Page 32

Phoebe

Then

The rest of our time in the Whitsundays passes in a flurry of beach days, sunsets, and rowdy nights, all layered with the steady intoxication provided by countless goon boxes and bottles of whatever liquor the hostel bar has on hand.

We take speedboats to private coves where we snorkel and sunbathe, hike the lush rainforest trails on our island.

It should be perfect. But it’s far from.

Adrien’s told everyone who will listen about our little altercation.

From the way she’d recounted it, you would have thought it was a brutal attack rather than a drunken shove.

She even had the nerve to report it to Nick, which prompted yet another scolding in which Nick’s head turned so red I thought it may be in danger of spontaneously combusting.

Another threat that this time was actually my last warning.

And the others have pulled themselves even further away.

Claire barely meets my eye anymore, choosing to spend every night in Declan’s room, as if to minimize her exposure to me.

I’m constantly the odd one out, the only one left sunbathing on the beach while the others party in the water, the one staying in when the others spend yet another night getting wasted.

There’s only one person who wants anything to do with me. And it’s only ever at night, in private. No one can know, they say. They don’t want to be publicly associated with the outcast.

It’s pathetic, degrading, all of the above. But they’re the only person I have left. And apparently, the effects of loneliness are stronger than my remaining dignity.

I’m right back to being the girl I always was. The outsider, alone, unwanted.

The sliver into my old life that emerged in that bathroom when I shoved Adrien has opened into a crevasse.

The regret, the shame, the disgust I’ve worked so hard at keeping buried during our time in Sydney and Cairns has now metastasized, destroying the easygoing, confident persona I’ve been creating this entire trip.

By the time we leave the island, I’m clinging to anything that will remind me of the Phoebe the others think I am.

None of us are eager to leave, especially given our checkout time at the ass crack of dawn to grab the ferry and then pile back into our stale, smelly bus for endless hours to head to the barren tundra of the Outback. None of us, that is, except for Tomas.

“Dude, what is it with you and the Outback?” Josh asks as our bus drives away from Airlie Beach, heading west.

“My father showed me Mad Max when I was a kid. It became our favorite film. We would watch it once a year, at least.” Tomas’s smile falls. “He became sick a few years ago. He did not make it. But I promised him before he died that I would go there.”

“Shit man, I’m sorry,” Josh says.

Tomas smiles at him, and Ellery loops her arm around his shoulder.

“Alright, listen up,” Nick announces hours later, after we’ve been driving for what feels like eternity.

“Our next stop is Cullamonjoo National Park. We’re officially in the Outback.

We’ll be spending the night there, camping.

It’s a cultural experience so I expect yous all to be respectful.

” He shoots us a stern look, taking the time to make brief eye contact with each of us—his eyes lingering on mine.

“I wish we could have just stayed in the Whitsundays for the rest of the trip,” Kyan moans once Nick has taken his seat.

“It’s beautiful in its own way; don’t worry,” Hari says, turning in her seat. “Plus, we’re going to have a campout under the stars. You’re going to love it, I promise.”

The view from the bus window stays the same for hours.

Red dirt, barren land, sporadic termite mounds.

No one seems particularly interested in the stagnant scenery, except for Tomas, who sits glued to his window for the full length of the trip.

Finally, the bus tumbles over a speed bump next to a sign that identifies it as the entrance to the national park.

As we follow a road that leads us past a small building with a single man sitting outside it, I realize Hari was right; this place isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before.

The compact red dirt gives way to featherweight cream-colored sand as dunes the size of small mountains erupt out of the ground and roll as far as the eye can see.

The light breeze grabs on to it, spinning it in the air.

We’re in the desert, but not the type I’ve seen in films and books. This is beautiful. Soft, sparkling.

Apparently I’m not the only one mesmerized. It takes Nick Gould several attempts to regain our attention.

“For God’s sake, listen up, will ya? We’re going to get off here and meet the tour guide, who’ll lead us through the park.”

When we exit the bus, I see a bare-chested man seated to the right of the building, blowing into a long tubelike instrument that sends an eerie sound echoing throughout the desert around us.

A didgeridoo, I remember, plucking the word from somewhere in the recesses of my mind.

He’s dressed only in loose-fitting black pants and a red band that circles his forehead.

The gray hair that sprouts from his dark chest matches the thick moustache above his lips, which twitches with each blow into the instrument.

We listen patiently to a solemn song that sinks into the hollowness of my gut and clap hesitantly when he finishes.

“Welcome to Cullamonjoo National Park,” he says in an Australian accent that sounds different from the one we’ve been immersed in for the last few weeks.

“I am Birrani, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to this beautiful place in the heart of the country belonging to the Wangkangurru and Yarluyandi people.”

Nick had told us about this throughout our travels—the colonization of the country by white settlers that systemically destroyed much of the population of the Aboriginal peoples who had made this place their home—but seeing this man, his passion for his culture, makes it more real than ever.

Birrani speaks to us for several minutes about the land’s history and his people’s struggles, before he leads us around the side of the building, where a line of dune buggies sits waiting for us.

Nick divides us up into groups of two—I’m paired with Claire as usual, who looks less than enthused not to be partnered with Declan—and gives us a long rundown of all the instructions and things we are not allowed—I repeat, not allowed— to do on the buggy.

“We’re hours away from civilization out here,” Nick warns. “If something goes wrong, we’re on our own. No one’s coming to help us.”

And then we’re off. I let Claire drive first, which may have been a mistake, as our trip towards the dunes is composed of short bursts of acceleration punctuated by sharp slams on the brakes.

Eventually though, she seems to get into it, and soon, we’re climbing the dunes, tires struggling to grip the loose sand beneath our seat.

We get going so fast that the tires arc upwards as we graze the dune’s summit, and for a moment we’re weightless.

The seat belt digs into my chest, but I barely notice it as I raise my hands above my head and unleash a wild, almost savage yell, one that releases the pent-up emotions that have threatened to flood out of me the last few days.

We connect back to the ground with a bone-jarring jolt, and I steal a glance over at Claire, expecting her to be shocked.

But it’s my turn to be surprised. There’s a devilish glint in her eye and her smile is almost manic, something I’ve never seen in her expression before.

Then she tilts her head back, joining me in another wild shout.

***

After an hour or so of playing in the dunes, and just as the sun begins to descend, Birrani leads our caravan of buggies away to flatter land.

The view changes from sand as far as the eye can see back to the red dirt, groupings of bushes eventually morphing into larger trees, until we enter what looks to be a forest in the middle of the desert.

But that isn’t all, I realize. Further ahead, I spot lights sparkling against water.

The red dirt drops off suddenly, merging with the dark blue waters. A lake, I realize, in the middle of all this arid land.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Birrani announces once we’ve pulled to a stop.

“Miraka Lake. It is beautiful, yeah, but don’t be fooled.

It’s dangerous. That water holds some of Australia’s most deadly species.

We should be fine to stay up here away from the shore, so long as we make sure our tents are zipped before sleep.

But none of you best go anywhere near the water.

” Birrani shoots us a sharp glance, fortified by Nick’s glare from where he stands behind him.

On Birrani’s instructions, we grab the tents and other supplies from the backs of our buggies and try to set them up.

Or Claire does at least. I wait until Birrani comes over to help us.

Eventually, we’re settled, sleeping bags laid out in our two-person tents, darkness polluting the sky.

Birrani prepares a fire for us in the middle of our tent circle, and Nick pulls out sausages—of course—for us to grill.

An hour or so later, with all of us fed, Nick and Birrani head to their respective tents.

Perfect timing for Kyan to pull out a bottle he’s been holding on to since Airlie Beach.

I feel my heart rate speed up at the sight of it.

The effects of my ride with Claire have worn off, and I’m desperately in need of another source of adrenaline to act normal.

Kyan passes it around the circle, the fire painting an odd glow against his face, and when it reaches me, I take a deep swig, the now familiar fire of the whiskey burning the lining of my throat.