‘So how’d it go?’ she said.
‘Yeah. Good. The exhibition was . . . really interesting.’
‘You had a good time, then?’
‘Um, yeah.’
‘Richard’s cool, don’t you think?’
‘Um, yeah. He’s got an interesting job. He’s – nice.’
Bec smiled, and I realised I was probably giving her the wrong idea about how successful our date was. ‘Bec?’
‘Yes?’
What could I say without being rude? Bec was one of my best friends, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset her. I said, ‘Nothing.’ I stacked my books in my locker and slammed the door. Hopefully that would be the end of that. It wasn’t as if Richard was ever going to call me again.
Ker-ching! Wrong again.
He called on Tuesday. We were just about to leave the house to go to Mum’s friend Anna’s for dinner when the phone rang; the answering machine picked it up.
‘Jem, this is Richard Patel? I was calling to . . . see if we could do something this weekend? I could show you where I work, in fact, if you’re interested? All right, thank you, bye.’
Mum and I stared at each other, frozen in the doorway.
Dad growled, ‘Who’s this? Who’s this person?’
‘Dad. It’s Bec’s brother. I told you.’
Mum said, ‘I thought you were never going to see each other again.’
‘I thought so, too,’ I groaned. ‘Why, why would he call me?’
But I knew why. That stupid conversation with Bec. She must have told him I liked him, that I had a wonderful time, that I couldn’t wait to be his girlfriend. She’d taken my lukewarm remarks and heated them up to rampant enthusiasm.
‘Call him back,’ said Mum. ‘Break it off quickly. You have to be firm.’
‘I can’t call him back now, we’re going to Anna’s.’
‘Who is this person?’ said Dad again. ‘Jem, is this your boyfriend?’
‘No!’
‘But, darling, the longer you leave it, the more likely he’ll think he is,’ said Mum. ‘I was going out with this boy once—’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said hastily, to cut off her reminiscences of Great Losers of History. ‘You really think I should ring him now?’
‘We’ll wait for you.’
‘No! Don’t – you go, and I’ll bike round to Anna’s when I’m finished.’
‘What? What’s Jem doing? If she’s only making a phone call—’ Dad was not quite with it as usual.
‘Come round when you’re ready, darling,’ said Mum. They left. Mum was still trying to explain the situation to Dad, though given I’d hardly told her anything, it was a miracle she understood as much as she did. But mothers are amazing; they have freakish powers. I waited till the car was gone, then I took the phone into my room.
I knew Mum was right; I’d have to be firm. I felt sick.
‘Hello?’
It was Bec; I felt even sicker. ‘Oh, hi – it’s me.’
‘Jem, hi! Did you want to speak to me or Richard?’ She sounded horribly coy. I felt as if I was holding a machete over the head of a poor little lamb.
Richard came to the phone, very jovial. ‘Hello, hello, Jem, how are you?’
‘Good, yeah, good,’ I said.
There was a pause, then we both started speaking at once.
‘Sorry, after you.’
‘No, you go first.’
Richard took a deep breath. ‘I was just going to say how glad I am that you called, in fact – that we can—’ This was getting worse. And knowing Bec was probably hovering in the background didn’t help. I had to stop him.
‘Listen, Richard, this is – I’ve got something to say, and it’s a bit awkward, but – I can’t think of a good way to tell you . . .’ Yeah, that was the right thing to say. I was handling this so well. I blurted out, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see each other any more.’
There was silence on the other end of the line. I had all my arguments ready: I was too young, I had to concentrate on school, I wasn’t ready to go out with anyone et cetera, et cetera. But he cut me off.
‘I see,’ he said, very coldly.
‘I just don’t think—’ ‘I’m very disappointed, in fact. You haven’t given yourself a chance to get to know me. We’ve only been out together twice.’
‘Three times,’ I said faintly.
‘So, you made up your mind about me after a blink of an eye?’ His voice rose. ‘I’m surprised, I didn’t think you were so shallow. I’m very disappointed. I tried to make sure you had a good time. I was not very interested in that exhibition, in fact. I went because you said you wanted to. And now you don’t want to see me again. Is that fair? I don’t think so.’
This was torture. Harriet Vane had a thousand elegant ways of refusing Peter Wimsey’s attentions, and of course I couldn’t think of one. But then, underneath, she liked him all along. Well, that was one question resolved. I didn’t like Richard Patel at all.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just don’t . . . I’m not ready to . . . I’m really sorry.’ My heart was pumping hard and my hands were clammy.
‘You’re sorry? I see. Then everything is all right, in fact.’ Apparently Bec wasn’t the only member of the family to get sarcastic when she was angry.
But I was almost glad he was so angry. Every second that passed I was surer I’d made the right decision. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. Thank you for taking me to the exhibition, I had a good—’
He hung up. I stared at the phone. No one had ever hung up on me before. ‘Hello?’ I said stupidly, but he’d gone.
I sat holding the phone. My knees were shaking. I’d been prepared for him to be hurt, to try and talk me out of it. But I didn’t expect him to lose it.
I thought, too late, of things I could have said: that I hadn’t wanted to go to the stupid exhibition either; that he shouldn’t have tried to kiss me; that I’d only gone out with him in the first place because I didn’t realise it was a date. Why did he ring me and ask me out again after I’d practically pushed him off me? What kind of an idiot was he?
I felt as if my head was going to burst. I had to talk about this to someone. If Mum had been home, I would have poured it all out to her, but I was shy about telling the whole story in front of Anna. Anna was so cool. Anna would never have had an awkward moment with a boy, not even in the days when she still went out with them.
I could ring Bec.
Idiot. Bec was going to be so sympathetic. It just shows how shaken up I was, that I even considered ringing her.
Then I thought of Mackenzie. Mackenzie, who knew all about boys. She was the perfect person to talk to.
My heart beat faster than ever. Okay, she didn’t want to hang out with me at school. But maybe it would be okay if I called her at home. After all, this was an emergency.
Without letting myself think about it, I punched in her number.
Her mobile was switched off.
I still had a chance to save my self-respect. I ignored it. I dialled her home number. It wasn’t too late; while it was ringing, I could still have hung up, no one would ever know— ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs Woodrow? Could I please speak to Mackenzie?’
‘Mackenzie isn’t here, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh. Okay—’ I was about to say, never mind, and hang up.
But Mackenzie’s mum said, ‘You might find her down at the Boot Factory, you know, where the cinemas are? They’ve gone for ice-creams.’
‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ She didn’t need to know I’d rather cut off my finger than track down Mackenzie and her little gang at an ice-cream shop.
She didn’t ask who I was; I didn’t leave a message. Phew. Mackenzie would never know I’d rung. My self-respect was saved. Despite my best efforts.
I called Iris. At least I knew she’d be home; she was always home.
‘Something terrible’s happened.’
‘What?’
‘I had to d
ump Bec’s brother.’
For a second Iris said nothing, then, quite coolly, ‘I wasn’t aware that you were . . . together.’
‘Well, we weren’t really, I guess. But we did go out on a couple of dates, then he asked me out again and I had to say I wasn’t interested.’
Again the cool silence. Iris was so the wrong person to talk to about this, I realised; she was much more fascinated by fictional relationships than real ones. She could talk about Wimsey and Harriet, or Captain Pinker and Wolf, for hours on end, but not boy–girl relationships in the real world. She said, ‘Hang on a sec.’ There was a muted noise in the background, then she picked up again.
‘Do you think you’ve broken his heart?’
‘Of course not! It was just . . . awkward.’ Now I felt like an idiot. As if anyone would be heartbroken at the prospect of not going on a date with me. It was laughable. I said, ‘But it’s Bec’s brother. What am I going to say to Bec?’
‘Hang on,’ she said, and covered the phone again.
I hung on, picking at a thread on my doona.
‘Sorry,’ said Iris. ‘I’m here.’
‘I just wish I could wind back time. I wish I’d never gone on the stupid dates. I can’t go out with him just because he’s my friend’s brother—’ I heard a muffled beep in the background, and broke off. ‘Iris, are you texting?’
Silence. ‘Mm – no.’
Iris is a worse liar than I am. ‘Is it Bec? What’s she say?’
‘Gotta go,’ said Iris hastily. ‘Starfield 5’s on in a minute.
I’ll call you later.’
‘Thanks for your support,’ I said.
‘That’s okay,’ said Iris, choosing to ignore my sarcasm.
Then she hung up on me too.
I was sure she and Bec were texting. Bec must have got hold of a mobile. What was she saying? I chewed my fingernails.
Then I decided. Damn it. I would go to the Boot Factory.
It was only eight o’clock (half an hour till Starfield 5, Iris, by the way; check the clock before you lie to me next time.) It was only ten minutes on the bike, and I could ride to Anna’s afterwards. Maybe I just felt like a pre-dinner ice-cream.
I thought Mackenzie would probably be gone by the time I got there. How long does it take to eat an ice-cream? I knew the Boot Factory, of course, but I never hung out there. It was a place where golden people hung out, not nerds . . . There was a giant bookshop there, though. I could pretend I was going to buy a book. That was a reasonable nerdy alibi. I chained the bike to a no-parking sign and tried to look nonchalant as I strolled inside the huge, garish, echoing shopping mall that had once been a place where poor people stitched boots together. I walked slowly toward the entrance to the bookshop, swinging my bike helmet (that must have looked cool) and glancing around casually in the direction of the ice-cream shop.
There were a few people sitting at tables outside the shop; no sign of Mackenzie or any of her crowd. They must have gone already . . .
Then I saw her.
She was examining the bookshop window display, holding an ice-cream cone. Gelato, of course; nothing fattening for Mackenzie Woodrow.
She was with a boy.
He was a tall, blond-haired boy with a narrow, handsome face and excellent cheekbones. For a second I thought he might be Mackenzie’s long-lost brother, because they looked so much alike. But no. They were holding hands.
I felt as if someone had punched me in the chest. I couldn’t breathe; I had to turn away.
I ducked inside the entrance and practically galloped to the back of the store where I hid between two shelves. I picked up a book and blindly turned the pages.
Mackenzie had a boyfriend.
Who was he? How did they meet? How long had this been going on? She’d told me she didn’t have a boyfriend. Had she lied to me, or was he a recent acquisition? Was that why? But that didn’t make sense . . . Did Mackenzie – I dunno – did she love him? Had they kissed? Had they done more than that? Was that why she hadn’t told me, because she knew I wouldn’t understand, because I was just a naive child who was too scared even to kiss a boy?
My throat was tight. I blinked at the book and suddenly my eyes cleared and I saw that I was holding a sex manual. I nearly dropped it; then I peeped, very quickly, at the page that was open. I’d never realised human beings could bend like that . . . I filed the information away for a different lifetime, shoved the book back onto the shelf and walked away, fast.
Mackenzie had a boyfriend.
Did she think I’d disapprove?
Actually, I did disapprove. In fact, as Richard Patel would say.
Oh, the irony. If I rang Richard and apologised, was it too late for me to have a boyfriend too?
When I emerged from the bookshop Mackenzie and her paramour had disappeared, and it was dark outside. I hardly noticed the streets as I rode; I pedalled home on automatic pilot. I forgot I was supposed to be going to Anna’s.
Mackenzie had a boyfriend.
There were always boys underfoot, she’d said. She’d said she’d tell me. Did she think I’d be jealous? Maybe she’d rushed out and got this boy to show me I wasn’t the only one who could pull a guy.
‘Jessica Martinic,’ I told myself. ‘You’re losing it.’ I tried to sound firm, but my voice was wobbly.
When Mum and Dad got home I was in the kitchen eating chips in the dark.
‘What’s this?’ said Dad. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Ssh,’ said Mum. ‘She’s all right.’
‘It would have been polite to call Anna,’ said Dad.
‘It’s all right,’ said Mum. ‘It didn’t matter.’ I could see she was dying to ask me how it went; she was heroically holding back.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I’m very tired. I think I’ll go to bed.’
I lay awake for a long time. Harriet Vane was twenty-eight before Lord Peter came along. If I had to face another twelve years of this, I’d die, simple as that.
And in the morning, I had to face Bec.
Maybe I was wrong about Iris texting her. Maybe Richard wouldn’t tell her anything . . . But I’m no Mackenzie Woodrow (I wish she wouldn’t keep popping up) – I can’t act to save my life. Bec was going to know something was wrong the second she laid eyes on me.
Or maybe not. Bec was terrible at picking up social signals. You practically had to beat her over the head to get her to notice things that other people sensed without a word. If Iris hadn’t been texting, if Richard didn’t tell her, she’d never know. The whole thing would just evaporate like morning mist.
I kept telling myself that, and finally I fell asleep.
Forget about Bec laying eyes on me. I only had to lay eyes on her to see that she knew everything.
I swallowed. ‘Hi, Bec.’
‘Hi.’ Lips pressed together, frown, quick look away.
‘Bec . . . You know, I really like Richard – I mean, he’s lovely—’ ‘Yeah, I know he is.’
‘Bec . . .’
‘It’s okay, Jem. You don’t have to say anything.’ She gave me a tight little smile and withdrew.
I grabbed Georgia. ‘George, George, can you do me a favour?’
‘Yeah . . . Right now? I just need to run over to the PE Centre . . .’
‘I’ll come with you.’
We fell into step. ‘Georgia, can you talk to Bec for me? Can you tell her that I think her brother’s really nice, but we’re just not compatible? No, don’t say that. Tell her I’m really sorry, but I’m not ready to go out with anyone at the moment . . .’
‘Wow,’ said Georgia. ‘Did you dump him?’
‘No – yes – kind of.’
‘No wonder Bec’s so pissed off.’
‘Is she? With me? Did she say that?’
‘I’ll find out,’ said Georgia reassuringly. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
In assembly, Iris and Bec sat together, and Georgia and I sat in the row behind. Afterwards Georgia and Iris conferred
for a few minutes, then Georgia ran back to me.
‘Richard thinks you dumped him because he’s Indian.
Because you don’t want to go out with a black boy.’
‘What? That’s crazy!’ I laughed in disbelief, which was a big mistake, because Bec turned and saw me. Her face froze in a mask of fury, and she grabbed Iris by the arm and marched off across the quad. Iris grimaced at me, and pantomimed that she’d catch up with me later, and we’d sort this whole mess out. Either that or something in her pants was biting her.
I said, ‘Bec knows I’m not racist.’
Georgia shrugged. ‘Richard told Bec you felt weird about dating an Indian boy.’
‘That’s insane! Why would he say that? Bec must have got the wrong end of the stick again. I felt weird about dating him, but it’s nothing to do with being Indian! Bec’s been my best friend since forever – and Iris. And you, of course,’ I added hastily, since Georgia was looking a little hurt. ‘Sheesh, George, I’ve got plenty of flaws, but racism isn’t one of them. Bec never even calls herself Indian!
She’s as Aussie as I am! It’s like Iris calling herself Chinese.’
‘She’s not Chinese. She’s Malaysian.’
‘No, she’s Chinese. Isn’t she?’
‘Her family come from Malaysia.’
‘But they’re Chinese, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know.’
I threw my hands in the air. ‘Iris is a bigger racist than I am.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She wants to be English.’
‘Anglo? No, she doesn’t.’
‘No, not Anglo, English. Oxford and cricket and Lord Peter Wimsey English.’
‘But English isn’t a race. Anglo’s a race. If she wants to be English, it’s not being racist. Is it? Is Anglo a race?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘So what are we arguing about?’
‘We’re not arguing!’
‘Okay!’
I really didn’t want to start a fight with Georgia as well. The whole thing made my brain hurt. Indian, Croatian, Chinese, Anglo, I’d never given it much thought, but suddenly everything was an ethnic conflict. No wonder it was so hard to make peace in the Middle East.
Always MacKenzie Page 7