Antipodes Page 11

  “There ya go. Now, I want you to pull left. If you’re pulling left, where should your weight be?”

  Going up with her left leg, her weight should start on her right. She braced between the right leg and left arm. Briefly.

  She pulled her body away from the rock so she could look below her. In a split second, Erin was on the ground, Marama’s hand on her lower back.

  “You okay?”

  “Did you try to catch me?”

  “I was spotting you. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Whenever your feet are above waist level, I’m spotting you. We have to watch out for each other, you know?”

  Erin nodded, though watching out for her friends back home had never been so literal. She nodded again. “Will you show me how so I can return the favor?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Erin studied the rock again. Her next foot hold was left of where she’d been. She climbed back up to where she’d been, used the hold, and five moves later, she was on top of the boulder again.

  “Nice. Have another go?”

  Erin climbed down more quickly. “Okay, what’s the new rule?”

  Marama smiled. “Nothing smaller than a golf ball for your hands, and no hole bigger than a two-dollar piece for your feet.”

  Holy crap. Erin stared at the boulder, studying its texture. The pockmarks were more nuanced than they had seemed at first glance. She climbed three-quarters of the way up and stalled.

  “Look at your feet.”

  If she looked down, she’d flatten Marama. She hugged the rock and felt around with her feet. Nothing. Her boots were too big.

  She climbed down, stuffed her feet into the orange shoes, and headed back to the rock. Her feet whimpered, but the shoes were a miracle; she had one giant toe that found lots of little ledges on the way up.

  On top of the boulder, she towered over Marama, and drank in the view. Hundreds of boulders stood around them, waiting to be discovered. All alone out here—up here—Erin wanted to climb them all. Maybe Claire was right: when Erin really wanted something, she was relentless.

  _________

  Two hours and five boulders later, Marama and Erin met up with the guys.

  “Show us what you got,” Roa said.

  Erin slowly made her way up the boulder in front of her.

  Hank would not shut up about hand holds and footholds and shifting her weight. Erin made a mental note to puke on him in the car. Seriously. Who was Hank, a high school dropout, to give her advice on rock climbing, life, or anything else?

  “Right on,” Hank said when she was back on the ground.

  “Training her up!” Marama said. “Lunch break first.”

  “We ate an hour ago,” Roa said before gripping the boulder.

  “Could’ve waited for us.”

  “Had no idea when you were coming back, did we?” Roa said.

  Marama pawed through the few remaining sandwiches. “Tangaroa. You ate all my chicken salad?”

  “It was great, mate,” Hank said.

  “Of course it was.” Marama yelled at her brother, who was climbing briskly, “Yo! Pig! Down here!”

  Roa jumped down. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Mum made that chicken salad for me. This morning, when we talked about lunch, I said I wanted chicken salad. You wanted BLTs. I want my chicken salad sandwich.”

  “I don’t give two-thirds of five-eighths of fuck all.” Roa started climbing again. “I packed it. I ate it.”

  Hank raised his hands to spot Roa. “Sorry, Marama. I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah.” She took the lunch bag several yards away and sat. “Erin? Ham and cheese, vegetarian, or BLT?”

  “Ham and cheese.”

  They sat facing the guys. Marama pulled out three beverages, containers of vegetables, and hummus with pita before devouring her sandwich and lying in the grass with an ALL BLACKS hat over her face.

  “Marama?”

  “Aye?”

  “What’s the All Blacks thing?”

  She lifted her hat and looked around. “What thing?”

  “The words. They’re all around. Your All Blacks hat. Your brother’s water bottle. There are signs everywhere. What is it?”

  Marama returned the hat to her face. “Ah. National rugby team.”

  “The team is called All Blacks?”

  “Aye. Rugby’s our national sport.”

  “I was freaking out. I thought it was some kind of racist thing.”

  “Oh, country’s racist, don’t get me wrong. But mostly, kiwis are against the Chinese.”

  Erin talked to Marama’s hat face. “Why against the Chinese?”

  “They’re ‘taking over.’ For every one Chinese we let in, we also have to let in his partner, their parents, and their kids. So, you let in one, and you get at least five more. Some people think they’ll control most of our government soon enough. There are as many of them as there are of us. Ma-ori, I mean.”

  Hank’s accent was decidedly kiwi, but Erin wondered how long he’d lived in New Zealand. And who in this country resented him for being Chinese.

  She dipped carrots in the hummus, which struck the perfect balance between creamy and coarse.

  Hank climbed between two boulders, and Erin realized he’d forged those muscles on a rock face. His climbing was deliberate, like a cat stalking its prey. Grasping a tiny button of rock, he pulled himself toward the top. Hank’s climbing was artful. Careful. Sexy. She imagined him without those tattoos.

  When Hank slipped off the rock, Erin realized she had been staring, slack-jawed. She was relieved Marama hadn’t caught her. Lifting his T-shirt to wipe his brow, Hank revealed a rock-hard stomach.

  To shake free of those thoughts, Erin studied the azure sky and ate hummus. She wanted to run her fingers over Hank’s arms. And his six-pack. Or eight-pack, she couldn’t be sure.

  Vowing to swear off guys and the inevitable pain of relationships, Erin focused on the moment. She was glad she’d come. Plopped in the middle of boulders, the afternoon was quiet.

  A bird overhead cut the silence and Erin realized she’d finished the hummus.

  “Good, eh?” Marama said, sitting up.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Mum’s chicken salad is really the best.”

  “My lunch was great, I promise.”

  “Roa is a complete ass. Do you have brothers?”

  “Nope. I’m an only.”

  “That sucks,” Marama said.

  Hank jogged toward them.

  “I think being an only is kind of cool,” Erin said.

  “I guess. We’re five, so I don’t have a clue how it is to be just one.”

  Hank grabbed an apple. “Can I have this?”

  Erin caught a whiff of onion and flinched.

  “What?”

  “I just—wow. Did you eat a raw onion?”

  “He had Mum’s chicken salad,” Marama said.

  “Potent,” Erin said.

  Hank cocked his head to the side. “Really sorry about your sandwich, Marama.”

  “Yeah.” Marama pointed at Hank with her thumb. “Thanks to this fuckwit, I almost lost one of my brothers.”

  Hank’s face fell. “Could we skip this?”

  “Yeah, no,” Marama said. “Once, soon after Roa had gotten over mono, Hank convinced him that a hundred-kilometer race was within his grasp. Tangaroa had to be medevac’d off of Arthur’s Pass.”

  Erin said, “You did not.”

  “Roa loves cycling. And, in my defense, I knew he would regret missing the race,” Hank said. “I want everyone to have the maximally enjoyable experience.”

  “Bite your bum. You dared him,” Marama said.

  “And I’ve been apologizing every day since. I will never forgive myself,” Hank said before returning to his boulder.

  Once Hank was out of earshot, Marama said, “We give him hell for it, but most everyone was pissed at Roa. Hank’s a work-hard-play-harder type
of bloke. He said he believed in Roa. And when Hank says he believes in you, there’s something about it that makes you want to make it happen, you know?”

  Erin’s cheeks flushed. “I wouldn’t really know. I just met him.” She packed what was left of the food. Thinking about the return trip made her regret scarfing down the hummus. She needed her lunch to settle before reliving those hairpin turns. “More climbing?”

  “Really? You’re into it?”

  “I am. I could stay here all day.”

  THIRTY

  Erin slid into her dining room seat at precisely 6:30. Famished, she buttered a slice of warm bread and dug into Felicity’s shepherd’s pie.

  “Squeaky cheese, too!” Pippa said, her mouth full of food.

  Felicity pointed to a browned slab of cheese. “Halloumi. Squeeze a bit of lemon on and try it.”

  Dubious but polite, Erin pierced a slice and added lemon. The warm cheese squeaked as she chewed it. Soft and mild, it had a fibrous texture. She took a second bite.

  “How was your day, then?” Felicity asked.

  Effusive, Erin shared her impressions of Castle Hill and bouldering.

  “Did you crawl into the tiny space under the tilted boulder?” Pippa asked.

  “I did not crawl under anything.”

  “Dad always dares me, but I wouldn’t want to get stuck under in an earthquake.”

  “No kidding,” Erin said. “I also saw Marama’s brother, Roa, do some amazing stuff. He and Hank are like spiders; they can cling to anything.”

  “Hank was there?” Felicity feigned disinterest, but her tone suggested Hank’s presence was of paramount interest.

  “He was. He’s really good.”

  “Explains why he canceled my lesson today,” Pippa said.

  “Oh, Pippa, I’m sorry,” Erin said.

  Felicity said, “It’s not you. That is a boy who chases his heart.”

  “One of the best blokes I know,” Hamish said.

  Erin couldn’t deny her attraction to him, but he had quit school, which was unconscionable. Hank should apply his passion for rock climbing to something important. He needed to grow up.

  Erin would have Columbia. She hoped to have Columbia. And she’d be a doctor. She was going places; Hank seemed satisfied staying put.

  “Nothing to say, Erin?” Hamish asked. “You don’t care for Hank?”

  “We don’t have much in common. I don’t typically care for high school dropouts and I especially don’t care for people who try to tell me what to do.”

  Hamish set his jaw. “Hank isn’t a dropout. And neither am I. Don’t confuse being overeducated with being smart or kind. Don’t imagine a medical degree will make you a good person. I’d choose a good person over a brilliant overeducated arsehole any day.”

  “Hamish?” Felicity said.

  “Excuse me!” He threw his napkin on the table and walked out the front door.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Erin said, though her words had meant little else. “You know that’s not what I meant, right, Felicity?”

  Pippa’s eyes were as big as quarters as Felicity drew and released several deep breaths.

  “Here, Erin, school is compulsory only through age sixteen. Hamish and Hank, and our neighbor Dean, and Jade’s parents, and my brother Nick? They’re not dropouts. And they’re some of the best people we know. Our best mates.

  “Staying through year thirteen or going on to university provides nothing but more schooling, which is fine if you need it. Medicine is your calling, so of course you’ll go to university and medical school. But look at the big picture: our country—any country—needs bus drivers and grocers. I find pleasure in doing good work and coming home. I don’t need a big fancy job and a big paycheck, but I need a grocer who ensures my produce is fresh. Pippa needs a bus driver who takes her to school safely. We couldn’t function without construction workers. Imagine Christchurch without rubbish collectors.”

  Erin hadn’t thought of that. Everyone she knew in America—everyone!—was trying to get into the best possible college. She’d never considered working straight out of high school. She’d worn Columbia and Harvard onesies before she could walk. College was a given, and she’d always assumed people lacking a degree—cashiers, garbage collectors, bus drivers—had failed at attaining one.

  While that assumption may be flawed, she couldn’t fathom choosing an unambitious or small life. In fifteen years, she would have the things—her own house, car, medical degree, and respect—that would make her life great.

  Great medical school, great job, great life. And great friends, to boot.

  The morning of Erin’s seventeenth birthday, she found her best friend passed out in a tangerine shirtdress that complemented her deep brown skin and black hair. Reeking of alcohol, Lalitha snored loudly as Erin borrowed clothes from her closet.

  Erin showered quickly, taking care to remove the crusty pink vomit adhering to her hair.

  When she’d dressed, Erin sat on Lalitha’s bed and attempted to wake her gently. Failing that, she shook Lalitha’s shoulders.

  “You’re gonna make me puke again.”

  Erin sniffled as tears bubbled in her eyes. “I need you to be awake for a second.”

  Lalitha sobered. “What happened?”

  “Claire knows. About the party, about the puke, about me passing out—all of it.”

  “How?”

  “Does it really matter?” Erin shouted.

  Lalitha covered her ears.

  Erin gently pried one of Lalitha’s hands off her ear. “I’m grounded, and I have to go home right now. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Bit of advice?” Lalitha asked.

  “Do yourself a favor: drink lots of water and take two Ibuprofen.”

  “No.” Lalitha looked Erin in the eye. “Advice for you: tell them today about the Quigleys and swimming. And any other bad news you’ve got. They’ll never be more pissed than they are right now, so go big or go home.”

  “Thanks. When are your parents home?”

  “Tuesday. You go. I’ll handle the mess once I can stand up straight. Thank god it’s Sunday. I should not get into a pool right now.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  With only two swim meets before Nationals, Percy was eager to pit Erin against other teams.

  Her first kiwi swim meet involved no pep talks, no all-hands-in for a cheer, and no rituals. Unlike crowds in Wheaton, where parents screamed instructions from the bleachers, the riotous kiwi crowd quieted during races.

  During Erin’s first-ever swim meet, she’d heard Claire shouting every time she came up for breath. Today, she anticipated utter decorum from the Wakefields. Felicity, Hamish, and Pippa missed her first race, but Pippa gave two thumbs up when Erin climbed onto the blocks for her second.

  Staring at her toes, she was in her element. At the gun, she dove into the water and pushed.

  Dolphin, dolphin, dolphin, dolphin, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe. Flip.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, done.

  Percy had been right: she won all three races easily.

  Erin’s teammates congratulated her briefly before turning their collective attention to plans for the weekend.

  Erin fielded several invitations—for surfing, for Castle Hill, for the beach—and chose mountain biking with Jade. A minute before the relay began, Erin’s teammates offered trail advice and debated the best views in Christchurch.

  For a few minutes, Erin and her three relay partners focused intently on the race, in which they set a record, but relaxed completely afterward. The ebb and flow was a stark contrast to the hours-long adrenaline-filled meets of Erin’s past.

  The crowd seeped from the bleachers and Pippa ran to Erin, wrapping her in a hug. Pippa’s T-shirt was soaked when she let go. “That looked like fun! Can you teach me how to do the butterfly?”

  “I’m sure I can,” Erin said.

  Pippa flipped open her steno pad. Upside down, Erin read her scrawl:
Swim with Erin. Learn the butterfly.

  “I don’t think we’ll forget, Pip,” Erin said.

  “We haven’t got ’round to black holes again. I want to be sure we do eventually.”

  Felicity said, “That was amazing.”

  “You must be stuffed after all that,” Hamish said.

  Erin’s brow furrowed.

  “Knackered? Buggered? Exhausted?”

  “Oh! I’m feeling okay, actually.”

  Felicity said, “Go and have a quick change, and we’ll head home for tea.”

  Most of Erin’s friends were in the spa, but tea sounded like just the thing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Three weeks into her study abroad, Erin accidentally told Claire she was taking art. She woke the next morning to a barrage of texts.

  Claire: I’ve been thinking about your elective art class.

  Claire: We both know you’re not an artist.

  Claire: Would that school let you use the art period on something more important? I think you could compose music for cello to counterbalance the lesser symphony experience.

  Claire: An immersive project like music composition would look really good: shows initiative, skills, and perseverance.

  Claire: Let me know if I need to lean on the administration to make this happen.

  That morning in art class, Erin’s landscape looked like child’s play, literally. She was working from a gorgeous photograph of an ocean storm, but hers looked like blue blobs beneath a wet, gray mess. No nuance. Five years without art had rendered her embarrassingly inexperienced.

  Erin maneuvered herself between her painting and Mrs. Campbell, who was critiquing the class.

  “I’d like to see your work, Erin.”

  She blushed. “It’s just that … it’s very bad. I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Campbell studied it closely. “For a first year, I’d say it’s pretty good. Use the watercolor pencils to draw in the fine details, then flood it with water to get a delicate watercolor look.”

  “Thanks. And I’m sorry.”

  “You are learning.”

  Erin nodded. With blue and white pencils, she differentiated her painted sea before adding water.