Fairytales for Wilde Girls by Allyse Near

She smiled and wished – not for the first time – that James could know him.
    James scowled as he re-angled the mirror, but allowed Isola to put her feet up on the dash; she scratched her toenails luxuriously over the front compartment.
    Isola smiled across at him, remembering how similar he’d looked when they’d first met. He had a wrinkled face even then, at the tender age of almost-five, with an air of being bothered and the constant smell of biscuits about him as he clutched a different Star Wars toy every day.
    They were in the playground at their kindergarden. Under the not-so-watchful eye of a bored-looking twenty-something, who was reading shoddy celebrity tabloids and rolling her eyes at the babbling antics of the children, Isola had climbed the highest tree, misjudged the strength of the topmost bough and come tumbling down.
    Isola had a vague memory of scrunching up her eyes against a dizziness, feeling the tilting world beneath her, hearing the grind of gears in the earth, the faint whispering pain of the tree branch she’d brought down.
    And hovering over her was James – little Jamie then – with her hand clutched in his sweaty grip, brown eyes peering anxiously down at her. She blinked groggily in the green-dappled shade, feeling the involuntary tears of shock dripping down her cheeks. His seemingly permanently scowl softened, just a little, and only in a way that she would ever recognise upon his face.
    Barely a week after that Isola gave James chickenpox, and James let her hold one of his Star Wars figurines; they shared their sniffles and sandwiches, and couldn’t be pried apart.
    But now…
    They hadn’t spoken for a few weeks, not since she’d stormed out of his house. James wasn’t one to give chase, and Isola always forgot to stay angry at people. The car was somewhat cleaner – perhaps he’d finally washed it, and found her dusty apology scrawled on the window. Isola knew this tune, the musical theme of their relationship – ignore it, start again, pretend nothing had come between them.
    It was too cold for swimming at Bloodpearl Beach, but adventurous dark heads on surfboards bobbed in the green-grey ocean, their wetsuits like seal skins. Alejandro drifted out of the car and whispered a foreign goodbye while James was waxing down the boards.
    Froth crested the waves, cream on cold coffee. Rips snarled visibly along the sandbanks, sucking occasional swimmers out to sea. Lifeguards made repeated trips into the wave break. The sand was harsh with cracked seashells, cuttlefish bones. Seaweed festered on the northern end of the beach, shark eggs and starfish rotting amidst the bulbs.
    They’d spent most of last year’s summer here, eating lemon-soggy fish and chips, watching late-evening thunderstorms roll over the mastheads of yachts. Isola’s hair had grown stiff with seasalt and she’d barely brushed it for months. Injury-prone Grape had stepped on coral, cutting open her foot, and had hobbled around on crutches for a week. They’d sat around a blue bonfire with local stoners and philosophy graduates, arguing about moon-landing conspiracy theories and whether there was any real reason they shouldn’t start a Fight Club. There had been dolphin spottings and surfing competitions and Grape was stung by a jellyfish on two separate occasions.
    The summer that had just passed them by had been depressing in comparison. Toxic red algae had bloomed over the reef and a number of dolphins had beached themselves. Grape had been forced into hours of tutoring, her parents determined she raise her grades, and James had seemed colder, too. Isola was unsure what she might have done, until he had tried to kiss her and she had pulled away and knew that he was turning something unrequited into something akin to hate – the Devil’s alchemy – and now, instead of a memory to fondly wave back at, the summer before was a time to