Bliss

three

The car jolts forward, and Mum pumps the handbrake. Her fingers are taut as they collapse against the wheel, and we all take a deep breath. In true Paula fashion, she asks if Mum's alright, but I tune out her shaky response and shimmy out the car instead. It's not that I don't care, more that I know she's exaggerating, which might sound like I don't care, but I do, honestly.

Either way, caring, not caring, it doesn't matter when compared to what's on the edge of the cliff that towers over the marina. Or rather, what sits on it because there, gazing down at us, is an array of multicoloured homes. The blues, pinks, yellows all melt into a vibrant haze, and my eyes buzz with excitement.

Transfixed, I follow behind in a daze. For the first time in over a year, I feel my fingers twitch. I have the itch—the artist's itch. You know, the one that forces you to pull out your supplies, sketch a quick outline and get to work. The one that's plagued me my whole life, until suddenly it didn't, and the wonderful spark I loved was lost to...

Well, I don't know exactly what, only that it was gone.

But it's back. Or rather, it was because quickly as it comes, my fingers go numb, and I turn away from the inspirational material that dangles on the precipice.

Everyone seems oblivious to my inner turmoil—okay, not turmoil, that's a bit dramatic. Let me rephrase.

Everyone seems oblivious to my despair. Yes, that's what it is. Because rather than turn around and ask what's wrong—the attention whore in me screaming in desperation—Mum and Paula walk ahead without so much as a second glance back, leaving my disappointment to become absolute distress. And although I long for them to take notice, I'm glad they don't. I know, I know, I need to make up my mind. But it's one thing to have to discuss my lack of artistic vision with them, and a whole other thing to discuss it when there's a spectator in our midst. Oh, and by spectator, I mean Mrs Harris.

She's an unexpected addition to our lunch plans, and although I hate her son, the same cannot be said for her. Perhaps the only questionable thing she's ever done is give birth to Isaac.

Actually, I take that back. You can't pick your children after all.

So, with his birth struck from the record, she's virtually perfect. I've always thought so, always liked her more than my parents' other friends. I think we get along because she's kind. Everyone else would've witnessed my meltdown two days ago and been both parts offended and horrified that an eighteen-year-old could behave in such a way, but she simply took it in her stride and told me that sometimes Isaac drove her crazy too. If I'm honest, her response solidified her position as one of my favourite people in this world, and it's damn near impossible to get onto that list, so you know she's an absolute legend.

Mum calls my name. The three of them seem miles away. Rather than continue to mope—if I did, and I want to, they would surely catch on to the fact that I'm upset and expect an explanation—I run forwards and thread my arm through Paula's.

"Have you guys decided where we're eating?" I ask. My voice is surprisingly steady, and my smile stretches naturally. With it, the pressure of anguish dissipates from my cheeks—you know, since the whole artist thing doesn't seem to be working out, I should be an actress because they don't suspect a thing.

Want to know how I know?

Well, it's easy. Mum continues as if nothing's changed, and rather than turn to me, brow raised and a ready frown waiting, she says, "Danielle and I don't want anything too heavy, but Paula is insisting on the restaurant over there." She points it out, and I squint. The glare of the sunlight disrupts my view.

"What do you think, Lizzie?" Mrs Harris' question surprises me.

I straighten up and shrug. "Food is food."