Floundering by Romy Ash Page A

he’s talking about. Go get us some beer.
    What? I say. I see a huge esky now, beside the tent. No.
    Don’t be a pussy, pussy.
    I don’t want to, Jordy, I say. We’re so close I can smell him, different to Loretta, and coming from his singlet is the smell of laundry powder. It reminds me of at Gran’s how our clean clothes would always be in a neat pile at the end of our beds, warm from the iron and smelling of fresh.
    Come on, don’t be a pussy.
    I’m not being a pussy.
    Yeah, you are.
    Shut up.
    Useless, he says and shuffles towards the tent. I shuffle backwards. It’s a huge triangle tent with crossbars at the back and front. I can hear people in it. I see Jordy at the esky and I hear the plastic creak of the lid opening as loud as if it was right beside me. He pulls out a bright six-pack of cans – held together with those plastic things that get around penguins’ necks and they starve to death ‘cos fish can’t fit down their throat.
    He grins at me. He rests the beers in the dirt for a moment, pulls a shirt off the guy-rope – there’s washing pegged along it. Grabs the beers again and runs.
    Here, he says and throws the shirt at me. It’s warm. Comeon, he hisses and runs back into the red sand. Beside me is a flower, bright as fresh-spilt blood. I run after him.

    We sit on the sand so far along the beach the tourists are anty. Jordy cracks one of the beer cans and it foams over his hand. He gives it to me, and I’m so thirsty I skol it. It’s luke warm and horrible in my mouth. He cracks one for himself and leans back on his elbow as he gulps it down.
    Do you miss Gran? I say.
    No, he says.
    Would you rather be with her or Loretta?
    He scoffs at me. What do you reckon? he says, but I feel wrong inside because I don’t know what I reckon.
    I finger the sleeve of my new T-shirt. It has Winnie the Pooh on it. I put it on inside out so that Pooh is facing to my chest. I like him in there. Jordy skols the beer and gets up, throws his too-big singlet to the sand, and slips out of his shoes.
    I’m goin’ for a swim, he says. He pegs his can at me. Beer pools out.
    The ocean is shiny, blue and much rougher here than at the curl of the bay where the caravans are. The dumpers dig at the beach. Jordy times the waves, dives. He swims straight out until he’s through all the breakers and I can only see the dark spot of his head.
    I get up to follow him but I’m so dizzy I have to lean down and steady myself halfway. I pick up a shell. There’s mostly just flat ones with oil slick insides, and little tiny snail shells. I see the edge of one, half in the sand, lean down, dig it out, tap the sand out of it. It’s a white shell as long as my palm. The snail’s body inside it would be the shape of a spiral, going right up into thetip. I look up. Jordy’s way out in the ocean. I stand up slowly. I put the shells in my pockets. I feel the jumble of sandy shells in there.
    I walk to the edge of the waves, so that I can keep his head in sight. I imagine what I’d do if I saw him get eaten by a shark. I’d see the fin, and then thrashing, and then blood in the water. A headache booms out at me from nowhere.
    Come in, I whisper to myself, come in, come in, come in. I dig my feet deep into the cool sand and wait. A seagull swoops down to check me out, then catches the breeze back up into the sky. Come in, come in, come in, come in. The pain in my head keeps time.

    Where’ve you been? says Loretta.
    At the beach, says Jordy and bangs the screen door shut behind him. It’s hot under the awning and the beer carton hairdresser sign has blown over.
    You have to tell me where you’re going. How am I supposed to know where you are? she says to Jordy’s back. And where’d you get that shirt? she turns to me.
    Nowhere, I say. Still standing in the sun. I inch into the shade.
    Don’t lie to me, Mister.
    Jordy gave it to me, I say. I’m not lying.
    Don’t talk to that old man, he’s a drunken weirdo, okay? She comes