Knowing Me, Knowing You

by Renae Kaye

  HOW DO you tell the guy you’re in love with that his girlfriend isn’t good enough for him? Text message? Email? It was hard to keep lying to him for eleven years. When he left for Melbourne, I managed to mostly ignore Ambrose’s personal life, and it became very difficult, because I often saw him in the media. There were reports of Bro-Jak and Jen, Bro-Jak and Katy, Bro-Jak and Gabby. You get the picture. Although it helped that Ambrose lived in another state for nine months of the year and wasn’t around in person for me to lie to.

  I somehow made myself finish my walk to work after I snatched the paper from the seller. I placed it on my desk and glanced at it every three minutes, hoping the words had changed. I pinched myself hard to check if I was dreaming—or having a nightmare?

  I think people came to me that day and asked me for files. And I think I gave them the correct files. I really don’t know. One thing you need to learn about me? I take the easy way out a lot. I have a brain. It works. I don’t feel the need to extend it often.

  You meet a lot of people in this life who are pushing themselves to be bigger, better, more. There are those who use others as stepping stones. There are those who use others’ ideas, expand them, and then use that to promote themselves. There are those who would sell their own mother to get ahead in life.

  That’s not me.

  I work in the corporate world. I see those people. I watch those people. They never see me. I truthfully can’t be bothered to work that hard. I did a couple of courses at tech school after high school and then settled down into a career of record keeping and document control. Blow those whistles and rattle those streamers—not. It isn’t exactly the job for movers and shakers, but I like it. It’s quiet, and the files don’t talk back to me.

  I started off working for the same legal firm my mother is employed at. After a couple of years, I was poached by a mining company. The thing to know about mining companies is that a shitload of work goes into the process before the first shovel hits the ground. There are maps and reports and more reports. There are contracts and federal laws and state laws and council bylaws and indigenous tribal laws and surveys and property disputes and so on. And I’m the guy who gets to keep all the information in one spot. I’m the hard-nosed librarian gatekeeper. I have people sign in blood before they can take original copies of files out. I photocopy and scan a lot. I spend a lot of time in deep, dark, dungeon-like rooms. I enter information into databases and frown wildly when people move things around.

  Yeah. I’m the life of every party with the stories I can tell.

  And I can do my job with my eyes closed… or at least with my eyes on one particular news headline.

  Bro-Jak Out for the Season.

  I googled the article and was shown a clip in which the man I was determined not to love came down awkwardly on his knee and didn’t get back up.

  I needed help. I needed information, and my mining files didn’t have it.

  From a young age, I had a knack for gathering the facts I required. I didn’t have a father to help me, so I checked out books from the library and asked my friends. If the teacher didn’t know the answer, I would look the information up or ask my friends. Now, with the internet providing too much information—which is a problem in itself—I turned to my other source.

  My friends.

  I considered who to ask. Vinnie was the obvious choice. He was football mad and knew everything from the name of the Swans’ coach’s dog to how many kicks a player had in a game back in 1997. But he was also gay and had been my friend for years. He would be highly suspicious about me—the supposedly not-interested-in-footy guy—asking questions.

  Kee could possibly know. He kept up with things like that, but he would also be completely nosy about my private life. Kee somehow managed to wheedle information out of me on a regular basis.

  I could also possibly ask Jamie’s boyfriend, Liam. He knew everything footy, as it was he who started our local cheering squad on Sundays. Liam’s brother, John, played amateur football. In an attempt to teach Jamie the rules of our national sport, Liam dragged Jamie to watch each week. Then somehow Kee and his new boyfriend, Tate, were invited along. Then Liam’s best friend, Aaron. And then Vinnie, Hiram, and I began materializing as well, since our friends were there. Somehow we managed to end up back at Aaron’s house for an informal get-together every Sunday. There was beer and barbecue and good times.

  The best thing about this was that Aaron and Vinnie ended up a couple. Aaron—who previously claimed he was straight and was easing into his bisexuality—had turned into a new friend over the past eighteen months.

  He was also shockingly disinterested in others’ personal lives. So I waited until six that evening and called him.

  “Hey, Shane,” he answered. “What can I do you for?”

  I picked nervously at a scratch on my kitchen table. “Can you help me out with a problem? I was wondering something.”

  “Sure thing. Shoot.”

  “I saw the article on Bro-Jak busting his knee?”

  Aaron groaned. “Hell, yeah. It looks bad, poor guy. But good for me. We’re playing the Hawks next week.”

  I ignored Aaron’s one-eyed concern only for his team, the Eagles. “So he’s definitely out for the whole season? I mean, can’t they operate and he’ll be back in four weeks or something?”

  “Nah. Not with knees. They can even put an end to your entire career.”

  My stomach felt hollow. If Ambrose didn’t have his footy, he would be devastated. He lived his whole life for the game.

  “So they operate?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  Why? Because I needed to work out if Ambrose would be coming home.

  “So will Bro-Jak need to be close to his doctors? He’ll need physio, right? How long will that take?”

  “I think so. Hang on. Vinnie?”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear as Aaron shouted for the one person I didn’t want to know about my question. “No, wait—”

  Shit. I heard Aaron talking to his boyfriend. His nosy boyfriend—his “why would Shane be asking about Bro-Jak” boyfriend.

  “Shane’s on the phone. He wants to know what sort of recovery period Bro-Jak is up for.”

  “Oh, hon. That poor boy is in a world of trouble,” I heard Vinnie say and didn’t know if he was talking about me or Ambrose. Then he was on the line. “Shane? You’re asking about Bro-Jak? Oh, he’s out for a decent stretch, definitely. I’m not sure who the Hawks are going to get to replace him. I mean, Sergio is good, but he’s not Bro-Jak-good if you know what I mean. They’ve also lost Lincoln and Stewart, who they could’ve promoted from the rookie list. I don’t think Simpson can step in either. His form hasn’t been good. What do you think about Cuddy?”

  “He doesn’t have the height,” I said before I could stop myself.

  Shit.

  I wasn’t supposed to know about football, the Hawks, or even who Cuddy was—not that I really knew. I’d forced myself not to watch Ambrose’s games for the last three months. The only way to fight an addiction was to cut off the supply. And I’d admitted years earlier that I was an Ambrose-aholic.

  Vinnie didn’t notice my slip of the tongue and continued the conversation. “True. If he just had a couple of inches….”

  I let Vinnie rattle on for a bit before I cut in. “So Bro-Jak? They’ll want him in Melbourne, right? To support the rest of the team? Or will he come home to Perth?”

  There was a pause.

  A long pause.

  Then Vinnie said, “Why are you asking about Bro-Jak, Shane?” There was a “what do you know that I don’t” tone to his voice.

  Luckily I’d prepared for that eventuality. “There’s an office bet going on. What day will Bro-Jak fly back to Perth,” I said airily. “I thought I’d cheat and ask you guys before placing my bet.”

  “Hmm,” Vinnie said in an “I don’t believe you” manner. “But let’s say you’re telling the truth. I’d put my money on pretty soon. Rumor has i
t his girlfriend has been seen partying with another guy. If they’re on the rocks, I’m guessing Bro-Jak will use it as an excuse to flee the scene.”

  “He and Kendra are through?” I asked in surprise. I didn’t hear that, although I wasn’t surprised because I deliberately hadn’t read any article mentioning the name of the man I wasn’t supposed to be in love with.

  Vinnie was silent again, and just as it was getting uncomfortable, he suddenly switched subjects. “You’re coming over here on Sunday, aren’t you?”

  “I think so,” I said, surprised. Didn’t I come over most Sundays?

  “Come early,” Vinnie said.

  “Why?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I want to talk to you about who you think should replace Ambrose Jakoby on Hawthorn’s starting lineup, since you don’t think Cuddy has the height.” He said it with a challenge in his voice, and I knew he’d sniffed out that something wasn’t quite right.

  I tried to bluff it out. “So—Bro-Jak? Home in about a week you think? I should place my bet on a week from today?”

  “Ten days,” Vinnie answered decisively. “And don’t forget to be early on Sunday. See you then, Shane.”

  Chapter Four

  SOMEONE ONCE said that courage isn’t about a lack of fear. Courage is measured by how much fear you overcome.

  So what is it when fear overcomes you and you work out a way to avoid your best friends so you won’t be put on the spot? Yellow-bellied? Devious? Smart? Slytherin?

  It took me a good five minutes to let down the tire on my car. I considered puncturing it, but I didn’t want it to cost me any unnecessary money. Letting the air out of my spare tire took a little more deviousness. I had to sit on the tire to force the air out. Then I had to jack up my car and take off the flat tire so it looked like I’d been halfway through changing it when I discovered my spare tire was flat too.

  The problem was, I’d never changed a tire before. Yeah. I can hear the derisive laughs and the jokes about adulting already. It wasn’t because I’m gay and not masculine enough or because I’m not intelligent enough to figure it out, but simply because I am intelligent and paid for roadside breakdown coverage. So I pulled out the instructions on the wheel jack, had a go at it, jammed my finger, scraped my knuckles, and finally retreated inside to watch some YouTube videos on the subject and figure it out.

  It was a large waste of an hour. Finally, when it was all set up, I started a text message conversation with the one guy I was trying to avoid.

  Me: You need me to bring anything today? I can dash to the shops.

  It was total bullshit. If Vinnie asked me to bring anything special, I’d be walking to my local supermarket.

  Vinnie: Nope. You’re fine. You’re going to be early, right?

  I let that message sit for a bit before I answered. It was the big con.

  Me: Yes. I don’t know why you want me to come early. I told you on the phone—it was just a bet.

  He answered immediately.

  Vinnie: You’re hiding something.

  Me: Only the fact I don’t know much about our national sport. Did you know that statistically more AFL players are born in March than any other month?

  Vinnie: Deflecting.

  Me: I’m getting ready now. Did you know 9% of AFL players are indigenous, yet only 2% of the general population are?

  Vinnie: I only want to talk about one AFL player. See you soon?

  Me: Yes. Leaving now.

  Then I went and made myself a coffee. I read six more pages of the Jack Reacher novel I had bought and disliked most of them. It was my second Jack Reacher novel, and I couldn’t work out why they sold so well.

  I took a deep breath and messaged Vinnie.

  Me: I have a flat. Changing it now. Going to be a little later than anticipated.

  Vinnie’s reply was a cartoon picture of Pinocchio, so I wandered to my garage and snapped a photo of my flat tire propped up against my car. Vinnie’s answer was a picture of Jim Carrey in his Liar, Liar role. I snapped a picture of the grease stain I’d accidentally got on my jeans. He sent me a picture of Macaulay Calkin doing his Home Alone scream face. Vinnie might have—correctly—believed I was lying, but any gay man with self-respect would freak about grease on their clothes.

  I read some more of Jack Reacher and then changed my jeans and rang Hiram. He agreed to pick me up on his way to Vinnie and Aaron’s house, which worked perfectly. By the time Hiram picked me up and I’d shown him the two flat tires, we were late to our usual get-together. So the rest of the crew were already there—Kee, Tate, Liam, Jamie, and John. Vinnie glared at me as I walked in with Hiram, but I dutifully showed my damaged knuckles and told the story without blushing.

  I thought I was safe.

  Nope.

  He waited until after lunch and then tackled me in front of everyone. Not literally, although that had been done before. Aaron was a physical sort of guy and had played out more than one wrestling match on his lounge-room floor. Aaron had tackled me a couple of times but had given up. I was too easy to conquer. No, Vinnie tackled me verbally.

  “So, Shane. What’s your interest in Bro-Jak?”

  John groaned loud. “Aw, man. Out for the season. He must be devvo.”

  The lines were clearly drawn in our group—there were the footy-lovers and the nonfooty-lovers—and between the two groups, a yawning divide existed. No one had crossed over. On the weeks we went down to watch John play in the local amateur league, divisions between lovers existed for the two hours of the game. Liam had attempted to explain the rules to Jamie, but organized team sports were something beyond Jamie’s comprehension, and it had ended badly for the couple. Kee didn’t even bother to try to interest Tate in the game, so Tate and Jamie usually spent the time chatting about everything under the sun—apart from football. It was great to see them getting on.

  I was placed with Tate and Jamie—the nonfooty-appreciation side of the gap as Kee liked to tell me. I didn’t mind. I let them think I didn’t know the rules of the game and immersed myself in my latest paperback.

  Liam picked up the conversation. “Devastated?” he asked. “He still gets paid, doesn’t he? I wish someone would pay me to sit around and rest my leg.”

  Liam still walked with a limp from a car accident when he was sixteen.

  “Who cares about Bro-Jak?” Aaron asked as he thumped down into the red beanbag in the lounge room. “No one goes for Hawthorn here, do they?”

  There were scoffs and roars as each man on the footy-appreciation side of the gap rushed in to assure Aaron they hadn’t switched allegiance. I didn’t say anything.

  It was noted by the one person I didn’t want to notice.

  “Shane?” Vinnie said with an innocent tone. “What team do you go for? I don’t think you’ve ever told us.”

  Whatever team Ambrose is playing for.

  “I don’t have a team,” I lied through my teeth to say. “You know I don’t like football.”

  Truthfully I didn’t like football. I watched because Ambrose played. And I hated the sport because Ambrose got injured from it.

  “You have to have a team,” Liam said. “Even Jay has a team.”

  Jamie looked up from his conversation with Tate and nodded. “Yes. The Swans. The red team. Sydney, isn’t it?” He looked to Liam for confirmation that he’d picked the correct capital city that his supposed favorite team played for. “Red is my favorite color, so I picked them. I considered the team that has yellow in it, the same as Daisy, but it was more of a mustard yellow than the canary yellow she is.”

  Jamie’s car was a bright-yellow Mini called Daisy. None of us would ride with him—not because of the color, but because of the sunflower he’d attached to her aerial. I was sure a swarm of bees would follow him home one day.

  “I go for the Dockers,” Tate put in. There were a number of cheers from the footy-appreciation side. “I live in Perth, after all. And I really do like purple.”

  Vinnie turned to me in trium
ph. “See. Even Jamie and Tate have teams. So what team do you go for, Shane?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “It wouldn’t be the Hawks, would it?” Vinnie asked. “It wouldn’t be Bro-Jak’s team?”

  “Who’s Bro-Jak?” Jamie asked.

  Vinnie spared enough time for a glance at him as he answered, “Ambrose Jakoby. Plays for Hawthorn over in Melbourne. He’s Perth-born—our local talent making it big.”

  Jamie nodded as he frowned. “Ambrose?” Then he turned to me and said, “Isn’t that the guy we went to school with?”

  Oh, my secrets were unraveling a mile a minute.

  “Yeah.” It was all I could manage.

  Surprise rippled through the gathered crowd.

  “Why have you never told us before?” Vinnie asked as he narrowed his eyes on me. I hated that he was blaming me for not telling him. I was the quiet one. Why didn’t he blame Jamie, who was the motormouth of the crowd?

  I shrugged. “What’s to tell? He went to the same school. There’ve been a number of semifamous people who went to that school. Dean someone was a footballer too. And there was some girl who got some sort of singing contract with a record label.”

  Vinnie didn’t buy it. “There’s a difference. You were with Ambrose Jakoby at school and never mentioned it.”

  Thankfully Jamie finally opened up that motormouth and corrected Vinnie. He gave a high-pitched giggle and said, “It’s not like we were friends, Vinnie. Ambrose was a couple of years below us and wouldn’t ever be caught hanging out with us. He was part of the cool crowd. We were the dorks still trying to find our place in the world. I only remember him because of that teacher—what was his name, Shane? The sports teacher who was built like a tank and used to call us all gents? He was always shouting, ‘Come on, gents. Get moving.’ What was his name?”

  “Mr. McGivern.” He was a torturer. He expected bookworms like me to run an entire lap of the oval without stopping.

  “That’s him,” Jamie exclaimed. “I remember him once saying Ambrose was worth more than our entire class put together. I thought that was a little unfair and told him that, so he gave me detention for answering back. Every time Ambrose received an award at assembly after that, I cringed.”