by Andrew Daddo
Hendrix couldn’t help imagine what would have happened if he’d been gone for longer. She would have dissolved. For sure she would have needed consoling, and there he’d have been. Next time, he thought. I could run Lucky further, for longer, maybe a whole lap of the Tan. By the time we get back she’ll be so sick with worry she’ll be all over me.
Hendrix ran on.
It was dark when he got home. His dad was in the kitchen.
‘Rice paper rolls,’ he said.
‘That’d be good, Dad.’
‘You hate rice paper rolls. You’d rather drink a warm fish milkshake than eat rice paper rolls. Everything okay?’
‘All good. Never better.’
‘Really? How was your training with Ethan? He getting any faster?’ His dad threw the tea towel over his shoulder and headed toward Hendrix.
‘Crap,’ moaned Hendrix, looking at his watch. He hadn’t meant to say it so loud.
‘I told you. He’s a very average runner. He’ll hold you back. Cut him loose, do it now.’
Hendrix grunted, his watch beeped as he pressed a button. ‘No, he’s good, getting better, actually. I forgot to stop my watch when I finished.’
It was still on the screen with the ‘save, discard, resume’ prompt. Hendrix loitered, thinking it might be best to delete it.
His dad was all over him before he got the chance.
‘Here,’ he said, pushing Hendrix’s hand away. ‘Careful. You’ll lose it.’
‘It’s not much good, anyway. It’ll have the bus ride, the time I took to get changed, everything. Might as well ditch it.’
‘I can work it out,’ Dad said. He gave a little wave, inviting Hendrix to pass the watch over.
Hendrix stood up. ‘I’ll have a shower and fix it up, no worries, Dad.’
His dad pulled a face somewhere between wary and sceptical. ‘So, now you want to take care of the logging of your workouts, do you? You want to do the spreadsheets, enter the data, the food, the calories, the hypoxic hours, the tents, the recovery, all of that, as well, eh? Be great if you did. God knows I’ve got better things to do. You see, Hendrix, you say you will, but you won’t. A bit like your jocks on the bathroom floor. “I’ll pick ’em up, Dad, promise.” But guess what’s always sitting next to the toilet where you take ’em off. Your jocks.’
On any other day, Hendrix would have handed it over because he would have done the training he was supposed to do. But he’d spent all that time at the bottom of Anderson Street, talking to Emily. The run up the hill would have been slow because of the dog, and the run back was blistering, again because of the dog. Worst of all, he hadn’t done the set number of hills and he’d fairly sprinted all the way back to school because his heart was ruling his head.
Like some loved-up goon, he’d made the rookie error of forgetting to turn the watch off.
He had time to conjure up a story. He could say he met someone. They were talking. Hendrix could tell the truth. Or not. He’d figure it out in the shower.
It definitely wasn’t a headache that was thumping around inside Emily.
‘Talk about a new feeling! Jesus. Thought I’d lost you, Lucky. Thought he’d run off with you.’ Emily’s voice was puppy high, the way people talk to little kids when they want them to know everything’s okay.
Lucky was fine.
She’d floated home and googled Hendrix, annoyed she didn’t get his last name. There were literally 64 million hits on Hendrix, and exactly none on a Melbourne schoolboy who runs the Tan on Tuesday afternoons.
She told her mum exactly what had happened, how she’d started to panic when she thought Lucky had been taken. That her head had started to go, the more things were looking pear-shaped. Her mum was worried, of course. And annoyed it had happened because Emily couldn’t afford to stress, not even the tiniest bit.
‘I’m fine, Mum. He came back, obviously.’
Her mum began to laugh. The thought of letting a stranger run off with your dog was obviously ridiculous.
‘Tell me mooooooore.’
So Emily let her have it. That he had legs like a model, nice hair in need of a good styling. He could run, he loved Lucky and he was nice looking. Emily didn’t care that she was gushing.
‘Who does he look like from Benalla?’ her mum asked. ‘Who would I compare him with?
‘Not one single person. Not one, Mum. He’s, you know, more Melbourne.’
‘Oh, Em,’ said her mum, enjoying the show. She had her face in her hands, elbows on the bench. ‘You gonna see him again?’
Emily let out a long sigh and looked at her mother. She looked good, like her country wrinkles had been ironed out. There was a little make-up around her eyes, her hair was down, not up in a tight ponytail like she kept it at home. To Emily, she looked relaxed, almost hip without really trying. In Benalla she’d get dressed up for things, and she’d look good, but this was different. She looked easy. Mum wasn’t just happy for Emily, she was just happy. She hadn’t looked like that for ages.
‘You should ask him over.’
‘Good one, Mum. Don’t marry me off just yet.’
‘Did you tell Siss?’
‘I will. Later, when there’s something to tell.’
No one at school had heard of him, which was mad for a kid with a name like Hendrix. She figured unless he’d been living under a rock for his whole life, someone had to know him.
Brandy had no idea. Kitty and Flick couldn’t care, preferring to swipe or type madly on their phones. Lola was the only one to show any interest, but that might have been because she had no phone. She’d dropped it in the toilet.
‘Eeeewww, how?’ Emily begged. ‘How the hell do you drop a phone in a toilet?’
Lola flicked her hair about and went, ‘Oh my God. It was in my back pocket, right. Normally I’d have it and snapchat or whatevs, but there’s this magazine with Kardashians all over the cover, right there. So, I do my business, read the magazine, and get up. And as I pull up my jeans, because I’m standing right there, my phone comes out of my pocket and lands in the toilet.’
‘Had you flushed it?’ Emily asked.
‘So disgusting,’ went Brandy. ‘This is foul.’
‘So, so disgusting. But my phone’s dry and marooned on an island of toilet paper. And I’m reaching into the toilet to get it, and it’s gross, right. But it’s fine, because it’s only touching the paper which is completely clean because I checked it,’
‘Yuck! Too much info, hon.’
‘But it’s my phone. It’s my life, right there. So I’m reaching. And it’s, like, revolting but kind of funny, I can see that.’
‘Not funny at all,’ said Flick.
‘Yes, it is,’ went Lola, not even close to laughing. ‘But I’m reaching, actually in slow motion, I think. I was nearly there and the phone moved.’ Lola was doing all the actions, bent over an imaginary toilet bowl with her hand reaching down into it, her other hand holding her nose. ‘I tried to get a look from the side, just to make sure there’s no pooh on it, and the island of toilet paper rolls over on its side, like, in slow motion, and my phone goes, too. It was worse than watching the end of Titanic.’
‘That is disgusting,’ Emily squealed. ‘Why didn’t you get it before it went over?’
‘What do you think, stupid. There was pooh. It was in the toilet. I had to make sure it was clean.’
‘But it was the latest iPhone. I’d just about swim in shit for one of those.’
The strippers looked at Emily like she was a nutter. Kitty smiled, but it was the sad, incredulous kind. ‘There is not a single thing in the world worth touching shit for. Not one single thing. I won’t even pick up dog shit with a bag. No way. It’s gross.’ She put her hands up in front of her as some kind of protective barrier.
‘You don’t even have a dog, Kitty.’
‘But, if I did, Lola. I wouldn’t clean up after it. Now shut up, I’m looking at my not-covered-in-shit phone.’
‘Just kidding about swimm
ing in shit for an iPhone. I wouldn’t,’ tried Emily.
But she would. She knew these girls wouldn’t last five minutes in the country. She’d love to get them to Benalla and make them deliver a calf, their hands all the way up to the armpit in the jacksie of a big old milker. That would be hilarious.
She left the girls to it and found Amelia.
Amelia thought she’d heard Hendrix’s name, it was definitely familiar. ‘Absolutely. Like, how could you forget a name like that?’
Emily’s hopes were floating. If Amelia knew Hendrix, at least where he went to school or even his last name, Emily could find him online. He’d have to be on Snapchat or Instagram. For sure he’d be on Facebook.
But the longer Amelia went on, trying to remember where she’d heard the name or who’d told her about him, the more Em realised she was stalling for time with her. Not in a bad way, but effectively using Hendrix as a hostage to keep Emily with her and away from the Strippers. Emily probably would have stayed, anyway. Amelia was weirdly funny. It took almost all of lunch for her to realise it wasn’t Hendrix, but Dylan she’d been thinking of. Dylan was the old rock ’n’ roll person she knew. Axl was the other one.
‘Axl?’
‘Axl Rose. Guns N’ Roses,’ said Amelia. ‘Are you kidding? You haven’t heard of them? You’ve got to get out more, they were epic.’
Wednesday blurred into Thursday which trudged into the weekend.
Emily went back for her fortnightly test, which showed nothing interesting. Dr Harrington was happy; ‘the growth had stagnated’ was how he put it: not shrinking or growing, just maintaining size and shape, making things neither good nor bad. Emily was glad. A huge improvement might have meant returning to Benalla, and she was finally close to comfortable.
Hendrix trained.
Paul went through the numbers of Tuesday’s session and struggled to reconcile the black hole at the bottom of Anderson Street. He could see Hendrix had been charging on the first lap until he stopped at the bottom of Anderson Street. It could have been to get a drink or tie a shoelace, he thought. Hendrix’s heart rate came down a bit, but was bullish. Two minutes later, he was still stationary, which made no sense because he was meant to recover after hills, not before them. His heart rate had still been up, but had fallen slowly, much slower than it would normally, so something was definitely going on. Paul shook his head.
There was a fully retarded run up the hill, which was slow as hell. He could see from the map that Hendrix had kept stopping, before he’d turned around three-quarters of the way up the hill and charged back down. The heart rate didn’t match the lack of effort, and when he finally got going, it was as if the cops were after him. Comparing this run with others at the Tan, something was clearly up.
Paul smacked his head and realised it had to be Ethan mucking around. Hendrix had to know it was too close to Districts to be messing with training. As of Monday, tapering would begin, that meant a stack more time on the hypoxic mask. By race day, Hendrix’s body would practically levitate with all that power running through his system.
Paul rode him hard over the weekend about food, sleep, time in the tent, everything. It was for Hendrix’s own good; he knew his son was aware of that. There were lots of, ‘We’ve trained for this step, Drix. It’s just a step, a very basic race that gets us closer to the prize. Feel it, son.’
Hendrix played his part. He knew he’d pull up to that start line next Friday and no one would even look at him, because they never did. Slightly tall, long and lanky, he’d learnt to go unnoticed.
Hendrix had no joy finding Emily on socials, especially without a last name. They should have swapped details, numbers even. In good news, Stephanie Abay was back in her bikini on Instagram but appeared to have a boyfriend because a huge, over-muscled goon was in most of her new photos. He looked a lot older – maybe it was her father. There was one of Steph holding up L-plates in front of a BMW. It was hard to believe it might be hers.
When the final weekly training program before Districts was posted on the fridge, his dad was very excited. ‘It’s all about the taper, mate,’ he said.
‘Finally,’ said Hendrix. But he could see, even from a distance, the new schedule had nits on it. ‘So, the crosses are rest days, right?’
‘As they’ve always been, Hendrix. It’s not like we’re about to change it now.’ Paul had split the week into mornings and afternoons, coding the activities. S for stretching, B for bike, M for mask; it was pretty straightforward.
Hendrix tapped the page. ‘Right, so, race day is Friday. I see you’ve already got a light walk Friday afternoon. That’ll be in the ocean, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘Stretching Thursday, stretching Wednesday, light work Tuesday afternoon, all with the mask. Heavy session tomorrow morning. And that’s it.’
‘That’s it,’ went Paul, flexing the muscle in his jaw. It was a good plan. By Friday morning he knew Hendrix’s whole body would be desperate to run. His head was right, too. There would be no need for excuses after Districts. In fact, Paul thought he was ready for State, probably Nationals as well, but the extra lead-up would have him perfect. Hendrix, he thought. My national champion.
‘How about Tuesday?’ said Hendrix. ‘Better add that.’
‘Better add Tuesday what?’ Paul had his hands out, weighing up the question.
Hendrix tried to sound casual, but his heart was ripping. ‘Ethan and the Tan. One last hit-out? Should I run him a little hard so he pulls up sore?’
His dad dismissed him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not running Tuesday. You’re running Monday. Tuesday’s a stretch day.’
Hendrix looked for another way. ‘Yeah, I know. Duh. That was stupid. We should walk, yeah? Give us a chance to strategise before the race. I know how fast he can go, so I could send him out and sit on him, then take him on the last bend. We’ll have to work it out, though Dad. So, maybe just stick to Tuesday as usual and do it then?’
Dad shook his head the way he did when he saw fat people drinking Coke or eating Krispy Kremes. ‘Forget that. You’ll be here. In the tent, decompressing, healing, preparing. I thought it might be an idea to take the end of the week off school. No kicking the footy, eh?’
‘Course not.’
Dad jerked his head backward, as if a punch had hurtled past him. ‘Course not? You’ve come home covered in scabs three times in the last fortnight. I don’t know what’s going on with you.’ The muscles in his neck pulsed, veins asserted themselves on his temples and up his forehead. He got a tight grip on Hendrix’s upper arms, fixing him with a stare as he hissed, ‘We’ve put in the work. Can’t you feel it? You’re bloody ready, so let’s not fuck up what we’ve worked so hard for.’
‘Just win, right?’ said Hendrix.
‘That’s the boy. And make it look hard, act lucky.’
He hugged his son. Hendrix kept his hands by his side and let his dad squeeze him. It was over almost as soon as it had begun.
‘Take your vitamins. I’m off. See you tonight.’
Hendrix knew there was a way back to the Tan on Tuesday. He just had to find it.
Had anyone ever taken so long to choose the right outfit to walk a dog?
Every option was on the bed, even her mum’s gear. Emily looked for the perfect combination of relaxed and cool. Something that said, ‘I don’t really give a shit, but I still look shit hot.’ Lorna Jane, Lu Lu Lemon, bike shorts, shorty shorts, t-shirts, sloppy joes and a hoodie. No jeans. No gumboots.
She’d been at it for ages, telling herself she didn’t actually care. She didn’t even know the guy. They’d barely talked, and nothing would happen, because it couldn’t. There wasn’t room right now for some boy with a rock ‘n’ roll name in need of a haircut. Not yet.
Then she called bullshit on herself.
Hendrix put his running shorts on but dawdled over the laces. His father’s voice couldn’t have been clearer as it bounced around his head: Straight home after school, Drix. No runnin
g. Eat. Decompression tent. Stretch.
There was no question that Hendrix would do all those things. It would just happen a little bit later than his father had planned. But he would definitely do them. The alternative was to pull up stumps now and go home as he was meant to. Like a good boy, because he was always a good boy.
He told himself it’d be fine. There were still three days to the race, technically longer given it was scheduled for the afternoon.
He’d go to the Tan track but wouldn’t run. His body wouldn’t even know it had been for a walk, that’s how easy he’d go. It just didn’t seem cool to organise to meet someone and not turn up. He would just tell Emily he’d pulled something – it wasn’t far from the truth.
Hendrix looked in the mirror.
‘Alright,’ he said aloud. ‘We’ve got this.’
It’s all he’d actually thought about for a week. How he’d say ‘Hi’, and whether he’d pretend to forget her name and be like, ‘It’s Emily, right?’
That could be arrogant, he’d thought after practising it in the mirror. ‘Yo, Emily,’ might be better. Or he could say hi to Lucky first, because really, that was the reason they were catching up. It was actually about the dog and taking it for a belt around the Tan. Why wasn’t Emily allowed to run? Would it be rude to ask? Probably. Maybe she’d tell him.
In his bag was a singlet and a t-shirt. Hendrix couldn’t figure out which would be better. If it had been warmer, he probably would’ve taken the singlet off and stuffed it into the back of his shorts and run like that. Heaps of people did it.
Hendrix took his school shirt off and looked at himself again. Yep, it was all happening, pretty much. He had abs, his pecs were small but defined. A few hairy stragglers had started to work their way north of his shorts, and there was a clumping under his arms. That aside, his body was pretty much as bald as Dad’s head, and that was fine with him.
He went with the t-shirt. No point being a poser.
As Hendrix walked out of the change room, Ethan was on his way in.