Eyes On You

• Celeste Jeffers, Grade 11, Gympie State High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

Every day, I watched her.
I watched her from the safety of my luscious garden, enclosed by small spindly scrubs and the surrounding trees of the bush. She walked along the track behind my house to the bus stop every day for school, and then on weekends to her job at the local service station or to the beach. Sometimes I would follow her there, too, watch her chat idly while her young dog listened and waited eagerly for a swim in the azure waves. I would watch her on most days with keen eyes as she left the bush track and continued on down the footpath towards the bus stop, never pausing or looking around or even suspecting my presence. Some days she would be rushing to get to the bus, late because she'd taken a too comfortable shower and let the hot water flush her skin a rosy pink. Her blue-green, grey-tinted eyes would stay focused on the path ahead. Her stride was oddly regal despite the school uniform and the awkward way she ducked her head when she passed another person and muttered a "g'day". Her feet would be placed one in front of the other, as if she were perfecting a catwalk that complimented her fluid pace and the way she held her head when she didn't think anyone was watching. You could just tell she knew where she belonged – at the top. She had the town memorised and the people sorted into rankings depending on which she deemed worthy enough to be in her presence. She had a plan to escape after high school ended, because she was better than here. You can imagine why I became so entranced, why I allowed the urge to observe take over. I could see past the false bulk of her school jumper and the thickly soled running shoes and the acne and the fact that her nails were bitten so much that the skin often broke. I was used to hearing the tap-crunch of each footfall as she trod across the street from her house into the trees and the little jingle of her school bag. But one day when I watched again from the safety of my garden, standing behind the corner of my little tool shed, I didn't hear her walking along the damp leaves that covered the path, and didn't see her long legs carry her forward swiftly as usual.
Instead I felt her breath flow across the back of my neck, laced with the mint flavour of the gum she chewed and her icy fingers gliding softly over the back of my shoulder, and heard a small murmur pass her lips as she suddenly stood so close against my back.
Perhaps I should have wondered if she watched me, too.