I help Dad in the studio, spending hours chipping away at clay under his careful supervision. He’s doing a series of people – a family he plucked straight out of his head.
I do housework with Mum.
I garden with Gran and Marigold.
At night, I rearrange my bookshelves alphabetically, then again by genre, until they’re so neat they could belong to anyone.
My avoidance strategy works for a while, but then debating finals hit, which means a dangerous number of hours needing to be spent with my gold-headed second speaker.
We’ve already got draft speeches, an airtight structure, a bunch of cases of crime-committing friend duos and a long list of the opposition’s possible affirmative points prepped for.
Still, we meet in the library every lunchtime to fine-tune our argument. Harrison smuggles chips in his bag, and Martin writes yet more pre-rebuttals on palm cards.
On Thursday Len declares his argument is finished and picks up mine to proof, his eyes moving over my messy handwriting. ‘Yep. Good.’
I light up like an oil lamp.
(Sitting next to him is fire now, every time.)
Martin leans over, shoving me out of the way. ‘Hamlet, you’ve grossly misused the word “libel”.’
Nothing kills unwanted stomach-feelings like The Fincharoo.
We have one last meet-up at my place the night of the finals, to run through everything properly.
Len shows up an hour early, with a leather jacket over his NGS garb and rain in his hair. He reaches up and uses the excess condensation to slick it back from his face, and I realise this is going to be a disaster.
I don’t know if it’s nerves about the debate or the fact that we haven’t been properly alone for what feels like ages, but it’s a hailstorm in my stomach.
‘What are you staring at?’ He pulls off his jacket and sets it on the hook.
‘You’re wet.’
(Good God.)
He lifts an eyebrow slowly. ‘So?’
‘Er. They mark presentation.’
(Nice save – not.)
‘The debate’s not till seven. I’ll be dry by then.’
Martin and Harrison arrive not long after. We cram onto the couch, our palm cards spread out on the coffee table.
‘I still think this needs work,’ Martin complains, pointing to a key pillar of my argument.
‘It’s too late,’ Len cuts him off. ‘Plus, there’s not really another way to say that without—’
‘Opening ourselves up to counterattack,’ I finish. ‘Yeah.’
He smiles. ‘Exactly.’
I smile back.
Martin eyes us disdainfully. ‘Do you two have original thoughts, or is that off the table when you share the one brain?’
‘I’m really going to miss you, Martin,’ Len says. ‘Your cheery spirit – it’s unparalleled.’
He’s sitting next to me. I let him, to test myself.
It’s been going well, until he reaches into his pocket for a stray palm card and presses the whole side of his body against mine. (AAAH.)
My arm twitches like a marionette’s. I jump up. ‘I’ll, er, go get drinks,’ I sing-song, my heart roiling hotly somewhere up near my throat.
I get out of as much as I can after that, ironing my uniform (again) while Dad entertains the three of them in the living room. I spend so long perfecting my shirt I almost singe off the pocket.
‘Hey, Martha Stewart,’ Len calls. ‘Hurry up, we need to rehearse your bit.’
‘Coming.’
He leans back on the couch, eyes finding me … with my shirt off.
‘What are you even doing?’ His mouth kicks up at the corner. ‘Get dressed.’
I feel myself flush from chest to forehead, and kick the door closed to get dressed.
We run through everything twice, then thrice at Martin’s insistence, before leaving.
The finals are held in an old hall just outside the CBD. Dad parks ludicrously far away, so by the time we’ve trekked up the hill, the other team are sitting down and ready.
Emilia waves at us and we wave back. Then she mimes slitting her throat, narrowing her eyes exaggeratedly.
Beside her is Jamila Perdid, whom I know for a fact Ems can’t stand, because she always goes for the kill shot in rebuttal, a blonde flint-faced girl I don’t know, and Lily.
Spew Grant memories of the last time I saw her shoot through me, but … that’s all. There’s nothing else when my eyes meet her black-lined ones. I look away.
Jamila ‘The Verbal Javelin’ Perdid (not a real nickname, but it should be) is first speaker for the affirmative. She defines the topic, then opens her argument with, ‘It can be elucidated that proposing anything but a resounding affirmative to this question would be morally bankrupt, for several reasons. Firstly …’
I clench my fist on the table. Len motions with his hand for me to stop, already scribbling a rebuttal.
When Jamila’s done, he’s filled three notecards in heavy-handed script. He pushes them towards me. I scan them rapidly, fitting everything together in my head and scribbling bits of my own. Then I pick the cards up and move to the lectern.
Harrison’s playing timekeeper, and I’m more nervous than usual when he dings for me to start.
I keep my voice smooth and even, using Len’s words to dismantle Jamila’s case with razor-sharp precision. Then I go through my argument with minimal ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, trying to look at my cards as little as possible.
Emilia’s argument is technically perfect, but she’s rigid, like me.
When it’s Len’s turn, he takes a moment to look at the audience before he starts, planting his hands on the edges of the lectern and crossing one leg behind the other so he’s leaning jauntily to the side.
‘It’s such a loaded term, isn’t it? “Partners in Crime”, which can be defined as two people so close, or bonded, that they do everything together. At its root, though, a “partner in crime” is more literal: a close associate, and/or … accomplice.’
There’s something about the way he speaks I’ve always been jealous of. He’s cocky. Compelling.
People listen.
I see it, like a ripple effect – he’s charming them.
By the time he’s finished even the adjudicator, a harassed McGonagall type in her seventies, looks thoroughly captivated.
‘… forcing married couples to testify against each other in court assumes close bonds are specific to them. They’re not. In fact, most “partners in crime” aren’t spouses at all – spouses are often kept out of such proceedings. When selecting a criminal accomplice, people are more likely to gravitate to those they have allowed in, from the outset of said bond.’ He pauses and looks up. ‘Friends.’
I fight it, hard.
But I’m charmed too.
He runs through his examples and statistics off by heart, then gives the audience one last lopsided smile, before sitting back down beside me nonchalantly, holding his notes.
Across from us, Emilia’s nostrils are flared. Cheater, she mouths at Len. He winks.
There’s no real hope for St Ads after that. Lily puts up a good final fight, but she’s against Martin. If Jamila’s a javelin, Martin’s a viper – he snaps and snipes his way to abounding applause, and our victory is sealed.
Aussie McGonagall awards us the cup (she hands it to Len, even though I’m team captain) and the audience, mostly tired-looking parents who’d probably rather be anywhere else, disperses while the teams shake hands.
‘You play dirty, Cane,’ Emilia says.
‘Never said I didn’t.’
‘What about you guys,’ I say, pointing at Lily. ‘Nice casual use of “amoral”.’
She laughs. ‘What else do you call letting spouses off the hook, hmm?’
‘A winn
ing argument.’ Martin tips his chin.
Jamila’s face sours. ‘Oh, please. As if you won on merit.’
‘Jam,’ Lily says warningly.
‘What else would you call it?’ Harrison asks.
‘You’re manipulators! You did the exact same thing last year – you whore this one out,’ she stabs her thumb in Len’s direction. ‘And the judges are putty in your hands.’
‘I was timekeeper last year,’ Len points out, mouth perched on a laugh. ‘How d’you figure that manipulated anyone?’
She looks so livid it’s kind of funny. ‘Whatever you want to tell yourselves. You’re just lucky my dad isn’t here – he’s a lawyer. He’d sue all of you.’
‘So’s mine,’ Ems says. ‘Pretty sure there’s no legal recourse for a suit.’
‘Come on, J,’ the blonde girl mutters. ‘It’s our last debate. Just shake their hands, and then we can go.’
With a jagged look, she reluctantly does so. Len holds onto her hand for too long, his eyes dancing, until she snarls and snatches it away. Emilia gives us yes-we-will-laugh-about-this-later eyes and follows Jamila to the back of the hall.
Lily shakes hands with me last.
‘Good game,’ I say.
Her cheeks are flushed. ‘Yeah. Pleasure doing battle with you.’
I stare into her eyes. They’re celery green – pretty, but all I feel is … that her hands are clammy.
(What is wrong with me?)
‘All right, well,’ she says, withdrawing her hand. ‘Message me, in the holidays. If you want.’
‘Absolutely. Will do.’
She disappears after the others.
‘Hook in,’ Len says from behind me.
‘What?’ I spin around.
‘Lily. She’s into you.’
‘Oh! Uh. Cool.’
‘Wow. Don’t look so enthusiastic.’
‘No, I am, I’m just … tired.’
He looks at me oddly. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Dad calls, lifting up his camera to snap a flashy picture of us. ‘That was brilliant! Truly madly deeply. A win for NGS and the justice system alike!’
‘You realise they won’t actually change any laws,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a simulation, for argument’s sake.’
‘Still!’ Dad enthuses. ‘You all spoke so well, it makes me excited for what’s to come. A world ruled by young people – it’ll be here before you know it, Hen!’
Harrison and Martin go home with their parents, and Dad seatbelt-straps the trophy in the front like it’s a person, so it’s just Len and me in the darkened back seat.
‘Sorry we whored you out,’ I fake-apologise as Dad’s pulling out of the car park.
Len rolls his head towards me, laughing.
The twenty-minute drive feels a hell of a lot longer than it has a right to.
It’s so dark. He’s so close; I feel it like static. How can a person who’s always been there suddenly do that?
He leans back against the headrest, watching the road ahead.
I look down at his hand, resting open on the middle seat.
Some of the simmering of the last few weeks abruptly boils over, and I make a snap decision. Or it makes me. Either way, I let my fingers walk, inch by inch.
Dad’s quiet in the front. Somewhere in the back of my head, Rational Henry is absolutely screaming, but instinct drowns him out.
I inch further, until there’s millimetres between us. Then (I can’t help it), I touch his hand, brushing the edge of his palm with mine.
I wait a few breathless seconds, until seconds turn into a minute. Then two.
Softly, the movement barely perceptible, his fingers flex across and he takes my hand. (I think.)
His eyes never leave the road. Either he doesn’t feel anything, or he doesn’t care.
(I feel things. Things that could ruin everything.)
11
Formal finally arrives on its designated blustery Wednesday. I spend the entire day setting up with Martin. We strip all the athletic equipment out of the gym, pulling mouldy mats outside with our sports jackets tied around our mouths, and spray everything liberally with disinfectant.
The Boiyss come see us at lunch.
‘This takes the piss even more than your car,’ Ged says helpfully, casting his eye around.
‘It’s not finished yet!’ I snap, and Harrison drags him away.
I can feel Len’s eyes on me.
‘Do you need help?’ he asks.
I shake my head no without looking up. ‘It’s okay. Don’t want to take up your lunch.’
(I do, though. I want to be near him. So much that I can’t.)
‘What the hell did you say that for, Hamlet?’ Martin hisses once they’re gone. ‘We do need help.’
‘Uh.’
‘God’s sake. Hurry up then, if it’s just gonna be us, or we’ll never get all this done!’
When the final bell rings, after Martin’s been close to dropping the F-bomb at least twice, things look decent enough for the vendors to come in.
A couple of hours later I’m showered and hair-gelled and almost ready to go. I’ve spent months choosing my suit. The result is an overthought black tux with tails and a bow tie Mum has to do up.
Ham’s mouth is an egg when I come downstairs.
‘Oh my gosh,’ he says. ‘You look like James Bonds.’
The parentals take thousands of pictures. Dad cries.
‘Where’s Len tonight?’ Mum asks suddenly. ‘Does he have a date?’
‘Of course he does, Bill.’ Dad chuckles. ‘It’s Len. Right, kiddo? Who’s the lucky girl?’
My hands ball into fists. ‘I don’t know what his plans are, okay! We don’t have to do everything together.’
Mum’s lips purse. ‘Oh, you could’ve gotten a date, darling—’
‘Of course you could!’ Dad says, too robustly for it to be convincing.
‘I can go with you, Hen,’ Ham offers brightly.
Mum moves towards me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to—’
‘Yep, okay!’ I back out the door. ‘Gotta go. Bye!’
Ged’s other cousin owns a classic car company, and we arranged to go together in a 1966 something-or-other ages ago. He, Vince and Harrison are already aboard when it pulls up outside my house, with a surly shaved-headed gentleman in the driver’s seat.
I glance at Vince up front (he’s restyling his straightened hair in the passenger-side mirror) and pull open the door to the narrow back seat.
‘Hello!’ I greet the driver. ‘I’m Henry.’
‘It’s a hundred and fifty bucks an hour,’ he says without inflection.
‘Fuck off, Kyle!’ Ged responds, outraged. ‘Auntie Carol said you had to give us mate’s rates.’
‘That is mate’s rates,’ Kyle deadpans.
Ged folds his arms across his chest and huffs loudly. ‘Just get in, Hamlet!’ he snaps.
I squeeze into the space between Harrison and the driver’s-side back door.
‘It’s a left here,’ Ged instructs as we turn off my street. Kyle doesn’t respond.
Vince produces a giant can of hairspray seemingly out of thin air, and begins liberally dowsing his emo-mulletted head. He clips red extensions into the bottom too.
‘What do you call this look?’ I ask.
‘Sick as fuck,’ he answers primly.
Then he says something else but I don’t hear, because we’re turning down Len’s street.
He’s waiting on the curb by the front gate – hair slicked to infinity, jiggling in the cold with his hands tucked under his armpits.
‘Why aren’t you wearing a suit?’ I demand when he opens the door.
He looks down at his outfit. ‘This is a suit.’
It�
��s not, really – it’s a houndstooth jacket over black jeans with a white shirt, sans tie. He’s finished the ensemble with black loafers, no socks.
I look like a Regency-era footman in comparison.
‘Cool jacket,’ Kyle says.
To make matters worse (better?), once we pick up Jess (Harrison’s date is meeting him there, for obvious reasons), the only way we can all fit is if we squash together. Len ends up half sat in my lap.
In. My. Lap.
My thigh is aflame under his. Aflame. I grit my teeth, mentally instructing myself to be cool, at least for the duration of formal.
‘Nice to meet you guys!’ Jess says.
All I can manage in return is a wild-eyed smile-grimace. My leg continues smouldering unbearably for the entire torturous drive to school.
When we pull up near the gym, Len slides out the door with his back pressing into my chest. I jump out as soon as I’m free.
‘I’m not paying you a cent,’ Ged hisses at Kyle, slamming the car door closed. ‘This isn’t even the one from the photo you showed me!’
‘What about my hundred and fifty bucks?’
‘Tell your mum to ring my mum!’ Ged yells.
The vendors have made some of Martin’s ballroom dreams come true – there’s a red carpet of sorts, made of shrivelled streamers and plastic cups strewn along the ground towards the cavernous double doors. Lights hang on the manicured hedge that’s shaped to spell out NORTHOLM.
Harrison tapers off. Ged lets Jess lead him away too, his giant hand resting low on her back.
Vince pulls a hipflask out of his pocket and takes a swig. ‘Shall we?’
He links his arms through mine and Len’s and pulls us towards the sound of The Getaway Plan coming through the speakers.
Inside, red and grey streamers hang from the basketball hoops, and a collection of vintage disco balls pulse rainbows across the floor.
I soak it in, deriving a faint satisfaction, despite the glaring tackiness and my lack of a date.
Willa Stacy’s by the dance floor in a black sheer-bottomed dress, standing with her brother. She waves at Len and he walks over without looking back.
I’m so jealous I can barely see.
Vince jabs me in the ribs supportively, misreading my expression. ‘Cheer up, mate. Someday you’ll meet someone just as batshit as you are.’
Henry Hamlet's Heart Page 10