My Private Pectus (13 page)

She turns the board over and runs her hand over the sandpapery surface. ‘Do you like being called Sticks?' she asks.

I shuffle my feet in the dirt. ‘Not really.'

‘Didn't think so.'

It strikes me that nobody has ever bothered to ask me that. Her eyes are still on me, deep and penetrating. ‘I don't think you're fat,' I mumble.

But the moment I say it, the tension returns. Things have gone one step more personal than I intended. Maybe if we had that commitment of boyfriend and girlfriend then I could talk about this kind of stuff—in fact, both of us could say anything we want because we'd know it's ours. Just ours. But Sam and I have no such boundaries. And without ever having a girl close to me in my life—not even my own mother—I just don't know what to do. Too nervous to take it further, I ask, ‘How much do you think it's worth?'

There's a shift in her face. I thinks it's disappointment.

‘Let's ask Charlie,' I suggest.

Leading her up the stairs, I feel gutless. We knock on the door. The old man comes out and we bargain him down to fifteen bucks, which is still way too much, but I pay him anyway.

‘So is it mine or yours?' Sam asks when we get to the gate.

‘I paid for it,' I tell her.

‘Yeah, but I found it.'

We get out to the footpath where she puts it down, pushes it back and forth under her foot and glances down the hill. ‘Do you dare me?' she asks.

I look down the slope. There are trees and power poles on one side of the footpath and fences on the other. She's got guts. ‘For sure,' I say.

Placing the board on the concrete, she sits down and looks up. ‘Could you hold it steady?'

Kneeling behind her, I keep the board still. She shuffles her butt back as far as it will go, then rests her feet on the nose of the board, the tips of her shoes poking over, her knees up around her face. ‘You're gonna hold me, right?' she says. ‘Keep your hands on my shoulders and make sure I don't go too fast, or into a tree?'

‘Trust me,' I say, and give her a nudge.

‘Jack!' she screams, but the board starts sluggishly and she recovers quickly. Squirming, she tries to maintain balance as the board squirts from side to side on the footpath. Her feet skid off a couple of times but then she gains pace and straightens her line. Running behind her, I rest my hands on her shoulders as the board skips and skids over the cracks in the concrete. She screams and I yell, ‘Slow down!' but her shoulders slip from my grasp. All I can do is sprint after her as she careens downwards. She nearly takes out a bush, then brushes by a power pole and scrapes a fence with her knee. All the time she alternates her feet, trying to maintain the safest line. Loping after her, my heart pounds as she shoots across the street at the bottom of the hill. She crashes into the gutter on the other side and somersaults onto the grass.

When I get to her, she's lying there, laughing with tears in her eyes. ‘Where were you?' she screams. Both of her palms are grazed, she's got a scratch on one knee. I offer a hand, but as I try to haul her to her feet, she fights back and pulls me to the ground. We lie next to each other and laugh. She rolls towards me and props herself up on one elbow.

‘That should've been you, not me!' she says, still trying to contain her laughter.

‘Why's that?'

‘You're the guy, you're meant to be the brave one.' I know it's a joke, but it only makes me feel worse.

‘It's registered!' Gez yells down the phone line. ‘I'll meet you at the unit in an hour.'

I jump off my bed. I can't believe it! It's still going to happen. Me and my best mate cruising the streets in a rust-bucket that we—or should I say I?—got going. How cool. I was thinking for sure it'd be christened by him and Lisa in the back seat, but good ol' Gez, he's come through.

And I'm gonna make a night of it. I have a shower, sort out my hair, find my favourite shirt—the one with the sun that Roger's supposed to hate. I give Sam a call and tell her what I'm up to, not because we've got plans, but because I've gotta share it with someone. We talk as I lie on my bed. It comes easy and natural and I wish that she could come too, but that wouldn't be right. Tonight's a night for the guys, just me and Gez.

When I get to the unit, Ryan and Mike are there. Both of them have just come back from shifts at the corner store and are still in uniform. They're into their beers and they offer me one, but I say I can't because I'll be driving tonight.

Both of them pull on their stubbies then go to the tube. Ryan puts on a surfing DVD and turns the volume up. I can't sit down, can't stand still, either. This is too exciting. This is what we've been planning to do ever since Ryan bought the clapper. This is our ticket to freedom. Up the coast whenever we want, no one's schedule to stick to, making our own rules. Our car, our time, and we'll do whatever we want.

But an hour passes and Gez doesn't arrive.

‘What's your problem?' Mike asks me, annoyed at my pacing.

‘Nothing,' I say and get the guys more beers.

After another half-hour, I give Gez a call, but his phone goes to message bank, so I text him instead. Impatient, I go down to the garage. Sitting behind the wheel I play with the gear stick. I dream of parking it by the beach with a surfboard on the roof. The smell of salt and seaweed. There's my wettie in the boot, and a bag for an overnight stay. In the back seat are Gez and Lisa, eyeing each other off, but not making out. Sam's up the front with me.

Another half-hour passes and no word from him.

I go back upstairs and ask Ryan, ‘Do you know where Gez would be?'

‘He's out with Lisa,' he says.

My heart sinks, my dream withers like a punctured balloon. It doesn't make sense. He called me.‘When did he say that?'

‘Spoke to him ten minutes before you arrived. Sorry, but I think I was supposed to pass the message on,' Ryan says.

I can't believe it. Not less than an hour after calling me, he made plans with Lisa instead. What an idiot. I check my messages again. Nothing. I sit down between the guys.

The surfing DVD is finished. Ryan flicks the channels and settles on
Top Gear
. How inappropriate. He slides down the couch till his butt virtually hangs off the edge. He rests his stubby on his stomach. ‘What were you and Gez gonna do tonight?' he asks.

‘Take the car out.'

Ryan looks up at Mike. Then they both turn to me.

‘Is it registered?' they ask.

I nod. They sit up.

‘How much have you drunk?' Ryan asks Mike.

‘Four beers. Maybe five. I'm not counting. You?'

He shrugs. ‘Same.'

They both sink into the couch again.

I think about Gez, whether he'd approve of us taking the car without his permission. It'd piss him off for sure. ‘I haven't had any,' I say.

They jump up.

It's on!

We get into the car and I kick it over, rev the engine hard, red line it.

‘All right!' Ryan yells.

‘I don't want it to stall,' I say and crunch it into reverse. The car lurches back, but I slam on the brakes. ‘The door! We forgot the door!'

‘You idiot,' Ryan says in a tone of endearment. He gets out and opens the roller door.

Mike hangs his head out the window to help me negotiate the rocks of the retaining wall that skirts the driveway. Once on the road, I drive steady, roll down the window and let the cool wind blow in.

‘Have you asked your girl to Gez's party yet?' Mike asks me.

‘She's not my girl,' I say.

‘Do you like her?' he asks.

Christ, does he ever think about anything else? And why is he so desperate to know? I watch the white lines on the road stream towards us. But for a change, I don't feel depressed, or nervous or agitated. I feel good, relaxed, thrilled to be out. So what if Gez isn't here! I watch the needle climb and my mood rises with it.

Mike leans forward from the back, pressing for an answer to his question. And for once, I don't care about telling the truth. ‘Yeah, I do,' I say. ‘I like Samantha Dean!' I practically yell it.

Both of them hoot and smack the vinyl around them. Mike ruffles my hair. ‘I like you, Sticks!' he yells.

I look at him in the rear view mirror and laugh.

‘And besides,' he says, ‘the fat ones are good.'

I look at him again, confused.

‘In the sack, I mean. I'd go her for sure if I had the chance.'

Not wanting this conversation to go into the finer details of what Mike loves to do, I thump the accelerator to the floor, but the Bluebird's donk just spits and shudders. There's no V8 roar, no sensation of the Gs pushing you into the seat. There's just a gradual acceleration, noticed only by the rising needle, like watching the seconds tick by on a clock. Signposts light up in the headlights as we approach a sweeping bend. The car climbs over sixty, over seventy, eighty. There's a yellow warning sign suggesting fifty-five. ‘Um, Sticks,' Ryan whispers, but it's only a whisper because I'm the kinda guy that would usually slow down. The corner comes at us faster and faster. He grabs the edge of his seat.

‘Sticks!' This time it's Mike and he's yelling. We go into the corner, tyres screeching. The back-end of the car slides out and we're nearly perpendicular to the road. It fishtails as I wrestle it back under control.

Now with adrenaline pumping, I can't slow down. Trees flick past, traffic lights, cars. I slam it down a gear, take another corner, even harder this time. My arse slides sideways on the seat. The boys crack their heads on the windows. I grip the wheel for dear life. The engine screams in protest. Someone blasts their horn at me; another flashes their high beam. Ahead the traffic lights change from green to orange. I accelerate, but then they change red. Slamming on the brakes we come to a screeching halt.

‘Well I'll be,' Mike says.

I breathe deep, slow. Ryan puts a hand on my arm. I get the message. After a minute or so, my nerves calm down and when the lights change, I back off and just cruise. And for the next hour or two that's all we do—drive about aimlessly. We stop at West End for a curry; go to the bottle-o so the boys can stay fuelled up. I get Ryan to take a photo of me and the car with my phone. I text it to Gez with the words
king of the road
.

We crawl along Anne Street in the Valley to check out the clubbing girls. Many wear skimpy tops despite the cold night. We wind the windows down and Mike wolf-whistles at every girl he sees.

As if tired of his antics, Ryan eventually says, ‘Let's go home for a chuff.'

Only a few blocks away from the unit, a street comes off the main one at a slight angle. I take my foot off the accelerator—that's until Mike leans forward and says, ‘You don't have to slow down for this one.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Pick it up a bit. It'll be all right.'

‘I do it at sixty-five and that's in the van,' Ryan says. ‘So you could do it at eighty in this thing, easy.'

So I slam it down a gear. The car jerks, but I keep the revs high and don't lose speed. Accelerating into the corner, the tyres scream, the suspension rolls until the mudflaps scrape the bitumen. Mike hangs his head out the window and screams, ‘We've got sparks!'

They yell and whoop as I fight desperately to keep control. Straightening up, the car rocks on the soft suspension, I nearly over-correct.

‘Onya, Sticks!' Mike says. He leans forwards and plants a hand on my shoulder. ‘You're finally loosening up.'

Puffed up, I drive back to the unit with my jaw sore from smiling. Slowing down at the driveway, we can smell the brake pads and burning rubber. The car coughs and splurts as the revs drop to an idle. It needs another tune already. Both of the boys are laughing. What an adventure!

‘I thought you were going to lose it for sure,' Ryan says.

‘Michael Schumacher,' I tell him.

‘That you are!' Mike yells.

There's now a motorbike parked on the edge of the driveway so it's tighter to get in. Edging past, the driver's side door is only centimetres from the retaining wall. I poke the nose of the car at the roller door then reverse a bit so I can straighten up. But as I do so, we hear the crunching sound of metal on rock. I put my head on the wheel. The boys get out to inspect the damage.

‘There's a gouge above the back bumper, the corner light's smashed in,' Ryan yells out to me.

Mike laughs harder than he has all night.

The next morning, Dad wakes me up with a thud on the door. I've hardly slept. I'm freaking out about seeing Gez on Monday. I roll over and wait for the door to open. He comes in. He's nervous. He's rubbing his scar again. ‘I've um—' He swallows. ‘We're going to see an old mate of mine.'

I sit up, not caring about him seeing my chest anymore. His gaze jumps between my chest and face, like me looking at the girls at school—only his is more of shock than pleasure.

‘Who?' I mumble and scratch at a zit brewing on my chin.

Then he does something he hasn't done since I was five. He sits on the end of my bed. ‘He's a doctor. He used to be in the army and I was thinking—'

I lie down, not liking the idea.

‘I'm worried about your chest,' he says. ‘What if they won't let you in?'

I put my hands behind my head. ‘That would be a tragedy, wouldn't it?'

‘I know! That's what I mean,' he says. ‘I've been thinking about it ever since—you know—the other day. I can't sleep at night. What if it's serious? I just can't imagine what it'll be like for you if they turn around and tell you “no”.'

Sitting up again I ask, ‘Do you know what you just said?'

His face is blank.

‘It's not my health you're worried about, it's my getting in.'

‘No, no, no,' he says. He opens his mouth and shakes his hands as if he has more to say, but there's nothing.

‘Can't we find out at the physical?' I ask, hoping to delay the inevitable. ‘They'll do a medical then.'

‘No. We must know earlier,' he states.

Doctor Robertson's surgery is in his house, perched on the side of a hill at Mt Gravatt. We enter the surgery through a door that has a frosted glass panel in its centre. It overlooks the suburbs below. City high-rises break the horizon.

The bloke's ancient—at least eighty. He tells Dad he hasn't practised much since leaving the forces, just bits and pieces to keep his retirement not too retiring.

‘So how can I help, Brian?' he asks, looking over his glasses. His face is lined, but his eyes are bright, his hair white, his smile full of fillings.

‘Um—' Dad starts, standing beside me as I sit in the seat by the desk. ‘Jack's got a condition. And he's wanting to join up and I—we,' he looks at me, ‘want to know if they'll have him.'

The doc peers at me. ‘So it's your appointment?' he asks.

I nod.

‘Do you want him here?' the doc asks me while nodding in Dad's direction.

‘Course he does,' Dad says. ‘I mean, we both want to be here. We both want to know.'

The doc raises his eyebrows and lowers his glasses. ‘You sure about that?' he says, looking directly at me.

Immediately I like the guy. So I turn to Dad. ‘We won't be long, you can wait outside.'

Devastated, Dad mopes towards the door, but can't help himself as he opens it. ‘You sure? Sometimes it's good to have some support.'

‘I'm fine.'

He leaves, but I can still make out his shadow behind the frosted glass.

Doctor Robertson gets me to sit on the bed with my shirt off. He runs a finger over the length of my spine then tells me to stand.

‘Do you always slouch?' he asks.

I try to stand taller.

He puts a cold stethoscope on my back. ‘If you want to join the army, you'll have to learn to talk when you're spoken to.'

‘Yes, sir,' I say.

‘Jerry,' he says.

‘Huh?'

He moves in front of me and gives me his mercury smile. ‘You're not in the army yet, son.'

‘Right.'

‘Breathe deep.'

He moves his stethoscope to all parts of my ribcage. ‘Is it still getting deeper?' he asks.

‘It stopped growing about twelve months back, I think.'

‘Good,' he says. He stops with the stethoscope and gets me to bend over and touch my toes. Again he runs a finger over my spine. ‘Do you ever get short of breath?' he asks.

I stand. ‘Mostly when I'm sprinting.'

‘Short sprint or a big one?'

‘Big.'

‘Hmmph. So does anyone. What about your heart, do you feel it on your ribs? Does it feel restricted?

‘No.'

‘Any pain, discomfort?'

‘No.'

‘Have you ever had an X-ray?'

I shake my head.

‘For God's sake,' he mutters. ‘Your old man has never chased this up?'

‘I never let him see it.'

Jerry goes back to his desk shaking his head. He scribbles on a form then hands it to me. ‘Take this to the hospital and get an X-ray, come back and we'll talk some more.'

‘That's it?' I ask.

He nods.

I go to the door.

‘There is one more thing,' he says. ‘How much do you weigh?'

‘Sixty-eight,' I say, kind of proud I've put on a few kilos.

‘Height?'

‘Hundred and eighty-three.'

He jots them down. ‘Enjoy your weekend,' he says.

When we get home, Gez's Bluebird is in the driveway. I run a hand through my hair. The damage looks worse in the daylight. Dad, looking at the X-ray slip, walks straight past Gez without saying hello.

‘What have you got to say about this?' Gez asks, gesturing to the gouge in the corner panel.

I raise a palm. ‘It wasn't just me,' I say.

He holds up his mobile, showing me the picture I sent him. ‘But you were driving.'

I can just make out the text
king of the road
under the picture. I grin and say, ‘It goes pretty good, eh?', figuring it never takes much to ease his temper, but it doesn't work. He holds a hand out to me, his fingers flat and tense. ‘I want the keys back.'

‘What keys?' I ask, confused. ‘I don't have the keys.'

‘Give me the keys,' he repeats.

‘For the car?'

‘For the unit!'

‘The unit?' I can't believe it. But his eyes are set.

‘Shouldn't that be Ryan's decision?'

‘Not while my car's there, it's not.'

‘Be reasonable.'

His hand moves closer to my chest. ‘Go get them.'

I trudge inside and snatch the keys from the desk in my room. With an overwhelming sense of injustice, I consider calling Ryan, but what's the point? Gez is the real reason I ever go to the unit—him and the car. There'll be no point going now. I throw the keys from the front door and they land at his feet. He drives away, followed by a blue plume and an off smell. It suits how I feel.

And that feeling stays with me for the next week at school.

Every day, talk of the party increases. Even though it was my idea, it seems that I'm no longer a part of organising it. Getting invited won't be a worry—everyone's invited. At lunchtimes Gez keeps hanging out with Lisa. People try to book a mattress with him, either in the garage or in the lounge room. Others don't bother, planning to see the night through till dawn. And with it being held the first weekend of our September holidays, everyone is going to get totally wasted. I ask Dad if I can take the Pissan, and because his migraines have been bad again he agrees. He won't be going anywhere. I don't even cop the usual banter about driving safe, but he still phones Ryan to make sure he'll be there.

Leading up to the party, Sam is ecstatic. She talks heaps, grabs my arm whenever she thinks I'm not listening, whacks my ribs playfully if I say something even mildly funny. Whenever I go to my locker she comes with me, stands beside me, chatting, her body against mine. She wears a new perfume, and does her hair differently each day, not much, but enough that I can't help but comment—and she grins whenever I do. She wants something to happen, I'm sure of that now, and she wants it to happen on Saturday night.

She thinks I've turned the corner. After all, it's obvious, isn't it? Our friendship is public and I don't avoid her despite the comments. And I know I should be excited, I should be thrilled. Finally something might happen. But as the party draws close, Sam's past gets drawn up again. It happens while a group of us wait for English to start.

‘You stuck it to Sam yet?' Cuppas asks me.

Someone laughs. One guy says, ‘Only the bravest of men would go there!'

‘Brave or blind?' Steve asks.

Gez leaves the conversation and goes and joins Lisa and a couple of her friends at the front of the class. So I get up, head over, in the hope of striking up a conversation. But as I get closer, the girls look at me. Lisa seems to contemplate my body: her eyes critical as she chews gum.

‘Is it true?' she asks me. ‘Did your dad bash The P?'

‘It wasn't a bashing.'

‘But he got the sack, right? I heard he can't even walk onto school property.'

I nod. I look to Gez, wondering why he's so quiet.

Lisa keeps chewing, eyeing me off. ‘Can you show us?' she asks with the slightest smile.

‘Yeah,' Gez says. 'You girls have gotta see it. Come on, show ‘em, Sticks!' He reaches for my shirt.

I whack his hand away with a clenched fist. I glare at him, but his eyes shift away.

Cut to the core, I leave them.

After school Sam and I linger at the bottom of her street. During the whole walk she talked about everything and nothing and kept looking up at me, smiling.

‘I can't wait for tomorrow night,' she says and moves closer.

‘It should be great,' I say, instead of ‘me too'.

And before we part she edges closer again, close enough to touch. Her eyes look beautiful and hopeful. My arm twitches. I'm almost carried away by an impulse to hold her, but I stop at the thought of Lisa, her jaw rotating, eyes piercing. And then there's Gez's voice,
show 'em, Sticks
! I look at Sam, aware of the tension in my shoulders and neck. What if I do make my move at the party? What then? After the kissing, the hugging, the touching, will we lie down together on the sand or in a room in the shack? Will she want to lie with me, naked, exposed, to have sex? What if I can't go through with it?

‘I'll pick you up tomorrow,' I say then head for home.