‘So you were nine?’
I nod.
She looks around the tinny. ‘And what age did you learn that Santa wasn’t real?’
My eyebrows come together. ‘Wait. What do you mean, not real?’
There’s a brief moment of panic on her face before she realises I’m joking. She dips her hand in the water and flicks it at me.
‘I had doubts when I was around eight,’ I tell her. ‘But I chose to remain blissfully ignorant for a few more years. I guess the first Christmas without Mum truly burst that bubble. Dad tried, but he just couldn’t pull it off like she could. Drinking and present wrapping don’t mix.’
Annie gives me a sympathetic smile.
‘What was it like growing up without Christmas?’ I ask.
She thinks for a moment. ‘It was tough when we were younger. You know Santa’s not real, but it still feels like you’re missing out on some kind of magic. Once the magic is gone for everyone else, it’s easier. Then you’re only missing out on new clothes and CDs.’ Her eyes move between mine. ‘You’re Catholic, right?’
I nod. ‘No one in my family has stepped inside a church since I was baptised, but yes, we’re Catholic.’
‘That means you’ll still get a fancy church wedding. Kingdom Halls don’t have the same charm, I’m afraid.’
It should be strange to sit here talking about marriage, but it’s not. I guess she hasn’t forgotten this is fleeting after all.
‘For the record,’ she says, ‘I can’t come to your wedding. I’m not allowed to go into churches.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘There’s usually a sermon of some kind discussing “unscriptural ideas”. Or maybe they make the sign of the cross or pray to a false God. Anything that might cause us to stumble spiritually is a no-go.’
My mouth turns up. ‘That’s okay. I probably won’t go to your wedding either, because I won’t be invited.’
She laughs, then goes quiet. ‘It’s obviously inconvenient that I’m not allowed to date you, but it’s crap that we can’t even be friends.’ She shrugs. ‘I like you.’
It’s more than crap. I want to say I like you too, but I simply nod.
She looks down at her feet, and her face falls. ‘Was that water already inside the boat?’
I feel it then, water at my feet. It’s seeping in through the rust. ‘Shit.’
‘Are we sinking?’ She shoots up, and the boat rocks violently.
I pull her back down and drop one of the oars in the process. We both reach for it at the same time, and the boat leans right, taking in water. The oar is pushed away on a wave as the tinny levels itself.
‘Sorry,’ Annie says.
I start paddling with the one oar I still have, trying to get us back to the jetty. We’re ten feet from it when the boat starts to go under.
‘Jump,’ I tell Annie. ‘Go.’
She leaps into the water, and I jump in after her, then return to the boat, trying to pull it to shore. I can’t bear to see it sink.
Annie grabs hold of one of the wooden piles and looks back at me. ‘Let it go. It’ll drag you down.’
She’s right. It slips beneath the surface and starts to pull me down with it. Swearing, I let go and watch it sink. When the bubbles stop rising, I swim over to Annie.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Can you help me up?’