Floundering by Romy Ash Page B

and holds my face in her hands. You’re burnt to a crisp, she says, again.
    Her hair looks like a windsock in the hot northerly.
    Okay, I say. Have you had any customers?
    Don’t be a smart-arse.
    I wasn’t. I was just asking.
    I pull my face away and go into the caravan. Jordy’s in there, sitting up at the table. I can see the fan of sweat across his cheeks and nose. He’s got a plastic cup full of water. I get my own cup and pour from the container. Wipe my face on my sleeve.
    How’s your ear? Loretta yells from outside.
    Fine, I say quietly.
    What?
    Fine.
    Jordy sniggers at me. His singlet slips off his shoulder and he shrugs it back up. I take the shells out of my pockets one by one, line them up on the table. Sometimes it feels like having a mean older sister.

    The night is at that bit where it’s not black yet. It’s the darkest blue. Loretta opens a can of spaghetti and pours half each on a plate for Jordy and me. The plates here are plastic and so cut from knives and forks that the plastic has gone furry. The other plates are still dirty in the sink.
    Aren’t you having any? I say.
    Nah, she says.
    It’s cold, I say.
    She shrugs, steps back down the step of the caravan and we go out too. I’m careful not to tip my plate of red and worms. She lights a cigarette, leaning over, like she’s going to burn her hair. I fork the spaghetti into my mouth and mosquitoes bite me. Every couple of minutes is the sound of us slapping them.
    Jesus, says Loretta and goes back into the caravan. I can hear her rustling around in there. She comes back out shaking an old aerosol can. The rattle of it. She leans overme and sprays my legs and arms.
    Owww, I yell. That kills.
    What, she says, what?
    It kills.
    The spray is right in my scratched sandfly bites.
    Jordy looks at us both and says, No thanks.
    Suit yourself, she says, and with her ciggie clamped in her lips she sprays her own legs and arms and attempts to spray her back. She sits in her chair, stubs out her cigarette, half smoked, and lights another. I scrape the last of the spaghetti and wipe the plate with my finger until it’s clean. It tastes of Aerogard.
    Let’s do something fun then, eh.
    I look to Jordy but he’s looking across to Nev’s caravan. The windows are bright, but I can’t see Nev in there.
    Don’t be so excited, she says.
    What do you mean? I say. The spaghetti is heavy in my belly.
    We’re going to go floundering. Did Pa ever take you floundering?
    No, says Jordy.
    I’ll teach you. It’s perfect for it here. Last time we caught millions of fish, a million years ago. You could still smell them for days after we fried them.
    You caught them? Jordy says.
    Yeah, I totally caught them.
    Here?
    Yes. Come on, we’ll be eating the secret side of a flounder soon as. She gets up, flinging her butt to the sand where it glows before fading out. We need gear, she says and goes looking in the caravan again.
    I sniff in a deep breath and see if I can smell the lingering fishy smell. I hear banging from inside. She comes out with some rope, a torch and a small blunt-looking knife.
    We got to get a stick from somewhere, sharpen it, she says. I can smell fish. But it’s the smell of rotten scales and guts. The screen door bangs shut behind her as she steps down.
    Come on, it’s going to be great, she says.
    I look back over at Nev’s caravan again, he’s not inside in the light, he’s in the dark next to it, leaning on the side looking out. He’s black except for the orange bum of his cigarette that brightens his face with each suck in. I look in my lap and count to ten hoping he’s gone by the time I look up again.

    Loretta’s striding out front with the torch. She leaves us to walk in the dark. There’s lantern light at some tents, pools of it. Some glow from the inside and I can hear low murmuring. From everywhere there’s the sound of people slapping mozzies. Most tents are dark, though. The stars are low and bright. I can hear the slap, slap