Unspoken Words Read online

  I loved reading and writing … and music, Madonna, and pizza. But words were everything. They were stories, history, songs, the news, and law. The written word was our past, present, and future, and in my future, I was going to be a writer. I may have only been ‘nearly’ thirteen and unfamiliar with much of life and the world we lived in, but I knew that. I knew deep within my heart that I would write till I died.

  No one would stop me.

  Opening the page of my Christopher Pike book, a gentle breeze blew along the river, carrying what sounded like the strumming of a distant guitar. My head snapped up like a meerkat, and I looked in the direction I thought it was coming from, angling my left ear toward the sky. The tune was sweet, inviting, and yet it also sounded a little sad, the tempo slow and sombre. It was beautiful, and I had to know where it was coming from and who was playing it.

  Gathering my stick, book, notebook, and pen, I stood up, stepped off the dead fallen tree, and made my way along a barely formed dirt path through thick brush, the perfectly timed notes of the guitar growing louder with each step I took.

  “It is someone playing a guitar,” I murmured to myself as I pushed aside the foliage of a bush, my eyes catching sight of Connor perched on a rock in the sun, guitar in his hands, the worries of the world seemingly absent from his face as he played.

  The river’s reflection glittered across his skin and hair, which rested comfortably on his shoulders—longer than what most boys his age wore—flecks of amber shining through warm, brown strands lightly blowing with the breeze. He looked … magical, like a paranormal character in one of my books, and I wondered for a split second if he was, in fact, human.

  Unable to help myself, I tucked the stick and my book under my arm and hid behind a large gum tree before opening my notebook. My fingers itched to jot down what I was seeing, which was what I used my notebook for. Kinda like a journal but not really a journal. More a written collection of what I encountered in my everyday life.

  “I can see you,” Connor called out.

  I flinched, dropped my pen, and quickly pressed myself against the tree trunk, praying he wasn’t referring to me despite the odds of that being worse than a dolphin emerging from the river and neighing at us.

  “Really? You’re gonna pretend you’re not there? Okay, let’s do that then.”

  Silence settled like a winter blanket, and I couldn’t breathe yet I couldn’t answer.

  “Trees don’t wear shoes, you know,” he added.

  Glancing down, my face contorted when I noticed my well-worn Chucks peeping out at the base of the trunk.

  “You may as well come out, Eloise.”

  Connor chuckled for the slightest of seconds but then stopped, and I almost questioned whether I’d heard it or not, as if he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. It made me curious, so I stopped acting ridiculous and left my hiding spot, tediously stepping out while cradling my book and notepad to my chest. They were my shield; my protection against everything.

  “I … I heard you playing the guitar,” I stuttered, avoiding his gaze while toeing a pattern in the loose dirt at my feet. “You’re really good.”

  “I like to play . . . alone.”

  My head snapped up at the sour tone of his voice, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy. I … I was just a few metres up the river, reading. I—”

  “I meant thanks,” he added, cutting me off and avoiding eye contact while tightening his guitar strings.

  I pressed my lips together and nodded, unsure whether to stay or leave. He hadn’t exactly made me feel welcome, but then I didn’t think he wanted me gone either, his mouth twitching with what appeared to be pending conversation that he couldn’t quite release.

  Maybe he’s just shy?

  I stood still and waited but he just ignored me and kept turning his guitar pegs.

  Maybe he’s just a jerk?

  Stepping back, I turned and went to leave.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  I turned back to face him. “What’s what?”

  He nodded toward my chest, to where I was cradling my copy of Chain Letter.

  “This?” I held it at arm’s length. “It’s just a book I’m reading.”

  “No, the other thing.”

  The only other things I possessed were my notebook and the stick. The stick was clearly a stick, so I figured he was referring to the notebook.

  “This?”

  He nodded, once.

  “My notebook.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “For writing in.”

  Connor scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No shit, smarty-pants.”

  I glared at him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that I use it to write stuff in.”

  “What kind of stuff?” He removed the guitar from his lap and propped it against the rock he was sitting on.

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Stuff I see, smell, hear, and touch.”

  Connor’s curiosity was weird. It also made me a little nervous, and I was never nervous, especially around boys. Boys were kinda dumb and boring.

  He scratched his head. “So it’s your diary?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t neeeeeed to get it,” I said, defensively.

  “I know, but I saw you write something when you weren’t ‘reeeeeally hiding’ behind that tree,” he said, copying me. “What did you write?”

  Oh my God! Rude much?

  “Nothing.” I shook my head, heat rising to the surface of my cheeks. What I wrote in my notebook was private.

  Connor picked his guitar up and twanged a string. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not. I mean, I did write something, but it was nothing.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Oh my God, he so annoying.

  Huffing, I opened my notebook to the page I’d just scribbled on. “Fine. It says magic, honey, giant, sunset, sweet and beautiful.” The very second those words left my mouth I wanted to pull them back in, chew them like a toffee, and swallow them whole. They’d sounded so dumb said aloud. “They’re just … stupid words,” I mumbled, snapping my notebook shut, the simmer in my cheeks now searing to a burn.

  I spun on my heel, ready to run all the way home if I had to. I didn’t care how long it would take. An hour. A day. An eternity. I wanted to flee this hellhole and be far, far away from this magical, annoying boy.

  “WAIT!” he called out. “I, uh, I sing the things I can’t say.”

  I paused my escape. It was such a strange confession, but it was the honesty and apprehension in his voice that had me slowly turning back to face him. “That’s … er … pretty cool.”

  Connor looked away, stood up, and went to leave instead, and, strangely enough, I didn’t want him to go either. He was odd in an interesting and mysterious way, and I was all of a sudden keen to discover more about him, starting with his unspoken words.

  Quickly changing the subject, I asked about him moving to Greenhills. “So … where did you used to live?”

  “Portsea.” He picked up a rock, stepped to the water’s edge, and skimmed it across the surface. I watched it bounce two, three times before it disappeared into the river.

  “Oh, that must’ve been awesome! I’ve always wanted to live by the beach. I will one day, you know.”

  He nodded then shrugged. “It’s okay … if you like sand.”

  “I love sand!”

  I did. It was so much better than poo-brown dirt.

  Connor smiled for the first time and the sight of it made my heart dance in my chest. He had dimples—two large dips of cuteness on his cheeks. I loved dimples nearly as much as sand. His eyes were also sparkling, and they made me gulp. Maybe he is a paranormal creature?

  I gulped again. No, he’s not. He was just super cute. And maybe, just maybe, not all boys were dumb and boring.

  Snapping my wide-open mouth shut, I tried to act norma
l but fumbled and dropped my stick into the water when I climbed onto another dead tree. “Crap!” I stomped my foot as I watched it float out of reach. “I liked that stick.”

  “Then go after it!”

  “What? Are you nuts? That water is disgusting. I’m not going in there.”

  “Why’s it disgusting?”

  I placed my hands on my hips. “It’s brown.”

  “So you’re saying all brown things are disgusting?”

  “No, because then I’d be saying chocolate is disgusting, and it’s not.”

  He chuckled and, unlike last time, he didn’t stop himself from doing it. “So why is this brown river disgusting?”

  “Look at it.” I gestured to the liquid yuckiness. “It’s dirty and gross. It’s not blue like the ocean.”

  Connor shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes. “Well, last chance. Your stick has nearly reached the current.”

  I sighed and watched it gradually bob away. “I’m not going in there.”

  “Typical girl,” he muttered.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I glared at him. Typical know-it-all boy.

  He took in my defensive stance, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh because his face slowly started to scrunch up.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You get snooty real easy. It’s funny.”

  “I do not!” I stepped off the tree trunk, bent down, and picked up a rock. Then, shifting my weight onto my back foot, I launched it while stepping forward, watching eagerly as it soared away from me and landed in the water with a thud.

  Connor snorted at my pathetic skimming attempt, which annoyed me even more.

  “Why’d you move away from the beach anyway?” I snapped, turning to face him with my shoulders squared.

  He immediately stopped snorting. “No reason.”

  “There’s always a reason.”

  “No, there’s not.”

  This time I was the one who snorted. “Did you get kicked out of your last school? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Were you bullied?”

  “No!” He turned around and walked away.

  “Now who’s the snooty one, huh?”

  Connor stopped and braced his hand against the tree I’d tried to hide behind. His shoulders slumped, and for a second I thought he was going to keep walking, but he didn’t. He just stood there, like a sad European statue.

  I felt bad. “Are you okay?”

  No words passed his lips as he turned to face me, and when I saw the complete and utter sorrow in his eyes, my chest tightened, almost to the point of pain.

  “I … I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just mucking around.”

  His lifeless eyes stared back at me, or more accurately, through me. They were empty. Hollow. Or maybe I was empty and hollow and that’s why they were staring right through me. I couldn’t quite tell at that point. There was no more laughter. No more happy. No more sparkle. And the fact I’d somehow been the cause of that change felt really awful.

  “I just … I just wanted to get to know you a little better,” I explained, dropping my gaze to my feet. “I really am sorry. I say stupid thing sometimes. That’s why I like to write my words. I’m an idiot. My mouth makes me an idiot.”

  The tops of Connor’s sneakers entered my vision when they stopped adjacent to mine. I looked up, which was when he gently coaxed my notebook from my tensely clamped fingers. Strangely enough, I didn’t wrestle it out of his possession. Had any other person taken it from me, I wouldn’t have hesitated to wrench it back, but, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I knew his intentions in that moment weren’t malicious. My notebook was safe. My thoughts, sights, and feelings were safe.

  Connor was safe.

  Squatting down, he picked up the pen I hadn’t realised I’d dropped then opened my notebook to the very last page, pausing and momentarily closing his eyes. I held my breath and waited, which was when he opened his eyes and scribbled something down before handing it back to me.

  “You want to know why we moved?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “That’s why,” he said, gesturing to the notebook now pressed to my chest.

  I swallowed heavily, and it wasn’t until he’d walked away, disappearing as quickly as the breeze had brought his music to my ears, that my grip relaxed. Wow! That was intense. Eloise, you stupid idiot, learn to keep your mouth shut.

  Slapping my hand to my forehead, I swiftly opened my notebook and flipped the pages until I found his note:

  My best friend was murdered by a jerk called cancer.

  I gasped and snapped shut the book.

  And that was the very first time Connor Bourke stole my air.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie

  By the time I got back to the campsite, Dad and Chris had set up the tents, and Mum was organising our makeshift kitchen.

  “Nice of you to join us, Eloise. I take it you had a think about what we discussed in the car?” She was giving me the mothers-know-best look, lip slightly raised, eyebrows arched, head wobbling from side to side.

  I nodded, sheepishly.

  “And?” she probed.

  “And …” I glimpsed toward Connor. He was helping his father set up the portable shower tent.

  He looked my way.

  I smiled, meek.

  He did the same.

  “And? … Ellie, and what?”

  “Oh, and … I’m going to make the most of it, like you said. I’m going to try and enjoy our holiday.”

  “Good.” She smiled but her emerald eyes narrowed like blades of grass before they glanced in Connor’s direction. “He’s an interesting boy, isn’t he?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. We chatted by the river. He seems nice enough.”

  Mum’s eyes widened. “He chatted to you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Huh.” She pressed her lips together and carried on arranging plastic plates and bowls in a storage container. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

  “Whyyyyy?”

  “It’s just that Raelene and Curtis mentioned Connor’s been through a lot recently, and he isn’t talking to anyone, even them. They said he’s barely spoken two words since—”

  Mum cut herself short, and guilt swept over me like a rush of wind from a passing train.

  I lowered my voice. “You mean since his best friend died?”

  She nodded and cast a sympathetic frown in Connor’s direction. “Brain cancer. It was high grade and very invasive. The poor little angel lasted just under six months.”

  Oh no! My eyes found Connor once again, my heart heavy, my guilt heavier. “He didn’t tell me any details,” I mumbled. “But that’s … that’s so horrible. I couldn’t imagine if any of my friends died.”

  Mum reached out and pulled me to her chest, hugging me tight.

  “Beth, would you like me to get the fire started?” Dad called out.

  We both turned our heads to find him holding up a shovel as if he were wielding a sword ready for battle.

  Mum giggled. “Yes, please. Roger that, Roger.”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes; my parents were dorks.

  “What was that groan for?” A knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth as she leaned forward, kissed my forehead, then released me from her hold.

  “You’re both so embarrassing. No one else’s parents say stupid stuff like that.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “Sure. They. Don’t.”

  We proceeded to have a stare-off when my brother slumped with a thud into a foldout chair beside us. “That Connor kid sucks,” he grouched.

  I scowled at him. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “What would you know?”

  “Everything.” Chris waggled his eyebrows then tossed his footy in the air, his eyes following each rotation it made before
it fell back into his hands. “The guy doesn’t like football.”

  “So!” I placed my hands on my hips. “Not everyone does.”

  “Every boy does.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Pussies don’t.”

  Chris and I both flinched at the loud, sudden, bang that sounded from behind. I spun around to see what caused it, finding Mum, her hand tightly clenched around a plastic cutlery container she was pressing firmly against the tabletop.

  “If I hear that word leave your mouth one more time,” Mum seethed. She stepped up to Chris, her pointed finger cautioning him. “So help me God I will tape your lips shut. Have some respect.”

  Their eyes were locked, her brows pinched, his arched taller than the M of a McDonald’s sign. Chris went to say something but decided against it, opting to twirl his ball instead.

  “Do you know why Connor is so quiet and withdrawn?” Mum whispered, a snake-like hiss to her words.

  Chris shook his head and deliberately kept his focus on the spin of his ball.

  “His best friend just died of brain cancer, that’s why.”

  The ball stopped spinning and a cool breeze blew through the annex connected to our tent. It also blew with it an eeriness that was so unsettling it made me turn around to find Connor standing within earshot—his smile gone, his eyes hollow once more.

  I watched as his lips parted, and I waited for his words, but they never came. Instead, he drooped his head, walked to his tent, and disappeared behind its murky green canvas walls.

  Connor didn’t re-emerge for the rest of the night, and I worried that it would remain that way for the next thirteen days. Not even twelve hours into my summer holiday, and his presence had made camping bearable. It wouldn’t be bearable if he stayed in his tent the entire time.

  I really hoped he didn’t.

  I wanted to talk to him again, to make him laugh and see him smile because, according to Mrs Bourke—when she bailed me up at the toilet block and questioned me with concern and excitement about Connor speaking to me—it was clear he didn’t do those things anymore, which was why I’d come up with the best idea