Sugarcoated, p.1
Sugarcoated, page 1
SUGARCOATED
First published by Fourteen Press in 2021
Copyright © Sarah Epstein 2021
All rights reserved. This book remains the copyright of the author. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. Electronic versions of the book are licensed for the individual’s personal use only and may not be distributed in any form without compensation to the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without express permission from the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
This story is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and internal design: Sarah Epstein
Cover images: © Konstantin Yolshin/Shutterstock;
© Atstock Productions/Shutterstock
Editor: Sarah Ambrose, White Elephant
ISBN 978 0 64533 222 3 (ebook)
ISBN 978 0 64533 223 0 (paperback)
First edition
YA fiction
#LoveOzYA
Find out more about the author and her books at
www.sarahepsteinbooks.com
A guide for international readers:
This book is set in Australia, and therefore uses British English spelling. Some spellings may differ from those used in American English.
Please see the back of the book for a guide for international readers.
For my lovely readers.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Thanks for visiting Leftover Bay
A guide for international readers
About the author
Also by Sarah Epstein
Piece of Cake
Chapter 1
Bad things come in threes, right? Isn’t that what they say? Whoever they are, the imaginary committee dispensing wisdom to the human race. ‘Good things come to those who wait’ they tell us, and ‘Bad things come in threes’. So considering I’d already hit my bad things quota just a few weeks before Christmas, I should have been off the hook for the rest of the year. There was absolutely no reason to feel nervous about my dad’s impromptu invitation for dinner.
I slid my phone into my pocket and leaned over to retrieve my paint pot from the floor. In my haste to check messages I’d accidentally missed the drop cloth when placing it down. A ring of green paint gaped up at me from the floorboards like a wailing mouth.
“Seriously,” I mumbled at it. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
There was really nothing in Dad’s text message to indicate I had anything to worry about. No sad-face emoji or overused capitals. No ominous lines like Sophie, we need to talk. Just because our regular Bay Cantina night was Tuesday, it didn’t mean Dad couldn’t get a craving for quesadillas on a Friday as well.
Still, my spidey senses were tingling. And if the last few months had taught me anything, it was to ignore those tingles at my peril.
Somewhere behind me, Kim Hoang cleared her throat, which meant she was about to call a crisis meeting or blast someone for not filling out the sign-in sheet. It was safe to say that as this year’s production manager of the school play, the power had gone to her head. Her sneakers squeaked in my direction, and I glanced over my shoulder to see her striding towards me clutching her iPad.
She stared pointedly at the paint ring on the floorboards. “I know you’re definitely not thinking of leaving that there.”
I continued dabbing at the canvas backdrop that hung precariously from its PVC frame. It would’ve been easier painting it flat on the floor, but Kim complained it wouldn’t leave enough space in the drama room for everyone to rehearse.
“Well if you know that,” I said, “why bother coming over here to point it out?”
From the corner of my eye I saw her mouth fall open.
I was doing it again. My sister Eloise claimed I had no filter, and admittedly it sometimes felt like my mouth ran on a separate circuit to my brain. I did feel bad for snapping at Kim, though. She was basically harmless. We’d shared classes since primary school, and she’d never intentionally tried to hurt my feelings.
“You’re such a smart-arse sometimes,” she said.
Okay, scratch that.
“It’s been mentioned to me once or twice,” I told her. “How about we leave the smart-arse alone to paint her vines?”
Kim scrutinised the backdrop. “You call those vines? They make my baby brother’s finger paintings look like Picasso.”
“Whoa, easy on the praise. You’re making me blush.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “I know everyone tiptoes around you because you’re all cynical about the world or whatever. But I’m not afraid to tell you this looks like some kind of Jackson Pollock vomit.”
“Jackson Pollock was a visionary,” I said. Probably. I didn’t really know much about him, but I couldn’t let on that Kim knew more about art than I did.
“Come ooon, Sophie. We’ve been in the same art classes for four years. I know what you can do. And this—” Kim flicked a dismissive hand at the canvas, “—is not why I suggested to Mr Denton that you help out with set design.”
I took a step back and assessed the forest scene I was butchering. The trees were basic and amateurish. The leafy forest floor was a massacre of paint splatters. I knew I was rushing it, but the bigger problem was I couldn’t seem to muster any enthusiasm. I’d always found solace in being creative, a way to celebrate when things were going well, and a good distraction when they weren’t. But lately I seemed to have lost my artistic rhythm. My brushes felt clunky in my hands, and my drawing attempts were awkward and forced. It had never happened before, and it had me worried.
“You remember I’m doing this as a favour though, right?” I tried to correct the shape of a leaf, but only succeeded in making it blobbier. “I didn’t want to be a part of this school production. I don’t even like Shakespeare.”
“Yeah. Shakespeare’s the problem,” Kim said. She threw a pointed look at the costume table where Sasha Harrison was pinning the hem of a chiffon dress. In all the years Sasha and I were friends, I had no idea she could sew.
“Anyway,” Kim added, “you’re doing a favour for Mr Denton, not me.”
Damn that Mr Denton with his grandfatherly smile. He’d caught me on a bad day when my defences were low. I’d just spotted Sasha and Adam hand in hand in the corridor for the first time since they’d gone public with their relationship, and I was bumping around in a mortified daze when my English teacher flagged me down and steered me into his classroom. Several well-placed compliments later, I found myself agreeing to three backdrops for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was embarrassing to think I was so desperate to feel wanted that I blurted “No worries!” before he’d even finished speaking.
“I’ve gotta leave early this evening,” I told Kim. “So the rest of your charming art critique will have to wait until Monday.”
“We finish at six-thirty.”
“I have a family emergency.” Although I really hoped that wasn’t the case. I thought about Dad’s text again and my stomach tightened.
Kim watched me re-lid the paint pots.
“So not only do we have backdrops that are barely usable,” she said, “they won’t even be finished?”
“What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”
Scooping up my dirty brushes, I headed towards the girls’ bathroom to wash up. A long strand of blonde hair stuck to my cheek like a wet noodle. I’d somehow managed to get green paint in it.
“Opening night’s in ten days!” Kim called after me. “You are so not a team player, Sophie Duchamp!”
I snorted. Team player? Yikes and no thank you. My sister suggested I needed to have Doesn’t play well with others tattooed across my forehead to give people fair warning.
Kim called out something else as I reached the doorway. A few students from the costume table glanced over at her shrill tone. Sasha stopped pinning for a moment, her attention falling on me. I almost smirked and eye-rolled at Kim’s outburst the way Sasha and I used to do with each other when we were friends.
Then it settled in my chest like a bag of wet sand: that afternoon at The Odeon. Sasha walking into Cinema Three with my boyfriend. Our eight-year friendship dissolved that very second, but sometimes my mind forgot, momentarily skipping over it like some kind of sappy mediator.
When it did remember, my brain liked to emphasise my public rejection with several
What exactly are you supposed to do when your boyfriend and best friend sit three rows in front of you and start engaging in public displays of disgusting? Finish chewing your mouthful of popcorn? Throw the box at them? Try to slip out without them seeing you like you’re the one who’s done something wrong?
In the end I made a weird strangled noise in the back of my throat and sat through two movie previews with blood swishing in my ears. Then I stood up, walked down to their row and handed them my popcorn before calmly leaving the cinema. By the time I’d reached the Esplanade, my hands were shaking so much that I had to crush them into fists to make them stop. I decided I was going to hold my head high and be rational about this turn of events, take a moment to process the situation and definitely, definitely not freak out.
Which went about as well as you’d expect.
As soon as I got home I sent them both matching texts (‘You’re dead to me’) and promptly blocked their numbers. Then I cut a jagged fringe into my hair, cried in the shower, and ate two packets of Tim Tams while binge-watching every season of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. My guts churned all night long with rage and sugar overload before rewarding me with a particularly explosive case of the runs.
Four weeks on, I still hadn’t spoken to Adam or Sasha. I tried to pretend they didn’t exist, which was impossible when the three of us lived in the same small coastal town. And every time they looked at me, I was the one who felt pathetic.
“To be fair, you were already pretty pathetic,” my sister pointed out.
She was super helpful like that.
Chapter 2
Outside it was as bright as mid-afternoon even though it was almost six in the evening. With only a few days left of spring, the tourist season had kicked off in preparation for the summer crowds from Melbourne. Amusement rides for the carnival were being set up along the foreshore, and the main street was already decorated for Christmas. Large red bows adorned every traffic light and power pole, embellished with glittery starfish and seashells.
Summertime in Leftover Bay was usually mild but never sweltering due to the town’s position along the Tasman Sea shoreline. The same ocean that gifted us comfortable breezes during warmer months could also deliver bone-chilling squalls in winter, so spring and summer here were the popular times. With only three weeks left of Year Ten, I’d been anticipating lazy summer days at the beach with Adam and Sasha: fish and chips, boogie boarding, carnival rides, and six weeks of freedom from Leftover Bay Secondary. Now Adam and Sasha would be doing those things without me, which kind of took the shine off wanting to do them at all.
I found Dad’s silver SUV parked in the teachers’ car park even though he’d been told off for it in the past. He talked his way out of it last time, and probably thought he’d do that again if he got caught. It was the whole charismatic salesman thing he had going on; he put people at ease and treated them like old friends even if it was the first time they’d met. Eloise had inherited his skill of being able to talk to anyone without feeling remotely self-conscious. The only thing I seemed to have scored from Dad were his blue eyes and freaky-looking toes.
Through the windscreen I could see him talking on speaker phone with a big smile and expressive hand gestures. When he spotted me, I pointed at the Staff Parking Only sign and he lifted one shoulder like, ‘Meh. What are they gonna do?’ As I yanked open the door and hoisted myself into the passenger seat, he quickly ended his call and leaned over to kiss the top of my head.
“Good day?” he asked.
“If by good you mean utterly dismal, then yes.”
Dad winced. “Sounds like nachos grandes is definitely in order.”
“And churros afterwards. With extra dipping sauce.”
He chuckled as he started the car. “Naturally. Love the green hair streak by the way.”
“Thought you might.” I tucked the offending strand behind my ear, now dry and stiff. “Maybe I should go full Oompa Loompa.”
“Only if you want your mother to lose her mind.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” I mumbled, but left it at that. Dad didn’t like me trash-talking Mum. He didn’t have a bad word to say about her, but every now and then I caught Mum being snide about him. Not to me, but usually in phone calls to Aunty Jen when she didn’t realise how much her voice was carrying down the hall.
It was almost ten weeks since Dad moved out, and I still wasn’t used to it. He was currently staying in the holiday cabin my parents usually rented to tourists at the Sandy Shores Caravan Park. I almost tricked myself into thinking he was just bunking down with a friend temporarily, like that time he moved into his brother’s house to help him renovate. Because this was always supposed to be temporary, wasn’t it? Mum needed space to think, and Dad agreed to live elsewhere for a little while. It’s what married couples did sometimes.
But the more time that passed, the more nervous I felt about my parents’ situation. Why did Mum need so much time to think? Whenever I asked her she gave me generic responses like ‘We’re still figuring stuff out’ and ‘Things are complicated’. How complicated could things actually be? If Mum dragged out her thinking time too much longer, Dad would get used to his bachelor pad and his new gym membership. He might start enjoying all that free time and forget he belonged at home with us.
As we pulled onto the road, I slid a subtle glance at the back seat to see if there were any clues about why Dad wanted to see me tonight. A suitcase or a couple of boxes might indicate he was finally coming home. Even just an overnight bag might mean a trial stay over the weekend. All I found was his leather work satchel and a bunch of sales brochures for the property development company he worked for.
“Any luck on the job front?” he asked.
“Not yet. My bank account has tumbleweeds blowing through it.”
He sighed. “It’s a shame they couldn’t keep you on at Driftwood. But I guess gift shops like that have a tough time during the quieter months.”
“Mmm.”
I hadn’t admitted to Dad that my boss at Driftwood Homewares had let me go after she overheard me muttering a swear word at a customer under my breath. In my defence, it was three days after the Cinema Incident. And the customer insisted that I open every boxed oil burner in the storeroom so she could find the perfect shade of white.
“Well,” Dad said, “you might be interested in this.” He reached into the pocket of his pin-striped shirt and pulled out a flyer. As he handed it to me, I recognised the logo for Seaside Candy Co. It was overlaid on a background of colourful jellybeans with the words Opening Soon in large yellow letters.
“The old lolly factory?” I said. “I thought they did all their manufacturing in Melbourne these days.”
“It’s a new retail store.” Dad tapped his finger against the paper. “Right here where the company first started. You know that old heritage building on Pier Avenue?”
“Yeah …?”
“They’ve just completed the fitout.”
“That place is huge!” I cried. “How many jellybeans do they think they’re gonna sell?”
“Grace from my office helped Seaside Candy Co secure the location. She says it’s going to be a concept store or something. Big video screens and displays. They’ve been working with the local council to create some kind of tourist attraction.”
Dad turned a corner onto the Esplanade and I glanced up Pier Avenue as we passed. The two-storey Victorian building was within easy walking distance from the town’s main drag, but hard to see from here with large banksia trees dotted all the way up the road.
“They’re hiring staff for the grand opening,” Dad said, twirling his finger for me to flip the flyer over. On the reverse side were details about casual positions and a phone number for enquiries. “You should look into it.”
Maybe I would. I had the summer holidays rolling out ahead of me with nothing to do and nobody to hang out with. And if there was one thing that could make any job tolerable, it was being surrounded by comfort food.
