Gold Digger

3. Just Everything

"You shouldn't be able to see me."

It's an accusatory growl of rough edges and sharp planes. He sounds panicked. Which throws me completely. I'm no expert on conversing with cute boys on buses, but 'you shouldn't be able to see me' doesn't seem like the typical response to a girl saying 'hi'. It's certainly not how this scenario went in my head.

Awkward silence and heated cheeks replace the false bravado that compelled me to sit here instead of in my usual spot across the aisle. Unsure how to retreat with dignity, I fiddle with the frayed strap on my navy schoolbag and focus on the familiarity of the city-bound bus.

It's too early for the inevitable rush of business commuters and students, and the bus is less than half full. Everywhere you look, orange and grey dominate. Tangerine poles and handrails pop bright against grey floors and handgrips. Moquette-covered seats bathe in a geometric sea of marigold, grey and persimmon triangles. Good for hiding stains. Terrible for migraines. Hard to ignore ugliness that feels like an apt metaphor for my crash-and-burn morning.

From my vantage point in the raised back section, the familiar faces of the regular bus crew are a gentle sort of comfort.

Mrs Rossi is our undisputed matriarch, a no-nonsense octogenarian who favours pink in all things and doles out life wisdom while knitting up a storm. The slight shake in her arthritic hands is the only thing about her that isn't carefully styled and executed.

Mrs R shares the inward-facing seats in the centre section with Aki and Hamish, and Maggie and her toddlers. The two guys met at uni and are enthusiastically planning their European honeymoon. Maggie works in finance, has perfect hair, and isn't fazed by anything—not even projectile vomit. Her twins have very little hair but a lot of energy and must remain trapped in the pram or chaos reigns supreme.

Darren, the tax accountant, rules the front rows. His plaid pant collection is as impressive as his handlebar moustache. There's also Luna, the emergency medicine registrar who we only see when she works day shifts and who always stands because she's afraid she'll fall asleep if she relaxes for even a second. Sometimes there's Luna's boyfriend, Max, or her other boyfriend, Omar. Today it's Max. Most of us are firmly #TeamOmar.

"Why can you see me?" Bus Boy mutters beside me.

I frown, confused, because I assumed we weren't doing the talking thing, but also because I absolutely do see him. I see him on the bus in the mornings and in my head throughout the day. After three weeks of daily seeing, I don't even need to look at the guy to catalogue his features. Average height, lean build, and thick pale curls shimmering like angels' wings. Skin dusted lightly with freckles. Golden perfection disguised as a boy.

Finely inked tattoos wind their way down his left arm like intricate vines. I could map the onyx ink with my eyes closed. From the bow and quiver near his wrist, to the steampunk cogs on his toned bicep, I'm mortifyingly familiar with it all.

I've noticed many, many things about Bus Boy. His broodiness? Yes. The pensive staring out the window? Certainly. The way he pulls at his left earlobe whenever he's deep in thought? For sure. But a tendency towards invisibility? Not so much.

"Are you on something? High?" I gently ask, scrambling for a logical explanation.

He stills, like a wild animal assessing threat levels, before slumping into his seat with a disgruntled sigh. He turns his body sideways to face me, his head leaning back against the fingerprint-smudged window. I try to ignore the way his left knee nudges my right thigh, and how thick and long and dark his eyelashes are. My hands aren't sure what to do with themselves, so they play nervously with the ends of my black French braid.

"I haven't taken anything." He runs long fingers through already chaotic blond hair. "At least, I don't think I have. I'm not sure. Things don't feel entirely solid these days."

Not exactly reassuring. But at least he's talking to you. This counts as casual chatting, right? Meets the bravery brief. Even if it turns out he's high as a kite.

I try to remember the potential signs of drug use Mrs Riley-Gupta catalogued in that 'Healthy Me, Happy Me' seminar we had to sit through last year. Bus Boy's eyes aren't bloodshot or glassy. His skin tone is disgustingly healthy, and he's not twitching or trembling. He wears a slouchy black tee and the same pair of faded jeans every day, but I think that's more a trademark style thing than a lack of personal hygiene, because he also smells like peppermint and fabric softener.

Of course, claiming to be invisible does point to a certain level of paranoia... and paranoia feels like it could be a drug thing...

"Do you usually... umm... take stuff?" I ask.

So not how I imagined this conversation going.

"I used to."

I nod like I know what that's like. "You have a lot of tattoos."

Good work, Captain Obvious.

"They're kind of addictive," he admits.

"What does this one mean?" I point to the bow and quiver, not brave enough to trace them with my finger. All of his tattoos are striking, but this one is special: each line subtle, delicate and super thin.

Myriad emotions dance across his face—flickering and fleeting. I think I see pride, sadness, love, and regret. But they skip by so fast I can't be sure of any of them.

"It represents my brother and me," he murmurs, tracing the lines of the tattoo with his own finger. "His name's Hunter. I'm Archer. It seemed to fit."

"Archer," I repeat. It suits him. A Roman soldier. Or a fallen cupid. Or a Botticelli angel.

"And you are...?" he prompts.

"Sorry?"

"Your name?"

"Oh, umm... D... Darcy. Darcy Li-Quinn."

God. Danica is right. I really am f*****g awkward.

"Welcome to my bus, Darcy Li-Quinn."

His voice—warm and steady and far more welcoming than it was—gives me courage.

"Actually, I think you'll find it's my bus." I arch a single eyebrow.

"How do you figure?"

"You're a newb. I've been catching the 6:53am for years. I have tenure."

"Fair enough, Darcy Li-Quinn, Queen of the Bus. I cede to your superior claim of sovereignty." He doffs an imaginary cap.

"Wise boy." I give him what I hope is a regal smile.

"I can't believe you can see me."

He still thinks he's invisible. Fabulous.

The fizz and pop of what felt like semi-successful flirting dissipate as quickly as they rose. "You keep saying that. Why wouldn't I be able to see you?"

"No one else can." His eyes are as flatly serious as his tone.

I can't help myself. I snort. It's undignified and not at all attractive. But do I really need to worry about being attractive at this point? He might be shimmery golden and even a little charming, but the guy is clearly several pegs short of a clothesline.

Cassidy is going to lose her mind over this. She'll die laughing. As she should. When my best friend left for France, she asked me to do one brave thing. Just one. Something big and bold and last-year-of-school-worthy. I should have booked a tandem sky-dive like Cass suggested. Or pierced my nose. Or finally told my sister, Danica, to go f**k herself. Those would have been moments worthy of out-of-character audacity.

Instead, I summoned the nerve to say a simple 'hello' to a stranger on a bus. An inconsequential thing that girls like Cass and Dani wouldn't even think twice about. This moment was a big deal for me, and I blew it on a boy as deranged as he is pretty.

"You alright, Darcy, love?" Mrs Rossi asks, her sharp eyes resolutely glued to her knitting needles and the half-formed mauve cardigan blanketing her lap.

"I'm fine, Mrs Rossi."

"Are you sure, pet? You're having a right old conversation with yourself. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind, but you know I'm always here if you have something you need to nut out. My Bob always claimed that nutting things out was one of my most useful talents."

It takes a second for me to register the significance of what she's said.

Mrs Rossi can't see him.

"Come sit with me, Darce," Maggie says. "The twins aren't spewy today, I promise. Why sit alone when we could talk all things Real Housewives?"

Maggie can't see him either.

Holy s**t.

My eyes fly to Archer's. He shrugs. The bus rumbles onto the freeway like all of this is completely normal.

"How is it even possible?" I whisper.

"I've given it a lot of thought," he says softly. "My best guess is that I'm dead."

I laugh-snort again but sober quickly when he doesn't laugh too.

Shit. He's serious.

"Dead?"

"'Fraid so. It's the only thing that makes sense. I'm stuck on this bus in an endless loop. No one apart from you can see me, and I have no memory of what happened after getting in my car to go to work three weeks ago. Seems like a death kind of situation."

"But why can I see you?"

"Fabulous question, Queen of the Bus. Why didn't I think of that one?" The sarcasm is softened by a gentle smile, which cuts dents in his cheeks that aren't quite dimples but aren't nothing either. He looks momentarily younger than the nineteen or twenty I've assumed he is.

I try to smile back, but my heart isn't in it.

I believe him.

Like a mother checking for injury at the playground, I reach out and touch his knee, his arm, his cheek. He feels solid. Warm. Here. Alive.

Yet I believe him.

"Well?" he says.

I know what he's asking. "I can feel you."

"But?"

"But I think you might be dead."

"That's what I figured."

We fall silent. My thoughts spin and tumble like pebbles in a flooded river, trying to make sense of the endless churn. How did he die? Is he a ghost? Surely talking to a ghost fulfills Cassidy's 'one brave thing' demand? Focus, Darcy, this is not about you. The poor guy's dead. Dead trumps all your insignificant alive person problems. Why the bus? Is he stuck here forever? Is public transport as much as any of us can hope for in the afterlife department? Or is this some sort of test before he gets to the good stuff?

"You must have unfinished business." I blurt this so suddenly he jumps.

"Yeah," he agrees. "About sixty more years of unfinished business."

"No, I mean, that must be why you're stuck on the bus. You have something you need to finish to resolve the loose ends of your life on earth and then 'poof' off you go to paradise or whatever."

"Poof?"

"Yeah, you know, 'poof'." I gesture with my hands to represent a burst of smoke.

"I'm not a genie, Darcy."

"And I'm not your fairy godmother," I retort. "But you're stuck here and only I can see you, which means there must be something I have to help you do to get you unstuck. You're the tragic hero cut down before his prime, and I'm your hapless sidekick. It makes perfect sense."

"I'm not sure whether you're trying to solve my problems or write a Disney movie."

Pretty or not, he's annoying me now. "Do you want my help or not?" I snap.

He clocks my expression and quickly switches irreverent for conciliatory. "Yes, I want your help. Please, Darcy?"

I sigh. "Of course, I'm going to help you, you dope. What kind of hapless sidekick would I be if I didn't? Any idea where we should start?"

"I need you to talk to my brother."

"Sure. I can do that. What's your last name?"

"Viera."

I freeze, the beginnings of genuine anxiety tickling my chest. The deal for today was one brave thing. One. Not one brave thing followed by public humiliation and whatever punishment Danica exacts after I dare to attempt contact with the guy she's declared will be hers.

Archer's brother is Hunter Viera. The new, unattainable god of Granville Grammar.

Seriously. f**k my life.