by Cath Crowley
‘– working on . . .’ Kate’s still talking, but I’m up and teetering on the kerb. I call out to Stu though my cupped megaphone hands. He looks surprised and happy to see me. He hollers back, gestures that he’s going to go to the lights. I return to perch on my chair.
‘Guy you like?’ Ady says.
I dig out five dollars and leave, saying over my shoulder, ‘Thanks, it’s been real.’
Am I walking towards Stu or am I flying? It’s all I can do not to break into a run.
‘Magic girl,’ Stu says. ‘I think about you, and there you are.’
‘You were thinking about me?’
‘I was. Bad thoughts. Wrong thoughts.’
‘Dude.’ The hairy guy says, shaking his head.
‘This is Clem,’ Stu tells him. I’m willing him to say, my girlfriend, but he doesn’t say it.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, just a thing for school.’
‘A thing for school.’ He nods, super serious, then his face relaxes. I love his smile. It makes me go weak. The hairy guy lets out an old-man groan. ‘Are we getting a drink?’
Stu angles his head, inviting me. We’re outside what looks like the last unrenovated pub in Melbourne. It’s not the kind of place that has a menu or even entertainment.
The hairy guy goes in and the smell of beer wafts out. Stu holds the door open for me. I hesitate. An unexpected doubt has arrived. What if I’m walking into something more than I can handle? I cast a glance back to Kate and Ady, but they’re not waving their arms dramatically or holding up any red flags. No siren sounds. No one MacGyver-rolls me to safety.
Stu clears his throat, and I go in, right foot first.
Friday 29 July
Clem has definitely not dressed like that for coffee with me and Kate.
She sits down in a drift of perfume, with her silver shoes and visible breastage. All wrong. She’s good-looking in her usual careless no make-up state, and she could look great in full glam, but all she’s managed to put together is a desperate eat me, drink me thing.
‘What are you staring at?’ she says.
‘Just wondering why you didn’t use a mirror to put on your make-up.’ Too mean. It’s not like you’d have much time for playing with make-up on the swim team. But so what? Girls like her, girls on the outer, dismiss me as a rich bitch and hate me on principle.
She gives me a narrow-eyed look of pure irritation, but doesn’t bite. She is barely present. We grind our way through the most tedious, stilted exchange to tick the box on this idiotic social outing as the thumb-size group that should get to know each other, according to Malik’s bizarre dream of arbitrary and random friendship sparks.
Clem spends the whole time looking around us and through us, until she spots him on the other side of the road. By now I’ve sent back the inedible cake, and Kate has drunk a pot of tea and been to the loo, which she said is manky and best avoided.
Clem throws down five bucks and virtually sprints towards her dude. A protective pang for her springs from nowhere. I want to say, Be cool, don’t show him you care this much – but why? Who decided that wearing your heart on your sleeve is the big love crime? It’s the upper hand, power play school of dating. Second nature to me and my friends. Maybe that’s my problem. If I could just crack open my rib cage and let that heart out for a walk down my sleeve.
So now it’s just the two of us.
Me and Kate.
Kate and me.
She’s balancing on the edge of her seat as though she’s got a big announcement. I don’t need further communication. Let this ordeal be over. Let me mindfully notice odd others from a safe distance.
Clem, a twin, loves jacket guy. Clem is duplicitous. Kate, of delicate complexion, likes Earl Grey tea. Kate enjoys playing cello. Fini.
‘I told my head of house that you invited me to dinner at your place,’ says Kate.
I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Why?’
‘I’m going to a club. But you can’t write that on your pass-out request form. We’re basically prisoners.’ She looks apologetic. ‘It’s just – once I had permission for our coffee encounter, lying about dinner with your family was my best shot to stay out.’
Kate Turner’s going to a club? This is like M&M’S suddenly becoming salt-and-vinegar chips. Quiet musician breaks the rules to walk on the wild side. She looks anxious, and where is the harm? Sure, I could squash her like an ant, but why bother? What has she ever done to me?
‘Fine. Whatever. I won’t blow your cover.’
We leave the cafe and walk along together for a bit, and I’m wondering exactly when she’s going to peel off and leave me alone.
‘Anything else I can do for you?’ It was rhetorical with a hint of snark; I wasn’t expecting her to take me up on the offer.
‘I’m not meeting my – person – there till later, and I need somewhere to be for a bit, so I thought maybe . . . I wouldn’t get in the way.’
So, she not only wants to pretend to come to my place, she wants to come to my place for real?
‘Okay, but I’m planning to walk home along the river path. It takes half an hour from here.’
She looks relieved, smiles and puts her headphones on.
*
Kate gives the house an admiring look and I feel a pang of anxiety. Don’t sell it, let me keep living here, this is my home. I lead the way along the tangled garden path, in through the back door, and head straight for the stairs. I instinctively try to distract Kate from the sound of my parents arguing by saying the first thing that comes into my head. I offer to help her get ready: she cannot wear what she’s got on, which is basically stage blacks. Way to be inconspicuous.
‘I do this all the time, so don’t be offended . . .’ I say, opening the door to my bedroom and leading her through to my walk-in wardrobe. ‘Think of it as a clothes library – it’s the only way I can justify having all this stuff.’
Kate gives a wow whistle as she takes in the extent of it. Cool response. I’ve only ever seen-heard that in films. Having superior whistling skills must be a subset of being musical.
I flip through a few options and – perfect! A high-buttoned, ankle-length, silk-velvet, gored coat-dress. An op-shop find that I couldn’t resist, but have never worn.
She nods as I hold it up. She turns and slips her arms in. Transformation. The antique gold colour glows against her fair skin. Perfecto. Now she’s dressed for a night out. Now her black boots look deliberate and ironic. Clothes, I love you.
She runs her finger along the nap of the velvet. ‘Wild fabric.’
‘Yeah. Suits you.’
We mess around with some hair and make-up until our stomachs start rumbling, so I go down to the kitchen to see what’s on offer. There’s no smell of cooking, and no sign of Charlie or Clare. A door slams from the direction of the argument. I grab some leftover frittata, a chocolate brownie, two apples and a SodaStream bottle from the fridge, and run back upstairs.
Just before I close my door, my mother’s voice floats up; she’s calling my father ‘a complete world-class bastard loser’ at high volume. Welcome to my family. Kate blushes – embarrassed for me, no doubt. Country parents are perhaps more polite to each other.
‘You’re probably already going out,’ she says. ‘But this club – Orion – is supposed to be good; it’s a new music venue.’
Am I laughing in disbelief and saying, No thanks? Don’t seem to be. Am I really about to ditch my plans and go to a club I’ve never heard of with a boarder I don’t know at all? Apparently.
I have the strong feeling that city clubbing is not a regular thing for Kate. ‘Have you got ID?’
She opens her wallet and shows me. ‘It’s my cousin’s old learner’s permit.’
They look similar enough for it to work.
‘Country pubs can be pretty strict,’ she says.
Mine is a high-quality fake organised by Tash’s older brother. I’ve never been questioned.
Strangely, this is exactly
what Malik was talking about in class – making friends outside your friendship group. If you want to get to know someone new (which I didn’t think I did), he said, take down some barriers (or let your screaming parents take them down, whether you like it or not) and let them into your world (well, Kate asked herself, but I did say yes). I didn’t intend to take down the whole family privacy barrier; it more or less fell over in front of Kate.
It feels like this night is constructing itself around me – I’m reacting, not planning. But perhaps that’s okay. It’s like I’m a tram taking an impossible left turn off the tracks and onto the road.
‘I’m going to that party,’ I yell on the way out. ‘Won’t be late.’ It’s already in my mother’s diary that I’m going out to a sixteenth tonight, back by midnight. I check the change bowl, usually good for the odd ten or twenty bucks. Empty. ‘I won’t bother introducing you to the train-wreck parents. You’ve had more than enough exposure to them for one night. Better if they think I’m doing what I said.’
Kate looks relieved. Good instinct.
Friday 29 July
It’s late. We’ve been in the pub for four hours. No one’s said anything about eating dinner. I’ve had three beers and fourteen peanuts. I’ve never been anywhere like this – it’s like a warren with beer-sopped towels along the bar, photos and curios between the bottles like what you’d find in an op shop, a scrum of old dudes and ladies sitting at formica tables with pots, and a for-real TV in a wood veneer case showing football.
The bargirl has tattoos and dyed black hair. She’s wearing a bra-top and high-waisted black skinny jeans. She’s been smiling at Stu since we came in. During a break she takes it upon herself to lounge in his lap.
‘Hey, handsome. How come I never see you anymore?’
‘You’re seeing me now,’ Stu says.
They chuckle. I nearly choke on my peanut.
The bargirl pushes Stu’s hair away from his eyes and adds, ‘Hi, Danny,’ to the hairy guy. Then she looks at me. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Clem,’ Stu tells her.
‘Right.’ She looks at me for so long it’s uncomfortable.
Stu clamps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me towards him – a bit rough, but the contact is still thrilling.
The bargirl says, ‘Look out, honey. He’ll ruin you.’
‘Someone has to,’ Danny murmurs. He laughs. Stu laughs. I laugh. (What am I laughing at?) The bargirl moves away.
I feel really young. Really young. I don’t know what anyone’s talking about. I don’t know what it is I’m saying that Stu and Danny think is so funny. Whenever Stu goes to the bar, there are terrible, torturous seconds alone with Danny. He picks his teeth with a plectrum and looks at me and never says a word. When Stu comes back, the air changes again, and I forget Danny and drink my beer, which tastes like dead flower water.
I listen to Stu and Danny talk about bands I’ve never heard of and look around at the faces of the customers – their skin is lined like hard land. They’re scary, but Stu and Danny just talk and joke like having starburst veins and exploding noses from too much booze is normal. Every now and then, Stu looks at me, as if to ask me if I’m okay, but he doesn’t actually ask it.
At about ten, Danny finally leaves. But then it feels strange to be alone with Stu. He looks bleary, pissed. I’m not exactly sober. I feel sloppy, heavy; I can’t think of anything to talk about. His hands are on my thighs. He’s probably thinking about how fat they are.
‘Let’s go outside,’ he says. ‘It’s stuffy in here.’
He takes my hand and leads me out the front of the pub, where the Friday night traffic is in full effect, and down an alley where empty kegs are stacked, silver as the night is silvery. He pushes me up against the wall. We kiss and people leaving the pub walk right past us. One guy, drunk, kicks over a barrel and it crashes on the bluestones, breaking the spell. ‘I’d better go,’ I say, my tongue feeling all thick now I’m using it for words and not kisses.
On the tram I feel like I’m phosphorescent.
Stuart Laird McAlistair. I whisper it, affecting the accent, rolling the brogue.
All the way back to school I am amped, electric. It’s only in the dark of the grounds that I get nervous. What if Ady and Kate have told? Why did I take such a risk?
But everything is working. The portal, the empty corridor, no cavalry.
Jinx is still up, doing crunches, listening to a podcast.
‘I told Old Joy you were at the showers. She was going to come back, but she never did. How was it?’
‘It was okay. They’re okay, I guess.’
‘Jeez, Clem, you smell like a hundred beers.’
‘I had one. Please! Don’t be a cop.’
I’m so edgy. Sleep is out of the question. And I don’t want to answer Jinx’s questions so I get out Malik’s sheet to write about my ‘date’ with Kate and Ady and complete the lie. I make it all up, laying on the superlatives. By the time I’ve finished I’ve almost convinced myself that we’re best buddies. Ady is classy and generous and stylish. Kate is calm and talented and honest. I don’t write the one thing I hope: that they can keep a secret.
Friday 29 July
We’re walking up stairs, then more stairs, and more stairs. And here, tucked into some low-rent office space high up in this lovely decrepit building, is the club. Hot music swells into the innocent hallway as we push through a door and find ourselves at the back of a queue.
The music is like Flume meets Violent Soho. What am I doing here?
Kate looks incredible – with really just a few tweaks. Hair piled up high with lots of fake flowers stuck into it. Pale ghost works for her, and nothing says that like black-crimson lips. The queue is short. Naturally we get stamped and waved on in. Even grungy places love stylish girls. It ain’t right, but it’s a help when you’re under-age.
I have enough dollars for one drink, and I cross my fingers that there’s enough credit on my Myki to get back home. Kate has to leave in time to make her eleven o’clock curfew, and I’ve said I’ll go when she does.
On the one hand, what am I doing here? On the other hand, this isn’t the sort of place I usually hang out, so it makes for a change. And you know what they say about change. I check my phone. The screen is a long list of people I can’t be bothered calling back, Rupert the most persistent.
I text him in case he gets worried and tells my parents that I’m not answering my phone. Text that I’ve detoured and won’t make it to Sam’s. I say sorry. I don’t say: I’m a bit over your self-involved conversation and my perfunctory hand jobs. It wouldn’t exactly be appropriate material for a text. I add to the sorry: Talk tomorrow, manbabe x.
Kate already seems mesmerised by the music being made by the two girl/two dude outfit on stage. She’s moving her head to their strange syncopations. It’s arty electronica meets strange noises, and I’m not particularly into it. I glance around and hold eye contact with the cute boy mixing sound; it gives me a little twing in the pants. Mmmm. Maybe. Another message from the universe about the wrongness of Rupert. For me. Not in general.
I ask Kate if I can get her a drink. ‘My shout,’ she says, absently handing me her wallet, not taking her eyes off the stage. Boarders are always cashed up. What do they have to spend money on, apart from chocolate and make-up? I’m often drinks monitor because I look older and intimidating when required. Seeing as Kate is paying, I get us both vodka tonics and tip the bar guy. He’ll be good for a free drink later.
Kate is way on the other side of the floor when I deliver the drinks. She’s found her people, but doesn’t seem super relaxed. She knocks the drink back quickly, breaking briefly from an intense-looking conversation with a guy and introducing me to a girl called Max.
I get my second twing for the night. Max is beautiful in my ideal androgynous way. Tall – my height – with short, flicky black hair, ballet back, square shoulders, killer sixties cocktail dress and a cautious smile. I smile back, reckless.
‘Who are you here to see?’ she asks.
‘No one in particular.’
‘I mainly want to see Milton Glass, but they’re not on till eleven.’ Max is checking out my dress. ‘Family, op shop, vintage . . . ?’
‘Family.’
‘Love it.’
‘Love yours.’
‘Op shop.’
‘What’s your favourite?’
‘Red Cross on –’
‘Bridge Road,’ we say at the same time.
‘I’m also addicted to Vixen,’ I say.
‘Back room,’ she agrees. ‘Amazing.’
‘It’s the best.’ It’s where they put stuff that hasn’t been sorted, cleaned or mended. A treasure trove. Only available to people they like. I think that door gets opened based on whether they approve of what you’re wearing.
I glance over at Kate – she’s checking her watch as she continues her argument: Cinderella time soon.
A new band goes on stage making a different bunch of challenging noises. One of their members is the guy Kate was talking to.
Max leans in close. ‘This is The Sherlocks, friends of mine. Dance?’ One dimple appears when her smile widens. I follow her onto the floor and start moving; it feels like my joints need oiling and I don’t know the music, but soon enough we’re jumping and laughing.
The sets are short; the next act starts with a slow song, a girl singing and playing cello. Max keeps dancing as people drift off the floor. She moves unselfconsciously. It makes me think that the way I’m used to dancing at parties is much more about performing to be watched, than it is about the music.
After another piece is played, my bartender gives me a nod; he’s poured some tequila shots. Max and I converge and down them in a coordinated gulp. Kate joins us. Max licks the inside of her shot glass, picks up a lime wedge, eats it, and says, ‘Tall Tales Tacos should be downstairs by now – let’s get one.’ Bartender boy smiles goodbye. Jesus, he’s cute too – three twings – it’s like I want to have theoretical sex with the whole world tonight, except Rupert.
Down, down, down the stairs, passing lots more people heading up now. The three of us each fang down a taco – Kate pays. And those two talk music-tech while I watch Max. I could have taken more of that, but we have to hurry for Kate’s curfew.