Stan (4 page)

Chapter Six

Stan

“Are you
yanking my chain?”

I did a double
take from reading the label of the peanut butter jar in my hand to Ringer, who
stood next to me in the supermarket aisle, a grave look on his face as he
waited for me to respond. More disturbing than his look, though, was something
else entirely obvious to me.

“Did you honestly
just say yanking my chain?”

Ringer just stared
on in stony silence.

“Seriously, who
says that?” I winced, putting the jar in the hand basket.

“Oh, I’m sorry.
What I meant to say is … are you
fucking
with me?”

“Nope, the weekend’s
off.”

Ringer muttered
more explicit words under his breath, pretty much the same ones I had repeated
to myself as I kicked a frustrated line home last night.

“So while your
parents enjoy their piss-up for the weekend, you’re basically a prisoner.”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re a fuckin’
slave to that place, mate; it’s not right.”

Ringer’s
contribution was not making me feel any better about the situation.

“Yeah, well, it is
what it is.” I shrugged, filling my basket up with the weekend essentials.
Manning the park solo, which seldom happened, made it difficult to leave it
unattended, especially in peak season. People were forever wondering in and out
of the office, the front room of the main house. It was a day and night vigil
which meant I would be crashing in my old room for the weekend. I had gone from
the possibility of weekend escape, only to be downgraded to sleeping in my
teenage bedroom again. It was a none-too-subtle slap of reality, one that
reminded me I was going nowhere fast with my life.

“Hey, is that
Ellie?” Ringer said.

I spun around,
following Ringer’s stare. Sure enough, there she was at the opposite end of the
aisle, sunglasses perched on top of her sun-bleached blonde hair. She wore a
yellow singlet top that accentuated her tan, and frayed cut-off jean shorts;
she looked like a model from a Jeans West catalogue.

Shit.

I ducked behind
the chip stand.

Ringer looked at
me like I was an idiot.

“What are you
doing?”

“Shut up,” I
whispered as I motioned him to follow me in the opposite direction.

“Mate, you need to
get over this shit.”

And by ‘over this
shit’ he meant the painful awkwardness that ensued any time Ellie and I bumped
into each other. It had been well over a year since we broke up, a mutual
agreement with a life-long pact to be friends. We’d even had less awkward, more
amazing, traditional break-up sex that we promised we would go to our graves
with. And yet still, all the positivity and pacts of staying friends never
quite rolled over into reality.

“Well, I never.
Ellie Parker!” Ringer called out, with a huge grin.

“You’re a fucking
arsehole.”

Ringer flashed his
biggest, toothy grin as Ellie’s voice closed in down the aisle.

“There goes the
neighborhood.” She laughed.

“Oh, it’s worse
than you could ever imagine,” said Ringer.

I stepped into
view smiling painfully. “Hey, Ellie.” I tried for light and natural, as natural
as you can be from hiding behind a chip stand.

Ellie’s smile
faded as her eyes darted in disbelief from where I was standing to where I had
emerged from.

“Stan? Were you
trying to avoid me?” she asked in all seriousness.

“NO! No, I was
just grabbing some chips.” I laughed nervously.

Ringer stood
behind Ellie nodding his head, giving me thumbs up as if to say,
Smooth,
mate. Real smooth.

I decided to see
the silver lining in the cloud; at least I wouldn’t have to put up with Ringer
for a weekend, who was becoming less like a mate and more like someone I wanted
to punch in the face.

“Speaking of
chips, um, I’ve gotta go grab some dip,” Ringer threw in. “You know for the
party?”

What?

“Party?” Ellie
asked.

“Yeah, there’s a
party at Stan’s parents’ house on the weekend. You should totally come.”

Ellie’s demeanour
changed. “A party? Cool. I was just going to go to the Onslow anyway, but it
just isn’t the same these days; that new bartender, Matt, is a complete
douchebag.”

“Forget the
Onslow, forget Matt, it’s all happening at Stan the Man’s.” Ringer pointed as
he backed away, no doubt headed for the dip aisle.

My head was
spinning; in true Ringer style, he had taken it upon himself to completely
railroad any occasion. That was usually how any party at the park happened.

“So is it in the
shed or—”

“Hmm, um, no, the
house I reckon, less likely chance of there being gatecrashers. I mean, not
that it’s going to be big or anything,” I stumbled, explaining the details of a
plan I had no freakin’ idea about.

“Well, that makes
sense. Are your parents not home?”

“Ah, no, they’re
headed away with the Evanses for the weekend.”

“The Evanses? As
in Dr Evans?”

“Yeah, they’re
staying at the park for the summer.”

“They have a
daughter right? Um, Melinda?”

“Belinda; well
Bel, actually.”

“Right; I vaguely
remember her going to our school for a while. She is kind of petite, right?”

“Yeah, she has
short black hair, big greeny-blue eyes, fair skin, fine features … definitely
petite.”

And I have
probably said too much. Shit.

Ellie stared at me
for a long moment. “Riiiight.”

Awkward
silence.

“So, what time is
the party?” She readjusted her bag over her shoulder.

“Oh, umm, eight,
eight o’clock.”

Ellie leaned over.
“Formal or casual?”

I blinked in
confusion. “Casual.”

Ellie laughed. “I
was kidding. Geez, Stan, you need to lighten up.” She reached past me and
grabbed a large bag of salt and vinegar Samboy chips. “For the party, you know,
seeing as you don’t have any in your basket.” She gave me a knowing look; one
thing about Ellie was when it came to me she could detect bullshit from a mile
away. “See you tomorrow night then.”

Ellie smiled,
moving past me.

“See ya.”

It wasn’t until
Ellie was visibly out of sight did I let my shoulders sag in relief. What the
hell just happened? As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I was now roped
into playing host to a party tomorrow night. Knowing Ringer, he had probably
invited every local from here to the deli; the usual quiet Friday night drink
had a funny way of being ambushed by an array of uninvited guests. How had my
life gotten so completely out of control? This was the shit that happened in my
teens, not my twenties: it’s like I was stuck in some kind of time warp where
everyone else was growing up but I stayed the same age. My best mates, Toby and
Sean, had left the state and were earning a bundle of cash on opposite sides of
the country. They were flat out even making it home for holidays. I mean, don’t
get me wrong, I was happy for them and every week when my mobile would ring out
of the blue and one of them was on for a yack about the local Onslow goss, I
was happy to oblige, but while they gave me the update on the happenings, I had
nothing to elaborate on. Nothing. And while it didn’t seem to faze Ringer, it
really annoyed the shit out of me.

Seriously, what
was I doing with my life?

I couldn’t even
manage what had seemed like something as simple as going away for a weekend’s
fishing, and yet my parents wanted me to run the show. I honestly wouldn’t put
myself in charge of a lucky dip, and then I remembered the reason behind my
weekend taking an unexpected turn, and sobered from my thoughts of
hopelessness.

Bloody Bel Evans.

Chapter Seven

Bel

In a mere
moment, I had thought all my Christmases had come at once.

My mum, in all her
infinite wisdom, was going to save me from a weekend of guaranteed insanity by
organising Alex to sleep over at his friend’s house for the weekend. I wanted
to pirouette around the annex and hug her until she snapped in half. She no
doubt read the euphoria all over my face.

“Under one
condition,” she counted sternly on her finger.

“Anything. I’ll
clean the van, wash the car, anything you want.”

“Well, I should
have clearly put more thought into this.”

“Mum!” I said; the
drama was killing me.

“All right, hear
me out. I have spoken to Paula and Glen and they are in total agreement. In
fact, it was Paula’s idea.”

Mum was rambling;
she had that faraway look in her eyes as she clutched her necklace.

“What idea?”

“Oh, um, I’ll get
Alex minded for the weekend if you agree to stay up at the main house. I don’t
want you in the van on your own all weekend.”

WHAT?

Either the look on
my face said it all, or my dumbfounded silence, but my mum shrugged.

“It’s your call.
Be here with Alex or—”

“But what
difference does it make? Alex isn’t exactly going to fend off any would-be
murderer.”

“Well, you have a
point; do you want Alex to stay at the house with you?”

“No,” I blurted
out.

God, no.

The idea of a
weekend free of Alex and his never-ending questions of ‘why’ seemed like an
amazing holiday, no matter where I spent it.

“Wait a minute,
what difference will it make? Either I’m alone at the van or at the main house,
I’m still going to be alone.”

And then it hit me
like a freight train.

I wasn’t going
to be alone.

My mum was about
to speak, until Dad popped his head through the canvas opening.

“Lisa, have you
seen my bushman’s socks?”

“Honey, we’re
going wine tasting not mountain climbing.”

“But what if the
nights are cold in the valley?”

Mum stood up,
exasperated. “It’s summer. Honestly, John, how an earth did you get your PhD?”
Mum huffed her way outside. All their bags were packed hours ago and in the
car. Anyone would think they were keen to get away from us or something. I had
even been keen for them to go, knowing Alex wasn’t going to be my
responsibility; I had been overjoyed for the whole 2.5 seconds. The joy soon
leant itself to great unease as I shifted my legs into the cross-legged
position on the sofa lounge in the annex; I chewed on my thumbnail thoughtfully.
I hadn’t managed to apologise to Stan for ruining his weekend plans; I still
felt really awful about my big mouth even though it was nice to see Mum and Dad
so excited to get away and have some grownup time. I really wanted to break the
ice of sorts before, God help me, I ‘crashed’ at the main house. This was going
to be so awkward. Wow, Mum and Dad must have really trusted Stan, and I guess,
more importantly, the Remingtons must have trusted me. To not only stay in
their home but in close proximity to their son. Wait a minute, what was I
thinking? A boy and a girl can coexist innocently in a space. Even if I could
have sworn that last night, as I stood before Stan in the hallway, there had
been a moment when his eyes had looked at me in a way a boy appreciates a girl.
I had known, because the smallest gesture of his brown eyes flicked to my mouth
and caused my tummy to summersault. It was an unnerving feeling that I had been
excited about the tension between Stan and me. Hell, it was unnerving that I had
as good as checked him out in good detail by the van, admittedly admiring the
view in a way I had never before.

It was true, Stan
was hot, and I could appreciate that, but now I was going to be essentially
living under the same roof as him. Just the two of us. I could feel my anxiety
grow. I rubbed my clammy palms on my thighs and laughed nervously.

I was being
ridiculous. Our parents were going away for what? Four days, three nights. That’s
nothing, and to be honest, I doubt Stan would even speak to me after what I had
done and I wouldn’t blame him, not one bit. So maybe that would be in my
favour? If I just forgot about the ice-breaker and stayed out of his way, then
that would be that. I could feel my anxiety levels lifting already at my new
plan of attack.

Perfect! That’s
exactly what I would do.

***

I had waved off my
parents who were headed up to the main house to pick up the Remingtons. Mum had
taken an excited Alex over to his friend Ollie’s house; he hadn’t even had time
to poke his tongue out at me through the window as they drove away—very unlike
him. He must have been so excited. In fact, everyone was excited, buzzing
around with a hive of activity. It was an almost identical feeling to what it
was like every time we packed up to head to Onslow for the summer. Except this
time I was less excited.

And now I was
alone. In the van. It was mid afternoon and the deal had been that I could
spend my days at the van, but come nightfall, I was to head to the main house.
I had never been so grateful for daylight saving time. It didn’t get dark until
after eight, so it just meant I could take my time, have dinner here at the
van, and then sneak off to the main house.

I had declined the
offer to go check out my ‘sleeping’ quarters earlier in the day when Paula
Remington stopped by. I kind of thought back bedroom on the right was pretty
self-explanatory, but now I kind of wished I had checked it out. Now who was
going to show me my room? A pissed-off Stan? Who not only had to look after the
entire workings of the caravan park on his own, but now had to babysit me. Boy,
if I were in his shoes I would totally hate me. I wouldn’t be surprised if
there was a horse’s head in my bed. But then something occurred to me; even
amidst receiving the news last night that his entire weekend plans had been
shattered, he seemed to cop it on the chin. There was a definite air of
disappointment, but he never chucked a tantrum over the grave injustice that it
was. Not like I would have. Was that an age thing? He was older than me; still,
age aside, I just couldn’t imagine Stan ever losing his cool. Through all the
years of seeing him around, even being put under the pump in some occasions, he
was always courteous and polite, cool-headed. No wonder Mum and Dad trusted
him, no wonder his parents trusted him. They knew him pretty much better than
anyone—hellraiser he was not; in fact, he might have very well been a saint?
Well, only time would tell, I guess.