My Private Pectus (14 page)

I linger nervously in Sam's driveway, watching the house, waiting for her. I don't want to get out of the ute. There's a new Toyota Camry in the driveway which means her parents are home. Relieved, I see her come to the door. I start the motor, but she waves me over then turns back inside. I'm not ready for this, I think, not ready to meet her parents. I rub my eyes and get out.

‘This must be Jack?' a middle-aged woman says as I stand at the door. ‘I've heard a lot about you.'

Sam shoots me an embarrassed grin.

‘Don't worry,' she continues, ‘it's all good.'

‘Mum!' Sam says.

I don't know what to say, I've never felt more awkward in my life. I like what's being said, just not who's saying it.

I watch Sam from behind as she walks ahead. She's in jeans; her hair is wet, leaving a wet patch on the back of her T-shirt. There's not a guy I know that'd take a second look at her, but right now, having heard what I've just heard, I think she looks great.

They lead me into the kitchen, which is brighter than the entrance, and I notice the grey roots of Mrs Dean's short burgundy-brown hair. Like Sam, she isn't particularly tall. She wears glasses and smart clothes, and has a pleasant expression. Her eyes are more inquisitive and less penetrating than Sam's. She has a gentle smile.

‘Honey!' she calls. I look in the direction she's yelling, into the lounge room. It's an open-plan house. ‘Sam's boyfriend is here.'

Boyfriend! I clench my fist inside my pocket and almost jump on the spot. I'm stunned by how good that sounds. Boyfriend! I do everything I can to contain my smile. Who would've known it would feel this good. I look at Sam, and mouth silently ‘boyfriend?'

‘No,' she mouths back, seemingly angry, and turns away.

‘Nice to meet you!' calls a stubble-faced, grey-haired man from the couch. ‘I'm Sam's dad,' he adds. Then, after stating the obvious, he turns back to the TV.

But I don't care about him. I shift my attention back to Sam. What about that rejection? She sidles up to her mum and loud enough for me to hear, she says, ‘He's not my boyfriend.' The words smack me like a brick in the guts. Up one second, like a runny turd the next.

‘He's not?' Mrs Dean asks.

‘No!' Sam snaps.

Mrs Dean forces a smile. ‘Sorry,' she says to both of us.

Sam turns to me. ‘Don't worry about Dad. He's the shy and retiring sort.'

‘Would you like a drink, Jack?' Mrs Dean asks. ‘Jack?'

‘Huh?'

‘There's juice, Coke, water—'

‘Coke,' I say.

After the glass is poured, Sam drags me upstairs to her room. ‘Sorry about them,' she says as she closes the door. She takes a towel off her bed and starts drying her hair. ‘I know what you're thinking: Mum's a bit over the top. Bit too friendly.'

‘She seems all right,' I say, but only because I figure that's what I'm meant to say. What I'm really thinking is: I want to get out of here.

‘Sorry about that boyfriend thing,' she says matter-of-factly.

‘That's okay,' I lie.

‘She's always getting the wrong impression.'

‘Easy thing to do.'

Sam tilts her head for a moment. I drop my gaze. A few seconds later she asks, ‘How many do you think will be there tonight?'

‘Sixty,' I suggest.
Not my boyfriend
is repeating like a skipping CD inside my head.

I look around the room. If there's one thing I could have predicted, it's this. There are posters of bands, paintings she's done in art class, pieces of paper with her favourite sayings stuck around the place. A stereo playing quietly. Being in her bedroom should make me feel excited. I've been invited into her private life, but the problem is, she's let me in to observe, not be a part of it. I feel ripped off.

‘Where will they all come from?' she asks.

I regain my bearings. ‘Apart from school there'll be some of Ryan's old high school mates, also his uni mates. You remember Ryan, Gez's brother?'

‘Sunburn Ryan?'

I nod.

‘He's sweet,' she says, rubbing the towel in her hair. ‘Funny, too. And what about his friend?'

‘Who?'

‘His house-mate.'

‘Mike?'

‘Yeah, the one from the convenience store.'

‘How do you know that?' I ask, remembering the stuff Mike has said about her.

‘I see him there, sometimes.' We stand for a moment, looking at each other. ‘You know,' she starts then drapes the towel over her shoulders. ‘When I met him at Ryan's place I thought he was a sleaze. Did you see how he was looking at Lisa?'

‘He looks at every girl like that.'

‘No,' she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘He chats to me at the store. He's nice.'

I feel even worse.

‘I've got to go and dry my hair properly,' she says. ‘You can go downstairs and watch sport with Dad if you like.'

But when she leaves, I sit on her bed. The only surprise about her room is the colour of her doona: pink and white. I expected something less girly, more outrageous, something that would make a statement or draw attention: scarlet, black maybe. There's a Ross Noble quote stuck on the wall above her bed: ‘Not many people realise Fifty Cent is half man half Cossack …' What the hell does that mean? Nothing about her makes sense.

Not wanting to be caught lingering on her bed, I head downstairs to talk to the man who's the father of the girl who's not my girlfriend.

He pats a spot on the beige leather lounge. ‘Sam says you play rugby.'

I sit down, making sure there's space between us. ‘I was in the school team.'

‘Oooh jeez,' he says, grinning. ‘I've read about you boys in the newsletter. Better luck next year, eh? Not that you'll be there, of course.'

I laugh it off.

‘So what are you going to do when you finish?' he asks.

‘My old man wants me to join the army.'

He nods, but doesn't press the topic. I fidget, and as if noticing, he says, ‘She'll be a while yet. She puts a lot of effort into looking like a tramp.'

‘That's not nice, dear,' Sam's mum calls, bringing me my glass of Coke. ‘You forgot this,' she says.

The drive to the coast is awkward. Sam talks about all sorts of things, she tells me what music we should play, asks if I ever dance.

‘I'm going to drink Smirnoff Twist instead of Lemon Ruski,' she says.

‘Why the change?'

‘Sometimes it's good to try something new.' And she peers at me with a flirtatious smile—at least that's how I would have interpreted it until this morning.

Then she comes up with party ideas: a fire on the beach, midnight swimming in the surf, walks in the dunes. She touches my forearm in excitement. I take my gaze off the road and for the first time notice a dimple as she smiles. I smile back. It's forced, tense, but still hopeful.

Her hair is out; she's wearing a tight black top beneath a warm jacket. I run a hand across my chest, under the seatbelt. She looks the best I've ever seen her.

Stopping at some lights I rest my hand on the gear shift, just centimetres from hers on her knee. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch her, but her hand slips away.

Friends.

I have to get used to it.

The Bluebird and Ryan's van are on the street in front of the beach house, so I park the Pissan on the footpath beside the fence. Ryan and Mike, sitting on the grass, see us at the gate. I remove the stake and swing it open. They wave and call out.

I introduce Sam, even though they've met before. Mike's got a ciggie in his hand and Ryan's got a VB. It's just after midday and they look like they're on siesta. Ryan strikes up a friendly conversation with Sam, asking about the trip up.

‘What do you think of the Pissan?' he asks.

‘I've got a sore butt,' she says and gives me a sidelong glance.

Mike's staring at her as if surprised by how good she looks. His feeding gaze makes me edgy.

‘How's the corner store?' she asks him.

He puts on a grin. ‘Yeah, all right. Gotta work tomorrow, but. Reckon I'll rock up pissed. I do it all the time,' he boasts.

She laughs politely.

Then he waves a dismissive hand. ‘Nah, I'm only joking. So how you been? Haven't seen you for what? Two days?'

‘Two days?' I say.

Mike has a wicked grin. ‘Sam's in there all the time,' he says.

The four of us wander around the yard and Ryan lists all the things that we need to get done: buy ice, ice-cream, snags for the scabs who will turn up with nothing. Sam heads inside to check things out and as soon as she's gone both of the boys look to me.

‘What's going on, Sticks?' Mike asks.

They grin in anticipation, leaning forward.

‘There's nothing to tell.'

‘Oh, c'mon, Sticks,' Ryan says. ‘There can't be nothing.'

‘Why not?'

‘So you're not pulling?' Mike says.

‘She doesn't like me that way.'

Mike cranes his neck, looking towards the doorway of the shack. His lips are pursed in surprise. ‘I thought she was supposed to be easy.' He looks back at me, his eyes questioning, wanting an explanation.

‘We're not together,' I say.

‘Really?' His eyebrows lift. ‘Coz, I like to know when a chick is ripe for the picking. You wouldn't mind, right?'

‘Rack off!'

‘I'm just kidding. Jeez, Sticks. It's a joke.'

Wanting to kill the conversation, I ask, ‘Where's Gez?'

‘Out in the surf,' Ryan says.

‘And Lisa?'

‘She's coming up later.'

I baulk. ‘Who with?'

Ryan shrugs. ‘One of her girlfriends, I s'pose.'

‘I hope her friend's hot,' Mike says. Then he rummages in his pockets and holds up a small zip-lock plastic bag. It has half-a-dozen pills.

‘Es?' I ask.

He grins wildly. ‘Eighteenth birthday present,' he says.

‘Jeez, Mike.'

We turn to the street as a cab pulls up and Cuppas hops out. He pushes through the gate carrying a carton of Dark and Stormy and a bottle of Bundy. He's wearing black jeans and a black button-up Wolfmother shirt. I bet he doesn't even know their music. His face is red and covered with beads of sweat. ‘I'm early,' he says. ‘Had to catch a train up, then a bus, then a cab,' which means he couldn't get a lift. It also means he didn't get an invite. It said six p.m. onwards, and that's only if you wanted to throw a snag on the barbie.

‘Good to see a few of youse here already,' he says. ‘Where do I put the grog?'

Ryan and Mike look to me.

‘Who's this knob?' Mike asks.

‘Cuppas,' I say. ‘You'll get along. You're quite alike.'

‘Get lost.'

Ryan laughs.

There's so much to do before everyone arrives. Sam and I head off to the servo and buy bags of ice, bring them back and dump them in the bathtub. Then we go to the kitchen and organise the booze. Ryan and Mike have bought three cases of VB each; I bought another one on the way up. Together, Sam and I stack the fridge, and the whole time we chat about things we expect will happen—placing bets on who'll drink too much, who'll get together, and argue over whether or not The P will have his hair restreaked. On my haunches, I stack the alcohol into the fridge as Sam passes it to me.

A cold, stinging sensation runs down my back. I arch my back, jump, slam my head on the open freezer door.

‘Arrrgh!' I yell, grabbing my head. Ice drops from my shirt and around my feet.

Sam smirks. ‘I'm so sorry,' she says in between fits of laughter. She wraps an ice cube in a tea towel and tries to hold it against my head.

‘It's not funny,' I say, ‘it stings.'

‘Stay still,' she says, reaching up on tiptoes, struggling to keep the tea towel in place. ‘Give us a look,' she says, and presses both hands on my head.

‘Hey! That hurts.'

‘I can't see anything.'

I stoop down, knees bent. ‘Careful.'

Her breasts press softly against my jaw as she runs her fingers through my hair. I can smell her shampoo, can feel her warmth against me. I wrap an arm around her waist, as if needing to keep balance.

‘What! That's it?' she says. ‘That's nothing!' Then she pushes me away.

I touch the welt. ‘What do you mean?' I show her the blood on the tip of my finger. ‘See.'

Holding my wrist, she pulls my hand close to her face. ‘Where?'

‘Here,' I say, one finger upright.

She smirks and lets go. ‘That's nothing,' she says again then reaches into the fridge for a Smirnoff Twist. ‘Do you think it's too early?' she asks.

‘Yes,' I say, but crack it open for her and take a beer for myself.

We stare out the window at the guys in the backyard. Ryan's mowing the lawn and Cuppas is following Mike as he gathers wood from the garden. Mike waves to us. Sam waves back.

I kick her foot. ‘C'mon,' I say, ‘we should get our bags.'

She follows me out to the Pissan where I lift her bag from the tray before getting mine. Back inside we stop in the hallway and she points to the doorways of various rooms and looks to me.

Pushing my luck, I say, ‘There'll be heaps of people, we'll have to share.'

‘Really?' She follows me silently into the room at the end of the hall. It's dark and stuffy, so I part the curtains and open the windows. She's watching me.

She puts her bags down on one side, so I put mine on the other. I sit on the right side of the mattress and say, ‘It's pretty good, I've slept on it before.'

She sits to confirm my statement, but says nothing. Then she gets up and looks out the window.

Friends, I think. Doesn't that make a double bed awkward? ‘We can sleep head-to-toe if you'd prefer it that way,' I say. She looks at me critically.

‘I'll crash on the floor,' I say.

•

It's almost evening when Gez finally comes in from the surf. He's dripping wet. His eyes are bloodshot from the salt, his muscles more lean than usual from paddling through the breaks.

‘Lisa here yet?' he asks.

I shake my head, tear open a chip packet and pour them into a bowl. He towels off, pulls on a shirt. ‘When did you get up?'

‘Bit after lunch.'

‘On your own?'

‘No,' I say, insulted he automatically jumped to that conclusion.

‘Right,' he says and looks around. ‘Who'd you come with?'

I keep pouring chips. I don't say that Sam's laying out mattresses in the garage.

‘How hard was it to get the Pissan?' he asks, trying another tack to get me talking.

‘Easy,' I say.

He picks a chip from the bowl as I try to cover it with gladwrap. ‘You could've come up with us. There was room in the Bluebird.'

I look at him, wondering where all this sweet talk is coming from. Just this week he basically cut me from his life.

‘Thanks for the invite,' I say, and dump some cheerios into an empty saucepan.

Wondering how long the ice will last I head to the bathroom and he follows, keeping up with his idle banter. We pass the
Sports Illustrated
calendar on the way. He stops, takes it down, flicks through and asks, ‘Which one was it again?'

‘None of them,' I say.

‘Wasn't it June?'

He holds the model up to me. Her face reminds me of Sam, which gives me a sinking feeling. ‘None of them,' I say again.

He pages through slowly. I leave him to it, wondering why he even cares. He's got Lisa Patrick.

Back outside I go to the barbie and stoke it up. Sam approaches me and says, ‘I think we should go for a walk.' The way she says it sets goose bumps on my skin. It's firm, resolute.

We follow a boardwalk over the dunes leading to the beach. I can smell her perfume over the salty air. It's sweet but not overpowering. I try to keep my mind off us and on the scrub around us and the feeling of sand in my toes, but her presence overwhelms me. Halfway along a sandy path, fenced in on either side by a wire fence, she stops and turns to me.

‘What's happening?' she asks.

I lean against the fence and brace myself. Friends, she'll say, we're just friends. A couple come over the rise, walking their dog. It pauses to sniff my feet. Sam keeps watching me as they pass. Not wanting to hear it from her I say, ‘We're just friends, aren't we?'

‘Friends?' Her eyebrows are creased. ‘Is that what you call us?'

‘That's what you call us.'

‘Me?'

‘To your mum today.'

‘Jack!'

‘What?'

‘I've—' She fiddles with the stitching on the bottom of her top. ‘I've been waiting for you to tell me how you feel. Every time we walked home together I thought for sure something was going to happen, but nothing.' There's an edge to her voice and she looks up at me. ‘And today? What's happening today?'

I shuffle in the sand.

‘Jack, I'm confused.'

What do I say?

‘Jack?'

‘I like you, Sam,' I say, barely audible. ‘I like you heaps. More than anyone I know.'

She sucks her lips in, trying to hide a growing smile. We stand for a moment, still separated. I edge closer. She stands on her toes and plants me a kiss.