to the steering wheel, smoke billowing out of the corroded exhaust. He beats the
lights on amber but I miss them. As he streaks ahead, gathering speed along the straight parallel with the train tracks, he shakes his fist out the window, whooping like a maniac.
Crossing Indooroopilly Bridge, he’s nowhere in sight, so I accelerate, flooring the pedal with my bare foot. The road is quiet as is usual for a hot weekend when BrisVegans flee to the
coast or hang out in the backyard pools. Puddles of imaginary water vibrate on the tarmac as I turn left at Big Rooster –
who wants hot chicken now?
– and race up the hill
towards the black, steaming bricks of the Uniting Church. On the crest I catch a familiar flash of silver, its tail end resisting then twanging round the bend as if made of chewing gum. But the
traffic lights stop him and I pull up alongside in the other lane. Scott turns and winks, running his fingers through his hair like the Fonz. I lick my lips and pout. He looks ahead, pretending to
ignore me, so I lean out the window and flash my right tit at him. He sees it and drops his gob. The lights change and I speed off, leaving him for dead. Ha!
Down the rollercoaster hill and up again. A slow choking mini approaches but I nip through. Adrenaline courses in my veins. My hair, loosened from its ponytail, flies around my head, trailing
out the window, sticking to my lips, whipping my bare shoulders. I shout into the breeze and check my face in the rear-vision mirror, grimacing at the dark freckles, the pale refusal of my skin to
go brown, and the scar which cuts in a diagonal gash above my right eyebrow. I hope there’ll be time to re-apply Max Factor before we get down to it.
Around past the Toyota dealership, car bodies glint like jewels and I slip dreamily down into Russell Terrace. On the right, my old primary school is empty, under the sun the squat fibro
classrooms bake like square sponge cakes. How fast I’ve grown up, I think, pressing my foot hard on the accelerator, speeding away.
At the bottom of the hill, I check the rear-vision. Scott’s right on my tail. He honks and waves out the window, weaving about behind me, laughing and trying to overtake. We’re
passing under the freeway when he darts out like a fish, shooting over the double line onto the wrong side of the road. A blue car’s coming the other way. It swerves, horn blasting, but
Scott’s already gone, tearing out of sight. I strain to see his car but the sun smashes and explodes on the burning crest of Green Hill. Faster! Faster! I cry, riding the car seat like a
saddle. The sun-glare knocks out everything but I go harder, galloping into the white. I can’t wait to get home, to show off my new underwear, to slam him down on the bed. He’s going to
love it, I just know. He’s so going to love it. The engine wheezes as I change gear with a jaunty thrust and pull of the stick, and then I’m charging up the hill. My stomach floats,
bumping soft against my heart. It all feels so good, so right. Scott loves me.
Why me with my ginger hair and freckles, my too-big feet and skinny legs, my scar?
I ask the shadowy grove of
trees whose leaves turn wide and waxy to hear my question. They rustle back an answer but I’m already gone, dashing nifty into the bend. Curving into the apex, the wheel at its limit, there
comes a spark of fear, a little quaking in my belly, a subtle shift in the car’s bulk and a horrible sliding out of control. The steering wheel whirls through my fingers and I pump the ball
of my foot against the brake pedal but it makes no difference. The road buckles and loosens, billowing free from the earth like a streamer. I’m flying out across western burbia, soaring up
and up through the tree-tops, and it’s all so quiet like my ears are jammed with cotton wool. Then it hits me, a gentle spreading, like a revelation or something I knew deep down already.
I’M GOING TO DIE.
The words appear giant, forged in
lights on amber but I miss them. As he streaks ahead, gathering speed along the straight parallel with the train tracks, he shakes his fist out the window, whooping like a maniac.
Crossing Indooroopilly Bridge, he’s nowhere in sight, so I accelerate, flooring the pedal with my bare foot. The road is quiet as is usual for a hot weekend when BrisVegans flee to the
coast or hang out in the backyard pools. Puddles of imaginary water vibrate on the tarmac as I turn left at Big Rooster –
who wants hot chicken now?
– and race up the hill
towards the black, steaming bricks of the Uniting Church. On the crest I catch a familiar flash of silver, its tail end resisting then twanging round the bend as if made of chewing gum. But the
traffic lights stop him and I pull up alongside in the other lane. Scott turns and winks, running his fingers through his hair like the Fonz. I lick my lips and pout. He looks ahead, pretending to
ignore me, so I lean out the window and flash my right tit at him. He sees it and drops his gob. The lights change and I speed off, leaving him for dead. Ha!
Down the rollercoaster hill and up again. A slow choking mini approaches but I nip through. Adrenaline courses in my veins. My hair, loosened from its ponytail, flies around my head, trailing
out the window, sticking to my lips, whipping my bare shoulders. I shout into the breeze and check my face in the rear-vision mirror, grimacing at the dark freckles, the pale refusal of my skin to
go brown, and the scar which cuts in a diagonal gash above my right eyebrow. I hope there’ll be time to re-apply Max Factor before we get down to it.
Around past the Toyota dealership, car bodies glint like jewels and I slip dreamily down into Russell Terrace. On the right, my old primary school is empty, under the sun the squat fibro
classrooms bake like square sponge cakes. How fast I’ve grown up, I think, pressing my foot hard on the accelerator, speeding away.
At the bottom of the hill, I check the rear-vision. Scott’s right on my tail. He honks and waves out the window, weaving about behind me, laughing and trying to overtake. We’re
passing under the freeway when he darts out like a fish, shooting over the double line onto the wrong side of the road. A blue car’s coming the other way. It swerves, horn blasting, but
Scott’s already gone, tearing out of sight. I strain to see his car but the sun smashes and explodes on the burning crest of Green Hill. Faster! Faster! I cry, riding the car seat like a
saddle. The sun-glare knocks out everything but I go harder, galloping into the white. I can’t wait to get home, to show off my new underwear, to slam him down on the bed. He’s going to
love it, I just know. He’s so going to love it. The engine wheezes as I change gear with a jaunty thrust and pull of the stick, and then I’m charging up the hill. My stomach floats,
bumping soft against my heart. It all feels so good, so right. Scott loves me.
Why me with my ginger hair and freckles, my too-big feet and skinny legs, my scar?
I ask the shadowy grove of
trees whose leaves turn wide and waxy to hear my question. They rustle back an answer but I’m already gone, dashing nifty into the bend. Curving into the apex, the wheel at its limit, there
comes a spark of fear, a little quaking in my belly, a subtle shift in the car’s bulk and a horrible sliding out of control. The steering wheel whirls through my fingers and I pump the ball
of my foot against the brake pedal but it makes no difference. The road buckles and loosens, billowing free from the earth like a streamer. I’m flying out across western burbia, soaring up
and up through the tree-tops, and it’s all so quiet like my ears are jammed with cotton wool. Then it hits me, a gentle spreading, like a revelation or something I knew deep down already.
I’M GOING TO DIE.
The words appear giant, forged in
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