Invisibly Breathing

by Eileen Merriman

  I went to the river instead of homeroom this morning. How about you?

  Oh, I hadn’t picked that. Wiremu told me Felix was some kind of maths genius. Do geniuses wag school?

  Smiling, I write: Nothing quite so interesting. What were you doing by the river?

  Trying to find the perfect rock.

  I raise an eyebrow: And did you?

  Not exactly … but I found this.

  He dips his hand into his shorts pocket and passes me an object under the cover of the desks. The stone is warm, Felix’s trapped body heat radiating into the palm of my hand. That’s the first cool thing about it. The second cool thing is the hole in the middle, big enough to thread a strip of leather through and hang it around your neck.

  This is awesome. Like something out of Middle Earth.

  It’s when I go to hand the rock back that the third cool thing happens. Felix shakes his head, and writes: You can keep it, B. For good luck.

  A glassy delight fills the inside of my head, even though a small voice inside me is going, You’re so pathetic, Hunter, it’s just a stupid rock. I curl my fingers around it while I reply: Thanks, F. I think I’m going to need it.

  I’ve only managed to add five lines to my pathetic copying attempt when Ms Swanson announces, ‘Those of you with a short detention can leave.’

  What, is my half-hour up already? It feels as though it has barely begun. The two juniors stampede to the front of the room, dumping their books and crumpled bits of paper on Ms Swanson’s desk. The rest of us — me, Felix and Nicotine Girl — stay sitting at our desks.

  ‘Bailey Hunter,’ Ms Swanson says.

  I clear my throat. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You can leave.’

  ‘Oh. Sure.’ After slipping our note beneath Felix’s collection of lines, which don’t look like they’ve progressed much either, I stand up, placing his pen on top of his textbook. He lifts his head, his eyes flickering.

  ‘Thanks, F,’ I say, my voice low, and he nods. I walk towards the door, slipping the stone into my shorts pocket. And for the rest of the afternoon, all I can think of is how the stone is warming against my thigh, the way it had warmed against his only minutes before.

  CHAPTER 5

  FELIX: OIL ON WATER

  By the time I reach step one thousand and our letterbox, it’s three forty-two p.m. I’m closing the front door behind me when Mum walks out of the lounge.

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, heading into the kitchen. ‘Why are you home so early?’

  ‘Because I left work early,’ Mum says — duh, no kidding. ‘How was lunch?’

  I take the juice out of the fridge. ‘I had a detention. As you know.’

  Of course the school will have emailed her, just as they have once already this week. We are sorry to inform you that Felix’s Friday lunchtime detention has been extended to a full hour, as this is the second time he has been late to school this week.

  ‘I don’t understand how you could have been late for school when you left at eight on the dot.’

  ‘I went to the river before school, and then I was late.’ I could tell her I lost track of time, but that would be a lie. I never lose track of time.

  Mum’s eyes bore into my back. ‘You went to the river? By yourself?’

  I grit my teeth. ‘Would you stop repeating everything I say?’

  ‘Felix …’

  My fingers grip the juice carton so tightly that dents appear in the sides.

  ‘So, I want to live with Dad.’ I walk out of the kitchen, leaving the juice on the bench. Mum sticks to me like a shadow. It’s tempting to close my bedroom door in her face, but I don’t dare.

  ‘Felix,’ she repeats. I sit on my bed with a thud. Mum comes in, closes the door and leans against my desk.

  ‘Look,’ she says. ‘Your father and I have been unhappy for a long time.’

  I start counting back in my head, in sevens from one thousand. Her words worm between the numbers anyway. Coming for a long time … nine hundred and seventy-two, nine hundred and sixty-five … just making us more miserable … eight hundred and ninety-five, eight hundred and eighty-eight … didn’t intend it to happen this way … eight hundred and eighteen, eight hundred and eleven … Marcus and I …

  My head snaps up. ‘Marcus? Who’s he?’

  Mum draws her cardigan across her chest.

  ‘Marcus McKenzie, from the practice.’

  I gape at her. Doctor McKenzie, with the greying hair and green-rimmed glasses?

  ‘You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding.’ He drives a red Fiat Bambina. I hate red. I hate Bambinas. I hate Marcus McKenzie, for stealing my mother away from my father.

  Her cheeks go pink. ‘I know this is going to be a bit of an adjustment.’

  ‘An adjustment? This isn’t an adjustment, it’s an avalanche.’ I leap off the bed, grabbing my backpack. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Out where?’ Mum calls after me, but I’m already out the door.

  Coke lives just around the corner from school, nine hundred and thirty-three steps from my front door to his. That’s why it’s so dumb that he’s been sent off to a poncy private school this year, but his parents have their reasons.

  Actually, just one reason: being caught in bed with a fifteen-year-old girl looks bad when your dad’s a cop. Coke said his dad was overreacting, because it wasn’t like they were having sex.

  ‘Although if Dad had come home just ten minutes later then we might have been,’ Coke always says, in his most pissed-off voice. So Emily Davidson was forbidden from seeing Coke ever again, and Coke had to go to private school, his virginity intact.

  Coke answers the door with a towel wrapped around his waist, his blond curls dripping water. ‘Hey dude, wassup?’

  ‘I’m having a meltdown,’ I announce.

  ‘Bring your meltdown in here,’ Coke says, and I follow him up to his room. Some suck mainstream band is playing on his Bluetooth speaker, the kind that usually makes me want to change the radio station, but I’m in no position to choose. The room stinks of the cologne he nicked from the duty-free when his family went to the Gold Coast last year. For a cop’s kid, he’s got some pretty bad klepto tendencies.

  After kicking off my shoes, I collapse onto his bed, flicking through a music magazine.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Coke tugs a green-and-white striped t-shirt over his head and combs his fingers through his mop-like hair.

  I toss the magazine onto the floor. ‘My mum’s been having it off with a doctor.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Coke sounds excited. ‘Like on Shortland Street?’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, glaring at him. Coke drops his towel and pulls on underwear and a pair of jeans.

  ‘Did you catch them doing it?’

  ‘No. Jesus!’ I clamp my hands over my eyes, as if that will block the heinous Mum-Marcus naked images. It doesn’t. ‘Mothers shouldn’t act like teenagers.’

  ‘Or have sex, full stop. What are you wearing to the party? You’re not going like that are you?’

  I drop my hands and inspect my uniform polo shirt and blue shorts.

  ‘Um, I guess not.’ Maybe we could drop past my house so I can get changed. But if we do that, Mum will detain me for the rest of the evening.

  Coke shrugs. ‘You can borrow something off me if you want.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say. I’m eight centimetres taller than Coke, easy.

  Coke scratches his head. ‘OK, settle down. You can borrow something off Tom.’ He walks out of the room. I sigh and gaze up at the ceiling. I don’t want to go to this party. I’d rather be living in my Green Day fantasy, complete with guitar and black eye make-up.

  Imagine if I turned up to the party dressed like Billie Joe Armstrong. I wonder if I’d make it out of there alive.

  ‘Here.’ A pile of clothes cascades over my head. I sit up, holding out the designer-label black jeans and t-shirt. The t-shirt is obviously from a concert, by some band I’ve never heard of. />
  ‘Are you kidding?’ I ask. ‘There’s no way your brother’s going to let me wear these.’

  ‘He’ll never even notice they’re gone,’ Coke says, which is probably a lie. But since I’m currently a beggar, and beggars can’t be choosers, I put them on. The jeans are a bit loose around the waist, but they fit fine once Coke lends me a belt. The t-shirt makes me look a bit like a groupie, but at least it’s black.

  Coke’s phone starts making a funny twanging sound, an incoming message.

  ‘Hey, Bindi says they can drop past and pick us up. Sweet.’ Coke grins at me.

  ‘They, who’s they? I thought your mum was dropping us off.’ I don’t like this sudden change in plans. My world’s been rocked enough as it is in the past twenty-four hours. I stride over to his window and run my finger along the empty Coke cans lined up on the sill. Bindi and I gave Coke a nickname to match his addiction in the last year of primary school, and it’s stuck ever since. Only his parents and teachers call him Cole now.

  ‘I dunno, who cares?’ Coke sprays my neck with an unidentified substance. I jump backwards.

  ‘What was that?’

  He holds up a blue atomiser, smirking.

  ‘It’s sex in a bottle, man. The girls won’t be able to keep their hands off you.’

  ‘That sounds really scary,’ I say, and Coke laughs like I’ve just said the funniest thing ever.

  Coke’s parents don’t seem worried that I’ve crashed their takeaway night. I’ve almost finished my second helping of butter chicken when Coke’s dad says, ‘Is that a phone?’

  We all fall silent, listening. Coke raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Sounds like your ringtone, dude,’ he says, as Green-Day-on-my-phone launches into ‘Revolution Radio’.

  ‘I think so,’ I hedge. Figuring it will look weird if I don’t answer it, I walk up to Coke’s room. The phone stops ringing before I can dig it out of my backpack. It’s probably Mum, trying to figure out where I am.

  Wrong. The missed call is from my dad. My stomach churning, I press redial. The phone rings and rings. What the hell is he doing? I’m about to hang up when his voice comes on the line.

  ‘Felix, where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Coke’s. Where are you?’ I pluck the blue cologne bottle off Coke’s chest of drawers and peer at the label: sharp notes of spice with a woody base and warm musky trail. God, I feel like I’ve been sprayed by a skunk.

  Dad’s voice intrudes into my brain.

  ‘I’m staying with a friend in the city. So, I can tell your Mum to stop worrying, then?’

  I set the bottle down. ‘She called you?’

  ‘Just send her a quick text, will you? Look, I’ll swing past tomorrow and take you and Alfie out for lunch. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ There’s a spiky feeling behind my eyes and in the back of my throat. ‘Do we get to choose who we live with? Because I choose you.’

  Dad sighs. ‘I’ll probably get a small apartment near work. It’s too far for you to travel to school, and I don’t get home from work until late. You’d hate it.’

  A vacuum opens up in the middle of my chest. ‘So that’s a no, then.’

  ‘It’s not a no, exactly. I’m just saying I don’t think it’s a good idea. We can talk about this tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ After hanging up, I stare at the phone, waiting for him to call back, but he doesn’t. I grind my teeth, revising my former opinion of Dad as the good guy in this mess. He and Mum are both as bad as each other. Obviously I can’t rely on either of them.

  It’s after seven when Dallas Murphy pulls into the driveway and beeps his horn. Coke and I climb into the back seat, on either side of Bindi. Letting out a squeal, Bindi throws her arms around Coke.

  ‘Oh my God, how are you?’ She draws back, sniffing. ‘Jeez, you smell like …’

  ‘Sharp notes of spice with a musky trail,’ I say, and Bindi and Coke start laughing. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but whatever. Next Dallas introduces us to the guy in the front seat, who’s in the year above us. I promptly forget his name, because I’m really bad with names and faces.

  ‘Are you still trying to get it on with Krusty?’ Bindi asks, as Dallas tears off down the street.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying,’ Coke says in a huffy voice, and they start insulting each other, as usual. The guy in the front seat turns around, flashing the braces on his teeth at me.

  ‘Do you like Coke as much as your mate?’ he asks, holding up a large bottle.

  ‘What else is in there?’ I ask, my eyes fixed on the scud of foam on the top of the black liquid.

  ‘Rum,’ Bindi says, and Coke says, ‘Ha!’ and takes the bottle off Braces Guy. After taking a gulp, he hands the bottle to me. I start to pass it to Bindi, but hesitate. Why not do something a little bit crazy tonight, something my parents wouldn’t approve of?

  I wrap my lips around the neck and tilt it back, swallowing a large mouthful of the sickly sweet fizz.

  ‘Was it that bad?’ Bindi asks, laughing, and I realise I’ve screwed up my nose.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. But when the guy with the braces passes it around again, just before we park outside Joel’s house, I don’t say no.

  Joel lives up the hill from the motorway in a two-storey house with a large front lawn. There are only about ten people in the lounge when we arrive, which makes me feel less nervous. I can cope with a small party, maybe.

  I stand in the kitchen with Coke and Bindi, while Dallas and Braces Guy disappear down the hallway, looking like they’re up to something dodgy. We’ve only been there for about two minutes when a girl with ginger hair and a dyed-blonde plait dangling in front of her right ear bounces up to us and starts talking.

  ‘Hi, I’m Kirsty, but everyone calls me Krusty, like the clown off The Simpsons. You must be Felix and Bindi.’ She keeps bouncing up and down on her heels. ‘Coke told me all about you, especially you.’ She points at me. ‘Is it true you’ve got a photographic memory?’

  ‘No,’ I say, because there’s no such thing as a photographic memory. I’m about to tell her the word she wants is eidetic when Coke inclines his head towards the hallway.

  ‘Catch you guys later,’ he says, and drags Krusty away in the same direction as Dallas and Braces Guy went. A moment later, a slightly chubby guy wearing black-rimmed glasses walks up to us.

  ‘Hey, Bindi.’ He gives me an intent look. ‘And you must be …’

  ‘Felix,’ Bindi says. ‘Felix, this is Joel.’

  ‘Felix, cool.’ Joel waves his hand at the line-up on the counter. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  ‘Awesome, have fun,’ Joel says, and zips off towards a couple of guys walking in with a large box of beer.

  Bindi looks at me and shrugs. ‘Lemonade and OJ suit you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I reply, wishing I could think of something interesting to say, but I really can’t. I sip on my drink, watching as more and more people flow into the lounge. Someone turns up the stereo and the noise level just keeps increasing, music and laughter and chatter fighting for space inside my head.

  A couple of girls join us. One of them has wavy blonde hair, and I’m pretty sure she’s in Bindi’s drama club. The other one is very tall, with full lips and a long nose. They’re all talking like they’ve known each other for years. I’ve got that all-too-familiar out-of-body sensation, as though I’m floating on the ceiling, looking down on the Felix-body below.

  ‘Hey, we’re going outside,’ Bindi says, tugging on my arm. I follow her through the lounge and down a steep set of stairs into the back yard. The sun is falling behind the hill, long shadows creeping over the lawn. The air is cooling, but it’s not cold. At least it’s not so noisy out here.

  ‘There you are.’ Dallas reappears, and takes Bindi by the hand. ‘I want to introduce you to someone.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bindi mutters in my ear.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, on the verge of having a
panic attack at the thought of being left alone with the plastic girls.

  Bindi, obviously oblivious to my distress, says, ‘Back soon,’ and abandons me. I hang back a little, not so far that it looks like I’m standing by myself, but far enough that the girls don’t feel like they have to talk to me.

  The girl with the pillowy lips says, ‘So what are you going to do about Mike?’

  Blonde Hair says, ‘Oh God, I’m over schoolboys. Once you’ve been with a real man, you’ll never look back.’ They both start laughing, and it’s like I’m not even there. Where the hell is Coke when I need him? Figuring he must still be inside, I start walking towards the back steps.

  ‘Hey.’ Braces Guy appears in front of me, clutching his bottomless bottle of Coke. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Um, fine.’ This is when a normal person would say something witty or start talking about sport or something, but my stupid brain is like a whiteboard that’s just been cleaned. ‘What’s your name again?’ I blurt.

  ‘If I told you I’d have to kill you,’ he says, and passes me the bottle. ‘Just call me Zero, everyone else does.’

  ‘Zero, why?’ I gulp on the black liquid, my nose wrinkling.

  Zero grins. ‘You really don’t like that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, but I chug on it again, because it’s easier than trying to make conversation.

  ‘Me and Dallas had a bet about a multi-choice test last year,’ Zero says. ‘He said I couldn’t get zero if I tried.’

  ‘So, did you?’ I stifle a burp.

  ‘Yep. Scored an eight out of ten on the dare scale for that one. Whoa, go easy.’ He takes the bottle off me. ‘How’s your head, dude?’

  I frown at him. ‘My head is fine.’ But maybe it’s not, because I add, ‘That’s the dumbest bet I ever heard of.’

  For some reason, everything I say makes Zero laugh. I’m not sure how I suddenly got to be so funny. Maybe I’m a comedian and don’t even know it — how am I supposed to tell?

  Zero slings his arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Let me tell you about the dumbest bet ever.’ He steers me into the front yard, telling me about what truly is the dumbest bet ever, something to do with streaking naked across the school field to see who could win the last slice of pizza.