Slice

by Steven Herrick

  Audrey opens the door before I’ve knocked.

  Before I’ve uncrossed my eyes.

  ‘Nice face, Darcy.’

  Think of the brightest colour red you can imagine. Call it blush red.

  ‘Come in. Mum and Dad aren’t home. It’s the anniversary of their first date!’

  Audrey walks to the kitchen and I follow, hands in my pockets to stop them shaking.

  ‘How many years?’

  ‘Mum reckons twenty-four, Dad says twenty-three.

  They were arguing about it when they left.’ Audrey frowns. ‘Maybe they’ll be home earlier than expected.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Great?’

  ‘Sorry! I mean ... I mean it’s great they’ve been together so long.’

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Before meditating?’

  Audrey giggles and pulls herself up to sit on the kitchen bench. She’s wearing tight black pants, a dark green top and matching ballet shoes. No socks.

  Don’t look at her ankles!

  ‘We don’t have to meditate, Darcy, I just wanted to ask you over.’

  I stand like an empty-handed delivery boy in the middle of the room, not sure who stole my pizza. Audrey pats the bench top beside her. There are six very sturdy wooden chairs around a long kitchen table. I saunter (that is, I don’t stumble!) over to her and jump on the bench.

  NOT TOO CLOSE!

  But close enough for her to see my blackhead.

  I blurt out, ‘Green is my favourite colour.’

  Audrey looks at my grey trousers, black T-shirt and black shoes.

  ‘Your shoes, Audrey. I didn’t know you did ballet.’

  ‘I don’t. I saw a documentary, ages ago, about Paris. Everyone wore these shoes.’

  Audrey reaches down to rub her hand along the soft leather. ‘It’s as close as I’ll get to Paris.’

  ‘Until after Year Twelve.’

  Audrey wrinkles her nose. It is perfectly clear of blackheads.

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘I read about the canals of Paris.’

  ‘Isn’t that Venice?’

  ‘Paris has them too. With barges that people live on.’

  ‘Could be a problem if you’re a sleep water?’

  ‘Did you say “sleep water”, or “walker”?’

  Audrey giggles, ‘Sleepwalker who ends up in the water. Do you sleepwalk?’

  ‘Nah, I just sweat in strange places.’

  ‘You mean strange places, like Paris or Venice?’

  ‘And Verona, underneath Juliet’s balcony.’

  ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?’

  Is the girl of my dreams quoting Shakespeare back at me?

  Perchance, to dream.

  Our legs are two centimetres from touching on the bench. How long can I sit this near to Audrey without shaking? In an effort to stop thinking of how close we are, I focus on the toaster at the end of the bench.

  ‘Why are you looking at our toaster, Darcy?’

  ‘I’m wondering if Shakespeare ever wrote about toast?’

  ‘Parting is such sweet ... toast!’

  ‘Double, double toil and ... toast!’

  ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your... toasters!’

  ‘Audrey, how do you know so much Shakespeare?’

  Audrey giggles. ‘I studied.’

  ‘But Ms Hopkins hasn’t set anything this year.’

  ‘Not for school, for...’ Audrey blushes. She jumps down from the bench and walks towards the back door, beckoning me to follow. She leads me out to the back garden, heavily planted with native shrubs and more naked statues, male and female. She walks along a gravel path, through the naturalist orgy, to a tartan blanket spread out on the grass. She sits cross-legged in one corner and I sprawl in the other.

  ‘You like to say the first thing that comes into your head, don’t you, Darcy?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  Audrey looks reproachfully at me.

  I nod, ‘Yeah, I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Have you ever played “word association”? You’d be an expert.’

  ‘Is that where someone says a word and I say “sex” back?’

  Did I really just say the ‘S’ word to Audrey?

  I look to the night sky for help. The stars grin back, inanely.

  ‘Only if you must, Darcy.’

  It can’t get more embarrassing, can it?

  Audrey sits up straight, fine laughter lines around her eyes.

  Is it too dark for her to see my blackhead?

  Audrey begins, ‘Come on, let’s try. I say a word, you respond. Okay?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  She looks up into the night sky.

  ‘Stars.’

  ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.’

  ‘No more Shakespeare!’

  ‘At least I didn’t say “sex”!’

  ‘Darcy, stop saying “sex”!’

  ‘Okay, the next person to say “sex” has to–’

  Audrey puts her hands on her hips. ‘Has to stop saying it!’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Let’s try again. No Shakespeare, no s– You know. Ready...

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘Dirty.’

  ‘Music.’

  ‘S ... S ... soothing.’

  ‘That was close. Picnic.’

  ‘Bull ants.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bull ants. When I was a kid we went on a picnic and I got stung by hordes of bull ants. Dad took me to hospital and the nurse covered all the bites with sticky pink cream.’

  Audrey shakes her head, ‘You really are – unique.’

  ‘You were going to say something else then?’

  ‘Let’s do as many as possible, quickly. No stopping.’

  ‘And no sex.’

  ‘Darcy!’

  ‘Sorry. Go ahead.’

  ‘Grass.’

  ‘Stacey’s parties.’

  ‘Kayak.’

  ‘Canoe.’

  ‘Noah.’

  ‘And the seven dwarves.’

  Audrey giggles.

  ‘This is not called “finish my sentence by saying something silly”, Darcy. It’s meant to be single-word association.’

  ‘I couldn’t resist. I should have said, Noah and the seven chess pieces.’

  ‘He is a little obsessed, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s focused. I like him. He’s persistent – and different.’

  ‘Well, if you like him, I do too.’

  ‘That’s a little wishy-washy.’

  I’ve just called the girl of my dreams wishy-washy!

  Audrey ignores me. ‘Lonely.’

  ‘Friendly’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Sack.’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Waste.’

  Audrey looks surprised.

  I add, ‘It’s a song, “Beautiful Waste” by The Triffids.’

  ‘I know! My mum plays that song over and over.’

  ‘I have the same taste as your mother?’

  Audrey pats my knee. ‘I love that song too. Mum and Dad used to follow the band when they were young. The singer died.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Just like Jim Morrison. Only he could sing and write decent songs.’

  ‘Who? Jim Morrison?’

  ‘No. The singer from The Triffids. David McComb.’

  ‘Do you know Jim Morrison is buried in Paris?’

  ‘Anywhere near the canal?’

  ‘He’s in a cemetery full of famous people. They have to keep a guard at his gravesite. People scrawl messages to him. As if he can read them, from underground.’

  ‘I don’t believe in it, sorry.’

  ‘What, writing messages to dead people?’

  ‘No, dead people reading those messages. You just die and rot and the only thing that lives on is your spirit in other people. Your mum and dad and friends.’

  ‘Can your spirit r
ead the messages through them?’

  ‘No. Your friends can. But they wouldn’t like people writing on your grave. So they wouldn’t tell your spirit about it.’

  Audrey shakes her head. ‘If your spirit exists in other people, they couldn’t hide stuff like graffiti on a gravestone. They’d be offended on behalf of your spirit.’

  It makes sense to me. ‘But would they wash the graffiti off? Or never visit your grave again?’

  Audrey brushes the hair from in front of her face. ‘If you were really famous, your true friends wouldn’t go to your grave in the first place. They couldn’t stand the crowds. They’d choose a special place where you both shared something and they’d go there. They’d take flowers. Or have a picnic, spread the blanket out, lie back, look at the sky and remember.’

  I quickly look down at the blanket and then up at the stars.

  ‘No-one is buried here, Darcy. The spirits aren’t out tonight.’

  ‘Spirits are always out. It’s whether we see them or not.’

  Audrey leans across and kisses me on the lips. So quickly I don’t have time to feel nervous or embarrassed or excited. I close my eyes and kiss back.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘For believing in spirits,’ Audrey winks, ‘and for fun.’

  ‘What happened to our word game, Audrey.’

  ‘That kiss just scared it away.’

  ‘Never to return?’

  ‘Never. Too much sex.’

  ‘I only said it once or twice.’

  Audrey smiles. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘About boys and sex. How they’re meant to think of it every thirty seconds, or something ridiculous like that.’

  I shake my head. ‘No way. We think of it much more than that!’

  Audrey giggles. ‘Do you have room for anything else?’

  I’m tempted to tell her how I can recite Romeo and Juliet.

  Audrey clicks her fingers. ‘What?’

  ‘What, what?’

  ‘You were thinking of something then. I could tell.’

  ‘Somebody is always thinking of something, Audrey.’

  ‘You mean “everybody is always thinking of something”.’

  ‘Yeah. With men it’s sex, with women it’s...’

  Audrey smiles and looks towards her house, ‘We’re never silly enough to admit what we think about.’

  ‘I’d hate to know what everyone was thinking. It would be depressing. Imagine getting really involved in Ms Hopkins’ s class and then discovering she’s preoccupied with watering her roses when she gets home. Or she’s planning to join the Liberal Party. Or she likes...’ I shiver, ‘football.’

  ‘Do you have a crush on Ms Hopkins?’

  ‘Of course not. But it’d be awful to find out someone you admire thinks dull boring dreary thoughts.’

  ‘She is very attractive, Darcy.’

  ‘I like her T-shirts, okay!’

  ‘You’re full of it, Walker.’

  ‘You sounded like Clegg then!’

  ‘Nobody sounds like Clegg!’

  We both look at each other and it’s the closest I’ll ever come to an ‘I’m centre of the universe’ moment.

  Audrey leans forward.

  I don’t think she wants to shake my hand.

  Walking after midnight

  Audrey and me have been in the backyard for hours, discussing how all the yellow beanbags in the seniors common room smell like perfume and the blue ones smell like rotting peaches. And how, after Stacey’s parties, Miranda Fry always wears a high-neck top to school under her uniform, no matter what the temperature. How most religions don’t seem to like women much. How vegans must get really nervous every time they chop the head off a carrot or an onion. Can they hear the vegetables scream?

  And what must it feel like to be a stick of celery slowly lowered into a juicer, the blades whirring madly?

  And who came up with the word ‘topography’? Or ‘lexicon’?

  And why is cricket a boring game played by overweight men in white clothes and the name of a small insect?

  Audrey looks at her watch.

  ‘I reckon Mum and Dad have kissed and made up.’

  ‘Parents do that. It shows they’re mature or...’

  ‘...Or have no alternative!’

  Audrey stretches her legs and winces. ‘My bottom is as numb as a frog in a fridge.’

  She stands and offers to help me up and I wipe my hand on my trousers before reaching out.

  ‘Are you worried about giving me boy germs?’

  ‘Sweat, remember.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the boy who sweats in strange places.’

  Audrey reaches for my hand, even though I’m standing on my two relatively steady feet. She leads me down the path.

  ‘Why so many naked statues, Audrey?’

  ‘Dad says it’s better than swans made out of car tyres and dwarves in red costumes. Do you want to go for a walk?’

  ‘Only if you keep holding my hand.’

  Audrey smiles, the tiniest gap between her front teeth.

  When we reach the gate, Audrey turns left and I head right, away from my house. Our hand-holding stretches ... we look at each other ... and Audrey relents, ‘Lay on, Macduff.’

  ‘We’ll take it in turns. You choose at the next corner.’

  ‘We may end up going in circles.’

  ‘Like a drunk on Saturday night. Which reminds me, I saw Tim earlier.’

  ‘Did he want a fight?’

  ‘We got on okay. It felt a little weird.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘Outside the chem–’

  The first lesson of hiding the truth is to not blurt it out. The second lesson is to not stop half-way through blurting it out.

  ‘–At the shops.’

  Audrey looks enquiringly. ‘What are you hiding, Darcy?’

  ‘I’m not hiding nothing. Anything. Or something!’

  Audrey holds up our hands, still clasped together.

  I ask, ‘What?’

  ‘I was checking how many fingers you’ve crossed for lying.’

  The streetlight shines on me like in those spy movies where the villain is under interrogation. Not the light! Anything but the light!

  ‘I ran into Tim at the chemist.’

  A gentle rain begins to drift across the beam of the streetlight. A man with menacing scars in a long coat and black hat reaches for the bamboo to shove under my fingernails.

  I whisper, ‘I was buying condoms.’

  There are droplets of rain on Audrey’s hair, ‘Was that what you were slipping into your letterbox?’

  ‘How did you...?’

  ‘I was watching. Sorry. I was so nervous about tonight.’

  ‘You were nervous?’

  ‘Sure. I thought you might be only interested in meditation. Or you’d be really boring and I wouldn’t know how to get you to leave, or you’d try something – something rude.’

  ‘With condoms at the ready!’

  ‘A whole packet!’

  Audrey brushes the drops from her face and reaches up to kiss me.

  Under the harmless streetlight.

  A car horn sounds from across the road. Audrey’s mum leans out the car window. ‘You’ll be home soon, won’t you, dear.’

  Audrey grips my hand tightly. ‘Mum! Go home.’

  Audrey’s mum looks at me and smiles weakly.

  I say, ‘Happy anniversary, Mrs Benitez.’

  She looks up at the rain coming down heavier. ‘It’s raining.’

  I reply, ‘Only outside.’

  Audrey giggles. ‘We’re going for a walk. I won’t be long.’

  Mrs Benitez glances at the rain again and winds up the window. Audrey and I watch the car roll slowly down the street, turning into their driveway.

  Audrey says, ‘Did you really tell my mum that it only rains outside?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of what to say.’

  ‘I�
��ll spend tomorrow convincing them I’m not going out with a moron.’

  ‘You’re not going out with a moron. But you are going out with me?’

  ‘Sure. Why not. If that’s okay?’

  Audrey Benitez, girl of my dreams, has just asked if it’s okay we go out together. And she’s still holding my hand. And the rain is making her hair go curly and soft and magical and not even Shakespeare could write such a perfect scene.

  ‘Darcy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Audrey squeezes my hand. ‘You didn’t answer me?’

  ‘Oh.’

  Audrey acts to kick me in the ankle. ‘I repeat, do you want to go out with me?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. Positively.’

  ‘Good, now can we get out of this rain.’

  She leads me across the road to the row of shops. A cat jumps up on a rubbish bin and reaches into the scraps with one dainty paw. A soft-drink can rolls off the pile and clatters onto the footpath. The cat springs to the ground and scampers across the road. We stand outside the supermarket, under the awning, watching the light rain fall. All the shops are closed. Above us a fleet of kamikaze bugs hurtle against the fluorescent lights. They bounce off and flutter drunkenly for a few seconds before trying again. We walk slowly down the street, looking in every shop window. In the shoe shop, a sign reads, Kumfs $60.

  Audrey says, ‘They’re for old people – who like the colour beige.’

  The next shop is a laundry advertising five collared shirts and two trousers ironed for fifteen dollars. Same-day service.

  Audrey suggests, ‘It’s for single men who can’t be bothered’.

  ‘My dad irons his shirts. And Mum’s clothes too. He sets up in front of the telly and watches the football, waving the iron around like a loony every time his team scores.’ Silence.

  ‘I’m still saying the first thing that comes into my head, aren’t I?’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m used to it already.’

  The next shop is the chemist. There’s a picture of a smiling mum and a naked baby underneath an advertisement for nappies.

  Audrey says, ‘We definitely don’t need them,’ she looks at me, meaningfully, ‘because Darcy’s got condoms!’

  I blush. ‘Leave my condoms alone!’

  ‘I like the word condom, it’s got a life of its own.’

  ‘Just like what it covers.’

  Audrey stops walking and drops my hand.

  ‘Did you just tell a dirty joke?’

  Is it possible to pump that much blood into my face?

  ‘I think I did. Sorry.’

  Audrey reaches for my hand and our fingers entwine. The word ‘condom’ disappears from my vocabulary.