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pashed a real guy.

3
    Even though I knew it was the last thing she’d want to hear, I couldn’t resist going round to tell Hollie that Scott was back. Since he’d been away,
we’d slipped back into our old, childish habits of dressing up and doing Shakespeare and pashing in the cave. But with Scott back, all that would have to change. I thought it best to break it
to her gently, or else she’d go all dark and gloomy.
    I pulled up outside Hollie’s place, the last on the cul-de-sac which backed onto Mount Coot-tha national park. It sat, all dark brick and wrought-iron fancywork, like a fortress at the top
of the hill. It couldn’t have been easy for her then, all alone in that big, draughty house with Danny locked up and Mr Bailey on business in the States half the time. As I got out of the car
and walked up the steep drive, the bush was raucous with crickets getting loud and arsy as the sun went down. The gum trees quivered in the itchy heat as a crow, big as an eagle, broke through the
scrub, swooping low and glinty-eyed to settle on top of the fence. My heart was tight and bursting with the thought of Scott, but I was sure Hollie wouldn’t be so ecstatic.
    Before I met Scott, Hollie and I were inseparable. We did everything together. At All Hallows, the other girls thought we were weird. They used to call us names like ‘The Loony
Lesbos’ and ‘The Dyke Duo’ but we didn’t care. We thought they were all dumb sluts anyway, destined to marry halfwitted men and spawn quarter-witted babies. Whereas Hollie
and I, we’d set our sights loftily high. Hollie wanted a kind, gentle-natured fellow with soft, blond curls and deep-blue eyes who would read her Milton at bedtime and brush her hair. I
fancied a darker, broodier Heathcliff type, who would die for me. Up in the cave, we’d close our eyes and practise pashing for hours, imagining each other as a fantasy lover. We thought love
was like in the movies; all thumping hearts and sonnets and red roses. But that was all before I met Scott. Before I got thinking I wanted a taste of the real thing. From day one, Hollie never
liked him. He didn’t fit our fantasy mould. Once I started going out with him, Hollie refused to see me. It wasn’t until Scott went overseas that we started hanging out again.
    I jabbed the doorbell a few times but there was no answer. Hollie slept at odd times of the day so I went around the side, which was always unlocked. I went in through the parlour, filled with
tall palms, gold-framed mirrors and white wicker furniture, and headed up the marble stairs to Hollie’s bedroom on the top floor. Her door was closed. I knocked softly, and when there was no
reply, pushed inside. The room was dim with the crimson-brocade curtains drawn against the western sun. On the dressing table, a single candle flickered, dappling the fairies, goblins and
fire-breathing dragons which stared out from the forest wallpaper, unchanged since she was a little girl. I padded across the rug to her canopied bed but it was empty, the cream-lace spread smooth
without a wrinkle. I blew out the candle and threw open the curtains. The view through the window was too perfect; the top half of a giant orange sun caught between the crimson folds of the Great
Dividing Range. I left Hollie’s bedroom, heading further down the muffled hall. At each door, I stopped and listened, my ear pressed against the heavy oak. All sounds were deadened, sucked up
by the thick carpets, the velvety wallpaper, the mustiness.
    At the furthest end of the hall was Mrs Bailey’s bedroom. The closer I got to it, the faster my heart pumped. It was the last place I wanted to go but I had a feeling Hollie was in there.
I stopped at the door first and took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. I closed my eyes and strained for the tiniest noise. The tick of a clock. The shouts of kids playing in the street.
Nothing. It was enough to send you crazy, the quiet.
    My memory of Mrs Bailey