Zelle and Callum used to be best friends, but they haven't spoken in three years: not since the tragedy that wrenched them apart, and Zelle moved away.

But now Zelle is back, and their lives are about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Extracted from It’s a Bit More Complicated Than That by Hannah Marshall. RRP 24.99. Published by Allen & Unwin Aotearoa NZ. Out 17 June.

Cold pavement.

Hot cheek.

Need air.

Need water.

I open my eyes and the light is too much. Animal noises in my throat. Body on fire. Limbs twitching. Bad smell beneath me. A hand on my back — Luka?

Try to speak. No words. No air.

Standing on the edge of an infinitude. I let it swallow me whole.

It burns.

It burns.

It burns.

*

When I wake up the world rushes in. The fire in my body has dulled to a low flicker, the final embers from a bonfire. But, God, I feel hollow. I’m a shell of a girl. My head spins and my vision’s glittery. I realise I must still be slightly drunk.

‘Welcome back, Giselle,’ a voice says, soft and slightly nasally. Scottish, maybe. Not a voice I know. ‘My name’s Dr Burns. You’re in Wellington Hospital.’

I sit up a little, staring at the IV snaking out of my arm. A mid-thirties woman with slick black hair and thick winged eyeliner is standing at the edge of my bed. I run a shaking hand under my eyes. Silver eyeshadow and smears of mascara stain my fingers.

‘Water?’ I croak, and Dr Burns reaches over to a glass jug on a small white table. She fills a plastic cup with water, and I down it like it’s liquid gold. It’s frigid, clinking with ice, exactly what I need right now. I hold my cup out for a refill.

Dr Burns obliges. ‘Do you remember what happened tonight, Giselle?’ she says, while I scull the second cup. Cold water to soothe hot flames.

A few hours too late for that, I think.

‘Zelle,’ I say. ‘Everyone calls me Zelle.’

‘Do you remember what happened, Zelle?’

The night is fractured into shards of memory, pockets of sense. We started with margaritas and tequila shots at Tabitha’s before hitting up town. A round of Tennessee Fire at the bar, maybe two. Dancing. Back to the bar for more shots. A Macca’s stop at some point, though I didn’t want to eat. Staggering out for fresh air onto Courtenay Place.

Things get blurry after that.

More bars, I think. Definitely more drinks. I don’t remember the details, obviously. I do remember feeling elated, though. On an entirely different planet. Like nothing could bring me back down to earth.

I have no idea how I ended up here.

‘Alcohol poisoning,’ Dr Burns fills in for me. ‘You fell unconscious and couldn’t be roused. Luka called an ambulance for you.’

‘Luka’s here?’ I say.

Dr Burns frowns. ‘He only called the ambulance. He didn’t come in.’ Quickly, she says, ‘Do you know how much you had to drink tonight, Zelle?’

I pick up a lock of my hair. It’s sticky, and it smells. Jesus. I try to comb out whatever’s tangled through it, my fingers tugging out clumps of blue. The dye’s starting to fade, and my bleached blonde is showing through.

I eye Dr Burns. What a stupid question. As if I was keeping count.

‘Do you really want an answer to that?’ I say.

Dr Burns ignores the snark and sits down on the bed, which feels overly familiar for someone I met only five minutes ago. I’m half-expecting her to grab my hand.

‘How often do you drink?’ she says, trying on a soft voice.

‘God, I don’t know. No more than anyone else,’ I say. It’s not like I keep tabs on that, either. Weekends are a given, of course, but we’ll do any day depending on who’s busy and who’s doing what. It’s not like school is a priority for me, and Tabitha and Lucy and Anahera and Luka are at uni so their schedules are flexible.

Dr Burns gives me the Suspicious Glare.

‘You’re still seventeen,’ she says.

Big deal. Fake IDs can get you anywhere when you know the right places.

‘I’m eighteen in three months,’ I say.

‘You were lucky your friends called for help when they did,’ she says. She enunciates every word, making sure my alcohol-addled brain absorbs it all. ‘You had a close call, Zelle. Very close.’

I don’t ask her, Close to what? It’ll be textbook scaremongering for every underager who ends up here on a Saturday night. I don’t indulge her.

I think I can guess what she’d tell me anyway.

A new panic seizes me, and I sit up taller. ‘You didn’t call Mum, did you?’

Dr Burns smiles in a way that I think is supposed to be sympathetic but looks more like a shark getting ready to feast. ‘I’m sorry, Zelle,’ she says. ‘Because you’re still a minor, I had no choice. She should be here any minute.’

Oh, fuck me sideways. I lean back on the pillow and close my eyes.

I’m screwed.

I’m completely, totally screwed.

It's a Bit More Complicated Than That by Hannah Marshall is available in all good bookstores now.