‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it would be right for me to keep this.’
Juliet handed Malcolm back the $100.
Malcolm could feel the bulge of the tightly folded $100 in his pocket the next day at school. Finally he had found it, something he could not share with his mother. He would spend the money after school, something to cheer himself up. A new computer game maybe, or a concession booklet for the movies. Not that it would work. It was going to take more than shopping to claw his way back out of this hole.
The gloom of failure covered him all morning, even affecting his performance in class, where his answers were uncharacteristically slow and sloppy. It wasn’t the sort of morning that needed another disaster.
It was bad enough just to pass Charlotte in the corridor, see her smile, and know just how impassable the lands between them really were. It was worse having to watch all the other boys, crude stupid boys whom Malcolm had always felt a little sorry for, and realise so many of them had managed the simple act which seemingly was beyond him. It was torture enough to see in his mind the years stretched out before him, barren years of lies and frustration.
Malcolm’s day was turning out quite miserably enough already. It didn’t need the help of the principal, Mr Ramsay, who called Malcolm to his office in the middle of class.
Mr Ramsay was an oddly proportioned man whom Malcolm didn’t much like. He was one of those people who look fat in front, but thin from behind, as if the product of a laboratory mix-up. He had huge, lush eyebrows which curled down over his glasses, while elsewhere on his body the hair was struggling to get a start. His eyes were tiny, his nose on the large side and his teeth were crooked. In fact there was no single part of him that could be called normal, and some days this made Malcolm feel sorry for him. Today, though, Malcolm was far too busy feeling sorry for himself. The only thing he could think, when he was called into the well-appointed office, was
I bet you can do it. I bet you do it all the
time.
‘Malcolm, please, have a seat.’ Mr Ramsay smiled his wonky smile and his eyes screwed up even smaller, two dark dots beneath the foliage. ‘So how’s this year’s Science Fair project going?’
In Malcolm’s experience Mr Ramsay only did two moods: he fawned and he bullied. It was impossible to respect a man who believed life could be balanced out this way.
‘All right, thank you.’
‘You know we have high hopes for you this year Malcolm?’
‘I have high hopes for myself too, sir.’
‘Oh, please, no need for the sir. You’re not like the others you know Malcolm, and I mean that as a compliment. You understand that, don’t you?’
Malcolm nodded. This was going somewhere. Even through his misery he could see that much.
‘If there was a way of having a school full of Malcolms, I’d be a happy man.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes, very happy indeed.’ Mr Ramsay stopped abruptly and fixed Malcolm with his famous
I’ve
been straight with you, now you be straight with me
stare.
‘So, tell me Malcolm, it’s not true is it, this rumour I’ve been hearing?’
‘What rumour sir?’
‘About your Science Fair entry. They’re saying you’re doing a study of teenage sex. That’s not correct now, is it?’ And the principal’s face told Malcolm there was only one acceptable answer, and Malcolm’s mood told him not to give it.
‘Oh no, I’ve tried to be far broader than that. I think teenage sex could be easily misinterpreted, out of context. I’m more interested in sex in general. Actually, it’s good you raised this because I was rather hoping I could interview you, if you don’t mind.’
Mr Ramsay The Bully rose in his chair, his face contorted with venomous rage.
‘Of course I mind!’ he spluttered.
‘I think people would be quite interested.’
‘I don’t doubt it young man. That, however, is not the point.’
Any other day Malcolm might have read the signs and beaten a tactical retreat, but Malcolm wasn’t in the mood for humouring bullies. Mr Ramsay was, after all, a fairly dim-witted man, and the law was very clear on just how far he could take his little pantomime.
‘Honestly sir, you really could be quite helpful. For example, I am in part interested in the nature of the male orgasm. If you were to imagine a simple scale, where one is a satisfying sneeze and ten is the greatest moment of your life, where would your average orgasm lie?’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay was shouting now, and the stationery in front of him grew damp with spit. ‘I am warning you. This sort of filth may find favour amongst your grubby peers but it is not appropriate in my office, nor indeed in my school’s entry in the National Science Fair.’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ the still seated Malcolm calmly replied. ‘But I have to disagree.’
‘You do, do you? Well perhaps it is not your place to disagree.’
‘Sex is all around us you know. Why, it is this very school that taught me the names of body parts I didn’t even know I had, where I was briefed on puberty, warned of disease and loaded up with condoms. In fact, without naming names, it is fair to say that my own interest in the topic was—’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay advanced another step. Malcolm did not flinch.
‘Sex is all around us sir. Everybody is fascinated by it.’
‘I most certainly am not,’ Mr Ramsay assured him, ‘and neither is my school. All Science Fair entries come through me for approval Malcolm and I will not be approving yours. End of discussion.’
It was a heavy blow to an already sputtering spirit and Malcolm crumpled. ‘Then I will find a school that better appreciates my talents,’ he blurted.
‘And I’m having my video monitor back.’
‘You can forget the work you wanted for the open evening.’
‘Don’t be so childish.’
‘When in Rome.’
‘The entry is out. That’s my final word.’
Mr Ramsay broke away from Malcolm’s stare, as if deep down part of him knew how ridiculous this was. ‘Now leave before you make things worse.’
Malcolm did as he was told. He was shaking and close to tears and needed to be alone. He found the toilets deserted and chose the only cubicle with a functioning lock. Just yesterday two competing dreams had fought for space inside his heart: winning the Science Fair and winning Charlotte. Now he was reduced to that saddest of all things, a man without hope. Through the blur of his tears he focused on the single piece of graffiti in front of him.
I love you Brian — K
‘Lucky bitch,’ Malcolm sniffed. ‘At least you’ve still got your dreams.’
The dreams remained locked behind their glass cabinets, where they could be viewed from any angle but never touched. And the people, tired of just looking, turned down the lights and slid between their heavy sheets of frustration.
Frustration. The itch that cannot be scratched, the sadness that words cannot bury. Juliet sent off her letter of intent to the blackmailer’s post box, still no closer to finding his identity, or finding the money to pay him. And with every day that passed she became more certain her secret was almost out. It became so that just looking at her father, seeing the seeds of disappointment already planted in his eyes, was too painful. He sensed her discomfort and made it worse by asking her what was wrong, again and again and again.
Charlotte played every one of her ten favourite romances on the large flat-screen television in her room, but none of them helped explain why Malcolm remained so cold and distant. Perhaps there was an irony to be appreciated in the situation, the sort that would play well in black and white. But in Charlotte’s mind, her own scenario—the fact that the first boy she had ever been interested in, properly intensely interested in, was also the first boy not to be interested in her—spoke of a director who had grown old and bitter and should have moved over to make way for a more optimistic generation.
Brian tried to pretend it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The Woman on the Phone. Juliet. Much as it pained him to admit it, he wanted her. But wanting wasn’t having and, although every morning began with the same promise to himself, that he would find a way of seeking her out, every night finished with the same admission, that when it came to this, he had lost his nerve. It was even true that, should you have happened by Brian’s bedroom window on a night like this, you would have heard the sound of a stifled sob or two, for Brian wasn’t used to complications.
Even Kevin, resolutely patient Kevin, slowly chipping away at the granite of Brian’s masculine heart, had moments when he wondered. When the shape before him appeared no more refined than the shape he had started with, and he doubted he would ever find any expression there. He would simply chip on and on, until he or the rock were there no more.
And then there was Malcolm. Malcolm was broken, too dispirited even to feel frustration, for frustration requires a certain force against which it can push. Indeed these were troubled times, times of distracted days and restless nights, times in need of a cure.
‘Malcolm I’m in trouble,’ Juliet announced, opening the door without knocking (not unusual) and heading straight for the fridge (ditto). Malcolm, who hadn’t spoken to Juliet since his failure, decided to get things out in the open.
‘You’re in trouble?’ he said. ‘What about me?’
‘Oh, what’s wrong with you?’ Juliet asked, pulling back out of the fridge. ‘You want some cheese on crackers?’
‘No. Um, you know. You were there.’
‘What?’ Juliet looked genuinely puzzled and Malcolm was forced to tilt his head in the direction of the bedroom.
‘Oh, that? Happens all the time. No biggie. Tell me when you want to try again.’
And so she dismissed the second biggest calamity in Malcolm’s life to date (after last year’s Science Fair) with a wave of her hand. That hardly seemed just. Over the last day and a half Malcolm had grown used to his pain and he wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.
‘No, not just that. I was thinking more about my other problem, with Mr Ramsay, and the Science Fair. He isn’t going to let me enter.’
‘Oh my God, Malcolm. I’m sorry.’ She stepped forward and gave him half a hug, her other hand still holding the cheese. ‘How come?’
‘He says I’m a pervert.’
‘Well you are, but is that a bad thing? Can he really do that?’
‘He’s the principal.’
‘Well that’s outrageous, it really is.’
So outrageous that Juliet paused between mouthfuls. Malcolm looked at her with renewed affection. He really was quite lucky, having a friend like her.
‘Anyway, what about you?’ he remembered. ‘What trouble? Is it still this money thing?’
‘Okay, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.’
‘Sure.’
‘Not even if they promise to have sex with you.’
‘Like I’d fall for that twice.’
‘Okay. Well it sort of started last year, when Dad got me moved into that Maths accelerated group.’
By the time Juliet’s tale of fraud and extortion had finished Malcolm had to agree that in the world of problems Juliet had just moved him out of medal contention. They spent the next half hour trading sympathy while they waited for a cheesecake to thaw. And the more they shared their misery the closer Malcolm felt to his old, scientific, problem-solving self.
‘You know,’ he told her, ‘there has to be a way out of this.’
‘Oh, I just knew you were going to say that,’ Juliet shrieked, before he could qualify the statement.
‘Um, it’s just a matter of being creative,’ he said hopefully.
‘Exactly.’
‘We need to stop seeing the problems as problems.’
‘Yes.’
‘So we should, um, start by making a list. Yes, that’s what we should do. A list of all the things we have in our favour.’
‘All right.’ Juliet leaned forward and Malcolm saw the light he had sparked in her eyes. She really knew how to apply the pressure. ‘Well, I’m quite desperate right now, which could be to our advantage maybe.’
‘Okay, and I’ve got a good camera.’
‘I’m a good liar.’
‘I can be quite creative.’
‘I put people at their ease.’
‘Sometimes. I’ve got the tripod too.’
‘I’m a very good kickboxer.’
‘I’ve got loads of books on sex.’
The final list had over fifty feel-good items on it. Malcolm wrote them out on a large piece of brown paper while Juliet finished eating the cheesecake. Then they arranged the points in groups, according to themes and possibilities. Then they talked about them, while they waited for the breakthrough to occur. Technically it was Juliet who provided the first spark.
‘Television!’ she screamed.
‘What about it?’
‘Don’t you see?’
‘Not really.’
‘Television. Video. Sex. Your camera! Yes, this could be perfect couldn’t it? This could solve both problems at once.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘Television. They have to pay heaps for programmes, don’t they? And that’s exactly what your Science Fair entry is, a programme. And it’s just the sort they like…sex, everyday people…no real storyline.’
‘Voyeurism.’
It was crazy, but not too crazy. Malcolm had to admit half a chance was dangling there. ‘And we can claim that it contains banned material, that should help. Of course it’ll need some work.’
‘I’ll help you.’
Their enthusiasm ran rampant, trampling the seeds of rational objections which by rights should have been given the chance to grow. Malcolm began to savour the thought of shaking free the shackles of academic rigour. This was his chance to be more creative, more blatantly popularist, and far far ruder.
‘You know what would just finish it off perfectly,’ Juliet free-formed as they lurched from one inspired impossibility to the next. ‘One of those fly-on-the-wall type things, where they throw strangers together and film them.’
‘Like on some sort of blind date you mean? I know a restaurant that owes me a favour, after I didn’t report them for food poisoning. I reckon they might let me do it there.’
‘So we should get a group of strangers then. How many would you say?’