Bookmark Days by Scot Gardner

could have been another country. I’d need a passport to jump that fence. And a disguise. I knew I was being stupid but I couldn’t stop the thoughts. Truth was, whatever we’d found dancing in the rain was fragile.
    The final nail in the coffin was dealing with my cousin when we got home. If Mum (or anyone else in the house for that matter) was worried sick, then they were worrying in their sleep. I made sure the blanket was tight on Katie’s lap as Dad carried her into my room. I was going to tuck her into bed like that but she stirred as I tugged the blankets from underneath her and I noticed the chunks of vomit stuck to the front of her top.
    ‘I feel sick,’ she said.
    We bumped the wall as I helped her into the bathroom. She sank to her knees in front of the toilet and burped a few times but nothing came out.
    I ran the shower. ‘Come on,’ I whispered.
    I got the temperature right and pushed her under the stream – fully clothed – and she was immediately sick on the wall. She splashed it clean and the combination of the shower and the stomach-cleanse lifted her spirits. She started undressing.
    ‘You going to be okay?’ I asked.
    She nodded.
    She was in the shower for a long time. If Mum had been awake, she would have banged on the wall and told her not to run the tanks dry, even though they’d probably overflowed during the storm.
    I was too tired to shower. I couldn’t smell the spew any more. The rain had mostly washed me clean anyway. I left the light on but I wanted to be in bed when Katie returned, facing the wall, asleep.
    No such luck.
    ‘Avvie?’ she whispered.
    I ignored her, so she shook my shoulder.
    ‘Av?’
    I rolled over. ‘What?’
    She was wrapped in a towel and had her hair turbaned in another. She was sunburned. There were also marks on her neck and chest – big, purple-black love bites: one at her nape, one way too far down her cleavage.
    ‘Sorry,’ she said.
    ‘Just get to bed. I’m tired.’
    ‘Can I borrow some pyjamas? My others are in the wash.’
    ‘Fine. In the second drawer.’
    ‘And some knickers?’
    ‘Top drawer.’
    I heard a rooster crow. Another day was on its way. I went to sleep thinking that whatever happened on this new day, it wouldn’t be as wild as the one I’d just lived.
    I woke just after eleven that morning. Katie was still asleep but the rest of the house was eerily empty. The cars were in the shed, the tractor and the bikes were gone. I ate, saddled up Zeph and headed out. Didn’t know where I was going, just out. Away from Katie and if I was lucky, away from those heavy clouds of crap thoughts still hanging in my head.
    The day was steamy and warm. The sun had found its edge again and I couldn’t look straight at Carringtons’ canola field. It was too bright for my morning-after head. I had a hangover. Not from alcohol – the kind I hoped Katie would have – but from a few too many feelings in one hit. Emotional hangover. It took ages to dissipate. The easy rhythm of Zeph’s walk as we travelled along the boundary was the right medicine. Clip clop. Nathaniel really did seem to be enjoying himself while we were dancing. Clip clop. And that hand on my shoulder wasn’t an accident. Clip clop. That hug was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever felt. Clip clop. I wonder what his skin tastes like?
    The creek had come up overnight. What used to be a meagre black streak was now a swirling drain, bubbling over the exposed rocks and barely contained by its banks. I dismounted and pinged rocks into the current. It looked inviting. When I caught a whiff of beer vomit on my skin, I stripped off and waded knee-deep for a wash. It was cold enough to make me catch my breath but it was medicine too. It made my skin tight and when I flicked my wet hair off my face and it slapped on my bare back, I squeaked and puffed at the shock of cold. I stayed until my ankles ached, then sat on my jeans in the sun. My feet and hands were numb but something