Getaway

My eyes keep unfocusing on their own, and when I blink, it takes a second too long for the room to come back. I can feel the weight of my eye bags pulling my face downward.

The clock on the wall swims slightly, the numbers blurring until they resemble hieroglyphics. Watching the clock makes the second stretch, but not watching it doesn’t help either. The room feels like it’s waiting for me to catch up. But I have no idea what I’m doing here. Pages turn, chairs shift, and desks rattle.

My pen slips from my fingers and bounces along my desk. The sound rings louder than it should.

Miss Miyazawa pauses mid-sentence. The room holds its breath.

My shoulders tense, bracing for my name.

But Miyazawa’s voice resumes, steady as before, and the class exhales with it.

I try to let myself breathe again too, but my chest won’t follow.

After what feels like a lifetime, the bell finally sets me free from my cell. Chairs scrape and voices rise as everyone flows toward the exit. I join them, head down, when a cough cuts through the noise.

It’s strange, thinking a cough can be meant for you, but this one is.

I turn. Miss Miyazawa was sitting by her desk, watching me. She lifts her hand slightly, two of her fingers curl inward in silent request.

I hesitate, then step out of the flow and walk toward her.

When I reach the desk, her attention isn’t on me, but on the papers spread out before her. She flips through them quickly, underlining, annotating, and crossing things out.

I wonder if she asked me something during the lesson and I completely missed it?

“Am I in trouble?” I ask.

She shakes her head without looking up. “No. Nothing like that.”

Her red pen pauses mid-air before she caps and sets it down. Only then did she glance at me.

“I just want to check in,” she says. “About what we were talking about yesterday.”

I nod, unsure what else to do.

“Sit, please.” She gestures.

But before I do, her gaze drops to the tote bag hanging from my shoulder. The corner of a stack of resumes peek out from the top.

“What’s in the bag?” She asks gently.

“Oh,” I adjust the strap. “Just some resumes.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Ah.” A small smile follows. “That makes sense.”

She leans back slightly. “You must have a lot on your plate. Well,” she glances at her watch. It has a neat, bejewelled rectangular face. “Why don’t we talk another time? You seem pretty busy this afternoon.”

“Okay.” I say, pushing myself up from the seat.

“And Lilliya, don’t forget to smile. It helps with everything.”

“Thanks, Miss.”

I wonder how smiling is supposed to fix exhaustion, money problems, or the constant feeling of falling behind.

But I guess if the ‘wonderful’ Miss Miyazawa says it works, it must.

I make a small pitstop at the petrol station on the main road, the whoosh of the doors saving me from the heat. The cold air raises goosebumps along my arms as I drift toward the slushie machine. The ice turns and whirs, slushing thickly against the clear window.

It’s working today. Relief loosens something in my chest. These machines are always reliable. In the dead of winter, they work without complaint. In summer, they’re struggling to hold it together.

Today, when I need them the most, they’ve finally come through for me.

They even have my favourite flavour today, blueberry.

I hope I have the exact amount in coins. I really don’t want to break any notes. I reach for my wallet. The zipper sticks for a second before giving way.

Where are my notes?

I pry the mouth of the wallet wider, hoping they’ve been folded, crumpled or something.

But there’s only a fifty-cent coin.

I lean closer to the machine. The whir of it vibrates faintly through the plastic. I can almost taste it. Cold and sweet. Blueberry.

All the light disappears as the train pulls into the underground station, plunging the crowded carriage into darkness.

When the door opens, the platform bottlenecks immediately. Everyone funnels toward the stairs at once. I pull my headphones from my ears and shove my phone into my pocket, scanning my pass and slipping out of the station with the rest of them.

Hurstville Station feeds straight into a small indoor shopping area. There’s a Maccas, a Coles, and a handful of smaller local stores. Most of them have Chinese signage. I drift into a quiet stretch of hallway running parallel to Coles and stop.

I take a breath. Today is the day I get a job, or at least an interview. There’s something in the air, something telling me this is where things finally start moving.

The feeling doesn’t last.

“Look, I appreciate you coming in person,” the manager says, handing my resume back to me. “Didn’t expect someone your age to apply face-to-face. But we’re not hiring right now.”

“Oh.” I tilt my head forward slightly as I take it with both hands. “Thank you.”

The paper creaks as I turn away. Most of the time, my resumes end up in the bind the second I leave. Getting it back saves me a few cents at least.

I pull out my phone and open my notes app.

Coles Hurstville: No

That makes every shop in here. I glance at the glossy cover of my last resume, my faint reflection warped in it.

I take a sip of my water and start walking towards my bus stop. The air is thick with food smells and conversation, but none of it reaches me. I watch life happen around me without ever interacting with it, I move through it like a ghost.

My stop sits beside the side entrance of a pub, right where the shops thin out, the signs get messier, and the buildings grow smaller and more residential. I trace the worn plastic panel listing departure times with my finger.

Ten minutes.

A couple steps up beside me at the bus stop. They’re holding hands, laughing softly as they sit down in sync. They look younger than me, but there’s a lifetime of love in their eyes.

Something opens up in my stomach, hollow and aching.

I wander away from the bus stop and towards the edge of the business strip, the main road roars nearby. Traffic streams past in an endless, unmoving river of steel, the need to be moving with it hums under my feet.

My thumb moves before I’ve decided anything. I flip out my phone and I dial.

The ringing stretches on.

“Hi, this is Natalie! Sorry I’m not here to pick up your call—”

I hang up before the beep. I’ve left enough voicemails to know nothing comes out of them.

***

If I stare at the cracks in the ceiling long enough, they start to move. My arms stretch to the edges of the bed. The fan clicks with every oscillation. Somewhere beside me, my phone plays a quiet ballad.

Twenty-three fifty-nine.

Even if today ends, tomorrow begins. Wishing away the days doesn’t do anything.

I did everything I could today. I handed out every resume, well. Well, almost. I still deserve something.

My feet feel heavy, cold. Like they’re resting on pedals.

I sit up.

Moonlight slips through the blinds, catching my hands as I curl them into fists. I deserve something for my hard work, even if it didn’t pay off.

Don’t I?

The thought settles before I can stop it.

Mum isn’t working the morning shift tomorrow. Dad doesn’t leave until seven. They wouldn’t notice the car gone.

They would notice the fuel, though.

My gaze drifts to the bookcase. I know where money is. Money I promised myself I wouldn’t touch.

The floor is cold as I kneel and slide the album from the bottom shelf. A fifty-dollar note lies flat across the page, stretched over a double spread of a group I used to love. I close the album and shut my eyes.

This fifty is supposed to be for emergencies only.

The room hums softly around me. Cicadas outside. Beneath that, something lower whines. Mechanical. Almost close enough to touch.

My eyes shoot open to find the album open again. Moonlight catches the edge of the note, drawing my attention to it. I lift it, revealing my favourite member beneath, staring back at me. Impossibly perfect.

I tuck the note into the jacket hanging from my desk chair and slip it on.

My door creaks as I ease it open. The hallway is dark. I freeze, waiting for a sign to step in.

My dad snores. I move. The floorboard complains immediately.

My heart stutters as I wait for another snore before I can pull the door shut.

Every moment feels too loud, like the house is listening.

I make it to the front door. The keys hang beside it, crowded together on a plastic hook. The MINI’s key sits right at the back, half-hidden behind the house keys.

There’s no way to reach just one without everything moving.

The metal shifts, whispering against itself. I clasp one hand around the keys, pressing them together so they won’t jingle, and use the other to guide the ring free.

It slides off cleanly. I do it again. Slower this time.

Another key comes loose without a sound, leaving the MINI's as the last key remaining.

I shift my grip, trying to angle it out the same way.

My fingers slip.

The key scrapes the hook, and it pops off the wall.

I throw my elbow into the wall, cushioning the hook in place while my hands stay clenched around the keys.

The thud is dull and heavy, louder than letting the hook hit the floor would’ve been.

Shit.

I fumble to press the hook back into the wall, palms shaking, keys jingling. I dump the remaining keys onto it. I slip outside and shut the front door too quickly.

The street is silent, and the moon hangs high over the houses, distant and pale.

A brief flash of headlights and a lock chirp break the stillness.

The MINI’s door closes with a hollow thump.