My Private Pectus (18 page)

‘I'm serious,' I say.

He takes a seat, leans back and crosses his arms over his gut. ‘I'm trialling some boys at eight-thirty tomorrow,' he says. ‘Don't be late.'

‘Tomorrow?'

‘You got a problem with tomorrow?'

JOES is tomorrow. ‘I've got no problem.'

I go back to the footpath. I can feel something brewing inside of me. It's warm. It's the feeling of doing something I want to do, and I'm not about to ask anyone to let me do it, either. I break into a jog again. There are two ways I can get home: via the steep backstreets, or along the busy Old Cleveland Road and the corner store. I take the road. After making it over a crest and after several sets of lights and the supermarket, I see the store. Then Mike.

‘Hey, Sticks, how are ya?' He's sitting on the gutter of the car park, pulling on a ciggie. He waves me over. ‘Want a smoke?' He holds a pack up for me. His uniform is dirty, his shirt untucked, even though he hasn't even started his shift. He's done nothing about his bed hair or the stubble on his chin.

I say nothing. I just look down at him. My fingers tingle with the thought of violence. ‘Are you going to open up?' I ask him. There's a sign on the automatic doors that says it opens at six-thirty. It's nearly seven.

He lights a cigarette, and holds it out to me. ‘After this,' he says.

I look at the cigarette, the glowing ember. ‘Not today.'

‘Why'd you get up so early?' he asks.

‘For a jog.'

He laughs. ‘The season's over,' he says. ‘Or are you doin' it for the army?'

‘No.'

He looks at me weird and draws on his durry. ‘I'll never work you out.'

A car pulls up and a potbellied middle-aged man in a tracksuit clambers out. He comes up to the door of the store, puts his hands against the glass and peers through. He glances at his watch and swears under his breath. I look at Mike as he pulls smoke into his lungs.

‘Did you get a piece of her at the party?' He says it so smug and sincere, like I don't know what he did.

I look at the glass behind him and think about ramming his head right through it. Or I could just tackle him where he is, and slam his skull on the concrete. My fingers tingle more. I clench my fists. I imagine his blood.

‘Everyone was saying you did,' he goes on.

Then tracksuit guy says to us, ‘Do you boys know what time the store opens? Is the sign right?'

‘Six-thirty,' Mike says and grins at me.

The bloke swears and looks at his watch.

‘That Sam,' Mike tells me, ‘she's all right, you know.' There's a spark in his eye.

I close my eyes and clench my teeth, getting ready to lunge. But then the tingling fades. Not instantly, but fast enough for me to feel it. I open my eyes, willing it to return, but it won't. I just don't have it in me.

‘You gonna open up?' I say, loud enough for the tracksuit guy to hear. He stops by the door of his car, turns and points at Mike. ‘Do you work here?'

Mike stubs both ciggies and unlocks the door. I stand back as the tracksuit guy, still wearing his slippers, follows him inside. I wander in and smile as he gives Mike an earful. He buys orange juice and a paper then demands a discount.

‘Thanks a lot, idiot,' Mike says after he leaves. ‘What did you do that for?'

‘Did you get a piece of her at the party?'

‘Oh for crying out loud,' he says. ‘Is that what this is about? Is that what you think?' He breaks coins from their packaging and drops them into the till with a clatter.

‘Maybe you can tell me what she was like?' I say.

He shakes his head. ‘C'mon, Sticks. Have you always been so paranoid?'

‘Paranoid? How can you say I'm paranoid when I saw you with her? Admit it, Mike, you were with her after me!'

‘If that's what you think, go right ahead. I don't give a damn.'

We face each other, the counter between us.

‘Nothing happened, all right?' he says.

I glare at him.

‘You freaked her out. One photo and you went ballistic. She told me you're scared of being seen with her.'

‘It was about me, not her!'

‘If you didn't fess up to me in the car that time, saying you liked her, I would've told her she was right.'

‘What
did
you say?'

‘I told her you think she's a spunk.'

‘And?'

‘She wouldn't believe me.'

‘So you didn't—'

‘Root her? I'm your bloody mate.' He slams the till shut. ‘She was upset. I gave her a hug. I helped her calm down.'

‘But I saw you go into the bedroom.'

‘To get her jacket.'

‘But you closed the door.'

‘Jeez, Sticks! She was upset. She wanted some quiet so she could calm down.'

I look at my feet.

‘We went looking for you, but you'd pissed off. We wandered about the beach for an hour, but we couldn't find you anywhere. Your car was gone. You didn't answer your phone. Sticks, you took off on her.'

I stare at him in disbelief. ‘That was when I took Gez to the hospital.'

He grins. ‘Then it sounds like you might still be able to dig yourself out of this mess.'

I bolt to the door. I stop. ‘Thanks, Mike,' I say, then practically sprint the last few blocks home. When I get there, Dad's in the kitchen, cooking up bacon and eggs in the pan. I can tell he's still brooding over our argument. But upon seeing the sweat on my brow, my messed-up hair, I can virtually hear his mind ticking over. There's a sense of fatherly pride in his voice. ‘You trained hard.' He flips an egg and beams at me. ‘You'll show 'em!' His voice is warm with excitement.

But I pull a stool up to the bench. ‘Dad, if you want to know whether I'm good enough to join the army, we can go in the backyard right now and I'll do the physical for you, but I'm not joining. I don't want to. It's not for me.'

He drops the spatula. The bacon sizzles, fat spits. ‘You can't use your chest as an excuse. It's just not right,' he says.

‘I'm not using it as an excuse. I'm just not interested. Besides, I'm going for a job tomorrow. I'm hoping it'll turn into an apprenticeship.'

‘Like hell you are,' he says.

‘I'm going to Oscar's first thing tomorrow.'

‘Oscar's?' he spits. ‘That filthy mechanic?'

I get up from the stool, go around the bench and stand with him in the kitchen. I move close, determined to show him I'm serious. ‘He wants a weekend casual, and if I like it, I'll apply for TAFE next year.'

‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that?' he explodes. ‘That's a stupid idea!'

‘I could get an apprenticeship,' I say, deliberately not yelling in return. ‘I'll get a trade.'

He's shaking his head. ‘No. No. No.'

‘Maybe one day I'll have my own garage. McDermott Motors.'

‘Rubbish!' he snaps.

‘You could do my paperwork,' I suggest with a smirk.

‘Outta my way,' he commands and goes back to his eggs.

‘It's at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.'

He puts his eggs and bacon on a plate. Both overdone. He sits at the kitchen table and turns on the laptop.

‘Dad?' I walk around the table to face him. ‘What do you think?'

‘I think it's dumb and stupid and I'm not going to let you.'

I sit down, opposite him. ‘In the morning, I could do with a lift,' I say.

‘You can take the ute yourself.'

‘Dad—'

‘What? You come in here, spring this whole thing on me while I'm having my breakfast then ask me to help out in ways I don't need to. Most kids would be happy if they had open slather on a car like I give you.'

‘It's not that open.'

He slams his cutlery down. ‘Bloody close to it.'

I press on my eyes, almost ready to give up. ‘Dad, this isn't even about the car.'

‘Then what the hell is it about?' he yells.

I look at him. ‘I was just hoping you'd like to be involved.' My voice nearly breaks.

‘Involved?' he grumbles. ‘In what, dumb ideas?'

‘In things I choose to do.'

He fills his mouth and looks at his laptop. ‘Involved,' he mumbles.

Leaving him there, I take the kitchen phone and go to my room. If I don't get through to Sam this time, then I won't try again. It takes a while to ring, but when it does, she answers.

‘Hi, Sam,' I say.

She goes silent, but I can hear her breathing.

‘You there?'

She sighs heavily. ‘What is it, Jack?'

‘I need to see you.' My hands are sweating, my mouth is dry.

‘I don't want to see you.'

But I can't let this go. Not now that I know what happened. ‘Can I see you today?'

‘I'm working.'

‘How about tomorrow?'

‘I'm working then, too.'

‘What time?'

She groans. ‘Nine till four.'

‘Then I'll come to town, I'll see you after your shift.'

‘What don't you understand?' There's an edge to her voice. ‘I said I don't want to see you.'

‘Sam, please. There's something I need to tell you. It's about the party. And, if you don't like what I say, I'll leave you alone.' I hold the phone against my ear, silently begging her to agree.

She breathes heavily into the phone. ‘Is that all?' she asks.

‘And I'm not joining the army. I've got a job interview with the mechanic tomorrow.'

‘I'm thrilled to know,' she says sarcastically.

‘I didn't leave you, Sam. There was an emergency.'

‘Of course there was, Jack.'

‘I'll see you at four.'

But she has already hung up.

The next morning Dad bangs on my door. He shoves his head in my room. ‘Right! Up you get!'

I groan. ‘What time is it?'

‘It's time to get up, that's what it is. Come on, hands outta your pants.'

‘Very funny.' I pull the sheet up over my face. I hear him leave, fill the kettle, put something on the stove. His feet pound on the floor as he returns. ‘What did I say? No time to hold your sausage hostage. Get up and go!'

So I clamber out of bed, pack a bag with a notepad and pen, pull on some old jeans and a shirt and head to the kitchen.

‘You can't wear that!'

I pour the coffee Dad's brewed. ‘It's not an interview, more of a practical test,' I tell him.

‘Test?' He looks at me. ‘Then you'll need tools,' he says, flustered.

‘Oscar will have tools.'

‘What about the ute? Am I still driving you?'

I rub my hair. ‘I didn't think you wanted to.'

He starts searching the table. ‘I'll take you,' he says. ‘Can't have you getting there late.' He faces me. ‘The only way you'll work out I'm right, is to get there and fail.'

‘Thanks, Dad. You've got me brimming with confidence.'

‘You seen the keys?'

I look at the clock. ‘Dad, we've got half an hour.'

‘I'll drop you off up the block,' he says.

‘What for?'

‘What if he sees the ute? He'll think that's the pile of rubbish you work on. Talk about ruining your chances.'

‘So you do want me to get the job?'

He points at me. ‘Don't worry about what I want.'

‘I don't.'

He glances at me, but he can't hide the hurt.

‘Oscar's worked on the Pissan before, Dad. He knows it's ours.'

He goes back to turning pages in the search for keys. ‘Still, can't do any harm.'

And so fifteen minutes later, after a coffee, a slice of toast, and a few pills for Dad, we climb into the Pissan.

‘You nervous?' he asks, pulling out onto the street.

‘Yeah,' I say.

‘Me too!' he says and finally grins.

He drives slowly. Very slowly. ‘Jack,' he says, taking his eyes from the road. ‘I just don't like you growing up, that's all.'

Looking ahead, I put a hand on his arm. Then he puts his hand on mine.

‘Hey!' I say, pulling mine away. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Didn't you want to hold my—'

‘No! I'm seventeen. I was going to say pull up ahead.'

‘Hey? We're nowhere near it.'

I grab his arm again. ‘Don't turn the corner. Keep going straight ahead.'

‘What for?' he asks, watching the street we should have taken pass by.

‘There's something I need to do first,' I say.

I can't wait till after Sam's shift. I need to see her now. If she's working at nine, then she's probably about to leave home to catch the bus. ‘Drop me off on the third street to the left.'

He looks at me then back to the road.

‘There,' I say, pointing to Sam's street. ‘Slow down. Here. Dad! Just here!'

He pulls up abruptly, leans forward and looks at the street name through the windscreen. ‘What's this about?'

I reach for the rear view mirror. My hair's long, messy, so I run my hand through it, trying to give it some life. It gets worse, so I pat it down.

‘What are you doing?' he asks.

‘Seeing someone.'

‘We don't have time!' he yells, pointing at his watch. ‘Who is it anyway?'

‘Sam.'

‘Sam?' he squints. ‘That girl you tried to—'

‘Have sex with on the beach?'

‘Yes,' he says, wincing.

‘Have you got a problem with that?'

‘You're too young.'

‘For a girlfriend?'

‘For sex!'

‘But you just said I'm growing up.'

‘I got it wrong. This is immature!'

‘Dad, we're not having sex, anyway.'

‘Good!' he says firmly. ‘But you can't see her now, we're gonna be late.'

I get out of the car, but before closing the door I tell him, ‘I need to sort things out.'

He holds the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white. ‘Well if this turns out bad, at least I'll get to read all about it,' he grumbles.

‘Ten minutes,' I tell him. Then I turn and run down her street.

I get to the driveway. It's like déjà vu. My mouth is dry. My hands are sweaty. Even before I see her I'm lost for words. I knock on the door. Hurry, hurry, I think.

The door opens. It's a miracle. It's Sam, dressed in her café uniform. Her hair is pulled back, her face looks heavy, tired, put out. My hopes drain. We face each other. She doesn't look interested in hearing what I've got to say. I fidget with the hem of my shirt.

‘I'm leaving,' she says. ‘I have to catch the bus.'

‘I didn't mean to push you away. I didn't want that to happen,' I blurt.

She sucks in her cheeks and shakes her head. ‘Why, Jack?' she asks. ‘Why do you treat me like that?'

‘I went looking for you,' I say. ‘I thought you were on the beach.'

I wait for her to say something, but she just turns away.

‘I was told you were on the beach so I ran out there. I ran down to the surf lifesaving tower and back. I was yelling your name.

‘And then when I got back to the house, Gez was drunk. He was unconscious, Sam. He was so pissed there was spew all over him. He was hardly breathing. I took him to the hospital. That's where I ended up, but I wanted to find you.' The words spill out faster than I can think them.

She crosses her arms, her eyes accusing. ‘But you didn't call, you did nothing.'

‘I lost my phone. I still haven't found it.'

‘Then why didn't you visit earlier?'

‘I thought you got with Mike!'

‘You're sick,' she says. She puts her face near mine. ‘You're weird and you're sick. And I don't ever want to talk to you again.' She starts marching back inside.

That was like a punch in the guts. For a moment I watch her, and then I run after her. I grab her arm.

‘You promised!' she yells, pulling free. ‘You said you would leave me alone if I didn't like what you had to say. I don't like any of it, Jack!'

I raise a hand and say quietly, ‘I saw you go into the room with him. He had his arm around you. I took it the wrong way.'

‘Yes, you took it the wrong way!'

‘He makes jokes about you. Jokes about having sex with you. It's his way of making me jealous, and it works. It always works. But when I saw you together I thought maybe he was serious.'

Sam's mum pops her head around the corner. ‘Sam, is everything all right?'

Sam waves her away.

I go on. ‘I shouldn't have pushed you away. I didn't mean it like that. I freaked out. I'm sorry.'

She moves deeper inside, towards her mum.

‘Sam, I loved and hated that party. I loved it when I was with you, hated it when I wasn't. People were watching us most of the night, did you notice? I did, but I didn't care. I didn't care about being seen with you, that wasn't the issue.'

She stops and turns to face me.

‘The issue was me, it was this.' And I pat my chest. ‘What I came to tell you is that I like being with you, being seen with you. In fact, I want to be seen with you more. Heaps more,' I say.

She bites her lip. Her mum is smiling.

‘Can I keep seeing you?' I ask.

Sam covers her mouth with her hand. Then she slowly walks towards me. She pushes me out the doorway, but she comes with me. Once we're both outside, she closes the door. ‘You've got a lot to make up for,' she says.

I gently pull her close. I feel her body against mine and then I kiss her.

A horn blasts. We jump. The Pissan's in the driveway. ‘Enough, all right, let's go!' Dad booms, leaning out the window.

‘Who's that?' Sam asks.

I cringe. ‘Dad,' I say.

She pushes me away. ‘What's he doing here?'

‘Taking me to my job interview.'

‘With the mechanic?'

I nod.

‘That's now?'

‘I'm five minutes late.'

She pushes me towards the car. ‘Go, Jack! Go!'

‘I'll see you at four!' I shout as I dive into the car.

Dad doesn't bother dropping me off up the block from Oscar's. He screeches straight into the car park.

I open the door. ‘It can't take longer than a couple of hours.'

‘Really?' he says. ‘Coz, JOES starts at about one, I think.'

I grab my bag, get out and slam the door.

‘Sorry!' he yells, his voice now muffled. ‘Good luck!'

There are two guys waiting at the entrance. I glance at the car park: a souped-up Subaru WRX, and an old hotted-up Commodore. I look at the guys again and I take a bet at who owns what car. The guy in the black AC/DC T-shirt owns the Commodore; the one with his iPod in his ears owns the WRX.

‘Which cars are yours?' I ask them. They point to their beasts. I was right.

‘You guys here for the interview?'

They nod.

Oscar comes over and runs his tongue between his teeth and lips, as if summing us up. ‘C'mon, you lot,' he mumbles and leads us out the back to the wrecking yard.

There're cars everywhere—rusting shells piled on top of each other. To most people it would look like a pile of junk, but to me it's a gold mine of enjoyment. Oscar takes us to an extension of the garage, a large wing made of steel posts and corrugated iron with a floor of concrete covered in black patches of oil. There're three cars. Each has had an accident of some sort, they all have their bonnets open and are surrounded by car parts on the concrete.

Oscar rubs his nose with a greasy finger. ‘I've got a car for each of youse to fix up,' he says through his beard. ‘I don't expect youse to get it right. Jeez, youse wouldn't want a casual job if youse knew everything to do. They're all old and clapped out, so don't worry if youse screw up. Just get in and have a go.'

Oscar points to the first car. ‘That one's yours,' he says to the Commodore guy. He scratches at his beard. ‘1984 Mitsubishi Sigma,' he says. Commodore guy stands there. Oscar waves his hand and says impatiently, ‘Well, go on.' The Commodore guy shuffles off and Oscar shakes his head then points to the next car. ‘1981 Toyota Corolla,' he says. ‘Who wants it?'

Neither of us move, our hands stuffed in our pockets. The WRX guy probably doesn't like the idea of laying his pristine hands on a donk that can't put out even a hundred kilowatts at red line. I've got my eye on the next car. Oscar rolls his eyes and mumbles something about initiative. ‘You.' He points at the WRX guy.

Oscar leads me over to the last car. ‘This one's yours,' he says. ‘It's a—'

‘1981 Nissan Bluebird. A two litre piece-a-junk.'

Oscar looks at me with his dull blue eyes. He sniffs and rubs a blackened hand in his beard.

‘What's your name?' he asks.

‘Sticks,' I say.

‘Well, Sticks,' he says, ‘make it less like junk, would ya?'

I stand for a while, wondering where to start, ignoring Oscar who's waiting and watching nearby. I look into the engine bay and at first glance everything seems to be in place, but the longer I look, the more I see wrong. The spark plug leads are so old that the rubber insulation is cracked and ruined; a radiator hose is perished; there's a trail of oil oozing from a gasket, caked with dirt. There's no way Oscar wants that fixed, it's not worth the effort, and I can't see any new gaskets lying about, so I go to my bag and take out my notepad. I start compiling two lists: the things I can fix with the parts lying around, and the things that will still need fixing when I'm done. The gasket goes on the second list.

The Commodore and WRX guys both try to start their cars without much luck. One car doesn't kick over, the other runs for a few seconds then conks out. Glancing over my shoulder I see Oscar grinning. He watches me, probably waiting for me to do the same. But I don't. I know it won't go, not yet anyway—the battery's not even attached.

So I get to work. I replace the spark plugs, the leads, fix the hoses, and fill the radiator. I replace the fuel and oil filters with other old filters Oscar's got lying around—he kept his expenses low. It's obvious this whole thing is for demonstration purposes only, not to get the cars back on the road. I go hard at it for two hours and only stop when the pie van comes around.

After I've chugged down a sausage roll, I get back into it. I check the battery with a multimeter. It's not dead. When I try to kick the motor, there's nothing more than a clicking sound, so I pull the starter motor off. It's cactus, the copper coils are burnt black. Oscar must know this already, because there's a secondhand starter motor on the concrete. I put it in then get the motor running. It splutters just like Gez's car, but it's still good enough to get the other guys looking over. I kill it, then check my list. While I'm doing this, the WRX guy gives up and walks off. Not long after, the Commodore guy finishes too. Oscar comes out for a quick look with a toothpick balancing on his lip. He grunts to himself before walking off. I keep going, still finding things to do.