Page 60 of She’s a Doll

“Nope,” she said, and started climbing. I sank a little deeper into the backpack, still clutching the phone. I wasn’t sure I was doing a very good job illuminating anything. I could see the dark brown of Nicola’s hair, the freckles at the back of her neck, and not much else. But Nicola didn’t complain. She just kept climbing.

We were halfway up when the ladder creaked, metal squealing against metal. Nicola froze, her breath stopping short and her shoulders shaking. I clutched the phone tighter as the ladder creaked again, a low, angry moan.

“Fuck,” Nicola whispered, tangling her limbs with the rungs. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Don’t worry, I said. If you fall and die, I’ll let you share my doll body. I meant it as a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

“Fuck,” she said again. “What the fuck am I doing?”

We can go down.

“No. No. Fuck, I . . . just . . . Talk.”

Talk?

“Say something,” she snarled. “Just say something.”

I racked my brain for something, anything to say. I . . . eh . . . Why’d you drop out of uni? It was the only thing I could think of.

“That’s what you want to talk about? Me being a useless flunky?”

No. I . . . I’m sorry. I⁠—

“Did you mean that?” she asked, breathing fast. “About being able to share your doll body? If I die? Will I be able to possess the doll?”

You’d need to pay rent, I replied.

This time she did laugh, a tight, strangled sound that might not have been a laugh at all but a sob.

For a long time, we hung there, her limbs tangled with the ladder as she breathed in and out with a steadiness that made me think she was counting in her head. Her knuckles were bone white, her forearms laced with veins. Despite the cold air there was a sparkle of sweat on her hairline.

“I was already on my third try when we met at Ginger’s party,” she said suddenly.

Your third try?

“At university,” she said, speaking to the ladder.

You don’t have to⁠—

“Shut up. I’d moved to Sydney to attend med school. Dropped out in the first semester.”

Why med school? I asked, just to keep her distracted, just to keep her talking.

“I dunno. I guess that was the problem. I had picked something impressive sounding, not something that I really wanted to do.” She reached for the next rung. “For my second try, I went with veterinary science. Made it all the way to semester two before I crashed and burned. Take three was architecture and take four was philosophy.”

That’s a lot, I said dumbly, still clutching the phone, trying to hold it steady as she pulled herself up.

“Yeah,” she said. “My last try was fine art. Week one, I made a joke about the size of Michelangelo’s David’s cock. No one laughed. Couldn’t show my face there again.”

You never seemed like the type to make cock jokes.

Her laugh was tight, forced, almost angry. “I can make cock jokes. Did you hear the one about the guy who died of a Viagra overdose? They couldn’t close his cask⁠—”

That’s a death joke, not a cock joke. You’re telling the dead girl a death joke.

“Yeah, well, you asked the local disappointment why she dropped out of university, so I figure we’re one to one in the insensitive-arsehole competition.” She started climbing, slow and steady, one hand, then one foot, then the other hand, the other foot.

I didn’t mean to be an insensitive arsehole, I said. I just thought you’d love university.