A Little Crushed (18 page)

Outside, it was bitterly cold. Rebecca debated calling her father to come and pick her up but decided the ten minute walk would do her good. Her conversation with Emma had not eased the ache in her heart nor the confused thoughts scrambling around in her brain. Her tummy rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten properly for days. Not even Emma’s double cheese crust had tempted her. It seemed the more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to be with him, and because of the stupid party, he’d cancelled their Saturday session. Mr. Black had asked him to help set the gym up. Oh well, another lonely evening with Wally and
X-Factor
loomed. Or maybe not. As she rounded the corner into her road, she spied Peter hanging around outside her gate. “Oh please, God, why now?” she moaned. “I can’t cope with him. Not today.”

Blowing into his leather gloved hands, Peter stamped his feet against the cold. From the mauve tinge to his lips, she reckoned he’d been waiting some time.

“Hello.” Avoiding his anxious expression, she clicked open the gate. “You look cold. Why didn’t you go in? You know my mum would nurture you.”

He didn’t laugh at her feeble joke which alarmed her. Peter always laughed at her jokes. In fact, he looked so scared, she thought he might cry.

“I need to talk to you.” The stammer he’d taken years to battle resurfaced. “I need to ask you something—”

“Peter, please don’t do this.” She tried to push past him, but to her surprise, he blocked her way, expression irritated.

“For once in your life, Harding, will you just shut up and listen. I know what you’re thinking and—no—I do not want to ask you out.”

“You don’t?” Relief, brewed up with curiosity, rushed through her.

“No, I don’t. It would be like dating my sister, and…I’m gay.”

Okay, not what she’d expected, but then again, she wasn’t shocked. In a way, it explained his penchant for shopping. “Is that why you’ve been acting so peculiar around me? And can we please go inside and talk about this?” Rebecca’s teeth chattered out the words.

“No.” He seemed agitated. “Please, Becs. I don’t want to have this conversation with flapping ears around.”

“Peter, one thing. How long have you known?”

“Since ever.” He fashioned that cheeky boy grin she remembered from their childhood days. “But it isn’t something I can brag about, even in this day and age.”

“But why wait until now to tell me?” She felt oddly hurt by what she saw as a lack of trust. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand, or maybe I would judge you? How could you believe that? We’ve been friends forever. Do Simon and Em know?”

“Shut up, Rebecca.” He sighed. “This isn’t about you, and yes, they do know, and I didn’t tell you because sometimes you can be so…so…”

“Cutting?” She put him out of his misery, recognizing the truth behind the unspoken accusation. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed at her freezing nose. “I know sometimes I’ve been a bitch, but I would have stuck by you.”

“I know you would.” He sighed. “Despite your long list of annoying attributes, you are loyal.”

“Thanks—I think.”

“Thing is, I need your help. I want… Now this is going to sound totally nuts, but could you be my girlfriend? At least just for tonight?”

Relief crashed over her. For one scary moment, she’d thought that maybe he wanted her to offer to be a surrogate mother for him at some point in the future. There were limits to friendship. But this request was almost as daft. “Excuse me? Me? A girlfriend?”

“Yes.” Warming to his theme, he grew urgent. “I want you to come with me to the party tonight. Becs, I don’t mind you guys knowing, but I am not ready to come out. I think that prat Brendon is beginning to suspect, and you know what a homophobe he is”

“Has he been bothering you? Because if he has, then he’s not worth the effort. Besides, Peter, you could wipe the floor with him. You’re not scared of him.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want to have to wipe the floor with him. This is going to sound all so macho and stupid, but he cracked a few innuendoes in the dressing room after gym the other day. Then he bet me I couldn’t find a date for the party. So I thought—”

“If you turned up with me on your arm he’d back off?” Rebecca seethed inside, part of her wanting Peter to beat the crap out Brendon, but she realized if he did, he’d end up suspended from the boxing team. She found herself between a rock and a hard place. She didn’t want to go to the party for two reasons: she hated dance music, but more important, she didn’t want to see Miss Holmes swan around, with her one inch nail extensions dug into Mr. J.’s arm. But Peter was her friend, and Brendon’s attitude made her sick. Plus, if what Emma claimed was true, and Brendon had the hots for her, then it would make Peter’s revenge all the sweeter. “Okay.” Oh God, she couldn’t believe she was agreeing. “I’ll do it, but please don’t even think of asking me to dance.”

“Deal.” His freckled face lit up with a saucer size grin. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“You’ll pick me up? What on? Your skateboard?” Arms folded against the below zero temperature, she stamped her feet, impatient to go inside.

“So drôle as always.” He waved a set of keys in front of her face. “I passed my driving test.”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t possibly drive. You’re only six, and how is it I didn’t know about this?

“Because you, ‘dear girlfriend,’ live in your own world. See you later.” Blowing her a kiss, he opened the door to a clapped out Ford parked by the kerb and then spluttered off into the growing twilight. Only six p.m., and she was mentally exhausted—which brought her on to a major problem. She had nothing to wear on this stick it to Brendon campaign. Time to wave the white flag and grovel to the enemy.

“Where’s Vicky?” She burst into the kitchen, wincing as the furnace heat of her mother’s domain brought painful life back to her fingers. Peering over her mother’s shoulder into the interesting bowl of chocolate cake mix, she dipped a finger inside and then licked off the delicious gooey concoction.

“She’s upstairs sulking.” Her mother rapped her knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Your father has banished her.”

“What’s she done now?’ Jumping out of reach from a second rap, she took one last finger scope.

“Go and see for yourself.” Her mother seemed close to tears. “Why can’t my girls be normal? Is it too much to ask for?”

Intrigued, Rebecca whistled to Wally and raced upstairs. When she opened Vick’s bedroom door, she understood her mother’s distress. “Wow, way to go on the home make-over, Vick. I’m stunned.”

“Cool, eh?” Vicky swung her legs around and jumped off the bed. “Dad went ballistic.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you know how difficult it is to paint over black?” She had to hand it to her baby sis; she had courage if lacking somewhat in sense. Still, the floor to ceiling celebration of Goth and Death Metal bands was impressive; scary but cool. As for the sister formally known as ‘Bimbo,’ she was no more. In her place stood an exotic creature of the night, resplendent in black tulle and satin, dark locks shot through with purple, and a spider tattoo crawling up her arm.

“You...em...look great.”

“I do?” Holding up her skirt, Vicky twirled around to show off her leather studded biker boots. “Don’t you think I look just like Amy Lee?”

Rebecca thought she looked more like an extra from
Thriller,
but as she needed Vick’s help, she thought it best not to share.

“And I have you to thank for showing me the light.” Falling backward onto her bed, arms spread, Vicky sighed. “You were so right. No more pandering to society’s conventions. Women are more than ornaments to adorn men’s arms.”

Oh hell, she sounds like me. I’ve created a monster.
“Well said, Vick. I am proud of you, but in your quest to reinvent yourself, you didn’t throw away your old clothes did you?”

“No.” A frown as black as her lipstick shadowed her face. “Mum wouldn’t let me. I wanted to donate them to Oxfam, but she said I’ll grow tired of being dark and ugly.”

Typical mother response—always so supportive. “Good and I cannot believe I am asking you this. But do you think you could put aside your new convictions, and help transform me into a party creature of the night—preferably one that doesn’t fly or fight werewolves?”

“You are kidding, right?” Vicky shot up to a sitting position. “You are going to a party, and you want me to help you get dressed?”

“Don’t sound so smug about it.” Rebecca glared. “I could take back my CDs, you know. You must have one suitable party dress lurking in those, what I presume to be, charity bags.”

“Oh, indeed I have.” Vicky clapped her hands in glee. “This will be fun. Can I do your make-up and hair, too? I feel like Picasso, working on a raw canvas.”

Rebecca was speechless; not because of her sister’s enthusiasm, but she was stunned to think she’d even heard of Picasso.

“Okay.” Vicky pushed her towards the door. “Shower first. Let the games begin.”

Max hid behind a post, nursing a lukewarm cola, wishing he were somewhere else. The monotonous drone of techno wreaked havoc on his eardrums. He was not in a good mood, still seething from his conversation with Kate. Sometimes his fiancée’s selfishness amazed him. Granted, he felt bad for her; to have months of work destroyed and buried under a ton of landslide mud must be soul-destroying but to expect him just to hand in his notice, pack up and fly back to Sydney because her plans had gone up in smoke?

“Why so glum?” Will, the PE teacher appeared at his side carrying two plastic cups of fruit punch. “Here. Drink up, if you dare. A cheeky little bouquet with a top note of…” He swirled the drink around in his mouth. “Yes, melon flavoured bubble gum, I believe.”

“Thanks.” Max grinned as he took the offered cup; Will’s zany humour always managed to cheer him up.

“Tell me, my good Aussie Neanderthal, were we that blatant in our youth?”

Max followed his line of site to where a group of lads huddled against the far wall, eying up the young ladies Max barely recognised as his pupils. The air spat and crackled with testosterone.

“Girls did not look like that when I was at school.”

“And if they did, they certainly were not interested in me.” Max nodded his accord. “Nice job on the hall, by the way, although a tad over the top on the mistletoe.”

“That would be Chris Holmes.” Will shot him a sly gleam. “I think she may have plans.”

Max said nothing.

“So why is it we are here again?”

“Because, my dear Will,” Tom joined them and slapped Max on the back, “our free-thinking Aussie substitute, here, thought it would be fun to play good teacher/bad teacher with Mr. Clemmons.”

“Guilty as charged.” Max winced as the hired, definitely amateur DJ scratched and mashed away furiously. What he lacked in talent, he more than made up in enthusiasm. “Clemmons is such a pompous arse. It’s only a Christmas party, for crying out loud, not Woodstock. Let the kids have some fun.”

“I quite agree.” Tom grinned. “S
upervised
fun which is why I roped in my dedicated staff.”

“More like press-ganged.” Will grunted as he sipped from a plastic cup. “And why does the no alcohol rule have to apply to us? This fruit punch is vile.”

“
We educators must lead by example
.” Max blasted him with a mean impression of Mr. Clemmons.

“And talking of examples, here comes a not so good one.” Will let rip with a low wolf whistle.

Max hung onto a groan. Christine Holmes sidled up to them, resplendent in killer heels and clinging black cocktail dress. He’d been avoiding her of late, and he felt bad for doing it.

“Hey, boys.” She placed a possessive hand on his arm, her smile bright but the expression in her eyes injured.

“Hey, Chris.” He patted her hand, trying for casual. “You look good.”

“Thanks. Probably a little too much for this shindig, but I thought we could perhaps go on somewhere after?”

“Great idea.” From behind, Will administered a sly nudge to his back. “I’m in.”

Max bit back a chortle. Will knew perfectly well she’d meant a cosy
pas de deux
.

“In for what?” Fiona appeared, dressed far more suitably in cream silk.

“Chris wants us all to go clubbing after our kindergarten stint.” Will enlightened her.

“I see.” Fiona skewered him with her best schoolmarm look. “And is Liz up for this?”

“As she is eight months pregnant, I doubt it.” Chris added her barbed two cents. “What a shame. You’ll have to go home early.”

“Now, now children.” Fiona smiled. “Play nice.”

“Yes, let’s.” Slipping an arm through Chris’s, Will led her away. “Allow me to escort you to the bar.”

Max had to laugh; Will really was naughty.

“Well, it seems to be going well.” Wearing his headmaster frown, Tom surveyed the hall. “No one vomiting yet?”

“No, but the night is young.” Max kept his face dead-pan. “Although I did detect the faint aroma of spliff as I walked in.”

Tom paled to bleached bone white.

“Oh, do chill out.” Fiona leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You have turned into to such a fuddy duddy. And Max, stop it. It’s been torture living with him since he agreed to the party. Come on, you old man, I need a glass of that revolting-looking punch.”

Max watched them disappear into the madding crowd. A wave of deep affection tinged with regret engulfed him. Over the past weeks, he’d spent a lot of time at the Black family home, watching Tom and Fiona with Lucy. He couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy at the perfect picture they made together, causing him to hope that, one day, he and Kate would be as blessed. How many evenings had he helped Fiona tuck her little daughter up in bed, after reading her a bedtime story? He tried to imagine Kate in such a setting. The image was not there. Kate and children didn’t go together.

“Max?”

Chris was back—and without Will. “Here.” She handed him another plastic cup. “I brought you a refill.”

“Thanks.” He took it although he’d drunk so much he felt like a pregnant whale. “You’re not partaking?”

“Are you serious? All that sugar?” She attacked him with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. “I do have to watch my figure. Anyway, we can share a nice bottle of Chablis later.”