They met down on the beach at Cronulla, just the two of them.
They were awkward with each other at first. Seven days had made them strangers to each other. Zahara was taken aback by how different Narelle looked. She'd ironed her long hair flat and dusted her eyes with shimmering powder.
Zahara expected her to start complaining about how out of date her phone model was and how much she was looking forward to going on holiday in Vanuatu. But Narelle hung her head, and searched for the words that would re-connect them.
Cronulla had changed. Not the beach itself, but Narelle's feelings about it. It was no longer the place where she'd built sandcastles with Lark. Instead, as she walked down the beach, she remembered a man curled up on the floor, trying to protect his head with his hands as a flurry of arms beat down upon him. She remembered the whirl of feet, kicking at him. All the different pairs of shoes. Converse All Stars, Nike high tops, chequered Vans, plain Havainas. Scrubby, mud-smeared shoes and knobbly, calloused feet.
She kept scanning the beach for some sign of danger. She was convinced that somewhere in the distance there were people chanting "Reclaim the Beach." But it must have been only echoes from the past, because Zahara walked beside her completely relaxed and unconcerned.
People didn't crowd together on Cronulla, the way they did at Bondi. Up at Bondi people lay in little rows like sausages under a grill. It was the fast-food beach experience. You sat on the beach for an hour or two to help your tan along, and then you ducked into one of the trendy shops or restaurants up the road. People at Bondi didn't even need to touch the water.
Zahara preferred it down here, where there weren't enough people to fill up the sand. You could turn your back on the shops and walk along the beach, with only the sound of water and wind in your ears, and feel like you were the only person left on the planet. You could be a marooned sailor on a desert island, for just a minute, before deciding to make your way back towards the cars and the streetlights and the kids on rollerblades, and the café by the water.
But something was wrong today. Zahara wanted to tell Narelle all of this, and more, but she couldn't. Looking at Narelle now, she was wary of saying too much, of revealing things that she would regret later. Narelle had a new gloss over her face and clothing which made Zahara suspicious.
She wandered down to the water's edge and stuck her fingers in the wet sand. She loved the way it felt, rough and yet soft, strong and yet yielding. If you dug your way too far into the sand it would capture you, hold you tight with a force that you would never free yourself from. But on the surface you could push it in whichever direction you pleased. Her fingers drew a line, and then the line started to curve and flow.
- What's that?
Narelle took a step back and tried to read the squiggle that Zahara had made. A message for the seagulls, it made no sense to her.
- It's the little bit of Arabic I know. It moves so smoothly, to write it. Look.
Zahara wrote it again. Narelle moved in this time, and tried to copy her.
- What's it mean?
- Salaam.
Narelle wrote in the sand.
- Like this?
- No, like this. It means peace.
The two girls traced the word's arches and flourishes in the sand, over and over, until Narelle got good enough to overtake Zahara. Then they were racing each other across the sand, fighting to see who could draw it first, giggling to themselves at the game. Finally, exhausted, they collapsed on the sand, laughing. Narelle pulled a thick piece of hair over her mouth, exposing just her eyes.
- Salaam.
- You were so funny at that lecture out in Granville. Everyone thought you were Muslim!
- I was so embarrassed. How could you guys do that to me?
- Hey, it was all Reshma, okay? Besides, you made them happy. I think she told them she converted you.
The two girls dug their hands into the sand, a dry and grainy comfort, and leaned back to enjoy the sun. Zahara smiled to herself. Not that much had changed.
- You going to come back and visit us?
- For sure.
- Ma was a bit sad that you left without saying goodbye. Reshma, too.
- Sorry. Things were just - my headspace was just all over last week.
- It's okay.
Narelle couldn't believe that this was where people had held up signs saying 'No Tabouli'. When she thought about it, it didn't make sense. No Tabouli meant no rice. It meant no spaghetti, no potatoes, no bread. She glanced over at Reshma, who was contemplating the sea, and she felt relieved.
- Do you sometimes get this feeling that you're the only person on earth? That there's nobody else who will ever understand who you are?
Reshma didn't say anything. She turned to Narelle, her dark eyes full of emotion, and she nodded. Then she looked up towards the sky.
- Why can't we just stay here, like this, always?
The seagulls cried out, the sun beat down. The two girls stared out to the water and the waves rushed up towards them, and fell back towards the sea, in an endless fight to reach the shore. In another minute the sea had washed their hieroglyphs from the sand.
