by Melissa Keil
She shrugs sheepishly. ‘Right, but it’s not one of the losers in my class, is it?’ She steels herself, jaw tightening. ‘Okay, so I might have made friends with some really cool people, these girls … who might be in year ten …’
I burst out laughing. Narda yowls indignantly and scarpers up my bookshelves. ‘And there it is. Dude, there is no way I’m convincing Mum to let you party with – what – a bunch of sixteen-year-olds? You think I’ve developed powers of hypnosis overnight? Anyway, why is this even important?’
Gilly flops onto the bed beside me with an affected, world-weary sigh. ‘It would be important to you too if you went to my school,’ she says dejectedly. ‘Everyone sucks, Josh! And hello, did I mention that they’re all super boring? These are, like, the only interesting people in the entire school.’
I reach blindly over my head again, fingers scrambling for the lowest shelf behind my bed. Gillian flips onto her knees and grabs my hands. She is surprisingly strong for someone who could probably fit inside my satchel. ‘Joshua Bailey, if your solution to my problems is a fricking Hindu shuffle, I swear to god I will shove that deck of cards up your –’
‘Argh, okay, let me go, I need those hands,’ I say, laughing. Gillian sinks back on her heels, glaring viciously. I prop myself on one elbow and peer at my sister over the top of my glasses. ‘So, what exactly will this party involve, Gillian? Blood sacrifices and Japanese death metal? A drunken Bacchanalia with the entire soccer team? No, wait, the soccer team’s mascot? Bumpy Tony was looking exceptionally fine last sports day –’
Gilly grabs my face and squeezes. ‘It’s gonna be a bunch of people hanging out with Thai food and French movies. Godard, Josh, not even the dirty French ones!’
I snort. ‘Yeah, cos that doesn’t sound pretentious –’
It speaks volumes about my sister’s keenness that she doesn’t deck me. ‘Look, it’s going to be tame. Fun, and cool, but tame. Help meeee!’
When it comes to my mum and my sister, I reckon I’d have better luck trying to negotiate, say, a peace accord between Stalin and Trotsky, or Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots, after Lizzie had, you know, beheaded her. But Gilly is looking at me with her pleading baby blues and I can feel my resolve crumbling. Still, since it’s my job to mess with my little sister, I can’t help but ask, ‘So whatcha going to do for me?’
Gillian narrows her eyes. ‘Oh, cos I do nothing for you? I’ll remember that next time Dad starts up at dinner.’ She lowers her voice to her best impression of Dad’s cheerful tenor. ‘Josh, how’s that exam prep coming? Josh, you gone through that course info yet? Josh, you know we’ll be proud whatever decision you make, but you gotta make a decision, tick-tock, tick-tock, yak yak yak.’ She snorts. ‘You think I mentioned getting kicked out of Italian cos I wanted Mum on my arse again? I am not that masochistic.’
I sit up, suddenly feeling this urge to get out of bed and sprint down the road in my PJs. ‘You got kicked out? How come? And why is this the first I’m hearing about it?’
She shrugs, not even a tiny bit shamefaced. ‘Maybe cos you tend to drift off when Dad’s on your case. And, you know, I got booted for the usual. Talking back, being a disruptive influence. Same crap. It’s only for a week, unfortunately. It’s freaking tedious, Joshie. Not my fault the morons in class need six months to learn how to ask where the toilets are.’
Gillian gives me a look – pointed, and way too wise. I find myself staring at her face, caught between baby softness and the sharp edges of looming adultness; it’s weirdly, overpoweringly nostalgic. It’s becoming almost impossible to recognise the little person who used to cry over Frozen, the kid who stuck to my side like a barnacle, spellbound by my dinosaur books and vintage Horrible Histories that never seemed to freak her out, even when I re-enacted the gross bits with props. I’ve always thought I’m a pretty awesome big brother. But I suppose I have to concede that maybe I’m a shitty influence when it comes to school stuff.
I flop onto my back. To be honest, my positive outlook has taken a bit of a battering lately. A shift at the magic shop and Camilla’s gig on Saturday helped keep me out of the house, but as a life strategy, avoidance is becoming a bit tricky to sustain. I spent most of the weekend dodging my dad and evading Damien Pagono, who refuses to tell me where he got my number and persists in texting me rude memes. I have, however, managed to avoid all my homework, apart from my History reading and essay, cos every time I look at the other stuff my brain melts into a puddle of disinterested goo.
I tug the blankets over my face again. But then the alarm on one of the few functioning clocks behind my head dings, and I’m reminded that it’s Monday. My stomach does an insane bounce that propels me reflexively upwards. I roll out of bed and land in a pile on my rug, Gillian and a tangle of blankets cascading on top of me.
‘Ugh, Gilly, I gotta get up. And you gotta fix your hair before Mum sees you. I really don’t want to deal with her brain exploding all over the walls this morning.’
Gillian peeps over the top of my doona. ‘So you’ll talk to her?’ She untangles herself and pulls me up. ‘Joshua. Come on, man! I promise I will give you a week – no, one whole month of not making fun of your hair. I’ll do flash cards for those chapters in your Bio textbook that I know you haven’t looked at yet. I’ll let you test out as many card tricks as you want on me, and I won’t even threaten to smother you in your sleep. Pleeease. Mum’ll listen to you. Mum always listens to you,’ she says matter-of-factly.
I run my hands through the tragedy that is my hair. I’ve worn it long enough to hide behind since I was ten, but since it’s reached a length where my sister could manhandle it into a Marie Antoinette bouffant last time we watched the History Channel, I should probably sort it out. Right this instant, though, the only thing I can think about is a shower, and school, and a certain dark-eyed person who has, mindbogglingly, not run a mile from my inane babbling. I’ve caught her a couple of times looking askance at me from a distance – confused, sure, and maybe a bit ambivalent. But as crazy as it is, she actually seems willing to meander down our weird conversational rabbit holes. And then my wandering mind puts shower and Sophia in the same sentence, and my face explodes in a fresco of heat.
I shove Gillian out of my room. ‘Okay, fine, I will stick my head on the chopping block for you, baby sister, but can I deal with it later?’
Gillian turns in my doorway and gives me a smile edged with shyness. ‘Thanks, Josh. I know I sound all High School Musical or whatever …’ She shrugs. ‘Not that I care. But, you know, it’s nice being around people who don’t think I’m a giant freak.’
I pause. Gillian scuffs her feet on the floorboards, and for a fleeting moment my sister – formidable, fiery, with the recently developed ability to transform our unflappable mum into a frazzled rage-monster – looks vulnerable, and miles younger than her age.
I reach through my doorway and pull her back, trapping her in a bear hug. Gilly, worryingly, hugs me back, not even attempting to squirm away. I find myself frowning into her crunchy hair. ‘Gillian Anna Bailey, you are a smart, interesting, awesome freak, stuck in a prison of blandness and mediocrity. If you’re surrounded by people who can’t see you, well, then they don’t deserve your awesomeness.’
‘Yeah, whatevs. Thanks, Josh,’ she mumbles. Then she shakes herself out of her slushy mood and pulls away, evil grin back in place. ‘So you reckon Mum’ll have a stroke if I tell her Emma’s boyfriend just dropped out of uni? He’s got a neck tattoo. Mum does like to say we’re not classist.’
‘Weigh up your priorities, baby sister,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I know getting Mum riled is your reason for existing these days, but want some advice? Choose where you direct your energy. If you want something badly enough, it’s worth letting all the other stuff go.’
I don’t think too hard about the uncomfortable jolt I feel as the words tumble out. I don’t think it’s bad advice. Focusing on a singular goal is fine. I manoeuvre Gilly down the corridor, then focu
s all my energy into not falling over the cat as I haul arse to get sorted for school.
First period kicks off with Mr Grayson tripping into my Maths classroom, looking every bit like an enemy of the revolution being led to the guillotine. He’s obviously been drafted into the cover roster, and pretty unwillingly, judging by the depressed pong that wafts in his wake. He tries to call the class to attention, and immediately drops his coffee all over the stack of practice exams. Everyone pisses themselves laughing. I sink deeper into my seat. I feel a bit sorry for Mr Grayson, with his Eeyore eyes, and his novelty mug that looks homemade. (Slogan? Some people choose to be happy. I chose to be a Biology teacher. I mean, dude, really?)
Needless to say, this morning’s gonna be a write-off. I crack open my new Robin Hobb novel, ignoring the rattle of furniture as the class rearranges itself. Tucked behind my desk at the back of the room, no-one’s gonna pay me any attention.
My eyes shimmy to my Maths folder, which holds my half-finished homework. The conversation with my sister is still fresh – at least, I reckon that’s the reason for the uncomfortableness in my chest that feels a whole lot like guilt.
I shove the folder into my satchel, and then I shove the satchel under my desk. I bury my head in City of Dragons again, half of my brain tumbling over this new coin-and-fishbowl trick I’m trying to hone. But I can’t shake the uneasiness that’s been haunting me for ages, like a shadowy creature from a H. P. Lovecraft story, dampening even the brilliance of a bonus double free.
See, despite my sister’s pronouncements to the contrary, I am actually not a total dumbarse. When crap hits the fan, I can usually pull the finger out long enough to keep me afloat. I actually have, like, an infinite amount of energy for the things I love – stick me in a History class, or in front of a Penn and Teller special, or give me a stack of books about Arthurian Britain, and I’m all eyes and ears. I dunno. I’ve just never found the mental endurance to focus on stuff that doesn’t automatically hold my attention. If I thought about it – at this particular juncture – it might be cause for alarm. Cos sticking the History Channel, card tricks, a ceiling-high shelf of fantasy tomes, hanging with my sister, and a fascination with the inner workings of old clocks into a vocational blender is – strangely enough – yet to spit out a workable career option.
I kick my legs up onto my desk. Best not to think about it.
‘Yo, dude! Thought we were gonna be stuck listening to Finkler cream himself over derivatives again. Freedom, man! How awesome is this?’
Damien Pagono appears beside me, dragging his desk from the other side of the room till it bumps against mine. The legs scrape the lino, sharp and piercing. Shaun Khouri and his brainless friends turn around and unleash a barrage of pretty uninventive insults.
Damien seems unfazed. He sits, coolly, till Shaun and his mates lose interest, then kicks a foot up beside mine. ‘So. What are we doing with this glorious ninety minutes of freedom?’
I focus on my novel. When all else fails, denial is my friend.
‘I could use the time to catch up on some writing. You ever read fanfic? I’m well into it. Been working on this Harry Potter story since we moved here. But, like, in my version, McGonagall and Tonks are totally doing it.’
I angle myself away from him. I don’t know what Damien’s game is, but if he thinks he can smoke me out by talking till I cave, he really doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Once I went almost a full year without speaking. Not even the combo of my parents and some very expensive therapists could sway me. This melon-faced douchenut has no chance.
‘You know McGonagall? Wicked hot, for an old chick. I reckon it’s the Animagus thing. And maybe the hat. She’s well into some nasty business, too, in my story. Sex stuff,’ he adds, helpfully.
I focus on my book. Black ink blurs on the page.
‘Y’know Professor McG can turn herself into any animal? Talk about kinky.’
Something about the lost city of Kelsingra …
‘Tonks is totally up for the dolphin stuff.’
My head snaps up. ‘Bloody hell, that’s … really inappropriate.’
A triumphant, crap-eating grin blooms across his face. ‘Whoa, he speaks! Thought I was gonna have to start signing next.’ He waves demented fingers in my face, forming no words but still managing to look offensive.
I slam my book shut. ‘Look, what do you want? Why are you hassling me? Do I look like I’m up for a chat about dolphin sex?’
Damien snorts. ‘Like it’s ever the wrong time to talk about dolphin sex. And hello – you’re calling me inappropriate? Cos staring at the back of that chick’s head in Bio for the last, oh I dunno, ninety bajillion years is all kinds of kosher?’
I spin around towards him, face flushing. ‘That’s … I don’t know what … it’s none of your business!’
He rests his hands behind his neck and swings his chair backwards. ‘S’okay. She’s hot. Got issues the size of Uluru, but she seems cool for a smart chick. She can’t act for shit, but. And her friend looks at me like she wants to roast my wang on a Bunsen burner,’ he says cheerfully.
Despite my better judgement, my ears prick up. ‘Right. You take Drama too, don’t you?’
‘Aw, see, you have noticed me!’ He flutters his stubby lashes. ‘Always the quiet ones who’ll be stealing an eyeful of your arse when they think you’re not looking.’
I cross my arms. ‘Trust me, your arse is the last place my eyes want to venture.’
He laughs, an unselfconscious hyena-bark. ‘Fair enough. I’m counting it as a win that you’re looking at my face.’
‘Okay, fine, I’ll bite. Why are you so keen on being buddies? Did you lose a bet?’
He kicks his other foot up onto my desk. ‘Whoa, someone has self-esteem issues. Paranoid much?’ His eyes flitter away awkwardly. ‘I just figure us losers and loners should stick together. You know. No-one can be arsed with the new guy. And you don’t seem fussed that everyone here thinks you’re hoarding human hair in your lunchbox or some shit.’
I snort. ‘I couldn’t care less what people think.’
‘See? My mum always told me to make friends with the weird kids.’
‘I have friends,’ I say automatically.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Fantasy girl and your right hand don’t count.’
I nudge Damien’s feet off my desk and take another look at him. The dude’s sat next to me in Bio since he showed up at school earlier this year, and with a personality like his, he’s kinda hard to miss. He’s shorter than me, and broader, with one of those spongy round faces that’s destined to head straight into middle age without losing the pudge. He always seems oblivious to the fact that he’s the grown-up equivalent of that smelly kid in kinder no-one wanted to sit beside. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him hanging out with anyone at school.
Crap on a stick. I run my hands through my hair. ‘Yeah, okay,’ I find myself saying. ‘But don’t think this means I’m inviting you for sleepovers.’
Damien grins. He digs a squashed muesli bar out of his bag and tears off half, holding it out to me. I decline with a vague headshake.
‘So, you and The Genius, huh?’ He whistles under his breath. ‘What are your intentions there?’
Despite everything, I find myself choking on a laugh. ‘What are you, her dad?’
‘Just a concerned observer,’ he says through a mouthful of choc chips. ‘You haven’t picked an easy target there, bro.’
I sigh. ‘Don’t call her a “target”. And I really don’t want to talk about this …’ I sneak another hesitant glance at him. ‘She’s really struggling in Drama, huh?’
He tips his chair onto its back legs again. ‘Yeah. I mean, shouldn’t she be, like, off working for some secret think tank in the Netherlands? What the shit is she doing slogging through Heller’s poxy improv games?’
I drum my fingers on my desk. I’m worried, too. And not just about her morale in Drama. Though she lets slip only slivers of perso
nal stuff, I’ve noticed some troubling signs lately, little jolts that’ve been building for months. And aside from my piss poor efforts, I feel totally powerless to help.
So I may have spent the greater part of Bio this year trying to work out a variation on a Dove Pan trick in my notebook, and staring at the back of Sophia’s head while constructing some pretty lame fantasies featuring her sitting next to me and sharing my eraser. But leaving aside my own intentions, or whatever, it’s blindingly obvious that things aren’t right in her world. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Elsie’s started angling her stool very slightly away. Sophia never really talks much in class, but she usually has at least a few quiet conversations with her bestie, heads bent close-but-not-too-close together. But lately, Elsie’s been responding with only nods and brief, strained replies. Nothing like her usual self, full of hand gestures and warmth.
I’ve seen it coming for months, this friction between them. It’s palpable, even from the outside, and it makes my heart break a little.
Beside me, Damien is still talking.
‘Sorry, what?’
He ferrets out a packet of BBQ chips. ‘I was saying, chicks dig flowers and shit. You tried flowers?’ His eyes dart sideways, grin still in place, but there’s something kinda perceptive there, too. ‘Or maybe you could just ask her what her problem is?’ He packs his gob full of chips, and shrugs. ‘Girl looks like she could use a friendly face.’
I add a column in my mental notebook headed: The Elsie/ Sophia conundrum: more possible assists and/or solutions. I ignore the fact that Damien Pagono, with his shirt buttons askew and a whole pack of Smiths shoved in his mouth, is offering me romantic advice. If I were prone to self pity, I’d be feeling just a bit pathetic right about now.
At the front of the classroom, Mr Grayson has given up trying to salvage any authority and appears to be watching Netflix on his phone. ‘But what would I know,’ Damien says blithely. ‘My ma says I’m as useful as a one-legged guy in an arse-kicking contest. I’m hanging out for uni, man – maybe older chicks will be into weird dudes?’ He shoves the empty chip packet into his pocket and nudges my foot – somehow his rank size nines have ended up back on my desk. ‘So. You gonna keep ignoring me?’