Fifteen Love

by R. M. Corbet

  And now, here I am, being forced to imagine Will and Vanessa doing it. Maybe not today, maybe not here, in front of all the school. But the when and the where are clearly not going to be a major problem for them.

  I feel sick in my stomach.

  For the rest of that afternoon, I drift along in a kind of daze. I imagine it happening everywhere. Insects are out in the garden, doing it. Beetles are crawling into holes and doing it. In biology lab, all the single-celled organisms are doing it under the microscope. In media studies, the newsreaders are doing it during the ad breaks.

  Finally, the bell goes. I grab my bag and manage to get out the gate before the whole school starts doing it. Walking home, there are people doing it in cars. People are sneaking into shops to do it. Busloads are going home to do it and the ones in the back seat can’t even wait that long.

  That night, after dinner, the phone rings and I answer it. For a moment I hope it might even be Will. But it isn’t Will – it’s her. The girl who is doing it with my dad. ‘Is that Mia?’ she says, sweetly. ‘It’s Tina, a friend of your father’s. Is he there? Could I have a quick word?’

  I am dumbstruck. How does she know my name? Who does she think she is, ringing up like this, telling me her name and saying she’s a friend of my father’s? I don’t want to know her name. I don’t want to know anything about her. And why is she ringing, on my phone, in my house, to speak to my father!

  What about my mum? Has the whole world gone stark raving mad?

  I put down the receiver and call out in a loud voice, ‘Dad! Your girlfriend’s on the phone . . . I think she feels like doing it!’

  WILL

  At lunchtime I see Vanessa Webb standing alone by the back gate.

  ‘I’m out of smokes,’ she says. ‘Want to nick off to the shops with me?’

  I don’t smoke, and leaving the school is forbidden.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  We wait until the coast is clear, then we sneak out the gate and around the corner into a side street. We are walking fast and laughing nervously. When a police car goes past, Vanessa takes my hand and squeezes it hard.

  ‘Partners in crime,’ she laughs.

  At the milk bar Vanessa buys her smokes, then we go and sit out of sight in the car park at the back. When Vanessa offers me one, I turn her down.

  ‘Mr Fitness,’ she says. ‘I almost forgot.’

  ‘Why do you smoke those things, anyway?’

  Vanessa shrugs. ‘To stop me eating junk.’

  ‘You’re in good shape,’ I say.

  ‘You finally noticed,’ she smiles.

  She passes me her cigarette and I take it between my fingers. It feels light and unfamiliar, like something I might easily crush or drop accidentally. It feels like a baton in some kind of intimate relay race. It feels like flirting.

  ‘Are you going to smoke that thing or just look at it?’

  It takes a major effort to keep my hand steady as I give it back to her.

  Vanessa smokes her cigarette like a movie star. There is something exciting but not quite real about it. It’s as if the director has rolled the camera and now Vanessa is smoking. Is this why I’m here – to watch Vanessa smoking her cigarette? When I zoom in for a close-up, I can see the pores of her skin. I can smell her warm, smoky breath. It would be so easy to lean across and kiss her. I’m sure it’s somewhere in the script . . .

  . . . and CUT!

  A car pulls up and Vanessa immediately stubs out her cigarette. The principal winds down her window and glares at us both.

  ‘Will Holland! What are you doing here?’

  MIA

  In class, I smile at the teacher: Yes, I AM listening. I smile at the canteen lady: Yes, I know donuts are fattening and yes I want THREE! I smile at Ms S when she kindly lends me a viola to keep until the concert: Yes, but we BOTH KNOW I don’t deserve it. At lunchtime, I wander the school grounds, smiling at the world: Yes, it’s a sunny day! Yes, I’m alone because I LIKE being alone.

  The truth is, inside I’m festering with poisonous thoughts about T*** – that lipstick-smeared, adulterous home-wrecker whose name I can’t even mention. I think about her husky voice on the phone. How dare she ask, ‘Is that Mia?’ How dare she talk to me! How dare she use my name! And how dare he tell her my name! Why did he tell her? What possible reason could he have had?

  Her name is Mia and she doesn’t suspect a thing.

  Don’t worry about Mia. She’s a pushover.

  When we get married I’m sure Mia will make a lovely bridesmaid.

  I am walking and fuming and festering with black thoughts when I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. Up ahead, Will and Vanessa are sneaking out the back gate – sneaking in full view – off for a not-so-secret rendezvous!

  The whole world is sneaking and lying, keeping secrets and smiling to hide them. No one cares about how other people feel. Everyone does what they like and gets away with it. All the rules are broken.

  Including the one about not dobbing on your friends.

  WILL

  After school we have detention. The principal sits at her desk writing letters, while Vanessa and I exchange meaningful glances. Whenever she has to leave the room, we whisper desperate messages, like true partners in crime.

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘You worry too much,’ she says.

  ‘What if she keeps us here till midnight?’

  ‘She wants to go more than we do.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘This is your first time, isn’t it?’

  I nod.

  Vanessa grins. ‘I’ve corrupted you, haven’t I?’

  Eventually, the principal tells us we’re free to go. The corridors are empty and our feet make squeaky sounds on the lino as we walk like pardoned prisoners towards the gate.

  ‘I’m starving,’ says Vanessa. ‘Let’s get something to eat.’

  MIA

  When I get home from school, Mum is watching The Bold and the Beautiful. There’s a glass of wine in her hand and an empty bottle on the table. Mum’s clothes are crumpled and her make-up is smudged. There’s nothing bold or beautiful about her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m fine, sweetheart.’

  ‘You don’t look okay.’

  Mum looks up at me with her sad, blurry eyes. There is so much she wants to tell me, but can’t. There is so much she won’t even admit to herself.

  ‘Dad didn’t come home last night, did he?’

  Mum looks confused. ‘He was working late,’ she mumbles.

  ‘You don’t have to cover up for him!’ I say. ‘And you don’t have to protect me!’

  ‘He’s a good father,’ she says meekly.

  ‘Mum!’ I scream. ‘How can you say that!’

  I go to my room and slam the door. I open the viola case and stare at its awful contents. The viola began its life as a maple tree. It would have been chosen specially, maybe even specially grown. It would have got cut down and sawed up into sections. The best timber would have been slowly crafted – chiselled with great care and expertise, then fitted, sanded and repeatedly varnished. It would have taken hours, weeks, months of delicate, skilful work. A labour of love, lost forever.

  WILL

  In the pizza place, Vanessa and I watch the guy rolling out the dough. He spins it on his hand, then lays it out on the aluminium dish and smears it with tomato paste. He scoops up a handful of cheese and spreads it around. He arranges the seafood, the salami and capsicum, the ham and pineapple, the mushrooms and olives, then he puts the finished pizza onto the slow-moving conveyor belt.

  ‘Is that eat in or takeaway?’ he asks.

  I look at Vanessa.

  ‘Eat in,’ she says.

  We sit at a little table by the door, so that it almost could be takeaway. If we changed our minds about eating in, we could pick up our pizza and step out into the street. Takeaway means food you eat when you’re hungry. Eating in means more than just the f
ood. Eating in means it’s a date. My first-ever date with a girl and I am hopelessly unprepared.

  Vanessa, on the other hand, is in her element. She orders a chinotto and even knows how to pronounce it. She studies the menu and tosses around other tricky words like prosciutto and bruschetta as if she’s part-Italian.

  ‘We should have ordered the capricciosa,’ she says.

  ‘What’s a quattro stagioni?’ I say.

  Vanessa looks worried, about either my bad pronunciation or my lack of pizza experience.

  ‘Actually, this is only the . . . ’ I count on my fingers ‘. . . fifth pizza I’ve ever had.’

  ‘What?’ Vanessa looks horrified.

  ‘My dad says I’m not allowed to eat pizza.’

  ‘Your dad is weird.’

  ‘Ken has a master’s degree in sports nutrition. He majored in fat metabolism. Everything he eats is low-fat: low-fat yoghurt, low-fat muffins, low-fat muesli bars. He thinks pizza is evil.’

  Vanessa smiles. ‘It is evil. That’s why it tastes so good.

  Time passes. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn back into seconds. Vanessa puts the menu away and sips her chinotto. Light years pass, and our pizza is lost forever inside the black-hole oven. Because it’s a date, I feel I should say something. But because I’ve never been on a date before – and because the pizza is taking so long – I can’t. I can’t stop thinking that the conveyor belt must be broken and our pizza burnt beyond recognition. The pizza guy is reading his newspaper. He’s forgotten all about us.

  ‘So,’ says Vanessa finally. ‘What was it like, being famous?’

  ‘Pretty ordinary,’ I say.

  ‘What was the best thing?’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘I got to go on a date with you?’

  Vanessa laughs and looks me in the eye.

  ‘I’m going to be famous someday,’ she says. ‘And I’ll do what it takes to stay famous!’

  Finally, our pizza emerges from the oven, so the pizza guy carves it and brings it over. Vanessa takes a big slice in both hands and positions it above her open mouth like a sword swallower. She lowers the pizza and takes a bite, then pulls away, leaving a sagging bridge of melted mozzarella.

  She looks so hungry, it’s almost scary.

  MIA

  The hospital where my father works is in the city. My taxi drops me off outside the main entrance, then I catch the lift up to the fifth floor: Ward C.

  The nurse at reception smiles at me. ‘Can I help you?’

  Has my dad ever done it with her, I wonder?

  When I tell her who I am she says, ‘Dr Foley? I think he’s seeing someone.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  I go and wait outside my dad’s rooms until the door opens. A middle-aged woman steps out. She says ‘Thank you’ as she closes the door behind her.

  Has he just finished doing it with her as well?

  Without knocking, I open the door and enter. My father is at his desk, searching for a file in his bottom drawer. He doesn’t even look up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘Mia!’

  Dad stands up to welcome me. He tries to kiss me but I pull away, so he shuts the door and sits back in his chair. As slowly and deliberately as I can, I place the closed viola case on the desk in front of him.

  ‘How was orchestra practice?’ he asks in his cheery doctor’s voice.

  ‘Where were you?’

  Dad blinks.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Were you with . . . her? Were you with . . . your girlfriend?’

  For a moment Dad looks flustered, but then he puts on his important doctor’s face.

  ‘Can we talk about this later tonight? I have patients waiting.’

  I look at my father, the important doctor, sitting there behind his important doctor’s desk, wearing his important doctor’s suit. I look at his important doctor’s hands, so clean and calmly folded on the desktop. They are surgeon’s hands – hands that save lives. But they are also unfaithful hands – hands that like groping young women. In some countries, adulterers have their hands cut off.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, trying to hold back my tears. ‘Not now. Not tonight. I didn’t come here to talk about it. I came here to tell you to leave me and Mum alone. You’re not a part of our family anymore. I don’t ever want you to come home again!’

  ‘You’re upset,’ says Dad, holding out his hands to me. ‘I understand.’

  I shake my head. ‘You think if something is wrong you can fix it. You think you can cut a hole in someone and take out the bad bit. You think you can stitch them back up and everything will be okay, but you’re wrong!’

  My father stares in disbelief as I open the viola case and empty the shattered contents onto his desk.

  ‘There are some things,’ I say, ‘that can never be fixed.’

  WILL

  It’s after seven o’clock by the time I get home. Smelling of pizza, coffee, cigarettes and Vanessa, I slip in the front door like a criminal – full of elaborate alibis and expecting the worst. But Ken’s reaction is not what I expected. Instead of being angry, he smiles sympathetically.

  ‘How’s the elbow?’ he says.

  Besides his degree in nutrition, Ken has a certificate in sports massage from the Institute of Pain and Torture.

  ‘Tell me if it hurts,’ he says, holding my shoulder and rotating my arm.

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘I spoke to a physiotherapist today. He recommended massage, hydrotherapy and heat treatment, but if it’s the ligaments we should see a radiologist.’

  ‘Can’t we just leave it alone?’

  ‘If we don’t get it fixed, we’ll miss the whole summer.’

  I pull my arm away from him. ‘We? What about me? It’s my elbow, isn’t it? I’m the one who holds the racquet. I’m the one who has to walk out there on the court. I say we leave it alone. I don’t care how long it takes.’

  ‘You can’t just give up,’ says Ken. ‘Not after all the hard work you’ve done.’

  He nods at the eight or nine tennis trophies on the bookshelf – serious little golden men like chocolate wrapped in tinfoil – as if they somehow matter.

  ‘There’s more to life than playing tennis,’ I say. ‘You’re not just my coach, Ken. You’re also my dad, remember?’

  Dave and Lyn appear in the doorway, looking concerned.

  ‘Ken only wants you to be happy, Will,’ says Lyn softly.

  I look at the three of them standing there, blocking my way with their endless patience and understanding. Ever since Dave’s accident, there has been nothing but patience and understanding. In our family, Dave’s accident is something you never talk about. It is something we never mention, not because it is too painful, but because it is understood. Dave’s accident united our family in a way that other families could never be united. After the accident, it felt like us versus the rest of the world. We had to stick together – we had no choice. In our family you don’t complain. If there is a problem, you work it out. Anger is out of line. Crying is not an option. For four years I have been brave and strong, like a third adult, helping to care for my disabled brother. But now, suddenly, I feel like throwing a tantrum.

  ‘I’m not like Dave!’ I shout. ‘I don’t need you to plan my whole life! I don’t need round-the-clock supervision!’

  Lyn looks at Ken and Ken looks at Lyn. I look at Dave and Dave looks away. I feel ashamed of what I have said, but the damage is done. I don’t know what to say to make it better.

  Five

  MIA

  There are no tears or big goodbyes. I get home from school one day to find a note on the kitchen table: Found a nice two-bedroom place. Ring me – love, Dad.

  When I try ringing my father on his mobile, a recorded voice tells me the phone is either switched off or out of range. That figures.

  Mum is very calm about it. She calls our solicitor, who recom
mends someone else, because he is already representing my dad. Mum writes down the number, thanks him and hangs up.

  ‘Well,’ she says bravely. ‘What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘I’ll cook!’ I say.

  ‘There’s not much in the fridge.’

  ‘Then I’ll shop, too!’

  Going to the supermarket is fine when you know what you want. But as a place for getting ideas, it is hopeless. Aisles 1 to 4 have no food whatsoever. Aisle 5 is full of breakfast cereal. Aisle 6 is biscuits. Aisle 7 is soft drinks. Aisle 8 is lollies. I am so worn out with looking by the time I get to Aisle 9, I grab the first thing I see: Fettuccine Napoli. Boil pasta and add contents, it says on the jar. Simplistico! I even buy a packet of parmesan cheese for that extra gourmet touch.

  When I get home, Mum is asleep on the couch, the TV is blaring and there’s another half-empty bottle of wine by her side. I go into the kitchen and get cracking. I fill a saucepan with water, add the pasta and put it on the stove to heat. I set the table, then open the parmesan cheese and put it in a bowl with a teaspoon, just like they do in Italian restaurants. By the time the pasta is cooked, it has soaked up most of the water. I add the Napoli sauce, stir it in with a big wooden spoon and pop it on the table. Perfecto!

  Mum is impressed. She says it’s the best thing I’ve ever cooked, which is true enough, since it’s also the only thing I’ve ever cooked.

  ‘Such big serves!’ she says, as I am dishing up.

  The pasta is a bit on the gluggy side, but with the parmesan it is almost perfecto. Satisfied with my first major cooking attempt, I clear the table and begin stacking the dishwasher. Mum suggests we give the leftovers to Harriet as a special treat, but the spoilt little beagle-brat turns her nose up and won’t touch it.

  ‘How about dessert?’ I say. ‘I could make pancakes.’

  ‘No, let’s go out for coffee and cake!’ says Mum.

  We go to a noisy café, where the menu is written up on a blackboard. We order our cakes and suddenly Mum looks ten years younger, smiling as if I’m her best girlfriend.