By Edie Foxglove
Lu hates parties.
Well, she hated that party, anyway. She dreams of attending big-city parties, far away from these people, this town. Away from Goon of Fortune in the backyards of ramshackle share houses. Books over bozos, wine over winos.
Leaving behind certain memories.
Lu will get her new life, but not tonight.
Tonight, she’s 16, fringe swept over her eyes, sat in the back of Harry Taylor’s shitbox ’98 Commodore with its missing wing mirror. She’s the only one wearing a seatbelt, silent as her friends scream along to the music.
Tonight, Lu’s 16, Harry is 22, and the world feels impossibly small.
♦♦♦
‘Turn It up,’ Ellie screams from the front passenger seat. ‘Harry! Turn it! Up!’
‘God forbid you reach out and twist the knob yourself, hey Ell?’
That was Jackson, right behind her, next to Lu in the back seat. A wry smile creeps its way onto Lu’s face before she can stop it.
That was quite clever, actually. Ha.
Lu turns her head, trying to catch Jackson’s eye for some light-hearted fun. Nothing too mean, but you’ve got to admit it’s all pretty funny, considering that possibility is the only reason they get driven around by Harry at all.
Jackson’s drumming on his bare thighs, eyes closed. He probably doesn’t get it, probably really did mean the volume. Lu can be such a bitch sometimes.
The Commodore drifts around a blind corner.
thecarisgoingtoofast.
Harry turns the volume up; it’s this new album, Wildlife, from their favourite band, La Dispute. Harry’s whiny as shit, mentally ill, and it’s weird, isn’t it, him wanting to spend so much time with year ten kids from the high school he dropped out of?
The house parties he takes them to scare the hell out of Lu, all dark rooms and sweaty bodies, nobody close to their age – but to his credit, the dude has great taste in music.
♦♦♦
thecarisgoingtoofast.
He’s driving the three of them along The Coast Road.
Ellie, who embodies effervescence, hair like the first rays of summer sunlight, a laugh like a break in the rain. Ellie, who he knows he shouldn’t love, but does, oh, how he does.
His cousin Jackson, clever Jackson, good-looking, sporty Jackson, who hasn’t spent a weekend sober in years.
Ellie, with her long, thin legs.
Lu, fucking Lu, none of them ever seem to want to go anywhere without Lu, but she never eases up on him, never turns that brain off for a minute and lets herself have any fun. Lu, with all her pain, all her grief, all her hatred of him. Always reminding the others that they’re young and he’s old.
As if that should matter.
Ellie. Ellie. A reason to wake up in the morning. Makes the voices simmer down for a bit. Ellie.
The Coast Road is a piece of shit.
One of Harry’s headlights is out. It’s been out for weeks. He’s not been out this late in weeks, though.
Not along The Coast Road at two in the morning, the flickering of his lights against the canopy of gum trees making him nauseous, how is it fair that he should feel sick when all he’s had is a RedBull, everyone else tonight is off their heads, even precious fucking Lu deigned herself to have a drink.
The engine briefly drowns out the music.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Oh fuck, that was a pothole and a half.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
thecarisgoingtoofast.
♦♦♦
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Ellie’s lilting voice cuts through the silence.
‘Are you kidding? It’s late as shit. I want to go home. Can you slow down, Harry?’
‘Can you chill out, babe? I’m having fun.’
Obviously, she’s having fun. With Harry swerving to avoid wallabies only he seems to see, finding purpose in protecting her from the perceived threat of imagined creatures, Ellie is, in this moment, the centre of the known universe.
The streetlights are out.
The Coast Road is beautiful in the daytime, from the passenger seat of Lu’s mum’s old blue Honda Jazz. On their way into town to do a big shop on a Saturday morning, they’ll dissect whatever arthouse movie they had on the night before.
I think the last one was Gummo, maybe?
Their car’ll plod its way up the hill, mum giving the dashboard a loving pat, coaxing it along as the ocean comes into view. Homer’s wine-dark sea can’t hold a candle to the crystalline surf beaches ‘round here. If it’s whale season, they may even pull over, hop out and see what they can spot.
Well. Not now we won’t.
No more whales. No more films.
No more mum.
‘I wanna go home. Do whatever you guys want after. Just drop me off.’
♦♦♦
‘Lu, come on, you’re being SUCH a bummer.’
Harry can’t help but agree. Plus, the girls’ constant bickering is sending him a little apeshit. Where’s Jackson in all of this? He looks back at his cousin, sees he’s seemingly lost in his head, picking at his fingernails, brow furrowed.
Jackson wasn’t like this growing up. Harry’s always been a damp, grey day, but Jackson? Jackson was the sun. He remembers the younger boy clowning around, belly flopping into Grandma’s pool on Christmas Day, howling with laughter.
Not like flat, gloomy Harry.
Crazy Harry.
Harry, who can’t hold down a job.
Harry, whose visions and delusions and even on good days, general malaise, burdens everyone around him.
Harry, who loves Ellie so. fucking. much.
Snap out of it.
‘Hey! Shut up a sec and pay attention to the song. This one’s the killer.’
‘The killer?’ Lu snorts.
‘Fuckin’. Yes,’ he retorts. ‘It’s called “King Park”. It’s absolutely brutal.’
He cranks the volume up, up, up.
The road may be dark, he may be driving too fast on bald tyres in a Commodore that stinks of Lynx Africa, narrowly missing another driver here and there. His life may be shit, and Ellie may never accept his love, but here and now, there’s this song.
King Park.
On repeat for a week.
He sings along. Screams.
‘Can I still get into heaven if I kill myself?’
Time slows. His palms bash the rhythm of the backbeat on the steering wheel. Up, down, up, down.
‘Hey man,’ that’s Jackson, Harry thinks, ‘ease up. Focus.’
His cousin’s voice sounds like it’s underwater. No. Wait. Jackson sounds like he’s on the shoreline, stoic, handsome, sane. Standing above Harry, the girls at his side. The older man’s head trapped under the water, trying to break the surface and join them. Bubbles rise up. Their voices so distant. Is that the girls yelling?
His foot presses down on the pedal.
‘Can I still get into heaven if I kill myself?’
‘Harry. Stop the fucking car.’
Why does she have to be such a killjoy? Wonder if she’ll shut up if I –
Harry’s hands aren’t on the steering wheel any more. That’s not cracked leather under his fingertips, it’s his own supple skin. Harry’s hands are covering his eyes. Closed eyes.
It’s just a funny joke; he can hear someone laughing in the background, far away, from under the water. He’s just trying to make the girls laugh. It’s working. Although, isn’t it Harry who’s under the water?
‘Can I still get in, or will they send me to hell?’
Hands reach out and grab the wheel.
Jackson’s full weight feels like it’s crushing Harry’s chest. He’s thrown himself across the car to keep them on the road, out of the scrub.
Someone’s drink hits the windscreen. Lu is screaming. Ellie isn’t.
Jackson’s in his face now.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
Trees come into focus. There’s an actual wallaby, green eyes glowing as it stares, transfixed by his headlight. Jackson’s pulled them over, slumped in the back seat now, breaths ragged. Black eyeliner runs down Lu’s cheeks.
‘Ellie, come on. Let’s go.’
Lu’s urgency shocks him. He was just having a laugh.
Don’t get out, Ell, stay here. Stay with me.
‘Nah, I’m right. You go. Tantrum by yourself. I’m staying.’
Lu flinches.
Ellie breaks their gaze, reaches into her bag for lipstick. Door slams. Engine roars.
♦♦♦
‘Seeya never, you fucking assholes!’
Middle fingers up, bitumen biting her bare feet, Lu stalks along the shoulder. She’ll hitch if she has to. She’ll walk the whole way if she must.
Assholes. Assholes. Assholes!
How could they? They know what happened to my –
Jackson’s heavy tread cuts through the sound of Harry’s screeching tyres as the Commodore’s lights fade into the distance.
‘Wait up, dickhead. D’you wanna wear my Vans?’
He falls into step beside her.
‘C’mon. I’ll walk with ya. That was fucking nuts.’
♦♦♦
thecarisstillgoingtoofast.
Harry’s foot eases off the accelerator.
He turns the volume down a bit, hand finding its way to Ellie’s thigh.
Here they are, alone at last, driving back to his place.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
His lip curls up.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
