Free Floundering by Romy Ash

Loretta and she reaches over the table to ruffle my hair. I swoop from under her hand. Go on, she says.
    The corn is swimming in a milky liquid. I stir it with my spoon and try to get a spoonful that’s got less liquid. It drips all over the tabletop. The corn kernels burst in my mouth. They’re sweet, but I gag.

    I can hear us all breathing.
    I can’t sleep, I say.
    Shut up, says Jordy.
    There are strange shadows on the ceiling of the caravan. I feel under the table and there’s gum there. Jordy’s feet hang out over the edge. Gran read me books before bed. They were all girl’s books. Jordy always hid his head under the covers so he didn’t have to listen.
    I can hear the ocean whisper and growl. Grrrrrrr, shhhhhh, grrrrrrr, shhhhhhhhh, grrrrrrr, shhhhhhhhh, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, shhhhhhh. All night it growls at me. I’m terrified a wave’s going to come right up and wash us away.

7
    She’s flung out on the mattress like a splattered bug on the windscreen. I creep up and take a good look at her feet. They aren’t cracked like Gran’s feet. They’re smooth and small as mine.
    She opens her eyes and I step back, heart racing at being caught.
    I think it’s Christmas, Loretta, I say.
    She curls over on her side and puts her head under the pillow mumbling something. The pillow has no cover on it, and it’s marked with brown stains.
    I bump against Jordy’s feet trying to get past, and even though he looks like he’s asleep he kicks me before pulling his legs up into a ball. There’s thick dust on everything, and the windows are so caked with salt I can’t see through them. The caravan has a force field of salt in the exact shape of a caravan.A blowfly is awake, battering against the window, trying for the light. I open the screen door and a whole lot of other little flies get in. They aim for my face, stick to my sweat. I step outside just in my school shorts, and the screen door screeches closed behind me.
    A girl rides past on a shiny new bicycle, streamers flying from the handlebars. She stares at me like I can’t see her looking. I glance down at my chest and it’s pale, I have a tan only on my arms, with a sharp line where my shirtsleeves hang. It’s as if I’m still wearing the shirt.
    Merry Christmas, she says.
    I look away, mumble Hi into my pale chest. She pedals away towards the tents. When I look up the old man is there watching me from beneath the awning of his caravan. He sees me seeing him. His legs are knobbly sticks out of his shorts. He walks around the side like he’s remembered something he has to do. I go back inside our caravan and put my shirt on. Loretta and Jordy are still curled in their balls. I take a long swig of water and go back outside, saying loudly, It’s Christmas. Slam the door shut.
    I walk around the back of the caravan to where there is a path to the beach. Beside the path is a rusted, corrugated iron shed and inside there’s a drop toilet with an old paint tin beside it, full of sawdust to cover the poos. I do a long wee down into the drop. Sprinkle some sawdust in there. Outside the toilet I follow the path to the top of the dune. It only takes a second to reach the top.
    The bay is shaped in a long curl, like a hook. The river mouth breaks the beach in two. Near the river there’s a jetty. I run down the dune, letting out a little whoop, and then look around to make sure no one has seen me. Laugh at myself. There’s ghostcrabs at my feet. Their shells are see-through. The sound of crabs scuttling into the cracks when you walk close gives me shivers, but these sand crabs are nice, they seem soft. Looking back to the caravans I can only see wonky TV aerials sticking up above the dunes. At the edge of the water I let the waves foam over my feet. I make my way across the hard sand to the jetty.
    Carved into the wooden steps and railing are names, ‘I was ere’, and other things that read like the cryptic crossword questions that Gran used to do sitting in the