by Kylie Ladd
The bottled wobbled to a halt, pointing at Damon. He flushed again and put his head in his hands. ‘Choose someone!’ Britta cried.
‘Make sure it’s a girl,’ said the boy on the other side of Ivy. Laughter rippled through the room and Charlie joined in, mostly out of relief that she wasn’t in Damon’s place. He looked up, clearly anxious.
‘Mita,’ he said quietly. Mita clapped her hand to her mouth and jumped to her feet. Damon rose more slowly.
‘Three minutes outside,’ Britta said, pulling her iPhone from her jeans. ‘I’m timing. Have fun!’
‘Hey, Damo, make sure you use a condom,’ someone called out.
Damon turned around and raised his middle finger at the group, then gallantly held the door to the courtyard open for Mita. She giggled as she passed through it, and then they were gone.
‘Wow,’ said Araminta. ‘You’re her friend, aren’t you? Does she like him?’
Charlie shrugged. She had no idea. She had no idea about any of it, this whole boy-girl thing that had taken Britta hostage, that was gradually infecting everyone in their year. Britta had been rattling on about boys since somewhere near the start of grade six, but then Britta had always been the first to do everything: first to turn thirteen, first to get boobs, first to be given a detention. She currently had her eye on one of the Year Nine boys who caught her bus, she’d told Charlie. He had broad shoulders and played full-forward in her older brother’s football team. The Year Seven boys were beneath her, she’d added—too silly, too short. Charlie had nodded understandingly and doubled her resolve never to mention Liam. Not that there was anything to mention, of course, but if there had been … Maybe Mita was the same, it occurred to her. Maybe she secretly liked Damon, but she hadn’t wanted to hold it up to Britta’s scrutiny or even admit it to herself. It was complicated, this stuff. It was proving harder to learn than French.
The courtyard doors opened and Damon and Mita came in, holding hands. Mita’s face was red but she was smiling.
‘Woo hoo!’ Britta said. ‘Looks like someone’s found heaven.’ She snatched the Fanta bottle from the floor and held it out to Damon like a microphone. ‘Tell me, Mr Kendle, in your opinion, was that a satisfying three minutes?’
‘No comment,’ said Damon. He resumed his seat in the circle, pulling Mita down next to him. Ivy moved across grudgingly.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Next turn.’ She grabbed the bottle from Britta and set it back on the floor, then twisted it so gently that it barely completed a rotation and ended where it had begun, pointing straight at her.
‘That wasn’t a proper spin,’ Britta protested.
‘Too bad,’ said Ivy, who was already on her feet. ‘It’s my party, and now I get to choose.’ Her eyes narrowed as they scanned the room. She reminded Charlie of a lioness on one of those nature documentaries that her father was always watching, gazing out across a herd of wildebeest and working out which one to pick off.
‘Jacob!’ she pronounced.
Jacob, who was sitting four or five places from Charlie, almost fell backwards in surprise. He was a good choice, Charlie thought—nice looking without being so handsome he’d got cocky, smart without being a smart-arse. Ivy would eat him alive. He wiped his hands on his pants as he stood up.
‘Make it five minutes,’ Ivy called to Britta as she yanked Jacob towards the courtyard.
‘Any more than that and I’m sending out a search party,’ Britta replied, ‘or your mum.’
Charlie giggled. This was fun. She reached up to straighten one of the clips in her hair, glanced across to where Liam was sitting and found he was looking right at her. He smiled, brown eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. Charlie immediately dropped her gaze to her lap, then forced herself to look up again, tentatively smiling back. He was in her class, but in the first few weeks of term there’d been so much else to take in, she’d barely noticed him. It wasn’t until they’d been paired for a science prac that they’d even spoken. The prac was an introduction to Bunsen burners, and Charlie had watched nervously as the teacher, Miss Case, demonstrated how to set up and light the burner, then instructed them all to do the same. The setting up was fine, but Charlie didn’t want to light it. Fire frightened her. At Britta’s fifth birthday party someone had handed her one of the sparklers from the cake to hold, and Charlie had been so entranced by its dancing silvery light that she hadn’t noticed she was clutching it too closely until the sleeve of her dress suddenly burst into flames. She had stood there, simply staring at it, as the fabric puckered and curled and her arm grew warm. It was almost pleasant at first, like the hot water bottle her mum gave her when she had a tummy ache, but then the orange tongues singed through the fabric and lapped at her skin and the next thing she knew she was screaming and Britta’s father had knocked her to the floor, rolling her on the rug. Afterwards, all she could think about was how quickly the sparks had taken hold of her clothes, had transformed from something so pretty to something that wanted to eat her. There had been no lasting damage—to Charlie, anyway, though the same couldn’t be said for her dress or the rug—but ever since then she had avoided any form of fire at all costs. She couldn’t even bear smelling smoke on her father after a call-out. She didn’t understand how he could go to work each day. Watching Liam take his turn with the Bunsen burner, Charlie had felt herself begin to tremble. She sat down in case her legs gave her away and told herself to get a grip, but it was no use. The very idea of lighting a match terrified her, to have an actual flame leaping and stuttering in her hand … When Liam passed her the box of matches, she had pushed it back at him.
‘I can’t do it,’ she’d said flatly.
‘Why not?’ he’d asked.
‘I’m scared,’ she’d admitted, staring at the desk, so she didn’t have to watch him laugh at her—but no laughter came.
‘That’s OK,’ he’d said. ‘I’m scared of spiders.’
‘Really?’ There were always spiders in the tack shed at pony club. Charlie didn’t mind them, just brushed them away. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Liam had asked her, eyes wide. ‘Because they’re all fuzzy and they could fall in your mouth while you’re asleep and when you walk into one of their webs it feels so sticky and disgusting you want to claw your own skin off to get rid of it.’
Charlie had laughed. ‘I think you might be overreacting.’
‘No way!’ Liam had protested. ‘Spiders can kill you, you know.’
‘Not here, in Melbourne. Unless you swallow one, I guess. And so can fire.’
Miss Case had looked up from her desk at the front of the lab. ‘Charlie, Liam—you should be finished by now. Hurry up.’
‘Come on,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll help you.’ He’d picked up the matches and reached around her so that she was momentarily encircled in his arms, then grasped her right hand. ‘We’re going to light it together, OK? Just hold on to the match.’ Before she could protest he’d flicked the gas jet on, placed a match between her thumb and forefinger and directed it in one sure motion along the side of the box. Amber light flared, hot on her skin, and Liam had calmly guided it to the hissing burner, then, once it caught, extinguished it with a shake.
‘See?’ he’d said, stepping back. ‘Easy.’
Charlie remembered that her hand had been tingling, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the heat of the match or because Liam had been holding it.
Ivy re-entered the room, snapping Charlie out of the memory. Jacob followed a few paces behind. ‘How long were we?’ she asked Britta, looking smug.
‘Four minutes and thirty-six seconds,’ said Britta, consulting her phone.
‘Yes!’ Ivy pumped her fist victoriously. ‘That’s the longest so far.’
‘There’s only been two goes,’ Britta pointed out. ‘Don’t get too up yourself. Besides, it’s the quality that counts. If it was any good. Was it good, Jacob?’
Jacob was chewing on something—gum, Charlie guessed. He rolled it to the side of his mouth. ‘I wa
s great,’ he said. The boys at the party whooped.
Ivy fluffed out her short brown bob. ‘I’ve had better,’ she smirked, but smiled at him.
‘Sit down,’ said Britta. ‘Jacob, you spin.’
Charlie peeped under her fringe to Liam’s side of the circle. He was reaching for a bowl of corn chips on the table behind him, his torso angled away from her. A week or so after the Bunsen burner incident they’d competed together at the school swimming carnival. It wasn’t her doing—the Year Twelve captains had randomly allocated them to the lilo relay. Charlie had stood beside Liam at the deep end of the pool, cheering on the pair before them, acutely self-conscious about her new breasts and hips in her old two-piece. Liam had worn board shorts: lime green Quiksilver, the same ones that Dan had. For some reason that had calmed her down. ‘Go!’ he’d yelled as their teammates touched the edge of the pool, and they’d jumped together onto the lilo, completely submerging it. When she’d surfaced, coughing and spluttering, Liam had pulled her into position beside him on the lilo, and they’d kicked and paddled their way back down the pool, laughing as they went. Charlie couldn’t remember where they’d come—all she recalled was how much fun it had been, and that Liam had smiled at her whenever he saw her afterwards. He was smiling again now, she realised, coming out of her reverie. Smiling, and standing up, and Araminta was nudging her, softly at first, then harder.
‘Get up,’ she prodded. ‘The bottle stopped at Liam. He chose you.’
C, G, A minor. Dan’s fingers moved awkwardly between the chords. He was rusty. He needed to practise more often. It wasn’t as if his life was so full that he didn’t have the time. He played the chords again, quietly mouthing the opening lines of ‘Under the Bridge’. His middle finger slipped on the last chord, distorting it, and he put the guitar down on his bed, where he was sitting. It was crap. He was crap. Why was he even bothering? Even if he did get it right he could just about hear what his mother would have to say. Oh, that’s such a gloomy song. Can’t you play something a bit more upbeat? She’d made the same complaint when he was trying to learn something by Nirvana, yet when he’d asked her what she suggested all she could come up with was a Katy Perry song. Katy Perry! Dan shook his head and picked up his guitar again. He might be bad, but he wasn’t going to sink that low.
He began to strum again, willing himself through the chord changes. He should be doing his English assignment, but stuff it. His mother was still at work, and she was the only one who’d care. His dad left all that sort of thing up to her. Which was strange, when you thought about it, given that he was the parent who was at home the most, who did the laundry and the shopping and most of the cooking; who went and watched Charlie’s team play netball when he wasn’t on a shift, who coached Dan’s own basketball team. Dan stretched his fingers for F major. His mother had been happy to hand over the housework, but she wouldn’t let go of the homework. Every night it was the same: What subjects had he had that day? Had he finished his work in class? Had extra been set? When was it due? If his answers were vague she’d sometimes go so far as to ferret around in his school bag for his diary and check to see if he’d filled it in. Obsessive didn’t begin to describe it. He was glad she worked full time.
There was a clatter from the kitchen as his dad, starting dinner, pulled the battered red Le Creuset casserole dish from the pot drawer and placed it on the stove. Dan glanced up from the fretboard to check the time on the clock radio next to his bed. 6.52. They’d be eating late again. He should go outside and put the chickens away, but he couldn’t be bothered. As he returned to his guitar, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window that ran parallel to his bed. There was a fresh red smudge of pimples along one side of his chin. He looked away as quickly as he could, but it was too late. His strumming hand rose to the breakout immediately, fingering the new bumps and pustules, reading them as if they were braille. Shit. He’d been using that ointment that his mum had got him, but it didn’t seem to be helping. Great. Now he’d look even more of a freak. He put the guitar on the floor and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The door to his room creaked open. Charlie. He could tell by the tread on the floorboards, by the way she neither knocked and hovered like his dad, nor barged in already asking questions like his mum. Instead, she eased herself into the room, stood by his bed for a minute, then laid down next to him. She often sought him out, for company or conversation. She wasn’t big on being by herself. Sometimes he’d hear her chatting to the chickens for all the world as if she was talking with Britta.
‘Move over a bit,’ she said. She smelled of fresh air, the outdoors; her body next to his was warm and slightly damp.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked. ‘Netball training?’
‘Nah. That’s Tuesday. Ivy’s mum was taking her out to ride Duchess after school, and she said I could come too. She just dropped me back. I didn’t have my helmet or any of my gear, though, so I just stayed with Tic Tac.’
‘What—you went all that way to stand in a paddock with a horse?’ Dan shook his head. ‘You’re nuts.’
‘I love Ticcy,’ Charlie said simply. ‘It was good.’ She fell silent, and he could hear his father whistling in the kitchen. ‘Liam brought me something today,’ she said after a while. ‘A magazine about horses, with lots of pictures. It’s in my room. He said he saw it in the newsagents and it made him think of me, so he bought it.’
‘Sure he didn’t steal it?’ Dan teased. He’d been hearing quite a bit about this Liam lately.
Charlie elbowed him in the ribs.
‘No way!’ she protested. ‘Liam isn’t like that. He’s really nice.’ She was quiet again. The afternoon shadows crept across the room. The chickens—Parma, Tikka and Kiev—would have gathered at the back door by now, waiting for Dan to come out and open their coop. They’d be getting anxious, he thought guiltily. They liked to be roosting by dusk, before the local foxes and the cats commenced their rounds; they were possibly the only animals he could think of who lined up to be locked away.
‘Dan,’ asked Charlie tentatively, ‘have you ever been in love?’
He snorted. ‘Me? Who would I fall in love with? All the girls at school are stuck-up snobs. They don’t talk to anyone except the Year Twelve boys. They just ignore the rest of us.’
It wasn’t quite true, but he couldn’t admit that to Charlie. Some of his classmates had girlfriends from their year; there were plenty of boys—mostly the sporty ones, admittedly—who the girls his age talked to. He just wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t even as if the girls ignored him. If they did, he could tell himself they were bitches and that he was better off without them. Rather, it was as if they didn’t see him, as if their blue and brown and green eyes swept over him without registering anything at all. Mr Invisible. Mr Sweet Sixteen and never been kissed, only there wasn’t anything sweet about it.
Charlie pushed herself back up into a sitting position and cradled his head in her lap. ‘Poor Dan,’ she said simply, stroking his hair.
Dan closed his eyes, suddenly afraid he was going to cry. The sensation had come across him a few times lately: whenever he shut his bedroom door behind him after getting home from school; when one of his small group of friends had boasted about touching the breasts of the girl he’d met at the beach over the summer; when he logged on to Facebook and all he could see were pages and pages of people smiling. He wasn’t depressed, though, he told himself. He didn’t have any reason to be, for a start: he had a mum, a dad, a home, some mates, he did OK at school. And he wasn’t going around getting teary at the drop of a hat, either. Most days he was fine, he was normal. Even when he did feel a bit … grey, it wasn’t as if he wanted to slash his wrists. It was probably just hormones. That’s what his dad had said about his mum once when she’d flounced off all upset from the dinner table after his dad had commented on her dress. He’d said it quietly, though, so she couldn’t hear.
Charlie kept stroking, a gentle, soothing rhythm. Was she imagin
ing that she was patting Tic Tac? He wouldn’t put it past her, but he didn’t care. It felt good. She didn’t ask him anything, she didn’t try to make it all better, and for that he was grateful. It was bad enough to feel like crying; it was worse having to explain why. Charlie didn’t go in for any of that, though—she gave him comfort, not the third degree. He remembered a time a month or so ago, when she’d come into his room to tell him he’d forgotten to unpack the dishwasher and found him hunched over his guitar, disconsolate at a chord progression. Same thing: she’d hadn’t said a word, just sat down beside him and stroked his back until their dad started yelling something about why couldn’t he find any clean knives in the house. Did Charlie ever have days like this? Dan doubted it. She always seemed content, she was always humming or staring off into space thinking about horses or Liam or whatever girls thought about. Life was easy for her. She had no idea.
A car pulled up in the driveway outside. His mother’s: he could tell from the sound of the engine and the click of her heels on the paving. Charlie stood up. ‘I’ve got to go set the table and bring the washing in. I told her I would.’
Dan nodded. He was suddenly ashamed, unable to meet her eye. What must Charlie think of him—her big brother, a Year Ten student, hiding away in his room, blinking back tears? It was embarrassing. It was pathetic. He knew he should thank her, but instead he yawned and waved her out. She slipped into the hallway just as the front door opened.
‘Oh, hi, Charlie,’ he heard his mother say. ‘Did you have a good day? Is Dan home? Has he started his homework?’
‘I’m starting the foam,’ Richo yelled. ‘Watch your face.’
Matt loosely covered his nose and mouth with one gloved hand. His eyes were already protected by goggles. All three of the crew—Richo, Yann and himself—had pulled them on as soon as they arrived at the scene and smelled petrol. It looked like a two-vehicle accident—it was a busy intersection and one of the cars had probably run a red light, but it was hard to say which. That was for the cops to figure out, anyway, just like it was the ambos’ job to treat the victims and get them to hospital. His role was to make sure that everything didn’t blow up in the meantime, and to try to get this poor woman out.