by R. M. Corbet
‘Mothballs, by Dior,’ I say.
Will laughs and Vanessa smiles coldly.
‘Let’s go outside,’ she tells Will. ‘I’m dying for a fag.’
WILL
Vanessa takes my hand and leads me through the party. She is my speedboat and I am her waterskier. We brush past people and she introduces me. ‘This is Will . . . Say hi, Will!’ Vanessa has all the answers. She knows what to say. I am treading water when Vanessa throws me a rope. Hang on tight! She accelerates suddenly and I’m up again, skimming across the smooth water. ‘This way,’ she says as we glide past the arm-wrestlers. ‘Careful,’ she says as I sidestep Yorick, who is sticking out in front of me like a dead tree. Vanessa has an outboard motor. She’s loud and fast and dangerous. She takes the corners sharp and I swing out wide, holding on tight. Here comes the ski jump!
‘At last!’ she says when we finally get outside. ‘Wasn’t it awful in there?’
The ski-rope goes slack. Vanessa stops to bot a cigarette from Rogers, the resident school artiste.
‘You look amazing!’ says Rogers.
‘I feel good,’ says Vanessa.
‘I bet you do,’ says Rogers, looking her up and down. Rogers wants to take Vanessa’s photograph, he says. He has his bedroom set up as a studio, he says, and his laundry as a darkroom. ‘We could do a shoot,’ he says. ‘We could put together a folio.’
Rogers is reading Vanessa like a new-edition street directory, and he’s headed straight for the central business district! Meanwhile, I am treading water again, only this time I’m out of my depth. The discarded ski-rope tangles around my legs. I take another swig from my can as I feel myself going under . . .
MIA
As Will disappears with Vanessa, the St D’s boys appear in the doorway, drinking beer and laughing loudly. They aren’t wearing their school blazers, of course, but it’s hard to not notice them. Do they know it’s no alcohol? Do they know they are gatecrashing?
Of course they do.
Bryce and his mates watch the gatecrashers as they move into the room. The gatecrashers are better dressed. They have beer and they are offering it to some of the girls. Bryce and his mates are not happy.
The mood of the room changes abruptly. People stop dancing and move to the corners, leaving the gatecrashers alone in the middle. One of them shakes up his beer and it sprays the roof when he opens it. Someone belches loudly and the others laugh. The gatecrashers see the table of food and begin to help themselves.
Then in walks Yorick.
‘Excuse me,’ he tells the gatecrashers, ‘you’re not supposed to be here.’
The gatecrashers look at Yorick. If they weren’t standing in a room full of people who were thinking the same thing as him, they might not be so polite.
‘It is a party, isn’t it?’ says one of them, with his mouth full.
‘In fact,’ says Yorick, ‘it’s a break-up party for our school. The problem is, you don’t go to our school, do you?’
Yorick would make a great lawyer. He makes it sound like a genuine question, requiring a genuine answer. But the subtlety is lost on the gatecrashers.
‘Are you telling us to leave?’ they say.
Yorick looks uncertain, as if he has only just seen the trouble he is getting himself into. Luckily, Bryce decides to step forward.
‘It’s probably a good idea, don’t you think?’
The gatecrashers have no alternative: they know they’re outnumbered. They take their cans and leave. Bryce and his mates move back into the middle and someone turns up the music.
WILL
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis, a match may be terminated in any of the following ways:
1) When it’s a walkover – a game that never began, awarded to the victor when the loser concedes defeat.
2) When a player quits due to inability or injury.
3) When you are disqualified for violating the rules of conduct.
4) When your opponent promises photographs for a modelling folio.
5) When cigarettes are borrowed and the borrower is overheard to say, I will pay you back later, probably with interest.
6) When your opponent’s flirting turns into dirty dancing.
7) When the retiring player sees the girl he really likes – the girl he has treated badly and ruined his chances with – smiling in sympathy from across the crowded room.
8) When a player decides that YES! now is the time to make amends for all his past mistakes and YES! he will finally bite the bullet and say what must be said, to this girl of his dreams, whatever that is.
9) When the player takes a deep breath, trusting that how he feels about this girl will be enough to get him by, how he feels will provide all the answers, even though once a choker, always a choker.
10) When the player realises he has had too much to drink and suddenly needs to throw up.
MIA
The dance floor starts to clear. People leave the garage and start moving down the driveway. There is something going on. The gatecrashers are still here and they are up to something . . .
Out in the street, a crowd gathers round to watch what is happening. The gatecrashers are there in the middle but it’s hard to make out what they’re doing. Some of the girls look horrified. Some of the boys are smiling. Yorick is in there with the gatecrashers, stretched like a sagging hammock, being held by his arms and legs. His pants are down around his ankles and his body is limp. It’s a horrible sight, but the worst thing is the look on Yorick’s face. He isn’t struggling or shouting for help. Instead, his eyes have that faraway look, as if he’s trying to pretend it isn’t happening.
‘Nature strip!’ cheers one of the gatecrashers.
‘Dack him properly!’ another agrees.
‘Oh no!’ laughs Vanessa. ‘I can’t bear to watch!’
But where is Will?
Vanessa stays where she is and so does everyone else. The show isn’t over yet. Bryce is comforting a girl in his arms. Someone makes a joke and all the boys laugh. Some girls are standing at a distance. Their faces say they disapprove, but they also look curious.
Yorick’s body hangs limply like a piece of meat. His skin is white with goosebumps and his jocks are white, too. The gatecrashers have the crowd on their side now. They start swinging Yorick slowly from side to side, as the crowd begins to chant.
‘Yor-ick . . . ! Where’s-his-dick . . . ! Yor-ick . . . ! Where’s-his-dick!’
Like a lost boat on a stormy sea, Yorick’s body lurches and sways as the gatecrashers swing him higher. He closes his eyes and his mouth twists in fear. The people at the back push forward for a better view. Their faces shine with excitement and disgust and relief. Everyone has the same look in their eyes: I’m glad it’s not me.
‘Yor-ick . . . ! Where’s-his-dick . . . ! Yor-ick . . . ! Where’s-his-dick!’
I don’t understand. Is it just harmless fun or has everyone gone insane? Am I the only one who can see what is happening?
I wish Will was here.
WILL
A toilet bowl is the worst place in the world to throw up in, because:
a) It stinks.
b) It’s too small.
c) It’s too close to the ground.
d) You have to kneel down to make sure you don’t miss, meaning that it stinks even more.
e) You have to stick your head right in there, meaning that your head is now inside a toilet, where countless humans have sat over the years depositing countless deposits that you don’t want to think about.
f) Why do I list everything all the time, anyway?
The only good thing about toilets is they make you want to throw up.
When I finally emerge, the garage is empty. Everyone is out in the street. I’m walking down the driveway, feeling sober, but completely disgusting, when someone screams: ‘STOP IT, YOU ANIMALS!’
Mia is there in the middle of the crowd. She and one of the gatecrashers are wrestling over something – it looks like a leg. As I
push people aside and make my way towards them, I see Yorick with his pants down, wriggling and squirming as someone pours cold beer onto his bare white skin. I don’t need to see anything else.
I go straight for the jerk with the beer can. I grab him and throw him to the ground. In a flash, the other boys drop Yorick to help their mate. One tries to drag me off him, while another lands a punch on the side of my head. Instantly, Bryce and co. step out of the crowd to help me and a full-scale brawl erupts.
MIA
It’s as if someone flicked a lighted match onto a pool of petrol. Everywhere, guys are throwing punches and rolling around on the grass, elbowing and headbutting, kicking and scratching, shouting obscenities and making stupid threats. Someone’s head is bleeding. Someone else has lost a tooth. Girls are screaming for them to stop, but no one hears them. Even the nicest guys have turned into monsters. And in the midst of it all, Yorick is sitting there stunned and abandoned, with his beer-soaked pants down around his ankles.
The fighting and yelling continues – it just goes on and on. I am standing alone, surrounded by violence, but instead of feeling frightened, I begin to feel calm. As the fight spins out of control all around me, the noise and confusion slows to a blur and I almost feel invisible.
Will is there, in among it all. I try to move towards him, but someone blocks my way. Then a guy with a beer can hits him on the back of the head, and Will falls to the ground, unconscious.
WILL
When I open my eyes, it feels like I’ve died and gone to heaven. Above me there are clusters of stars, trailing meteors and planets spinning in elliptical orbits. There are exploding supernovas, spiralling galaxies and a great big photograph of Albert Einstein.
‘Where am I?’
Mia takes my hand and squeezes it gently. Her face is more beautiful than the sun and more serious than Einstein. ‘You’re in Yorick’s bedroom,’ she says.
‘Is Yorick okay?’
Mia nods. ‘He’s on the internet,’ she says, ‘emailing his friends about it. How about you? Are you okay?’
‘I think so. What happened?’
You were out cold,’ she says. ‘Everyone was worried sick. There’s a doctor on the way.’
Yorick’s bed smells of toast and peanut butter. I try sitting up but it’s not worth the effort. I lie back down, looking up at the universe. I keep holding Mia’s hand, to stop myself from floating away.
Mia frowns. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘I hope so,’ says Mia. ‘It’s my concert tomorrow night and I’d really like you to come.’
I try so hard not to smile, I end up frowning.
‘Only if you want to,’ Mia adds.
The doctor arrives. He checks my head for cuts and bruises, while Mia stands in the doorway watching. He takes my pulse and shines a pencil-light in each eye.
‘Mild concussion,’ he diagnoses. ‘Stay warm, take Panadol and get some rest.’
The doctor wants to know all about what has happened and how I feel. He explains how the skull protects the cerebrum, how the brain itself feels no pain and how quick it is to recover from most injuries. The doctor is very friendly. He seems in no hurry to leave, and when Mia brings him a cup of tea, he even looks grateful.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ he says.
‘I was wondering,’ she says, ‘if you could give Will a lift home.’
‘With pleasure,’ he says.
Mia smiles. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she says.
MIA
Will and I sit in the back seat as my father drives him home. My father is still doing his doctor/patient thing – being very charming and informative – but I get the feeling Will isn’t listening. He looks out the window, then turns and smiles at me, then looks away again. I don’t know what it is about the back seat, but suddenly I’m very conscious of being there in the darkness, with nothing but space between us and only seatbelts to restrain us.
Along with everything else, of course.
WILL
Lyn and Ken are waiting at the front gate. They help me out of the car, thank Mia and Dr Foley, then escort me into the house. Lyn makes a cup of hot chocolate while Ken makes me comfortable on the couch, then they insist on hearing the whole story.
‘There’s not much to it,’ I say. ‘It was over in a flash.’
‘You were brave to step in like that,’ Ken says.
‘You could have been seriously hurt,’ says Lyn.
‘I was helping a friend,’ I say.
Ken and Lyn and I sit up talking about tennis, and how fame and happiness don’t necessarily go together. We talk about how being fifteen is weird because you’re not a child anymore but you’re not an adult, either. We talk about how it’s important to think about the future, but more important to take each day as it comes. It sounds like a conversation where the adults do most of the talking, but for most of the time Ken and Lyn just sit there, holding hands and listening. It’s strange when you suddenly realise that your parents value your opinion. Even stranger when you see that they’re proud of you.
The only time Lyn and Ken look worried is when I tell them about Dave wanting to come to the party.
‘He thinks you don’t care about him,’ says Lyn.
‘He feels as if you’re grown up but he’s still a baby,’ says Ken.
‘Tomorrow,’ I say, ‘we’ll go into town.’
I get up and say goodnight, then wander off down the hall to bed. Dave’s bedroom is opposite mine, and for the first time his door is shut.
MIA
I lie in my bed imagining a rainforest. There are leafy ferns and jungle vines, exotic birds and monkeys swinging from the trees. My bedroom is a tree house, high up in the canopy where no one can reach me and no one else can see. Tomorrow Will is coming to the concert – he’s coming to hear me play! The rainforest is alive with noise. The screeches of birds and the howls of monkeys fill the warm, moist air. Far below me on the forest floor, there are poisonous frogs, crawling insects and giant pythons. Will is coming to the concert, and after the concert – what then? My rainforest is a wild place where no one has ever been before. It’s a Garden of Eden – a place where a girl can be who she wants to be. All I need to do is grab a vine and swing down into it.
Six
WILL
At eleven o’clock the next morning, Lyn pokes her head around my bedroom door.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.
‘Pretty ordinary.’
‘Ken and I are going shopping. Can you look after Dave?’
‘Sure.’
I don’t know if it’s a hangover or the bump on my head or a combination, but my brain feels like an old computer that’s been taken to the tip – busted and rusted beyond repair. I gather up the energy to get myself out of bed. I have a shower, fix myself a flotilla of Weet-Bix, then sit back to watch the Sunday morning cartoons. When Duck Dodgers gets disintegrated, I know exactly how he feels.
I think about Mia inviting me to the concert and whether or not it’s a date. After all, we won’t be sitting together. We may not even get a chance to speak. But the fact is, Mia asked me to come, so headache or no headache, I’ll be there.
When the cartoons finish it’s midday and still there’s no sign of Dave.
I knock quietly on his bedroom door but there’s no answer.
‘Dave?’ When I turn the handle and try to open the door, it’s jammed.
‘Dave? Are you in there?’
‘Go away, Will!’
‘Are you still mad with me?’
‘I’m not talking to you, Will. You can’t make me.’
‘I’m supposed to be looking after you, Dave. I thought we could go and see Mia. We could take Harriet for a walk, if you want to.’
It’s an excellent offer – easily good enough, I would have thought, to lure Dave out of his room.
‘You can’t
make me, Will.’
‘Okay, Dave,’ I say. ‘You wait here while I go and get Harriet.’
MIA
I slop on the wallpaper-remover and, like magic, the wallpaper peels away in long thin strips. The walls beneath are smooth and bare – as vulnerable as trees that have lost their bark. Should I paint them green, to go with the indoor ferns? Or should I paint bright butterflies, dancing in the sunlight?
The doorbell rings and Mum answers it. I hear footsteps coming down the hall and when I look up there he is, inside my house! Standing in my doorway, looking into my unfinished bedroom! Staring at my stripped walls before they’re even ready!
‘Will!’
He nods at the borrowed viola on my bed.
‘Shouldn’t you be practising for the concert tonight?’
‘Are you still coming?’
‘Of course I’m still coming.’
‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.’
‘I’ll be there, he grins. ’Even if I have to come on crutches.’
‘Even if I’m not the star of the show?’
‘Even if they don’t give out trophies.’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ I say. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home, resting?’
Will lowers his head to show me how the swelling has gone down. I am seriously tempted to run my fingers through his hair. I don’t, of course.
‘Actually . . . ’ he says. ‘Can I borrow Harriet?’
WILL
Dogs are smart. There’s no doubt about it. No animal has adapted better to a world dominated by humans. Instead of being put on the menu or hunted to extinction, dogs have worked out what people want. They know how to sit up and beg for food, how to bark at strangers or fetch a stick, and how to look knowing enough for people to think that their dog is their friend. But a dog is a dog. It’s an animal, trying to survive. It does what it can to get a bowl of meat and a safe place to sleep. I never wanted one as a pet, and I’m not about to be suddenly swept away by a cute little beagle.
After walking a couple of blocks together, Harriet and I have an understanding. We walk fast, with Harriet a step ahead and to the side. Yes, Harriet is excited to be out on the lead. No, we don’t stop to smell the lampposts or to annoy the barking dogs behind fences. Harriet walks with her head down and tail up, turning now and then to give me a reassuring glance: I’m Harriet, the sniffer dog, she says, off on another great adventure.