half-smile, and I waved goodbye.
I took two steps before I felt dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over me, crashing just like the tide a few metres away, as I tried to focus.
Look at your feet, Kate. Look at your feet .
Deep breaths.
When I walked this time, I was able to place one leg in front of the other, my feet sinking into the cool, soft sand, until I reached the boardwalk and put on my shoes.
The boulevard was a mix of sky-high buildings, scents of street-fried food and bright lights selling wares, varying from alcohol promotion to the flashing legs of a dancing girl on a sign above one particular club.
People milled about, in groups, as couples and individuals, clutching drinks desperately and phones even more so. They were flooding out of bars and clubs, lining up at McDonald’s and snaking in a line forever-long that led to the public toilets. Even though they were Portaloos, thousands of teenage not-yet-quite-old-enough-to-enter-the-club girls lined up to use them. Gross.
I walked past a group of guys, one of whom was wearing a Coal T-shirt. Had they been to the concert? The hairs on my arms stood on end, and I rubbed them down. Was it my imagination, or was he looking at me funny?
Stumbling over my own feet, I gave myself an internal slap on the wrist. Of course he wasn’t looking. I was being hyper-sensitive.
Was that a symptom? Maybe I should look it up.
I strolled through the street, heading back to our hotel. A girl blew a cloud of cigarette smoke in my face, and I coughed. A guy spilt some sticky, red liquid from a plastic cup around my ankles, splashing over my shoes. People laughed, yelled and smiled, a chaos of noise surrounding me.
I crossed the road parallel to the hub of activity, getting closer to the hotel and farther from the extremities of noise and light. It didn’t feel unsafe, though; there were still enough people around to make up at least two football teams.
I started counting the buildings to the hotel. Just three bars, one club, a shop selling all sorts of marijuana paraphernalia, two alleys, and one hotel. Now two bars, one club, a shop, two alleys, and one hotel. Then one bar…
I stopped, noticing a chalkboard erected on the sidewalk.
Fortunes told and futures predicted by the mysterious Gypsy Rose
I stared at the sign, studying the curlicue handwriting. A fortune-teller. Someone who could tell the future.
Would they know what would happen to me? What would happen to—my dad?
A group of three girls walked out of the alleyway, laughing loudly and talking so fast it was hard to make out individual words.
“That was so freaky. She was crazy.” One girl laughed, linking arms with another.
“Me? Three kids? No way am I ruining this body on babies,” the middle girl joked, throwing her arm around her sidekick. They made their way down the street, leaving me alone in front of the sign.
Just me, a sign, and an alley. And maybe some clues to my future.
The kind of clues I could ignore if I wanted to.
That last voice in my head was smaller, quieter.
I shoved my hand in my pocket and searched the corners for some cash. My interest in Gypsy Rose had gone from vague to decided in a heartbeat. Now I couldn’t see her quickly enough.
With two twenty-dollar notes balled in my fist, I started down the alley. It was full of shops, all with their shutters down, selling much more normal things. What an alleyway. Bikinis, shoes, handbags and … futures.
The last shopfront on the right was lit up, another chalkboard erected in an A-frame out the front. A counter stretched across the width of the shop’s perimeter, a tiny opening to the left and a huge, black curtain behind it, separating the rest of the world from what I presumed was the place where all the magic happened.
“Yes?”
The voice was younger than I’d expected it to be, and brisk. It came from behind the curtain.
I straightened up and took a few steps closer to the counter. It had a bright-blue laminate top,
I took two steps before I felt dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over me, crashing just like the tide a few metres away, as I tried to focus.
Look at your feet, Kate. Look at your feet .
Deep breaths.
When I walked this time, I was able to place one leg in front of the other, my feet sinking into the cool, soft sand, until I reached the boardwalk and put on my shoes.
The boulevard was a mix of sky-high buildings, scents of street-fried food and bright lights selling wares, varying from alcohol promotion to the flashing legs of a dancing girl on a sign above one particular club.
People milled about, in groups, as couples and individuals, clutching drinks desperately and phones even more so. They were flooding out of bars and clubs, lining up at McDonald’s and snaking in a line forever-long that led to the public toilets. Even though they were Portaloos, thousands of teenage not-yet-quite-old-enough-to-enter-the-club girls lined up to use them. Gross.
I walked past a group of guys, one of whom was wearing a Coal T-shirt. Had they been to the concert? The hairs on my arms stood on end, and I rubbed them down. Was it my imagination, or was he looking at me funny?
Stumbling over my own feet, I gave myself an internal slap on the wrist. Of course he wasn’t looking. I was being hyper-sensitive.
Was that a symptom? Maybe I should look it up.
I strolled through the street, heading back to our hotel. A girl blew a cloud of cigarette smoke in my face, and I coughed. A guy spilt some sticky, red liquid from a plastic cup around my ankles, splashing over my shoes. People laughed, yelled and smiled, a chaos of noise surrounding me.
I crossed the road parallel to the hub of activity, getting closer to the hotel and farther from the extremities of noise and light. It didn’t feel unsafe, though; there were still enough people around to make up at least two football teams.
I started counting the buildings to the hotel. Just three bars, one club, a shop selling all sorts of marijuana paraphernalia, two alleys, and one hotel. Now two bars, one club, a shop, two alleys, and one hotel. Then one bar…
I stopped, noticing a chalkboard erected on the sidewalk.
Fortunes told and futures predicted by the mysterious Gypsy Rose
I stared at the sign, studying the curlicue handwriting. A fortune-teller. Someone who could tell the future.
Would they know what would happen to me? What would happen to—my dad?
A group of three girls walked out of the alleyway, laughing loudly and talking so fast it was hard to make out individual words.
“That was so freaky. She was crazy.” One girl laughed, linking arms with another.
“Me? Three kids? No way am I ruining this body on babies,” the middle girl joked, throwing her arm around her sidekick. They made their way down the street, leaving me alone in front of the sign.
Just me, a sign, and an alley. And maybe some clues to my future.
The kind of clues I could ignore if I wanted to.
That last voice in my head was smaller, quieter.
I shoved my hand in my pocket and searched the corners for some cash. My interest in Gypsy Rose had gone from vague to decided in a heartbeat. Now I couldn’t see her quickly enough.
With two twenty-dollar notes balled in my fist, I started down the alley. It was full of shops, all with their shutters down, selling much more normal things. What an alleyway. Bikinis, shoes, handbags and … futures.
The last shopfront on the right was lit up, another chalkboard erected in an A-frame out the front. A counter stretched across the width of the shop’s perimeter, a tiny opening to the left and a huge, black curtain behind it, separating the rest of the world from what I presumed was the place where all the magic happened.
“Yes?”
The voice was younger than I’d expected it to be, and brisk. It came from behind the curtain.
I straightened up and took a few steps closer to the counter. It had a bright-blue laminate top,
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