The Beginner's Guide to Living by Lia Hills Page A

Samara comes in and sits on the end of the bed, her eyes roving over my bare chest.
    â€œGot off work early and thought you might like to go for a swim. I’m going down to the lake.”
    â€œSamara’s just got a job at a Nepalese restaurant,” says Taryn, sitting up. The duvet falls to her waist. I want to lift it up and cover her but I know it will only make them laugh.
    â€œIt’s only until I can get enough money together to hit the road again. What about going down to the lake?”
    â€œThe water’ll be a bit cold, won’t it?” says Taryn.
    â€œMaybe,” Samara says, “but it’s so hot and I’m dying for a swim.”
    â€œWhat do you reckon, Will?”
    â€œSure. Missing a few more hours of study isn’t going to make a difference. Anyway, it’s Friday.”
    â€œI’ll be in the kitchen making us something to eat,” says Samara, getting up. “By the way, I’ve got a present for you, Will.”
    She leaves the door open, but Taryn pulls me down on top of her, wrestles her legs around me. “Pity we can’t go skinny-dipping. Now that would be fun.”
    She feels so right against me, her mouth, her thighs, the life in her skin. And those eyes. She lets me look into them, doesn’t flinch, until we both crack up.
    â€œGet dressed, lover boy,” she says, almost pushing me onto the floor.
    *   *   *
    The breeze off the lake is liberating after the heat. Taryn heads straight for the water as soon as she’s stripped. Samara has a book of quotes by the Dalai Lama for me. “Aphorisms,” she says.
    â€œAphorisms?”
    â€œYou know, short statements that say something profound.”
    I think Samara’s decided she’s my guru—she’ll be asking me for ten percent of my income soon, which from lawn mowing isn’t that much. “Oh, yeah, I just didn’t know that’s what they’re called. Wittgenstein used to write them. And Nietzsche. I remember seeing some in one of his books.”
    â€œNietzsche. Talk about depressing. I tried reading him, can’t remember which book of his it was. What an elitist prick. If you ask me, Western philosophy is too much in love with logic. No heart.”
    â€œYou reckon?”
    â€œAbsolutely. There’s no mystery, no place for what can only be felt.”
    â€œSo, what about, I would only believe in a God that knows how to dance ?”
    â€œNow, that I like. Who said it?”
    â€œNietzsche.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me. Still reckon he was an elitist prick. You coming?”
    â€œIn a minute.”
    Samara pulls off her dress, straight over her head. I guess some things are genetic. She’s wearing a blue bikini and she’s tanned. Her belly button is pierced. The wind’s forming patterns over the lake. Except for a family down at the other end of the beach, we’re the only ones here. The kids are digging a huge hole, three of them working together like a mini construction company. Their mother is stretched out on a towel reading a book. Can’t see what it is from here.
    I pick up the collection of aphorisms, small and square-shaped, drop it open randomly to see what I find: Peace won’t come from the sky.
    I look up at the concentrated blue, almost purple. The clouds are like scrawled statements above the lake. There’s a rim of scraggy eucalyptus trees around its edge. Taryn’s waving to me from the tannin-stained water, her body hidden to the waist. She blows me a kiss. Only Samara’s head is visible, already far out on the lake.
    I close the book, check there’s nothing in the pockets of my shorts, and then I go for it, straight down the beach, my feet shoveling back the sand, smashing through the water, body arched into a dive—that perfect instant before impact—the water cold as I enter it, cold enough to remind me who I