by Krissy Kneen
‘Do you promise there will be no uni people there? No friends of friends? Or even friends of friends of friends?’
‘Do you want to wear a disguise? I think we have time for you to put on a fake beard or maybe just a moustache.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do you have a coat? You’re going to get cold if you don’t cover your chest.’
‘I’m overdressed, aren’t I?’
‘No! You are not overdressed. You are beautiful. You have beautiful breasts.’
‘Too much cleavage?’
‘Never. How can you say that? Too much cleavage? Whoever heard of such a thing?’
My smile is my reward for him. I should be laughing because he likes to make me laugh but I am too tense to laugh. In the car I ask him if there will be anybody else the same age as me.
‘I went to high school with these people,’ he says. ‘Maybe someone repeated a year or two but I don’t think anyone was held back that long.’
‘I’ll drop you there. I should just stay home. Really.’
‘Can you just shut up? Really?’
I miss the turn and we have to negotiate a series of one-way streets before I finally get us back on the right path.
‘You know I’m proud to be seen with you,’ he tells me suddenly. ‘I wouldn’t want to take you if I wasn’t.’
‘Okay.’
When we pull up outside the low brick house he asks me about my grandmother. ‘How was she?’
‘We are about to go into this party aren’t we?’
‘Dinner party.’
‘Dinner party then.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you ask me now about my grandmother?’
‘Long story, huh?’
I wrench the handbrake on and put the car into gear. It is a steep hill and I wonder if I should find a brick. I glance around the perfectly manicured suburban gardens. The car will be fine. I lock the doors and take a deep breath. He puts out his elbow like a leading man from a forties movie and I take it with that same thin smile.
‘You look nice,’ he says, and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
The truth is my grandmother did not look well. She has lost weight. When I was free of the angry tapping of her finger and the implied threat of her half-scowl I realised how frail she actually seemed. The right side of her body has been thin and slack-skinned since the stroke. I am used to a certain emaciated drag, but it has been too long between visits. She seemed old.
Still, in the safety of retrospect it would be easy to misread exhaustion for a softening. You have a boyfriend. All the accusations were there in her silence. Even if she could speak there would be no questions. Oma never asked questions. You must not take your students as boyfriends. You are a disappointment to me. You should be smarter than this.
She would never approve. Not even I approve. The only way to hide John from her is to see her less often. I will abandon her, the last fragment of my family, for someone who is just over half my age. The weight of guilt makes me slump-shouldered.
I wonder if John’s friends will see me the way I saw my own grandmother, a physical reminder of the grave we are all slouching towards.
He knocks. I slip my hand off his arm and his fingers reach for mine so that we are holding hands when the door opens.
The young man at the door is a child, a fresh-faced Aryan boy. He has a thick leather band around his wrist and a short leather jacket to match. I did not even know that this was a style. Certainly none of the art students wear leather wristbands and the jacket is padded at the shoulders like the jackets I remember from the eighties.
‘Well,’ he says and he is looking at me. Pale blue eyes and a stare that could cut glass. He is smiling and he sways just slightly and I realise that he is a little drunk and we are only just arriving. ‘Welcome,’ he says and John shrugs.
‘Bec, Charles, Charles, Bec.’ The boy tilts his head to one side. His gaze is too intense and I am relieved when another, taller boy with shaggy brown hair and a wide jaw leans over his shoulder and takes my hand and shakes it.
‘And Andy,’ John tells me. ‘But I went to school with Charles not Andy, which is a shame because Charles used to beat me up and Andy would have been nicer to me.’
‘What? No.’ Charles leans into Andy’s shoulder, staring thoughtfully at the eaves and I realise they are a couple. ‘Oh maybe that one time. But you have to admit…’
‘No,’ John chuckles. ‘You have to admit. You were horrible. You did have to admit it.’
‘Well yes, that one time but only that one time and I so could have beaten you up on plenty more occasions than that.’
‘You know how boys are,’ Andy tells me. ‘They hit someone if they have a crush on them.’
‘No, we wrestle,’ Charles corrects him and reaches out to jostle playfully with John.
Inside there are too many people to remember. I am introduced quickly and just as quickly forget everybody’s names. They are all in their twenties. Some of them, like Charles, look almost like teenagers; others, like Andy, might be a little older, maybe thirty at a stretch. I am overdressed. The girls all wear short skirts and tights or jeans. The boys are more formal in jackets and coats and one boy, a pretty Asian boy who looks no more than sixteen, is even wearing a skinny tie.
There is an open bottle of vodka on the table and they pour shots from it, some of them mixing with cranberry or orange juice. Charles pours a straight shot and knocks it back in a flamboyant toast to the mother of all goats as Andy brings a great roasted beast to the table, the legs still on it and sticking up straight towards the ceiling. It looks inedible, but the serving that arrives on my plate is surprisingly tender, with a pleasantly charred flavour. The meal is nice, spiced vegetables, hot bread cut in thick slices to soak up the juices. I glean from the conversation that Charles and Andy are known for their culinary expertise. It seems it is an honour to be on their guest list. John puts his hand on my knee and I notice one of the girls watching the gesture with a slightly confused expression. She might have thought I was his mother, or at least an aunt.
They are talking about some movie they have all seen, something about a vampire, but not the vampire one that is really bad and terribly uncool apparently. This other vampire movie is less bad, but still quite awful and not worth the price of a ticket although it seems that they have all forked out the $9.50 to see it, or whatever a student movie ticket is worth these days. Someone calls my name and I turn too quickly and my neck clicks painfully. I didn’t realise I was quite this tense and I put my hand to my neck as if I am scratching it, pressing my fingers into the tender spot until it hurts less.
‘Sorry? What was that?’
‘I was just wondering where you met John.’
‘Bali,’ John tells the young girl without flinching. ‘Over a pina colada and a game of craps.’
The girl is very pretty, delicate pixie face and long blonde hair that she keeps folding back behind her ear in a self-conscious, slightly flirtatious manner. When she screws up her nose and mouth her pixie look becomes slightly rattish. She will not age well. It is an unkind thought, but it is a comforting one.
‘Art school,’ I say and she seems interested. She leans forward.
‘What strand are you studying?’
‘Sculpture.’
‘Oh cool. What, like clay?’
‘Polymers,’ I tell her quickly, surprised by my own ability to lie. ‘Industrial materials. I want to fill the art gallery with polystyrene, make the punters cut their way into the exhibition with a hot knife.’
‘Oh cool,’ she says.
‘Actually that is very cool,’ John looks at me warily.
‘Will they let you do that?’ the girl asks and I shake my head.
‘Nah, probably not. Shame.’
‘Yeah, it is a shame,’ John says, ‘because that actually would be excellent. Dibs.’ I shake my head, a warning, and he winks.
There is sharp ringing laughter, which so
unds surprisingly like someone is clanging a dinner bell. When we turn to look there is a board spread out on the table. Letters of the alphabet fanning out along the circumference of a circle. The words No,Yes, Maybe and Re-phrase your question, mark the corners of the board outside the circle. It is a ouija board. I have never seen one before but I have read about them. There is a pentacle in the centre of the board and a triangle of what looks like stone but is probably plastic perched in the middle. I feel my neck tightening yet again. I lean over to John.
‘Maybe we should go,’ I whisper and he turns to me with such startled wide-eyed despondency that I settle back down in my seat.
‘We must all hold hands,’ Charles tells us. ‘Clear your minds of all scepticism. You lot will skew the results with your cynical little brains sending out bad magnetism.’
There are a few nervous titters from the guests and I feel a small clammy palm slip into mine. I turn to see the pretty young pixie smiling shyly at me before giving her concentration over to the master of ceremonies. On the other side John squeezes my hand and I squeeze his back.
‘You know I saw a ghost once.’ This from a young man with severe square glasses and a shaved head.
‘That what happened to your hair, Stan?’
Some laughter and Stan lets go of his neighbours’ hands briefly before Charles tuts at him and he reconnects the circle.
‘You may laugh, but sometimes you just don’t know what you’re playing with when you call up the demons or what have you.’
There is some laughter but they are shushed by the pixie girl.
‘I agree,’ says Pixie, ‘although we should totally do this now and everything, but if you get an evil spirit it might be impossible to put him back in his bottle.’
‘That’s a genie, douchebag.’
‘Paranormal Activity,’ says someone else and a few people make an appreciative sound.
‘That was so awesome. The first one.’
‘Hideous.’
‘Awesome.’
‘The Exorcist is pretty frightening still.’
I shouldn’t have spoken. Three people splutter with laughter and another one shouts ‘Fuck me Jesus!’ and lets his eyes turn upward, revealing a big globe of milky white in each socket.
‘No it’s not,’ John assures me and I know my cheeks are going red. ‘Well, not anymore. It’s interesting, but there are too many references in The Simpsons for us to be scared by it. I think it’s a generational thing.’
My cheeks are blazing and I put my head down and try to creep my fingers out of John’s hand. He holds them tighter and presses his knee against mine.
‘I didn’t mean anything by that,’ he whispers and I shake my head hoping that he will take the hint and stop talking at all.
‘If you are there. Let us know,’ says Charles. He touches the stone lightly with his finger. Andy has another corner and the third is held by a short boy with a Scottish accent who I haven’t been introduced to.
‘Did you feel anything?’ the Scotsman asks.
‘On the ouija board?’ asks Andy, leering suggestively.
‘Of course.’
‘Ah, well no then, I didn’t feel anything,’ and there is a little laughter, more nervous this time.
‘If you are with us. Give us a sign.’
Silence now, I feel a tightness in my chest. Something is wrong. I am sick. It is a cramp perhaps, or maybe my heart. What if I were to have a heart attack in front of all of John’s friends? Old lady passes out at dinner table. I try to swallow but my throat is dry.
‘Are you there? Is anyone there?’
I lean towards John. ‘I have to leave.’
Just a whisper, and he turns his head towards my ear and says, ‘Not just yet.’
They are waiting. Everyone is waiting. There is the kind of silence that you get when the room is full of people, little scraping sounds, the creak of a chair, the sound of a shoe squeaking against the polished boards.
‘We know you are there.’
And in the silence I know it is true. I know he is here. I can hear him. I can hear him breathing, and the moment I hear it I cannot unhear it. There is the regular breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out. I hold my own breath to be sure but his breathing does not falter.
The stone shifts slowly towards the corner of the board. Yes.
‘Yes,’ Charles interprets for the rest of us. ‘Yes you are here with us now.’
‘He is here,’ I say. But it wasn’t him that moved the stone. That was Charles’s finger or Andy’s or the Scottish boy’s. A simple parlour game, but he is here with us anyway, just like he was there with me when I was a child, on every occasion that I picked up the phone. The sound of his breathing in counterpoint to the flat beeping of the telephone. A disengaged signal but the boy was there anyway, and he is here now.
‘Stop it.’ I shout so suddenly that even I am startled by it. He is here. I can hear him. I can almost see him. I trip back over the chair, fall, a plate clatters to the floor, the skittering of its many pieces on the floor. I can almost see him. I hold my hands over my eyes as if this will stop him from appearing.
‘This is bullshit,’ the pixie girl shrieks. I have startled her with my sudden outburst. I stand and wrestle my fingers away from John. Everyone is staring at me. Someone laughs then stops and the room returns to silence. I can hear my heart thudding in a chest so tight that my own body might suffocate me.
‘I’m sorry John,’ breathless. ‘I’m so sorry. I have to go.’
‘Hey, hey…’ John stands.
‘Stay here,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get a cab.’
But he follows me out. I am certain he has signalled to his friends, his palms raised perhaps, his finger circling his ear, whatever it is, it takes only a minute because he is trotting beside me by the time I reach the car.
‘Oh darl,’ he says and touches my face and it is only then that I realise there are tears on it.
‘God. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ he tries to comfort me.
‘That was a disaster.’
‘It’s okay. Really it’s okay. It was just a silly joke game.’
‘And I’m the joke.’
‘No.’
I nod and he gathers me up into his hug where I feel warmer and safer but not completely safe.
‘What happened back there?’ he asks when I have settled enough to start the car.
‘I freaked out.’
‘Sure. But what happened?’
‘Old stuff. Dumb stuff. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.’
‘Honestly it’s okay. They were all drunk. You probably made their night. Demonic possession, they’ll call it. Charles will want you at all their dinners from now on.’
‘I can’t go back.’
‘Sure you can. They’ll all be rotten drunk. Half of them won’t remember anything about tonight. The other half will be embarrassed about vomiting in Charles’s pebble garden. Someone always vomits in Charles’s pebble garden.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Sure they do. It’s like a running gag at that place.’
He puts his hand on my knee.
There was no one there, of course. He is right. It was just a bunch of kids playing a silly, harmless game.
‘I was a million years older than everyone anyway.’
‘Yeah,’ he shrugs, ‘there’s that. You can beat yourself up about that if you like.’
He really does know how to make me smile. When I have put the car in gear I rest my hand briefly on his knee and he squeezes mine.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s blow this crazy popsicle stand.’ And so we do.
Madness
‘Stop!’
I am facing the wall, the invisible line that must not be crossed. I do not look at her naked and she does not look at me. The masking tape on the ground dividing her side of the room from mine is a solid wall.
‘Stop! Now!’
When she shouts at me it is like an earthqua
ke, fault lines in the invisible wall spreading out, the sound of her voice a wrecking ball. The wall crumbles. I have already put my jeans on, which is lucky because I am only half naked, the T-shirt clutched to that horrible embarrassment of my chest. I have breasts. There is no use denying this. What might once have been a mistake, a trick of the light, a glance at the wrong angle, is now an undeniable fact. My breasts are large enough to have a small overhang. You are saggy if you can hold a pencil up under them, my sister told me. Emily has not been blighted with breasts. My sister has a simple elegant swelling that just helps to accentuate her slender waist. My sister has no overhang. Our grandmother has kept my sister’s training bra for me to wear and I am wearing it, but my swellings are too big already and the hideous rolls of flesh spill out the side. Fat girls get titties, her awful word so terribly appropriate. My fat-girl titties are hidden only by my T-shirt, which I bunch up over them as the invisible wall between her side of the room and mine tumbles down.
‘Don’t put that shirt on.’
‘Why? Why not?’
I turn. The wall is down and I must face her. She is staring straight at me but her head is cocked to one side as if she is listening to someone, an invisible person in the doorway to our room.
‘You have to put your shirt on inside out and back to front.’
‘Why? No.’ I turn away and struggle with the armholes, holding the cotton close and attempting to put my arms in at the same time.
‘No!’
She crosses the line. She is on my side of the room, kicking through the detritus on the floor, wading out into the unknown. She launches herself at me as if there were a bomb and I were about to stumble over it. Our lives apparently depend on this business with the T-shirt. She grabs it, and we struggle briefly before she rips it out of my hands and I am left with only my arms to press against the embarrassment of my flesh.
She takes the shirt and turns it, inside out, back to front. She grabs me by one arm and I struggle, but she is stronger. I feel the prick of tears, hot in the corners of my eyes. I am worried that she will look at my breasts but she ignores them. She forces my hand into the shirt and drags it over my head with such force that my ear bends back, caught up in the folds of the fabric. I shriek but she ignores me. Her nails dig into my wrist, the other wrist and it is done. My shirt is on, inside out and back to front. She loses interest instantly. She turns and picks her way over the debris on the floor on my side of the room.