by Melissa Keil
My hands are trembling. ‘Maybe. Something like that.’
‘Maybe … I think that’s also the most I’ve ever heard you say in one go,’ he says quietly.
I rub my gritty eyes. ‘I used to talk more, I think,’ I hear myself say.
I used to talk a lot more, when I was a kid. Before I figured out what the shared side-eyes and giggles of my classmates meant, before I learned that they could be avoided if I just kept quiet. I think I used to get so excited that I lost myself, not realising that normal people just didn’t care about the things I found exciting. I’d forget that my voice was supposed to stay at a certain level, not too loud or too high, that my hands were allowed to gesture, but only so emphatically. But there always seemed to be someone around to point out what I was doing wrong. In those fleeting moments when I forgot to be cautious, and vigilant, there always seemed to be someone who was happy to put me back in my place.
The sound of the rain is loud in the quiet house. ‘Sorry. All that is probably pretty uninteresting.’
He is quiet for a long moment. ‘You know, Sophia, you don’t have to be so careful about what you say,’ he says softly. ‘You don’t always have to … pretend.’
I snort, a pathetic puff of air that has no energy behind it. ‘Ask anyone in my Drama class if I have any skills in pretending. Check with your friend Damien. I can’t even successfully fake being a normal human.’
‘That’s not what I meant. It’s just, I know what it feels like,’ he says slowly. I hear the sound of a door closing in the background. ‘Triple-checking everything in your head before it comes out of your mouth.’
‘How do you have time to check anything before it comes out of your mouth?’ I blurt.
He laughs. ‘Okay, whatever. I know I talk too much.’
His tone is light, but I’m struck by a wave of panic. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be insulting. Sometimes I say something, and in my head it sounds perfectly logical, but somehow it ends up sounding rude when it comes out of my mouth.’
‘Hey, I’m not that easily offended. Don’t stress.’
I exhale. ‘I’ve been told I’m not always a nice person,’ I mumble.
‘Who told you that? Wait – first of all – I think you’re nice.’ His voice brightens, as if he’s discovered the answer to a tricky problem. ‘You’re, like, the most honest person I’ve ever met. You want people to like you, but you don’t pretend to be something you’re not to make it happen. I know you’d never do anything to deliberately hurt anyone – I’ve seen how you are with Elsie.’ He clears his throat, an unasked question hovering between us. ‘But, Sophia, for whatever it’s worth – you don’t always have to be nice for me to like you.’
I look up, somehow surprised to find that he is not sitting right there beside me. It’s the oddest thing, this disembodied conversation. In real life, I can never seem to figure out the appropriate amount of time to devote to eye contact, especially in those moments when I’m focused on what a person’s saying and not, you know, on what my face is doing. It’s the reason I find myself talking to my feet, or staring at a person until they get all awkward.
But I remember him holding my gaze, neither put out nor discomfited by my blinkless stare. Waiting, patiently, for me to speak.
‘I’ve been told I make people uncomfortable,’ I say, experimentally. ‘It doesn’t seem to matter that I don’t do it on purpose. The rules with people aren’t always logical. Everyone I know keeps trying to fix me. Everyone seems to think I’d be happier if I could just be the way everyone else is and, you know. Smile when I’m supposed to, I guess.’
‘Oh, I call bullshit,’ he snaps. I startle at the harsh tone in his voice. ‘And no, I’m not annoyed with you, not at all, but I’m pissed that people’ve made you feel that way. It isn’t your job to make them comfortable. Maybe it’s not you who needs to keep pretzelling yourself to make everyone else happy? Maybe who you are is perfect, and everyone else just needs better glasses.’
I get up, and pace a circle from my bed to my desk. I don’t know what to do with this strange, squashed feeling in my chest. I sit heavily on my bed again. ‘Joshua. Can we talk about something else?’
He exhales, his breath heavy through the phone. Then he chuckles. ‘Sure. All right. Small talk. Amazing weather, isn’t it?’
I look out my window at the bleak dark sky, not a single star visible. ‘Melbourne weather sucks balls. Next.’
He laughs again. ‘Okay, no weather. Did you catch the game on the weekend?’ He bursts into guffaws before I can respond. ‘Nope, I can’t even. Come on, your turn.’
‘Okay.’ I think about something I’ve heard my dad ask our neighbours when he fails to avoid them while collecting the mail. ‘Got plans for the weekend?’
‘Weekend plans, how mundane! Let’s see – my sister needs help building this HMS Endeavour model for her Australian History class, which means I’m going to end up neck-deep in craft glue and icy-pole sticks while she listens to podcasts. I’m working at the shop on Sunday … oh, some friends are having a party Saturday night.’
‘You’re going to a party?’
‘Yeah, probably. I bunked on the last one and I never heard the end of it.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I’m not sure what I expected. Of course he’s a normal person, with friends and normal friend-things like parties and movies and whatever else normal people do. He’s not some freak who gets stressed in a crowd, who hasn’t been to a pool since he was eight because the thought of a stranger brushing against his skin makes him feel all prickly. Of course he’d be fine at a party. He’s a normal guy with a normal life –
‘Sophia?’ he says quietly. ‘Um, there’s going to be heaps of people there, and the place can get kind of crazy –’
I head back to my desk and my Russian and my Perelman. ‘It’s okay. Have fun.’
‘Hey, see, I’d really like you to meet my friends, but I’d never ask you to do anything that you didn’t want to do –’
‘I get it. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to be stuck at a party with me, either.’
I hear him take a deep breath. ‘Sophia, would you like to come with me?’ he says in a rush.
I look around my room. The answer is no, of course I don’t want to go to a party. I want to spend Saturday night in my bedroom, in my pyjamas, with vintage Hartnell Who. The no is gathered behind my breath, but somehow it refuses to release. I don’t know what’s possessing me; it’s like a book that I haven’t read, a Schrödinger’s box with an unknown paradox inside. And then I think about Elsie’s stubborn insistence that I learn to be fine on my own, and I feel my resolve harden.
‘Sure,’ I hear myself say, distantly. ‘I’ll come. If it’s okay? Will your friends mind? Are you sure you want me to –’
‘I want you to,’ he replies.
My eyes skirt around my room. I’m struck by the alarming thought that I’m behaving just like Sandra Bullock from Elsie’s crappy movie; preoccupied with the colour of the leaves in autumn, when I should probably be investigating the time hole in my letterbox that has the potential to suck the universe into oblivion.
‘But, ah, Sophia, there’s something I should say first. I just need to get this out of the way, before … well, before. I need to say this in advance.’
‘What?’ My voice sounds kind of hoarse.
On the other end of the line, I think he might be smiling. ‘I’m really sorry about Adrian.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The multiverse conjecture
I am sitting in the kitchen, staring at the blinking microwave clock. Dad made a giant lasagne before he and Mum headed to the movies with Auntie Rema and Uncle Wes, but my stomach is tumbling and there’s no way I can eat. I’m wondering if it’s too late to run to Elsie and beg for her advice. I’m also really wishing I’d managed to absorb even the rudiments of Method acting theory – maybe I could have developed a completely new personality between now and 8 p.m.
I don’t do par
ties. Generally, yes, because I can’t deal with crowds, but also because I just know I’m not fun. I’m not loud or enthusiastic, and I don’t get small talk, and never, not even when Ms Heller has threatened me with detention, have I been able to master a breezy, carefree laugh. How am I supposed to keep this boy entertained? Is that even what’s supposed to happen? And what if –
Toby wanders into the kitchen, his glasses tucked into the collar of his pyjama shirt. His hair is standing up like a lopsided black mohawk, as if he’s been running his hands continuously through it. He recoils in the doorway when he sees me.
‘What are you doing?’
I glance at the clock again. Less than two minutes have passed since I last checked. ‘I’m going out. To a party. With a friend,’ I say, testing the words. They feel foreign in my mouth. It’s cold in here, but beads of sweat are forming on my forehead.
Toby frowns. ‘A party? You? With who?’ He crosses his arms.
My fingers curl where I have clasped them on the table. I stare at my brother, at his stupid pinched face and his ridiculous Kmart pyjamas, and all the anger and annoyance and anxiety I’ve been fighting seems to coalesce into a tight, focused ball. ‘What is it, Toby?’ I snap. ‘Am I stealing your air molecules? Ruining your view of the fridge? Or is it just my face that makes you mad?’
Toby takes a step backwards. For a moment I think he will just back out of the room in a huff, but he runs his hands through his fauxhawk, and his laugh is sharp and short. It sounds like he’s been sucking on a lemon, the laugh forced out through vocal cords shrunk tight with acid.
I think the bitterness in Toby’s laugh surprises even him. His face collapses in on itself. It’s almost fascinating, like witnessing a Tetris game of tumbling, mystifying emotions. My words have dried up, but clearly, Toby has found his.
‘Yeah, your face makes me mad. You and your helpless life-is-so-tough act. You … you know, the rest of us have to actually work for stuff? That doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? You’re selfish. And the shitty thing is, you’re not even capable of recognising it. You don’t feel anything.’
Toby takes a deep breath. For a moment I think he has something else to say; for the briefest second, I almost imagine that he hesitates. But then he squares his shoulders and marches out of the kitchen without another word.
I stare at the microwave clock. Four minutes have now passed. Distantly, I’m aware that was probably the longest sentence Toby has directed at me since his voice broke. I’m also aware, in this odd, detached way, that at least I can now confirm my hypothesis. My brother hates me.
I get up and carefully smooth down my dress. I suppose it should be comforting, in a way, to know where I stand. Mystery solved. Elsie will be delighted.
I try to rouse some righteous indignation, but all I feel is tired, and unaccountably empty.
I feel things. I do. I just don’t share myself with the world in the way I’m supposed to. But maybe none of that matters. Maybe all the work that my teachers and my parents have put into making me a whole, functioning human is not for me at all, but so the rest of the world can feel comfortable with who I am. And clearly, I am sucking zebra balls at it.
I understand that spontaneous human combustion is a myth, but I fear I might take out the kitchen with a nuclear blast of frustration if I don’t get out of the house right this second.
Twenty minutes and a taxi ride later, and I am standing on a corner block surrounded by tall hedges, wondering what part of my cerebral cortex is responsible for this ridiculous mission. A small iron gate springs midway along the hedge border. I pause and peer through the bars. Joshua’s house lies beyond.
Though, really, I’m not sure that ‘house’ is the correct moniker. It’s not exactly a mansion, but I am guessing there is probably a mansion-adjacent descriptor for it. His front yard could comfortably hold my entire house.
Perpendicular rosebushes line a path that leads from the side gate to the porch. The yard is pristine, all clean edges and giant trees. But my eyes are drawn to the inconsistencies; a kid’s bike dumped on the driveway, a pile of shoes on the wide porch. It’s like real people have been dropped into the middle of a fantasy landscape.
The gate closes behind me with a snick as I walk down the bluestone path. My body is doing its water-kneed, fight-or-flight shuffle, reminiscent of every trip across the lawn to the Arts building. I shouldn’t be here. I should have stayed home with George Boole and Tom Baker. But whatever has drawn me here doggedly refuses to march my feet backwards.
The porch lights brighten as I approach the house. My eyes drift upwards, taking in the second storey, and the gabled windows of the rooms above it. A warm glow emanates from the window of what looks to be a turret.
Fact: Joshua Bailey is loaded.
I stop at the bottom of the porch stairs, my phone clutched in my sweaty palm. I’m not sure what to do, so I send an impulsive text.
Hey. I’m out the front of your place.
I peer nervously up at the house again. It remains silent; and yet I can practically feel his energy barrelling towards me.
He throws open the door, eyes darting. When they land on me, his face morphs into a big, shy smile.
I try to return it, but all I manage is a grimace. ‘Um, I know I’m early but I needed to … I mean, I wanted to …’
Joshua trips lightly to the edge of the porch and looks at me over the railing. ‘No, no, it’s fine. You just surprised me, is all. Hey!’ he says, grinning wildly. ‘You’re at my house!’
I don’t bother commenting on the obviousness. He’s wearing a black-and-grey checked shirt, his hair curling over the collar, and jeans but no shoes, his bare feet poking out of frayed cuffs. The warmth radiating from inside the house battles with the arctic bluster of the wind through the yard. Joshua wraps his arms around his body and tucks his hands into his armpits.
I wait for a few heartbeats, but none of Joshua’s usual verbal calisthenics are forthcoming. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses?’
He adjusts the black frames. ‘Ah, yeah. Busted. You didn’t give me time to put my contacts in.’
‘Oh. Sorry. They don’t look bad or anything. The glasses. They look good,’ I say, before my brain finally slams on the brakes.
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘My sister says I look like, and I quote, “an anaemic Clark Kent if he were the nerd one in a hipster boy band”. I don’t think it’s meant to be flattering.’
I shiver as I’m hit by another gust of frigid wind. Joshua takes a few hurried steps backwards. ‘God, I’m an idiot. You must be freezing! Come inside.’
I take the porch steps till I’m standing beside him. He pauses in the doorway, head tilted. From somewhere, loud music blares, punctuated by angry shouted lyrics.
Joshua looks over his shoulder at me. He places a finger on his lips, eyes twinkling, and whispers, ‘On my signal, make a run for it.’
I hesitate. ‘Joshua, I don’t want to get you in trouble –’
He reaches behind him, fingers closing lightly on the edge of my sleeve. ‘Nah,’ he says in a stage whisper as he tugs me into the house. ‘It’s fine, it’s just, I’d rather my sister didn’t know you were here. Trust me, an interrogation from a Viet Cong proctologist would be way less invasive.’
He hustles us into a spacious foyer. I clock an impossibly high ceiling, polished floorboards that extend down a long corridor, and a curved staircase off-centre, with another, narrower corridor running behind it. To the left are wide double doors that open into a library, plush armchairs nestled in a circle and heavy shelves overflowing with books.
I glance at Joshua, only just now processing that his fingers are still looped loosely around my wrist. He seems to be staring at the spot where our hands meet. Behind his glasses, his eyes are a little wide. He lets go of me quickly at the same time that I, reflexively, pull away. He sticks his hands in his pockets.
‘So t
his is home,’ he says.
Granted, I don’t have the keenest judgement when it comes to other humans, but the inside of Joshua’s house isn’t what I imagined from the imposing exterior. There’s artwork on the walls that looks fancy and expensive, but it’s fighting for place among framed kids’ drawings and finger-painted canvases. The furniture that I can see is mismatched and well worn, but still manages to look coordinated. And it smells warm inside, like baked fruit and wood smoke.
‘Huh,’ I mutter. Joshua looks at me quizzically, but there’s no way I’m going to voice what I’m thinking – that his house is a little like Joshua himself. Contradictory and anachronistic and improbably comfortable.
There’s a sudden crash somewhere, and a shriek, followed by a chorus of yelling.
Joshua makes this little yeep sound and hurries us towards the narrow corridor behind the staircase.
‘Shouldn’t you, um, check on that?’ I say.
He listens for a few seconds. ‘Nah. My sister broke something or flushed something down the toilet.’ He grins, his bare feet carrying him onwards. ‘Don’t worry – there’s a particular sound you learn to recognise if someone’s bleeding.’
I tiptoe behind him. We pass a few more closed doors, and I can only hypothesise at the contents within. Servants’ quarters? Rooms filled with nothing but ancient funerary urns? The heart of the TARDIS?
Joshua pauses in front of a solid door at the end of the seemingly endless hallway. He nudges it with his hip and holds it open with his back.
I gather the splintering bits of my psyche and step over the threshold.
‘Holy … wow. This is your room?’
‘Ah, yeah. Sorry, it’s a little cosy.’
Joshua’s room is minuscule, no bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. There’s barely enough room for the double bed pushed against the wall and the small chest of drawers that faces it. There’s just enough floor space for a thin rug, faded blue and covered with stars. The sliver of space between the drawers and the bed contains a leather chair and a tiny desk scattered with pens. Like the rest of the house, the ceiling is high, but painted a deep, dark blue, giving the impression of a night sky far above. But the thing that draws my eye, that makes me turn slowly in place like a mystified rotisserie chicken, are his walls.