The Whole of My World (28 page)

The club is packed. It's been going for a while already. The queue for the pies is short, most of the kids and adults having already eaten theirs. The beer queue, however, remains consistently long.

Mr McGuire calls everyone's attention and tells us to take our seats. Hard plastic chairs are lined up in the middle of the room, though there aren't enough for everyone, and most of the boys are sent to stand at the back, forming a noisy cluster of jeers and laughter.

Dad and I take a seat in the back, just in front of Josh, who, as always, is in the middle of the chaos, the centre of attention.

‘Hey, Shell,' he calls out to me as I take my seat, only to be met with more taunts and jeers from his teammates. He laughs it off, completely sure of his place in this world. I wish I could buy some of that confidence, or even borrow it now and then.

We settle in and listen to the various speeches and introductions, the wrap-up of the season and the plans for next year. Then they move on to the team awards, age group by age group, all the way up to Josh's team. Jacko reads out each player's name, handing them their medal for having won the premiership.

The noise level lifts in anticipation of the under 16s Best and Fairest Award, the last of the junior grade awards tonight. Mr McGuire nods at Dad, and then holds up the trophy. ‘We've made a change in the Glenvalley Raiders' Best and Fairest Award. From this year on, in honour of the contribution of a much-loved and sorely missed player, the award will be known as the “Angus Brown Award for the Most Valuable Player”.'

I hear the words clearly enough, but it takes a long minute for the meaning to register. I look at Dad in confusion, wondering how this could have happened without us knowing, and panicking that Dad will freak out. But Dad turns stiffly towards me and manages a tight smile.

He knew. I feel a sudden, powerful rush of love for my dad. Do they know how much this cost him? The trophy is a symbol of all the things that Angus won't have – the brilliance of youth and the potential for an amazing future. I tuck my arm through Dad's, determined for him to know what this means for us.

When Dad looks at me, I see something lovely and unexpected – a deep and absorbing pride. And my heart soars a little that he might soon be able to remember Angus without that crippling pain that nearly destroyed everything else.

Jacko takes over, assuming his role as coach and team leader. ‘The inaugural winner of the Angus Brown trophy is . . . Cameron Evans.'

I'm still absorbing the idea of the Angus Brown Award before I realise that Josh didn't win. I turn around to find him at the back, cheerfully pumping Cameron Evans' hand with his usual gusto, no trace of disappointment or shock in his expression. He sends me that infuriating wink-grin thing he does, his delight at my surprise all the more infuriating. He knew he wouldn't win – that was just the plan to get me to come.

My cheeks burn and I struggle with the possibility that it's not because I'm embarrassed he's fooled me but because I'm flattered and strangely pleased. It's starting to feel like we've entered a whole other dimension – a place where Josh McGuire is less annoying than cute, where grief is not the unmentionable ghost in the Brown house, where footy can be the thing we share but not all that we have. If the Angels start winning next year, I'll know for sure we've entered a parallel universe.

Later, after the last of the awards are announced, I hang back and watch Dad talking to Mrs McGuire by the bar, each with a half-drunk almost-flat beer in their hands. They've been talking for ages.

Josh comes up, doing a very uncool strutting action that probably looked funny in his head but ended up looking idiotic and uncoordinated in practice.

‘Smooth, Josh,' I say, smirking. I want to ask about the Most Valuable Player award but don't know how to raise it without reminding him he didn't win.

‘It was Mum's idea,' he said, as though reading my mind. ‘She spoke to your dad first,' Josh adds quickly.

Except Mrs McGuire told me earlier that it was Josh's idea and I know she'd never lie. I want to hug him. He's irritating and as cocky as all get-out, but I want to hug him with all my heart. It takes a good measure of willpower not to give in. ‘Thanks,' I say, ignoring his protests.

‘Thank my mum.'

‘Yeah, whatever.' He's so pleased with himself but I'm sure it's not just about the Angus Brown trophy. ‘Go on, then. Tell me what's going on. You look like you're about to burst.'

Josh nods smugly, that ridiculous grin both infuriating and – it's so hard to admit – gorgeous. It's there, though, plain enough. I've been ignoring the idea for as long as possible, but have decided that ignoring my feelings and the things that matter – the things that make me
me
– doesn't work. In fact, it seems to have made a lot of things worse. Admitting it to myself, however, is a very different thing to admitting it to anyone else, especially the person it's aimed at. But footy is safe. Or real footy is – the actual game anyway. It's the extra stuff around it that gets messy.

‘You should have won. Cam Evans is a hog.'

Josh laughs. ‘Thanks for the support, but you only saw one game.'

‘I've been listening,' I say, defensively, realising my absence mattered to him more than I thought. ‘I'm not the only one who thinks you were robbed. Besides, he's always been Jacko's pet.'

Josh shakes his head, enjoying this conversation way more than he should. Why isn't he disappointed? Why isn't he angry? He knows I'm right. ‘Yeah, well, I've got bigger fish to fry, Shell.'

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Got some news,' he says, deliberately dragging it out.

‘I can see that. Go on then.'

Josh looks around, then he grabs my hand and leads me outside. Night has set in and the temperature has dropped several degrees. He takes me to the dark corner of the car park, near Dad's car. We're just outside the glow of the club lights, as private as this clubhouse could ever be. Some of the younger kids are playing kick-to-kick on the dark oval, oblivious to the fact they can't see, their voices breaking the still night in between the hearty thump of a football.

My fingers are still tingling when he lets go. Nothing that happened on grand final night feels even a bit like this. My feet are cold from the damp ground, the breeze is steady on this cool spring night, and Tara's duffle coat is hanging uselessly on the back of my chair inside the clubhouse. But I feel a warmth rise through my whole body, starting at my toes and ending somewhere around my furiously blushing cheeks. ‘Have you been drinking?' I blurt out, even though it's the furthest thing from my mind.

He frowns and shakes his head. ‘No. What? No.'

‘You're acting weird, Josh.' So am I. But maybe if I focus the attention on him, he won't notice. Despite the chilly air, two damp patches of sweat are forming under my arms. I hope to God my deodorant holds up.

‘Shelley . . .' He stops.

I'm staring at his mouth. I have to force my lips shut so I don't kiss him right then.

He sees this and he knows. I'm quietly dying here and he knows exactly why.

‘So what's the surprise?' My voice is way too loud for two people standing only inches apart.

‘Just a minute,' he chides, like I'm an impatient kid. I bristle at his arrogance but that turns to water when Josh leans in to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘First I have to ask you something.'

My pulse throbs in my ears so hard I can't hear my own thoughts.

Josh pushes his hand through his hair, his floppy fringe settling right back where it was before. But in that gesture, I glimpse the freckle by his hairline, the one Angus used as an excuse to call him ‘Spot'. My fingers itch to touch it, to brush his hair back so I can see it more clearly. His eyes are so intense, boring into me like a laser beam.

‘What?' Amazingly, my voice doesn't catch. I sound angry.

He steps back, as though suddenly aware of how close we are, how intense the moment is, and I worry that he's misunderstood. He laughs nervously, looks over his shoulder again. ‘You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?' he says, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but I think I see uncertainty too.

I want to. I think I want to.

‘Okay, I'm just going to say it.'

I wait.

‘The Eastern Panthers have invited me to train with the under 19s.'

‘Oh.' Disappointment sits like a rock in my stomach. I try to find saliva in my dry mouth that will help me form the right words. Instead, a rasping noise escapes me. ‘That's great!' I swallow, breathe and try again. ‘The scouts came through then?' Almost even, almost neutral.

He laughs again, that nervous, jittery thing he seems to have only recently learnt. Where's the cocky Josh I know? ‘Yeah, they did. It is. It's great.' But he's frowning again, with confusion or disappointment.

I'm meant to be happier. I wind it all back in my head. I
am
happy. I refuse not to be happy. This is good, I tell myself. Brilliant, even. It's just not what I expected. But I won't lose this moment to celebrate with him. I've lost too many of them already. ‘Seriously, I thought you were going to say something else,' I admit, realising too late that I've left myself wide open. ‘It really is fantastic,' I gush, trying to cover my blunder. ‘I mean, I knew they'd want you. I always said so, didn't I?'

‘What did you think I was going to say?'

My face burns. I struggle to think of a single believable answer that doesn't involve my inevitable humiliation, but come up with nothing. I shake my head, study my toes and glance over at the halo of light outside the clubhouse.

‘Are you still mad about that Ginnie Perkins thing? I told you I didn't say anything – she knows a lot of the players here. You said you believed me.'

Ginnie Perkins is so far from my mind right now that it's almost funny. ‘I believe you,' I say, feeling a sudden urge to laugh. I don't know if it's fear or embarrassment, frustration or stupidity, but a bubble of laughter rises up in my throat. I kill it quickly, but maybe not quickly enough.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

‘What? You're being weird again.'

He doesn't answer. For a moment, I think I've ruined everything forever. And then he kisses me. It's gentle and shy but it's right on my lips, so there's nothing brotherly or friendly about it.

I freeze, his lips still pressed against mine. My mouth won't move. My mind won't move.
I
can't move.

He stops and frowns. ‘Jesus, Shell. You don't give an inch, do you?' And then I see that his face is, mercifully, as red as mine.

For a long second my heart seems to stop beating. Time halts. It's now or never. I close my eyes and my whole body relaxes, as though I've been holding on to something for ages and now, finally, I can let it go. I open my eyes again and look at him – right into him – and smile. ‘No, I don't.' Before I can change my mind, I kiss him back. Our lips touch softly, then less softly, warm and familiar but also completely new. I can see that mouth in my mind's eye, having seen it a million times before: the rise and curve of it, the shape it makes when he smiles.

We kiss for a long time. And soon, neither of us is blushing from embarrassment.

 

 

School has been lonely without Tara, but I've been making an effort to talk to girls I didn't spend much time with before. Elena Irving is funny and smart, and likes a lot of the same music as me. She's also fiercely loyal, like Josh. Rose DeLillo from my Italian class makes me laugh out loud. She's shy and speaks really quietly, so you have to listen hard, but it's always worth hearing. Mum was like that too – she didn't talk a lot, or force people to notice her, but as soon as she opened her mouth, people would lean forward to listen.

I'm sitting next to Elena in Australian History when Sister Brigid starts handing our essays back. I notice that Ginnie Perkins got a B, possibly her first ever, but otherwise all the usual names are at the top of the class. I wait for Sister Brigid to give me mine, but she tells me to see her after class. After everyone files out, Sister Brigid hands me my essay with a big red A++ marked on the front of it.

‘Thanks. Wow. I've never had a double-A plus before.' I'm blushing again, but I mind less and less now. Mum once told me that you can really trust someone who blushes because you always know what they're thinking. What they're feeling. I'd forgotten she said that.

‘I hope it's okay,' Sister Brigid says, as I scan her comments to see what it was that she liked so much, ‘but I gave your essay to Andrew.'

I blink a moment, wondering who Andrew is.

‘My cousin,' she adds.

‘Oh right. At Glenthorn.'

She nods, smiling. ‘There's an internship starting at
The Falcon's Nest
, the newsletter. It's like a work-experience placement but for the whole year – on and off season. One afternoon a week, after school.'

Heat rushes from my toes to my head, then back again. The world does that slanting thing it does when I'm not expecting something good to happen.

I shake my head. ‘I can't do it.'

Sister Brigid smiles and places her hand on my shoulder, looking me dead in the eyes with that steely gaze that usually ends up with me or Tara being sent to Siberia. ‘Yes, you can,' she says simply, and lets go.

The thing is, I think she's right.

 

I cross the street to the tram stop, still buzzing from Sister Brigid's news. At the lights, I see Ginnie Perkins and her dad standing by their car. He's yelling at her and shaking what looks like Ginnie's History essay in his fist. Ginnie is leaning against the car, half turned away, as though ready to run if given the chance.

‘Not acceptable!' Mr Perkins' voice cuts across the gap in traffic noise, disappearing again as the lights change and engines rev. Ginnie looks over just as her father disappears into the car. For a long second it's just Ginnie and me, studying each other. There's a hint of something unspoken in her eyes – not an apology, or even regret. But something like understanding.

The lights beep their warning not to cross, startling me out of the exchange. I've missed my chance and have to wait for another cycle.

I look back at Ginnie, but she's in the car now, and it's heading towards me with the surging traffic. Through the windscreen I can see Mr Perkins still berating her, while her eyes remain firmly ahead. Unwavering. Despite all those clingy friends, the boys who adore her and having more success than any one person should enjoy, Ginnie looks suddenly, painfully, alone.

Maybe our worlds aren't as far apart as I thought they were.