My Private Pectus (3 page)

‘I'm not letting him drive.' My voice breaks.

Dad throws the phone and it lands on the bed. ‘Then give him a call. Tell him the weekend's off because you won't let him drive.' He walks out.

Knight Rider sits in the middle of the room, panting, drooling happily. I yell and kick at him, ‘Get out!' I miss and he scuttles out the door.

I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. What a dick! While trying to decide what to do, I get a text message. It's from Ryan:
Good job on the Pissan, Sticks! Cya on the weekend
. I put it down and keep staring.

I go to the lounge room. Dad's watching the telly. ‘Remember,' he says, not looking at me. ‘Ryan will drive.'

On Friday afternoon, I wait outside Gez's house, the car running. He comes out; a bag slung over one shoulder, a phone in hand. I can tell he's talking to his new girlfriend Lisa by the way he's holding his mobile—like it's something that needs to be handled with care.

‘My board's still in my room,' he says to me. Then into the phone: ‘Nah, I was talking to Sticks.'

I follow him inside, take his board then dump it in the tray of the ute. Sitting back in the driver's seat, I wait. A jogger runs past. A couple walking their dog. The afternoon is dragging on.

‘C'mon, Gez!' I yell and blast the horn. He peers through parted curtains, the phone still to his ear. He holds up two fingers like a peace warrior and mouths, ‘Two minutes.' I hold up two fingers in return, not so peaceful though.

Several minutes later he comes out holding his hands up like a footy player appealing to a referee.

‘Took you long enough,' I tell him as he climbs in.

I pull hard at my seat belt, but it clicks and jams. I swear, pull again, but it won't come and I drive off anyway.

‘What's up you?' he says, but I don't reply.

Ryan and his housemate Mike, who also works at the corner store, are sitting on their bags beside the footpath when we arrive. Their surfboards are beside them. Mike's an average height and build. He's wearing long black shorts and a white T-shirt. This is the first time I've been away on a weekend with him and I have to admit, I'm not sure what to expect.

‘Sticks is bummed,' Gez says as Ryan comes round to the driver's door, ‘but he's not saying why.'

Ryan laughs. ‘C'mon, get out,' he says.

Gez looks at me then at Ryan. ‘What's going on?' he says.

‘Dad won't let me drive,' I say.

Gez starts to laugh, but stops when I fire him a dirty look. ‘That's rough, man. Real rough.'

I make sure the boards are secure in the tray then climb onto the back seat. Mike's sitting in the middle so he can lean forward and talk to the boys up front. Ryan turns around and shoves the beach report from the paper onto my lap. ‘This'll sort you out, Sticks. Two-metre swell!'

Gez claps. ‘All right!'

The traffic is congested through the CBD and past the Royal Brisbane Hospital. Ryan zips in and out of lanes, trying to get ahead. He switches the radio on, turns up the volume until the speakers crackle. I push my leg against Mike's, trying to make some room. ‘Tell me, is Sticks always so riled up?' Mike asks the others.

‘Rack off,' I say.

Ryan smiles back at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘What you need is a beer,' Mike tells me.

‘I'm fanging for one,' Gez says and puts his feet against the dash. ‘Or two.'

‘Or three or four,' Ryan says.

‘Not in my car, you're not,' I tell them. While I'm not happy with the conditions of use, there is no way I'm going to let them ruin my car privilege in just one weekend.

‘C'mon, Sticks.' Ryan says, still looking in the mirror.

Mike leans over me and points out the window. ‘Hey, we just passed a bottle-o!'

Ryan does a u-ey at the next set of lights. Mike ducks in, comes back out with a carton of Fourex. Meanwhile, Ryan gets out and opens my door. ‘You can drive,' he says and climbs into the back with Mike, the carton between them. If only Dad knew.

They drink steadily as we head north. Gez has one or two, takes care to keep his beer below the window. Mike offers me one, but I refuse so he says he'll have it for me.

By the time we arrive, it's dark, they're drunk, sniggering, talking nonsense. Ryan gets out, leans over the gate and lifts a metal stake that was holding it shut. He throws the stake onto the grass. I park the ute in the weatherboard shed. There are several mattresses leaning against the walls, a patch of oil soaked into the concrete.

The house isn't much more than a beach shack: corrugated iron roof, fibro walls painted green. The furnishings look as if they've been there since the seventies or eighties, I can't tell which. There's a big yard, and a path runs from the back fence about one hundred metres to the foreshore of Lake Currimundi, which is protected from the surf by a spit of sand.

‘Honey, I'm home!' Mike yells at last year's
Sports Illustrated
calendar hanging in the hallway. ‘Which one's better?' he slurs at me, ‘August or September?'

‘I like April!' Gez calls from the front door, bringing in his bags. We've had this debate before.

I flick through the months. ‘June,' I say. She has dark hair and deep brown eyes. I like her because she's looking at the camera, as if she's looking straight at me. There's a hint of a smile.

‘June?' Ryan comes in and peers over my shoulder.

‘Then June it is,' Mike says and leaves her hanging there.

It's a warm night for July and we settle in the backyard where there's a brick barbecue; the hotplate leaning against a nearby tree. We try to put it in place, but one end dips, so I find some rocks in the dark to prop it up. Ryan comes out with some folding chairs. I light the fire and Gez throws on some snags. Mike stands, watching, rolling a joint. He gives me a strange look when he offers it and I don't take it. Then he makes sure he has a bigger pull than Ryan or Gez. We talk about getting trashed and sunburnt in tomorrow's surf and fantasise about girls on the beach sunbaking topless even though it's the middle of winter. We go back and forth from the fire to the fridge, making sure we don't run dry. The whole time I try to catch up. We take the embers from the barbecue and get a fire going in the middle of the yard then sit on the grass, facing the flames. Ryan and Mike get stoned; start to giggle about things, funny or not.

‘June,' Mike says to me. ‘You ever been with a girl like June?'

I fumble with the label on my beer. He keeps looking at me, trying to read my expression. I've never had a girlfriend before, not even had one interested in me as far as I'm aware. Too tall, too stooped, too skinny.

‘Have you?'

I watch the fire. ‘No,' I say. I look up at Ryan, who drops his gaze to his beer. He's smiling too, but says nothing.

‘You for real?' Mike asks. When it comes to girls and sex, Mike always has a story or advice. It really annoys me because I've never seen him with anyone. But all the same, the topic makes me embarrassed, especially with these three. They've all done it, even Gez. He used to do it with Carmen Grieves from Coorparoo High. Ryan's had a fling or two with girls he met at the pub or clubbing in town and then there was that girl from uni—Anna—which lasted six months or more. My inexperience embarrasses me and the way Mike keeps looking at me doesn't help. It's not as if I don't like sex—or the idea of having it—it's just that I might never get there. What with my chest and all.

Mike goes on. ‘You've never been laid?' He's leaning towards me, eyebrows raised, pupils dilated.

There's a million guys out there who haven't got laid at seventeen—that's what I tell myself. But I poke at the fire with a stick feeling like I'm the only one.

‘Never?' Mike asks.

I shield my eyes from the smoke.

He giggles and looks back and forth at everyone. ‘He's never been laid!'

‘That's not what he said,' Gez says. ‘He says he's never been with one like June.'

I send him a thankful nod, but Mike's on a roll.

‘Never?' He giggles. ‘Never!' He keeps giggling and repeating the word: ‘Never, never, never.' He takes a stick out of the fire and points the burning end at me. ‘Never say never!' He bursts out laughing.

‘Leave him alone,' Gez says.

‘What about you, Gez?' Mike says. ‘You must be getting some.'

He nods. Of course he's getting some. He's going out with Lisa Patrick. And if he's not getting any now, he soon will be. Lucky bugger.

Ryan reaches over and takes the joint from Mike. ‘What's her name again?'

‘Lisa,' Gez says.

‘The Moaning Lisa,' Ryan says and starts giggling too. He looks at Mike and they giggle together. Mike rubs his crotch and spills his beer.

Gez and I squint through the smoke, but don't say anything.

‘Moaning Lisa,' Mike says again and bursts into more laughter. Then he gets up and throws his stick on the fire. ‘I'm hungry, you guys hungry?'

‘There's still snags on the barbie,' Gez says.

Mike shrugs. ‘I'm taking a piss.' He stumbles off.

‘You didn't have to admit to it, you know,' Ryan says to me.

‘I didn't admit to anything! He jumped to a conclusion.'

The boys wave at the smoke.

Gez finishes his beer and changes the topic. ‘You gonna get up early for a surf?'

‘Sure. Crack-a-dawn,' I say, thinking anything will be better than this. I go inside, take a few stubbies from the fridge and wonder if coming up was such a great idea. I go back out and give the beers to Ryan and Gez. I crack mine and take a huge swig.

Mike is stumbling through the bushes in the garden near the fence, laughing to himself. ‘Never say Moaning Lisa…' We watch his silhouette enter the house. ‘Who wants some chocolate?' he yells, followed by a few bangs, crashes and swearing. ‘Who wants beer and chocolate?' It takes some time before he comes out, but when he does, he has a six-pack tucked under one arm and a slab of chocolate in his hand. He puts the six-pack down near the fire and I drag it away before the plastic melts. He bites the chocolate like a piece of toast. ‘Anyone?' he asks then passes some around.

He sits and says, ‘Wish I was still at school.'

Gez and I laugh. That's the last thing I expected Mike to say. Ryan smirks, as if he's heard this before.

‘Nah. Serious. I'm fair dinkum.' He swallows some chocolate, then looks about. ‘Where's the lighter?'

‘Use the fire,' I say.

Mike points at me with his chocolate and says, ‘
Never
would have thought of that,' and starts giggling again. He stares into the fire and goes silent for a while. I break off a square from the segment of chocolate he gave me. ‘You gonna eat the rest of it?' he asks.

Ryan says to him, ‘Tell 'em why you still wanna be at school.'

Mike looks up, his eyes vacant. He waves his stubby at us. Beer spills out. ‘Wait till you get out,' he says, ‘it's a desert.'

Gez and I look at each other.

‘I mean, you two have got it on a platter. Chicks. How many chicks in your year?'

‘I dunno. Fifty. Sixty,' I say and Gez nods in return.

‘Guess how many there are at the corner store.' Mike cuts the air with his hand. ‘Zip. Bugger all. Least nothing I'd root.'

Gez says, ‘But you can go to clubs and stuff. You'd meet plenty of girls there.'

Mike shakes his head. ‘Yeah, but I don't know 'em. You guys know fifty chicks.' He looks at us. ‘Fif-ty,' he says slowly, spraying spit. ‘You know their names, what they look like, what kind of stuff they're into. The hard work's done.' He stares into the flame, then at me, then at Gez. ‘You gonna finish that beer?' he asks.

‘Get one yourself,' Gez says.

‘But they know us, too,' I say. ‘That doesn't always help.'

‘It does for us,' Gez says, ‘but not for Mike.'

We all laugh.

‘You're all losers!' Mike moans and goes inside.

Gez and I get up early. I like getting out there before there're people on the beach. We go into Ryan's room. He's still asleep so Gez nudges him in the ribs with his foot. ‘C'mon, surf's up,' he says.

Ryan grunts and rolls over. We go to Mike, who's on a mattress in the lounge room. I shake him by the shoulders.

‘Get lost,' he groans.

More pleased than disappointed, I head off with Gez, our surfboards under our arms. He's wearing only boardshorts; I have a large shirt on and a wettie, the zip undone, hanging limply from my waist.

The conditions aren't what the paper said. The swell's big, but it's overcast, there's a south-east breeze and the waves are blown-out. We wander down the beach, hoping for a spot where the waves break more cleanly. The water is dark with churned-up sand. The waves dump in a shore break, but we spot a better break further out. It's windblown too, but a bit cleaner. I wait for a couple of joggers to pass then pull my shirt off and reach over my back for the zip of my wetsuit. I look up at Gez who quickly turns his gaze away from the depression in my chest.

We wade into the cold water and dive through the shore break. Whitewash rushes at us in long solid walls. We duck-dive underneath, but the waves roll through in steady succession, so we paddle hard in between. The horizon rises and falls with each wave, rippled and gnarled by the wind. A wave begins to climb. I inch forward on my board, ready to dip the nose underneath. But instead of curling over, white water boils and bulldozes through us. We recover, paddle again, only harder, so by the time we make it through the breakers, we've had it. My arms are sore and my eyes feel bloodshot. Salt water dribbles from my nose. But I love it. There're no surfers out, the world is ours. I slap the water in delight.