My Private Pectus (17 page)

My email account is empty. There's nothing from Sam. Hasn't been for days since the party.

I never found my phone. I went out to where it all happened by the dune. Nothing. I searched on all fours, swept aside sand where people had trod, but never found it. After getting home I called Sam's mobile from the landline. She never answered. I left a message. In fact, I've left stacks of messages.

So the first few days of the holidays pass with me caught in the hope I'll hear from her, while blaming myself that I don't. After all, I proved her right. I'm not much of a catch.

I was nervous. Then I panicked. They were my hands on her face, forcing her away. And then I think about Mike, how he held her, so sure of himself. He just pulled her in as if she was the finest catch on earth.

Even though I'm bored, I won't go to the unit. In fact, the only time I've left the house is when Dad has pestered me about JOES and my fitness. For the last three afternoons, I've pulled on my sneakers and jogging singlet, then headed out. But each time, after rounding the corner, I've just sat in the park and thought about things. And that's what I decide to do right now. I turn off my computer, put on a singlet and some runners. I text Gez to see if he wants to join me.

Dad watches me as I go through the lounge room to the front door. I see his pride. He's so excited about JOES.

Gez gets to the park about ten minutes after me. We sit at a picnic table, where he picks at the flaking green paint. He etches GF 4 LP with a pebble.

‘That's so ninth grade,' I tell him.

He smiles then scratches it out.

‘So you still like her?' I ask.

He shrugs and throws the stone into the mangroves by the creek. ‘I like the idea,' he says. ‘I liked the—' Then he stops. His grin gets bigger. ‘You know.'

‘I don't want to know,' I say, even though I do.

‘She didn't like any of my friends,' Gez says. ‘Not you, not Cuppas, not even Ryan.' He pulls his jumper tighter in the cold and shakes his head at me as I shiver in my jogging singlet.

‘Then why do you care?'

He shrugs again. ‘I can't work it out.' He leans over and picks up a twig, which he flicks into the air. We watch it spin and fall to the grass. ‘I like the idea of being with Lisa, but I'm not real sure I actually like her. Does that make sense?'

I shake my head. I want to be with Sam. And it's not just the idea I like.

‘So how's things with Sam?' he asks.

I lean back on my hands. ‘She ended up with Mike,' I tell him. It's a relief to finally say it out loud. It makes me feel sick, but it's a relief all the same.

‘What do you mean?' he says. ‘How?'

So I tell him what I saw at the party before taking him to the hospital.

‘So you helped me before saving Sam from Mike?'

‘I hope I made the right decision.'

‘What a sicko.'

‘Some friend, eh?'

‘I don't know what I would have done if I was you,' Gez says.

‘I did the right thing.'

‘Well of course, that goes without saying.' He laughs.

‘Besides, it was her decision to go off with Mike.'

Gez gets up. ‘We've all said it before, Sticks. That guy from Beenleigh, remember what she did with him? We all knew she was like that.'

‘But she's not. It doesn't make sense. She's not like that at all.'

He play punches me on the shoulder. ‘Just let her go,' he says.

Towards the end of the week, Dad takes me back to Doctor Robertson with the X-rays. Dad's happier than Christmas. He's already read the radiographer's report. He practically skips into the surgery, pulls the X-ray report from the envelope and gives it to the doc. As Jerry reads, Dad peers over his shoulder, smiling, the tip of his tongue clamped between his teeth. Jerry nods and takes the X-rays and holds them up by the soft light coming through a curtain. He sucks his lips in till the skin on his chin pulls tight. Then he puts the X-rays on his desk. He peers at us: Dad with his hands on his hips, me with mine shoved deep into my pockets.

‘Would you like to hear the news together or alone?' he asks.

‘Together,' Dad says.

‘Alone,' I say.

‘But, Jack!'

Jerry makes slow progress around the desk and rests a hand on Dad's shoulder. ‘He is the patient, after all.' He steers Dad towards the door.

‘And I'm the father,' Dad says. ‘I've a right to know.'

‘And you'll know soon enough,' Jerry says and shuts him outside.

Jerry scans the report again. He mumbles something to himself, puts it back on his desk with the X-rays. ‘I don't think there's anything you need to worry about,' he says at last.

I sigh. I should be taking it as good news, but it makes JOES a formality. I'm committed. ‘Thanks,' I say, getting up.

‘Jack,' he says. He's holding up the X-rays again. ‘There is one thing worth a mention.' He points at a seat and waits for me to sit down. ‘You play footy, is that right?' he asks.

I shrug. ‘Dad put me in the team.'

He lifts my shirt and presses the heel of his hand into my crevice. His face is only thirty centimetres away and I can smell mint on his breath. ‘If you were to get tackled, let's say a shoulder charge right here, your sternum could snap loose and be forced inwards. It could do some serious damage.' He drops my shirt and measures my gaze. ‘So don't take it up again next season.'

I smile.

He peers over his glasses.

‘I'm not joking,' he says.

‘Can you tell Dad?' I ask.

‘Why's that?'

‘I hate footy,' I say.

Jerry sniffs and looks towards the door.

‘And what about the army?' he asks.

I shake my head. ‘Can you tell Dad I can't do that, too?'

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘You've got to tell him that yourself.'

‘Can you give me six months?' I ask. ‘Twelve if you can. Just enough time so I can let him down slowly. He's desperate for me to join.'

He shakes his head.

‘It'd break his heart if it comes from me,' I say. ‘He'll take it personally.'

He lowers his glasses and looks up to the door. Even with the frosted glass we can see that Dad has his hands pressed against the glass and is trying to peer in. ‘Telling your dad would actually give me a lot of pleasure.' He has a sly grin, but it quickly fades. ‘But that's one thing you have to do for yourself.' He crosses the surgery and opens the door.

Dad marches in. ‘Well? What's the verdict?'

‘They won't have him, Brian,' Jerry says.

I can't believe it! Go, Jerry!

‘Why's that? What? No way!' Dad waves his arms frantically. ‘It's not that bad, is it? You're having me on; tell me you're having me on!'

Then Jerry cackles. ‘He's fine, Brian. Jack can join the army—if he's fit enough. No more footy, but I expect the army will have him.'

‘All right!' Dad booms. He runs over to me and punches my bicep. ‘Hey, that's great!' He lifts me out of the seat, but stops short of a hug. He shakes my hand. ‘Congratulations,' he says.

That night I get on Pectus Boyz and finally write my first post. I write some questions about corrective surgery then delete them. I don't even want that anymore, and it's because of Sam. I think it's amazing she doesn't react when people bang on about her weight. What else is amazing is that she didn't care about my chest, wasn't grossed out. She made me feel wanted, needed, and my chest wasn't even a part of the equation. And I couldn't do the same thing for her.

I sit back and try to close out these thoughts. Then I tap away on the keys and assemble my post. It's long, but I need to put my thoughts out there. I write up everything about the party, about Sam, The P, and Mike, how I went berserk when I had my photo taken. I don't state any names and go by an alias, Twig. Minutes later some guys start commenting. One's from Lionel.

Maybe he's right. I should get over her and leave it all behind. If she was that quick to go for Mike, then things were destined to go belly up. More comments come in. Many of them are much the same, telling me to move on. Most of them say I did the right thing to smack The P.

I go to bed and think more about how much it sucks to still have no girlfriend. Getting over Sam won't be easy, but that's what I've got to do. I promise myself one thing: don't get bitter. I feel like she cheated me, but in the end it was me who freaked her out. And even though I hate thinking about it, I feel like I can now become a better person. Braver, more carefree. At the very least, she's given me that.

I sleep fitfully, often waking and thinking of her. Sometime deep into the night I turn over and pull the curtains open and stare into the dark. There's a gentle rain. I can hear Knight Rider whining at the back door. Dad's still-incomplete aviary shimmers in the soft light coming from the street.

I drift off again, and then wake just as the east is starting to glow. The TV is off in the lounge room, but there's a blanket on the couch. Dad's obviously been up most of the night. He's left the usual evidence: coffee grounds on the bench in the kitchen, painkillers, the laptop is on, his credit card lies next to it. But one thing is different—Roger's paperwork is sorted into neatly labelled piles. I make a coffee and sit at the laptop, wanting to read more comments that have come through overnight. Looking back up the hallway, I can make out the closed door of Dad's bedroom. I touch the sensor pad, the screen jumps to life and I sit back, shocked at what comes up—Pectus Boyz. I rest my head in a hand and re-read my post, trying to interpret it as Dad would've done. There's so much I would've left out if I knew he was going to read it. There are a few more comments, but the one that catches my eye is from The Captain.

The toilet flushes and I swing around. He comes out and pauses in the hallway, sees me on the laptop, the blog open. The slightest smile comes to his face.

‘Since when do you read my stuff?' I yell at him.

‘Since I saw you on the site a few weeks back. After you signed up for JOES.'

I stand up. ‘Can't you just get out of my life? Give me some room to breathe?'

He approaches me. ‘I'm trying to help.'

‘How's that helping? It's prying!'

‘Well who else is going to tell you not to screw around?'

‘And will anyone tell me to choose my own life? To do what I want to do?' I go to the door and pull on some sneakers.

‘Where are you going?' he asks.

‘Out, Dad. I'm going out.'

And this time I actually run. I sprint along our street and turn the corner. The cold air bites at my lungs. I get to the lights, and go right towards Norman Creek and the park. The mangrove reek is worse than usual, an ibis scurries away, a guard dog barks from a nearby industrial block. I follow the path beside the creek, and don't let up until I get to Deshon Street. My legs are burning and I start to walk. What a dick.
Jack
, why the hell did he write
Jack
? And what kind of alias is
The Captain
?
The Knob
more like it.
Captain Knob
.

Coming up to Oscar's I see him there unlocking the roller door. I think of what I told Dad when he signed me up for JOES, how he laughed when I said I'd like to be a mechanic. So once the door's up I follow Oscar inside and stop at the counter. He's chewing something. He peers beyond me, as if looking out the door for my car. ‘Watcha want?'

‘An apprenticeship,' I say.

He scratches at his beard then points to the ad on the counter. ‘It says I want a casual.'

I look at it more closely. ‘And it says applications closed last week,' I say.

He heads off to his office, which is a room made of plywood, a glass sliding door and a poorly fitted airconditioner. I catch the door as he tries to close it.

He turns to me, still chewing.

‘So have you got someone?' I ask.

He takes the toothpick out and flicks it at a bin, but he misses and it lands on the floor along with other toothpicks and scraps of paper.

‘Have you thought about an apprenticeship?' I ask him. ‘When I finish school I could work full-time, but you'd pay me hardly any more than a weekend casual.'

‘You're crazy,' he says.