Behind you!â
Itâs a feeble old joke and only an idiot would fall for it.
She cackles when I jump.
As we usually do, we prop ourselves up against the headstones of Monnie and Grogan Nash. Being buried together means they have a double-sized slab of concrete in front of them, which is perfect for us to sit on. We donât mean any disrespect. Itâs just that they feel like old friends and I know theyâd want us to be comfy. Theyâve both been dead for over a hundred years, but we still say hello to them. However, we donât ask how they are. That would be tactless.
From out of her backpack Kayla produces a Coke bottle. The drinkâs all gone and now itâs half-filled with a clear liquid.
âVodka. Nicked it from Inky. If she misses it, which I doubt, she wonât mind.â She dives back into her bag. âGot a couple of paper cups in here, too, somewhere, ah, here we go.â
Weâve been coming here for years; had a few beers on burning hot days, but weâve never drunk vodka before.
âSo whatâs the deal?â I ask.
âYou start at the paper tomorrow. Thatâs special.â
âOnly work experience.â
âBut you might get a cadetship â thatâs what you said â right?â
âA long shot.â
âYouâll get it.â
She brushes her cup against mine. âCheers! But donât scull it â that is deadly stuff.â
I take a sip, and grimace. âItâs horrible.â
âGive it a chance to grow on you.â
âIâve got enough things growing on me already, thanks.â
âDrink.â
I have another gulp and roll it around my mouth. It still burns my lips, my tongue.
âBetter?â
Itâs the closest Iâve ever come to drinking diesel, but I donât want to spoil her fun.
âGetting there.â
She doesnât see me tip it out.
A yawn is followed by a stretch, and then, as if sheâs in her own bed instead of on top of a gravestone, Kayla lies on her side, hands cupped under her cheek to make a pillow.
âThis wouldnât be such a bad place to end up.â A sliver of moon shines enough light for me to see that her eyes are closed; itâs almost like sheâs talking in her sleep. âYouâd be right at home here, Tiff. Nice and peaceful, like the library. Throw a few books in with you and youâd be happy.â
âThe dead canât read.â
âYou donât know that for sure. They could have reading clubs, right here in Gungee Cemetery. Now thereâs something for you to look forward to.â
âGo to sleep, Kayla. Iâll wake you up if anyone wants to read you a story.â
Sheâs quiet for a couple of minutes but awake, and restless . . .Â
âKnock, Knock,â she says. âAnyone home?â
âNo.â
âIâve been thinking about things lately . . .â
A slight tension grips at me; I donât quite know why, except that Kayla sounds very serious. Iâm not used to that.
âWhat kind of things?â
âWell . . . do you think Iâll ever get a job?â
âOf course, you idiot, I know you will.â
âIâve got the same genes as Inky and sheâs never had one.â
âBut sheâs got kids. Thatâs her job.â
âYeah, great. Thanks for reminding me.â She sits up now, perched on the edge of the grave. âItâll probably be mine too. Iâm getting just like her. I drink and I smokeââ
âThought you quit.â
âThat was last week.â
âOh.â
âAnd in about five years from now Iâll
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