Outer Space / Carry On | Michael Clifford AU

24.

There was an uneasy feeling in my stomach when I went to school on Monday.

Michael had briefly come out of his dark shell at the party. Sex does that, apparently. But then we weren't even dressed before I could see him slipping away from me again. 

If I closed my eyes to the obvious, I could have convinced myself it was the perfect night. We polished off the champagne and laid on my bedroom floor, talking about songs and aliens (Michael believe they existed, I was unsure) and what it would be like to fly.

The harsher reality was that the conversations didn't feel natural. Our voices belonged to other people. It felt like we were just going through the motions, passing the time until the party ended. In some way, I was almost relieved when Mr Clifford found us in the backyard later on and told Michael it was time to leave.

On Sunday, I spent as much time as I could in my room. Joan had staff come in to clean the house from the party and Dad slept off his once-a-year hangover. I painted a small canvas with red paint, then watched a Beltracchi documentary on Netflix while it dried. Most of all, I tried to avoid looking at my phone for I knew there was nothing but radio silence waiting for me; my earlier texts to Michael still unanswered.

The silence gnawed at me all night, until I arrived to school on Monday. I passed the lonely blue rock reserved for Michael and I and then headed straight to English.

I slipped in as late as I could without getting in trouble so almost everyone was in class, including Eloise. At least, her body was there. Her expression was blank, as if everything inside of her was being vacuumed up by the glow of her Macbook screen. "Are you okay?"

"Shh." She didn't look at me. The stale smell of old whiskey masked her skin like clouds masked the sun on an overcast day. "Trying to finish my essay."

I wanted to say: the one that's due today?! But that wouldn't be helpful. I wanted to be helpful. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Write it for me."

I waited for her lips to twitch or smile, or indicate anything that would show me she was joking. A few too many seconds passed. She wasn't joking.

"It's a personal essay," I reminded her, even still, I was considering if I could just make something up for her. I'd written mine about Joan and my Dad. A second chance of love, type thing. Some of the details were slightly embellished, but then, all great stories were. 

Our teacher walked in and I knew there was no way I could string together a two thousand word essay in time. I looked at Eloise again. She looked like a ghost of the girl I met when I moved to this school. Then, even though I knew she wouldn't answer me honestly, I asked once more. "Are you okay?"

Her tired eyes flicked up at me. "Fine, Alice. I'm just fine."

-

I walked slowly out of English. Slowly past the blue rock. Slowly through the cold, grey day. By the time I arrived to Art, it was obvious that Michael was absent from school.

Mrs Benson announced that we'd be taking the lesson out to the daisy patch. Ignoring the sketchbook I'd brought out with me, I lay on my stomach, ripping tiny white petals and arranging them into a broken heart. Maybe he was sick, I reasoned. But that still didn't explain the unanswered texts.

The truth was right there: he didn't like me anymore. Maybe he'd never liked me at all. Maybe he'd just wanted to sleep with me, and now he had it was over. Or maybe he thought I'd end up like my Mum, and he decided to save himself the heartache.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I rearranged the petals into a question mark as Mrs Benson appeared over me. "Looking for life answers in nature," she nodded like she approved of my methods. "I'd love to know what you find, Alice."