My Private Pectus (9 page)

I get off the bus on Saturday. My feet stick to the gutter like lead weights. Skyscrapers loom above me. What am I doing here? The reason makes me nervous and excited.

I breathe deep. I don't care about the diesel smoke, or the foul smell of a nearby bin. I stare across the street. A constant stream of shoppers and workers stride along the footpath, avoiding a dread-locked greenie who's handing out leaflets. But I look past them, down a passageway teeming with people.

I step onto the street. A guy cruising in a souped-up Subaru WRX blasts his horn then glares at me as he goes past with windows down and a beat throbbing. The greenie spots me and waits for me on the other side. He comes at me with an enormous smile. ‘We can all make a difference,' he says, and holds a leaflet near my chest. Instinctively I swipe it away.

‘People like you are the problem!' he yells.

I step inside.

Going some way further I stop and stare at a Gloria Jean's café. People walk around me as I watch Sam behind the counter. She takes orders from a long line of people and passes them to another girl who's at the espresso machine.

I'm not sure what I'm meant to do, whether I should line up and order or wait until she's free. Trying to appear casual, I take a seat at the table closest to the counter. I pull a surf mag from my bag, but I don't read it. I keep looking up to see if she notices me. She passes an order to the espresso girl then asks the next customer, ‘What would you like?' But as the customer speaks, Sam sees me. ‘Jack!' She almost yells it. ‘What are you doing here?'

The customer spins around. So does a middle-aged woman standing behind the counter with Sam.

I grin and wave. I approach the counter. ‘I had some high level meetings in town and thought I'd swing by.'

She giggles.

‘Sam!' the middle-aged woman snaps.

Sam leans on the counter and says, ‘I finish at four.'

‘Four? That's two hours away.'

She shrugs. ‘You'll find something to do.'

So I wander the mall aimlessly. Apart from getting bored, I get nervous. Where should we go? What will we do? A movie? Go shopping? I do lap upon lap of city blocks, feeling more and more unsure about being here. I stare at a bus stop and think I should leave. I keep checking the time on my mobile. Two-thirty. Three. Will it ever come? I buy a Coke, I chew some gum. I play shoot-'em-up games in a video arcade. Finally four o'clock swings around and I head back to the café, my mouth as dry as toast.

Sam's waiting at the entrance of the passageway, already finished. ‘I'm supposed to catch the bus before it gets dark,' she says. ‘One of Dad's rules.' She crosses her arms. I try not to look at her cleavage. ‘So what are we doing?' she asks.

I scratch my head. Two hours and I came up with nothing. I look at Sam, her dark hair, those huge brown eyes, anticipating something. I sweat. ‘We can walk by the river,' I suggest.

‘The brown, murky waters of the Brisbane River?'

I nod, reluctantly.

She grins. ‘Wow. What a wild imagination you've got.'

‘Takes years of training,' I say. ‘And lots of hot dates.'

‘Hot dates? I thought we were taking things slow.'

‘No! I mean—we are!' I stop and swallow. What on earth was I saying? ‘I didn't mean it like that.'

‘Don't worry,' she says, and prods my ribs with her finger. ‘I'm not about to jump your bones.'

I feel strangely deflated.

She looks down the street.

‘So what do you suggest we do?' I ask.

Then she just heads off. ‘Coming?' she calls over her shoulder.

I catch up. ‘Where are we going?'

Sam looks at me critically. ‘Not so experienced now, eh?'

There's not much I can say to that, so I don't say anything at all. I just keep pace with her as she makes for the mall. We follow it all the way down to the end, then turn right. We go past the Stamford Plaza and into the Botanic Gardens. We wander along the river bank, looking at the yachts.

‘Who's wild imagination are we following now?' I ask.

‘I was trying to think of what we should do my whole shift,' she says. ‘I didn't come up with anything either.'

We laugh and sit by the river, in the long cool shadows of the trees. We hang our feet over a retaining wall and watch the city ferries go by.

‘I saw you at school the other day, talking to Lisa and Gez,' she says.

‘Yeah, I know.'

‘You looked bored. You should've come over and sat with me.'

I grin. ‘I couldn't do that.'

‘Why not?'

I shrug. ‘I dunno. It just doesn't seem right.'

‘Seem right?' she says, turning to me. ‘So you're avoiding me?'

‘No.'

‘Then what's not right about it?'

Jeez, so much for a chilled-out afternoon.

She picks at the lichen on the rocks. ‘Sometimes I feel like you're avoiding me.'

And I thought I had been playing the role of subtle avoidance quite well. The odd wave. The occasional chat when she's on her own, when no one's looking. ‘I'm just not sure what to say to you,' I say. I don't tell her I keep clear because of the guys.

‘Maybe you don't like me,' she says. ‘Except when it's convenient for you.'

I breathe out, slowly, obviously. ‘I'm not used to being friends with girls,' I say. ‘It's come as a bit of a surprise.'

She's silent for a while and I think, jeez, that really worked, so I go on. ‘I'm not good with surprises.'

Then she faces me, her eyebrows furrowed, critical. ‘Some people like surprises,' she says. ‘They like to be swept away.'

‘What does that mean?' I ask, annoyed by the criticism in her voice.

She shakes her head and throws a pebble into the water.

Then it dawns on me. ‘Are you saying you swept me away? One walk home and I'm falling for you? Get real.'

‘Then what are you doing here?' Her huge eyes penetrate, as if seeking the truth I'm not game to say.

I gasp and stutter, but stay on the defensive. ‘I'm no pushover, you know.'

And then she laughs. A full-throated laugh. ‘Really?' she says. ‘Well that's a shame. Because you're such a fine catch.'

‘Hey!' I snap.

She lies back on the grass, rolls over and looks at me. ‘Jack, I'm just asking you to talk to me at school. That's all. It's nothing to get defensive about.'

I lie down next to her. All of a sudden I like those eyes, that dark hair. ‘But you've got it all wrong,' I tell her.

She props herself up on an elbow. ‘Enlighten me.'

‘I am a good catch.' I put one hand on my chest. ‘I'm the finest catch St Phil's has to offer.'

She rolls onto her back and laughs at the sky. ‘What rubbish!'

‘I am!'

Then she says sarcastically, ‘And there's such a fine selection on offer.'

I edge closer. ‘Well, how many St Phil's guys have come into town to see you? That's gotta count for something.'

She sighs, then stands dramatically and wipes the grass from her clothes. ‘I guess it just means I have to settle for second best,' she says, matter-of-factly.

I get to my knees. ‘That's not fair!'

She's grinning. She nods her head towards the path. ‘I've got a bus to catch,' she says. ‘It's five o'clock already.' Then she starts off.

I don't follow right away. Instead, I watch her walk to the path. She might be short, kinda round, and hated by half the guys at school, but there's something about her. She's different. She's not like Lisa Patrick. She's more real, a get-what-you-take kind of person. She's the kind of friend I need right now.

‘Are you coming, or are you just going to lie there?' she calls.

‘I thought I might stay and think about my greatness.'

‘Oh, shut up!'

But of course I get to my feet and catch up to her.

At the bus stop she asks, ‘Do you really want to join the army?'

I cringe at the question. The bus pulls in and we get on.

‘Jack?'

‘Not really. Dad wants me to.'

‘Then tell him no. Tell him you won't do it.'

‘It's not that easy.'

‘How's that?' she asks as the bus pulls out.

‘His life's pretty miserable,' I tell her. ‘Has been for years.' I tell her about his migraines, about him bringing me up on his own.

‘And by you doing what he wants you'll make things better for him?'

I shrug. ‘It's not that simple,' I say. ‘But maybe I will. Who knows?'

‘That's a big sacrifice.'

As we cross the river I look out at the sun getting low over Mt Coot-tha. ‘It's not like I'll be in the army forever.'

‘Then how long?'

I shrug. The bus enters the concrete passageway near South Bank. I can see Sam's reflection on the glass. She's looking at me.

‘You haven't thought about how long?' Her voice is higher than usual. She sounds confused.

I look at my hands and breathe out slowly. ‘I don't know. A few years.'

‘And you think that would be enough?'

I run a hand through my hair. ‘I've no idea how many would be enough.'

For the rest of the way she leans gently against me. No head on my shoulder, or hand on my lap, just our sides against each other. I cross one arm over my chest, but really, I want to hold her.

Nearing home, the bus goes past our school and I think of what people would say if they saw me and Sam together like this. And I wonder if she really is easy for sex like everyone says. Maybe this is just some game of hers, leading me along. I stir in my seat, as if trying to get comfortable. Our bodies separate.

When the bus pulls up near her street she says, ‘You'll have to make your own decision sometime. Show some balls.'

Ouch. That hurts.

Then she gets up without a goodbye, as if to make sure her point sinks in. But just before she gets off she yells down the aisle, ‘Tell him to shove it!'

The bus pulls out. She waves, grinning hysterically.

Late that night Dad's condition gets worse. It's a bit past midnight when I wake to the sound of him hurling his guts up into the loo. I roll over and fall back asleep, but it's not long before he's at it again. I get up to check on him and find him kneeling at the toilet, his hands on the rim.

‘You okay?' I ask, knowing how stupid it sounds, but what else is there to say?

He turns to me. His face is so pale and loose it looks like it's about to peel away.

I ask, ‘Do you want a glass of water? Mylanta?'

‘Mylanta,' he whispers and sits against the wall.

There's a packet of Panadeine Forte on the kitchen bench, four pills popped. No wonder he's hurling—if it's not the migraine, it's too many pills on an empty stomach. I fill a glass from the tap and take him the bottle of Mylanta. He takes a swig from the bottle then sips the water before hanging his face over the toilet again.

I look at him crouched on the tiles in his undies. It's a disgusting sight: his skin's pale, his gut hangs out, there's hair in his plumber's crack. He gulps and dry retches then sits back, looking utterly defeated. He leans forward and spits into the bowl again.

I go back to bed, but I can't sleep. I think about what Sam said. She's right; I have to stop buckling to his wishes. Restless, I get up and go into the kitchen. I take some milk from the fridge and drink from the bottle. Then I head into the lounge room and am confronted with something I've seen dozens of times before. Dad's sitting in the flickering light of the TV, the sound off. He has taken the photo of himself off the wall. The one of him training with the assault rifle. He strokes the glass and looks up. I duck back behind the wall and tiptoe off to bed.

I've been working hard on my chest this week. I've rigged a chin-up bar under the awning out the back and keep doing push-ups in my room. I keep checking in the mirror to see if I've grown. I flex my biceps, tense my pecs, but nothing can distract me from the crevice in my chest. I try to expand it by breathing deep and holding my breath, almost to the point of passing out. Each morning I roll up a towel and lay my spine over it. Arms spread, I think of Sam as I stare at the ceiling. What would she think?

We're already three games into the footy comp, but Dad's only coached the first two. He missed a couple of training sessions because of his migraines, and now that he's made it back, he's drugged to the hilt. He walks about the oval in a daze, can hardly give constructive feedback to anyone. He has a word to Maloney about playing me on the wing. Maloney pulls me aside afterwards.

‘Did you tell him you played on the wing?'

I nod. The truth was Maloney had me on the bench.

‘What did you do that for?'

‘It keeps him happy.'

‘It hasn't made
me
happy,' he says.

I'm stoked that I'm killing two birds with one stone.

Gez says to me before the practice match, ‘What's got into you? You're all bubbly.'

I shrug. ‘Dunno,' I say, but I do. It's Sam. How embarrassing. I'm all chuffed because I think Samantha Dean likes me.

On the drive home after training Dad says, ‘I talked to Maloney about playing you at full-back again. He's not happy about it, but I told him you deserve another chance, considering how well you've been playing on the wing and all.'

I turn the corner, feeling guilty.

‘Well don't thank me all at once,' he says, but goes on before I have a chance to reply. ‘He's the worst coach, you know. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I gotta tell someone who'll understand. You know how he put you on the wing the other week?' He turns to me. ‘He said he can't even remember how you played, like you weren't even there. And he's supposed to have been coaching the team. Right joke that is.'

‘No wonder they got you to coach,' I say.

‘That's right.' He chuckles.

‘All the boys reckon Maloney's useless,' I say, glancing at him.

He's resting an arm out the window, his chest driven forward. ‘They're spot on.' But then he goes quiet and I can hear him picking at the deteriorating plastic on the door. ‘Do the boys say anything else?'

‘What about?'

‘Um … the coaching of the team.'

Again, I take my eyes off the road and see that he's squirming in his seat. I know what he's driving at, but I don't let on.

‘In what way?'

‘In a more general sense. You know, apart from Maloney.'

‘Apart from Maloney?'

‘Yeah, you know.'

I shake my head.

‘About … about me.'

Got him! He said it. ‘Dad, Maloney's all we've had the last few weeks.'

He winds his window up, turns the heater on. ‘It's getting cold out there,' he says.

I drop him off home before going to Ryan's.

‘Have you checked your BMI lately?' he asks before he gets out.

‘Twenty,' I lie.

He grins like a game show host, gets out, but holds the door open for a second and says, ‘You're doing good, Jack.'

Ryan's home when I get there, but we don't hang out. I go straight down to the garage and get working on the Bluebird. We've still got some work to do if Gez wants it registered by his birthday bash. It was supposed to happen today, but considering I'm the only one doing the work, things have taken longer than expected. He's always out with Lisa.

I replace the spark plugs, the leads and the battery. Last week I dismantled the carburettor, which mixes fuel with air before it enters the motor. It came apart in tiny pieces: springs, valves, vents, screws, you name it. Everything was covered with a layer of carbon. I soaked it in petrol, then cleaned it off and put it back together. I look at it, pleased with my efforts. Getting behind the wheel, I crank the motor. The fan belt gives a hangman's scream. It's too loose. So I turn the motor off and tighten the belt before giving the motor another rev. It farts and burps, but there's no scream. I tune the motor, making sure it's not running too rich with petrol, and then fix the timing with a timing light, a tool I bought on eBay. I stand back and listen. The car keeps blowing blue smoke, but the engine idles a treat.

The next morning I sit with Gez, Cuppas, and some other boys at recess. It's while I'm with this group that Sam and Rachel come over to me and invite me out on Friday night. ‘Rachel's coming over, Greg as well,' Sam says. ‘Would you like to join us?'

I scan the boys who instantly look at each other and grin wildly. Some laugh and don't try to hide it. I wait for her to extend the invite to the others, but it doesn't happen. Her huge eyes rest on me, hopeful.

‘I think I've got something on,' I say, looking at Gez, hoping he'll nod or affirm my statement. He does nothing.

Sam pulls her ponytail over her shoulder and twists it. Eventually she turns and walks away. My heart sinks. I feel lousy. The boys start talking. Sam wants Sticks, they say, Sam wants Sticks!

The P starts singing: ‘Fat and skinny are lying in bed. Fat rolls over and gives Skinny head!'

They laugh so hard half of them bend over. Steve has tears in his eyes. If it was any other girl who liked me, they'd be amazed, but because it's Sam it's just plain funny. In my five years at St Phil's, not one girl has ever had a crush on me, not even a passing fancy. Now that it looks like a girl finally does like me, no one is surprised it's Samantha Dean. I'm her only hope. Or do they think she's my only hope? I'm not too sure.

Word gets around fast and for the rest of the day eyes follow me, people ask if I like her too. Greg wants to know what I've got organised for Friday night, why I can't come, but I've got no excuse. Even Gez tells me I should go because he's on a date with Lisa, but despite their encouragement I can't hide from the fact that everyone else thinks this is a great joke.

On the walk home, Sam says to me, ‘Don't get all excited about the invite, will you.'

‘I'll come,' I say, now that no one else is around.

‘Are you ashamed of me?' she asks.

‘No. Of course not.'

‘Then what's the deal?'

‘What do you mean?'

She glares at me. ‘You're avoiding me.'

‘I am not.'

‘You're all smiles out of school, but at school you make me feel like I don't exist.' Her eyes seem to be drilling through my forehead. I drop my gaze and stare at my feet. ‘I do exist, Jack!' she yells, then marches off.

•

All the guys are at the unit for a change. Finally Gez isn't hanging out with Lisa, thank God. We head downstairs to the garage where Gez starts talking about getting the car registered. He promises to get it done before his party.

‘We'll go out cruising one night, just the two of us,' he says to me and we shake on it. Ryan makes us seal the deal by sharing a joint. He's really into the sharing spirit tonight. He even goes out, buys some beers, then passes them around while telling jokes about customers at the convenience store. Mike's his usual useless self, so we give him the job of controlling the volume on the stereo. Gez and I do some cosmetic work on the car by plugging up rust. Ryan crawls underneath and forces some putty into a hole in the muffler.

‘That won't last two weeks,' I tell him.

‘Long enough to get it registered,' he says. Ryan's no perfectionist when he's stoned.

‘There's still more to do for that to happen,' I say, going around to the boot, which won't shut properly. I tape it down with some packing tape, then pick up an air filter from the floor. I take the old one off the motor and replace it while the guys stand watching. Gez gets in to crank the motor; Ryan opens the garage to let the exhaust fumes out. I watch Gez through the windscreen. He grins at the sound—no backfires or stutters. But the blue smoke is so thick it fills the garage, even with the roller door open.

‘Turn on the headlights,' I call out.

‘What for?' Gez yells back.

‘Just do it.'

He flicks the headlights on and I kill the garage fluoros. The headlights cut the smoke like a Hollywood movie. We stand back and admire the work.

‘Let's go for a drive around the block,' Gez shouts.

We don't stop to think about legalities. Mike, Ryan and I head outside as Gez revs the motor, blasting a thicker cloud of smoke. We wait for it to clear, which happens after the motor has been idling for another minute. Gez sticks his head out the window as he reverses to negotiate the rocks of a retaining wall.

With hoots of excitement, we dive at the car. I scream, ‘Shotgun,' but Mike leaps into the front before me and I'm left clambering into the back with Ryan, who's got another joint in his mouth.

‘No smoking inside,' Gez says.

‘No way, that's not fair,' Ryan whines.

‘My car. My rules.'

‘Just coz it's a dumb-arse car doesn't mean it should have dumb-arse rules.'

Mike bursts into laughter. ‘He's having you on, ya tosser!'

Ryan drags deeply. ‘I know that,' he says, still cut.

As we do a circuit of the block we talk about the rattle in the shock-absorbers, the smoke, and laugh at the stereo which only takes cassette tapes.

‘Let's go up to Kangaroo Point,' Mike suggests.

‘Yeah, can we, Gez?' Ryan asks.

‘It's not registered,' he says.

‘But it's still got plates,' Mike says. ‘The coppers won't know unless you speed or do something stupid.'

Ten minutes later Gez parks the car above the Kangaroo Point cliffs, which overlook the Brisbane River and the city centre. We scramble over the stone fence that separates a footpath from the cliff edge. We sit, hang our legs over the edge, peer down at the park twenty metres below, the river, and the city on the other side. Not far behind us is a concrete bollard. A rope, pulled taut, wraps around it then dives over the edge near Ryan's feet. It twitches from the weight of a rock climber below. Ryan blows smoke into the cool air and Mike holds his hand out, asking for the joint. I look over my shoulder as people walk by, making quiet comments. Someone says they can smell marijuana. As if noticing the same thing, Mike drags deep, finishes it off and stubs it out on the rock. He flicks the butt into the night. Ryan points, and we all turn to watch a couple of girls in tight tops skate past on fruit boots.

‘Bit nipply out there,' Ryan says, which gets us onto the topic of girls.

‘How's your Lisa chick going?' Mike asks Gez.

‘Good,' he says after a brief pause.

‘Stuck it to her yet?'

A rock climber's helmeted melon rises over the edge and baulks at the sight of us.

‘Wouldn't tell you if I had,' Gez says.

‘BORING!' Mike moans like the crowd at a cricket match.

‘How are you going, Mike?' Gez asks.

With a dejected sigh, Mike says, ‘I'm toey for some.' His head follows another girl as she jogs along. ‘If you know what I mean.'

‘And you, Sticks?' Ryan asks. ‘How you going with that girl from Westfields?'

The climber looks at me. Jeez, I hate this. ‘Nothing's going on,' I say, wishing that there was.

‘Gez says you two are hitting it off.'

‘That podgy one?' Mike asks. ‘I've seen her in the corner store. Bit tarty, but I've seen worse.'

The climber yells out to his belayer to lower him down.

‘She's not fat,' I say.

‘You see,' Gez says. ‘I told you there's something going on.'

I look at him, annoyed.

I press the issue. ‘There's nothing going on,' but I can't say it forcefully enough to convince them.

‘You should see how she looks at him,' Gez goes on. ‘She wants him bad.'

‘You for real?' Mike asks, ‘coz you should see how she looks at me when she comes into the store. She wants my stick of dyna-mike.' He watches me for a reaction.

The thought makes me feel sick. Jealous.

‘Nah, fair dink. She wants Sticks for sure,' Gez says. ‘It's all over her face. She even asked him out at school the other day.'

‘No way!' Ryan slaps his leg. ‘Why didn't you say so, Sticks? You gonna go for it? You have to go for it, right?'

‘No.'

Ryan leans forward, peers over the edge, shaking his head. He then looks at his brother. ‘But she's okay, isn't she, Gez?'

‘I suppose,' he says. ‘She's a goer, too. The whole school knows that.'

‘Sounds all right,' Mike says with great enthusiasm. ‘Come on, Sticks,' he moans. ‘Go out with her. Get a root.'

‘Sticks doesn't like a girl who gets around,' Gez says.

‘Really?' Mike looks at me, his face set, serious. ‘Sticks, you remind me of my old man. Stuck in nineteen fifty-five. If she's willing, good on her, I say. Once you've done it, you'll never look back, even if she is a slag.' He gives me a nasty grin. ‘But then again, if you don't want her—' He grabs his crotch, feigning pain and enjoyment. They all laugh, but he's not done yet. ‘You know what I reckon?' he says. ‘You don't like her coz she's a heifer.'