by Claire Zorn
*
Sam lay on his back on the camp bed and stared up at the ceiling waiting for the static fuzz to dissipate. Jeff sang about not wanting to step on the cracks for fear of hurting his mother, about being sucked into a nightmare and pulled under. Then all restraint was lost and the guitar sounded more like a chainsaw, the screaming crescendo of sound unleashed before stopping with the same brutal suddenness as it started. It was too much. Sam stopped the Discman, pulled his headphones off and flicked the radio on. He listened to song after song until time warped and stretched and stopped meaning anything at all.
Sam replayed the conversation with Nana, making alterations in his imagination until the futility of it slapped him like a rebuke. He tried to push it from his mind and focus on the radio. They were like family, the presenters – their voices so familiar and reassuring that Sam could almost pretend that his world hadn’t dissolved around him and left him in freefall. The news rolled around and, as a force of habit, Sam flicked the dial over to the AM station to catch the weather report. He listened intently to the information about high pressure fronts and wind direction, currents and tidal times. There was a time when he was younger and would make notes of it all in a little weather journal, later performing the weather report to his amused mother as she cooked their dinner in the kitchen. The memory cut into him with a sudden, gasping savageness.
The tape deck had been a Christmas present from Nana and Pop Hudson that last Christmas before Nana disappeared and Pop died. It must have been 1989 or 1990. It was grey with a red stripe across the front, under the dials. It was a double one, so you could copy tapes. They gave him three tapes for Christmas, the first ones he’d ever owned. Two he had requested: AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses. The third was one Nana and Pop had chosen: Kenny Rogers.
Pop had looked at the tapes after Sam unwrapped them, holding them up and peering over his glasses. ‘Don’t they make records anymore?’
‘You can still get records, Pop. But tapes are better.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
He pulled the pamphlet out and unfolded it. ‘They look like a bunch of women with their hair all long. Why are you listening to this rubbish?’
Nana looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s the fashion, Frank. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Well, they need a haircut.’
‘They broke the mould when they made you, Frank.’
Sam thought she meant it with affection.
Lorraine, Minty and Shane had been there. Minty’s dad wasn’t. Sam scanned his memories for signs of the violence that had been hidden just below the surface of the Booners. He thought of the time Shane had snapped his skateboard. He hadn’t read anything into it other than Shane was a tool.
Sam did remember his mum having tense phone conversations with Lorraine, where the phrase, ‘You have to get them out of there’ was repeated. Sam always thought she was talking about the school his cousins went to.
Minty pushed his head through the curtain. ‘Waddya do to my board?’ His tone was serious, but there was a glint in his eye.
‘Shit, man. Sorry about that.’
‘S’cool. It was ancient. I’ll give you another one, but you can’t do it again.’
‘Sure. Sorry.’
‘Goin’ up to Rickard’s. Party time, brah. School starts Monday.’
14
A bonfire plumed on the sand. Someone’s hatchback was parked on the grass at the edge of the reserve, doors open, music booming – Chili Peppers, ‘Suck My Kiss’. There were eskys and bare chests and the guttural hoot of laughter that comes after beers. Sam scanned the faces. There were lots he recognised. No Gretchen. Minty and his mates greeted each other by slapping their palms and grasping each other’s wrists in a complex well-practised manoeuvre that made anyone watching feel like an absolute outsider – it was a combination lock of a gesture, either you knew it or you didn’t and Sam didn’t. But he was Minty’s cousin.
‘Wassup,’ said Minty. ‘Pumpin’ this arvo.’
‘Yeah. Epic …’
And it went on, the retelling of various waves and wipeouts, laughter and back slapping as the waves became bigger and bigger and each wipeout more spectacular. Sam was growing accustomed to it. He knew when to laugh (whenever Minty did) and when to keep quiet (most of the time). Minty talked and grinned and nursed his longneck. Girls wandered over, bikini tops, tiny skirts. They fawned over Minty. One skinny girl with bleached hair and too much black eyeliner whispered in Minty’s ear and he rubbed a palm under the tie at the back of her bikini. Sam looked up the beach toward the other clusters of people. Ruby was sitting on her own, arms slung over her knees. She took swigs from a bottle of beer that dangled by its neck from her fingertips, and kept glancing up the beach toward Minty. A southerly whipped up the sand, turning the balmy twilight chilly. Why was he disappointed that Gretchen wasn’t there? Why did he even like her? Did he like her? He ran through all the reasons he shouldn’t care that she wasn’t there – he barely knew her, and she was pretty but she really wasn’t incredible to look at. She was kind of plain, like a caramel milkshake on a warm summer afternoon, creamy and smooth and delicious. With hair like a fairytale and pale eyes.
It wasn’t working.
Gretchen would be with someone better than him. Maybe the kind of guy he might have been able to become if everything hadn’t fallen apart. There was talk of school among those who were going back and Sam knew he wasn’t going to be one of them. Pulling himself out of the hole he was in required reserves he didn’t have and wasn’t sure he would ever have again. No, Gretchen would end up with someone stronger than him. Someone who knew who they were. A good guy. ‘A lovely boy’. A guy who opened doors and knew his manners and was intelligent and smart and knew how to slow dance and didn’t snap when somone said the wrong words. A guy who had a job and did some fancy double-major degree like biomedical engineering and human rights law with a sub-major in owning an Audi. A guy who wasn’t scared of the world.
And himself.
Someone lit up a coconut and it was tossed back and forth among hoots of laughter and shrieks from the bikini girls. Sam drifted away from the war stories and headed over to Ruby. He dropped his bum in the sand beside her.
‘How’s it goin’?’
She tilted her head back and puffed smoke rings. They hovered like abandoned halos before disappearing in the wind. ‘Alright. You?’
‘Alright.’
‘Let me guess, they’re talking about what hot shit they are and how amaaaaazing the swell was this arvo.’
‘You got it.’
She scoffed and took another swig of beer. ‘It wasn’t amazing. It was okay. Any food over there?’ Ruby asked.
‘Nah.’
‘There’s supposed to be pizza. And what the hell is this shit they’re listening to?’
‘Um, it’s the Chili Peppers.’
‘I’m tellin’ ya, no good music since 1978.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘No offence, but you’re totally wrong. There is some seriously good music—’
‘You think this is good music?’
‘No, yeah, but there’s other stuff too. Good stuff. Have you heard Jeff Buckley? Man, that guy is incredible.’
‘Yeah, I heard him.’
‘And?’
Ruby took a swig of beer. ‘And Robert Plant is the only singer worth listening to.’
‘Ruby, no way.’
‘Way.’
Near the fire Minty was entangled with the bleached-hair girl who appeared to be taking the Chili Peppers’ recommendation. Ruby glowered at them.
‘Maddie Clark, Minty? I mean really. She is such a little slut. He is so predictable. Sorry, I know he’s your cousin, but for fuck’s sake.’
‘Do you care?’
‘I don’t care ’cept for the fact that he is an absolute, total cliché. I mean, what’s Minty gonna be doing in ten years, you reckon? He’s gonna be here,
bloated and broke, surfing when he’s not unconscious. Oh, and he’ll do it better than anyone else, but he’ll be a wash-up.’
‘He’s competing, but. He won the Pro Junior. He could go anywhere.’
‘You seen the guys he’s up against? They got coaches and physios and … Kelly Slater’s got a bloody nutritionist. What’s Minty got? Shane with his camcorder telling him not to eat Twisties for breakfast.’
‘Sounds like you don’t want him to make it.’
Ruby looked like she might punch Sam in the face.
‘I want him to make it. But at the moment he’s too scared of what everybody thinks. He wants to be the good guy, the guy everyone loves. Everything went his way at the Pro Junior. Conditions were good, he got the right waves, he was in a good headspace ’cause me and him … whatever. It all went the right way for him. It’s not gonna be like that every time. If he wants to win, to be consistent, he needs to focus and stop being Mr Nice Guy to everyone he meets.’
‘Why don’t you compete? Couldn’t you make some cash?’
‘Not as much as if I had a dick. I did for a bit, a coupla years ago. It’s boring, all the shit that goes along with it. I don’t wanna spend my life with people who can’t talk about anything other than how big their balls are.’
‘So you don’t think the conversation’s good enough?’
‘You know what I mean. It’s tedious. I’m gonna get the HSC. Do uni. Move. You want something, you gotta get it for yourself. Sit around and expect to get handed it all on a silver platter,’ she shook her head, ‘you’re in for a rude shock. I reckon you have a choice: you can listen to the radio and think Jeff fuckin’ Buckley is singin’ about you or you can listen and know that he’s not and he never will be and the chances of anyone ever singing about you are tiny and the chances of your song being played on the radio are smaller still.’
‘Um, I don’t follow.’
‘I’m saying you have to be realistic. I’m realistic.’
‘I don’t think Jeff Buckley is singing about me.’
‘You’re not a girl.’
‘Good observation.’
She took a swig of the beer and pointed her index finger at Sam. ‘No, even worse! You think he’s singing for you. You think you’re him. That’s pathetic.’
‘Um, okay. Thanks for that.’
‘No, I get into uni in Sydney and I’m outta here. This town’s a terminal illness, I’m tellin’ you.’
‘Have you always lived here?’
‘Since I was two. That’s when I was adopted. Don’t remember anything before that.’
‘So, you don’t know anything about your parents?’
Ruby held out her forearm, wrist up, in front of Sam. ‘What’s that tell you?’
‘Um. You have arms?’
‘No, dickhead.’ She pointed at her skin. ‘I ain’t vanilla, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh. Right. Do you know where your parents are from?’
‘My mum, like, my adopted mum, told me she thinks they’re like Indian or Bangladeshi or somethin’ but my birth certificate says my mother was born in Toomelah, Boggabilla.’
‘Boggabilla?’
‘Kinda near Moree. How many Indians you reckon live in Boggabilla?’
‘Um.’
‘None. Toomelah’s an Indigenous community.’
‘You’re Aboriginal?’
Ruby let out a heavy sigh. ‘Maybe. There’s this woman lives around here, old Aboriginal woman, she hassles me all the time. Reckons I need to know who my family is.’
‘You talked to Minty about this?’
‘Minty? Minty reckons it’s irrelevant. Says it doesn’t matter who your parents are, what they’ve done, it’s got nothin’ to do with you and you make yourself up, like. He bloody wishes.’
Sam watched two figures nearing the beach: Gretchen and Stassi. They didn’t belong, you could see it in the way they held themselves. They were wearing shoes for a start. Gretchen was in a little floral dress that clung to her waist and flared at her hips. And a pair of Chuck Taylor’s.
Ruby was watching Minty eating Maddie Clark’s face. ‘Stuff this. I’m gonna find some food.’ She got to her feet and dropped the bottle in the sand.
‘See ya,’ said Sam, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
Jono had met up with Gretchen and Stassi. He waved to Sam and watched Ruby walking away.
‘How’s it going, Sam?’
‘Alright. Hi,’ Sam said in the vague direction of Gretchen.
Minty had pulled away from Maddie and wandered over. Stassi and Gretchen looked at him and then each other. Stassi rolled her eyes and shook her head.
‘Jono! What’s happening?’
‘Not much.’
‘I’m going over here,’ said Stassi and turned away from the group. Gretchen hesitated a moment before following her. Jono and Minty were talking about a guy Sam didn’t know. Someone had lit up another coconut. More people arrived; Sam didn’t know any of them. Gretchen and Stassi stood awkwardly. They were looking around like they were planning their evacuation route. Sam sipped the beer and flicked through a mental Rolodex of possible conversation subjects. He came up with nothing. Gretchen looked over at him and he felt his neck burn; he looked away like he hadn’t noticed her. It was easier. Then Gretchen and Stassi turned and started walking away. Other than running after her there was nothing he could do.
When most of the others had drifted away and Minty’s closest mates were the only ones left, they gathered around the fire on the sand. Ruby had returned, though she sat with a disgruntled expression and looked away every time Minty glanced in her direction. Like she was only there to demonstrate to Minty how little she thought of him.
‘Gonna be blown out tomorrow. Grovelly as,’ said Shane. ‘Might get in an hour at dawn patrol, but it’ll go to shit quick. Same all the way up and down.’
Sam cleared his throat. ‘You wanna go further south. Nari Bay.’
The group fell silent. No one ever contradicted anything Shane said; he was treated like an oracle of the ocean, delivering prophecies to his observant and reverent followers. Also, no one ever expected Sam to open his mouth.
Shane laughed. ‘Nari Bay? Always dead. You gonna go for a paddle, buddy? Get your pool pony out?’
‘There’s gonna be a northerly wind and a north-east current,’ Sam said. ‘High tide, 7 am. It’ll blow out here, but I looked on the map and Nari will be sheltered, but you’ll have the current building just off the point there. Should be good waves.’ Sam took a swig of his drink.
Silence.
‘Who are you? The fuckin’ weatherman?’ Shane asked.
‘Something like that.’
Minty looked from Shane to Sam and back again. Someone let out a large belch, punctuating the silence.
Ruby pushed her tongue into her cheek watching Sam. ‘Should listen to him, Booner. You might learn something.’
Shane flicked her the finger.
‘Nari it is,’ Minty said.
Shane looked like he was going to be sick. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nah, Sam’s smart, brah. He’s knows about this shit. I’m going to Nari. You should come.’
Walking back to the house, Minty and Ruby were up ahead and Shane sidled up to Sam, just like Sam knew he would.
‘I don’t give a shit if you’re our cousin. You’re a fucking kook.’ He seemed to be holding his head up higher than usual, trying to accentuate the little bit of height he had over Sam. ‘You better be right about tomorrow, kook. ’Cause if we drive all that way and it’s mush …’
‘What?’
‘I’ll have your balls. That’s what. You little shit.’
‘I’m really scared.’
‘You should be. Minty’s treating you like you’re a lost dog. You might be living in my house, but don’t go pissing on my turf. You’re not welcome here.’
Shane walked off, turning his head to spit back in Sam’s direction.
15
&nbs
p; Minty shook him awake, grinning. The room was still in darkness.
‘You coming, Sammy? Nari Bay? This is your call, man, you gotta come see if she delivers.’ Minty’s ropey shape seemed to fill the room as he jiggled his weight side to side, unable to keep still. ‘I’ve got another board for you. Just don’t smash it up, ay.’
Sam rubbed his face up and down with his palms, trying to get some feeling in it. ‘What’s the wind doing?’
‘Dunno, blowing.’
‘Which way?’
‘Ummm.’ Minty jogged out of the room and Sam heard the back door whine. Minty returned. ‘North.’
‘And the point’s a wash-out?’
‘Yeah. It’s crap. Already had a look. You reckon Nari?’
‘Yep.’ Sam looked at his watch. 4.50 am. ‘Tide’ll start to turn in half an hour.’
Minty whooped and Lorraine yelled down the hall for him to shut up.
*
Shane was already in the van, a glower on his face that he’d specially prepared for Sam. He leaned out the window and thumped the door.
‘You better be right, kook. Fuckin’ early for mush.’
Minty handed Sam a packet of Doritos. ‘Breakfast. Go by Ruby’s, ay,’ he said. Shane nodded.
She wedged her board and a wetsuit into the back of the van and sat on the floor with Sam between the shelves of electrician’s gear. ‘So, this is your call, is it?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t wanna spend all day driving around for a break. Like, just go down the road to Myrtle. It’ll be little but there’ll be waves.’
‘It’s worth the drive.’
‘It better be.’
‘Oath,’ said Shane.
‘Are you good for it?’
‘He’s good for it,’ said Minty.
They drove along the highway. On the left, when the grassy hills dipped, they saw snatches of the sunrise over the ocean. Shane yelled over the sound of the wind whipping through the cab. He talked to Minty about technique and picking his moment, patience and rhythm. He sounded like a particularly bogan choreographer.