The First Third

by Will Kostakis

  ‘What?’ I challenged him. ‘Asian?’

  ‘No.’ He brought his head in closer, which either meant he was going to say something gravely important, or he’d graduated to affectionately head-butting people. ‘I didn’t pick you for the kind of guy who went for . . . older.’ He whispered that last bit.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s older,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  He slapped his docket book against his open palm. ‘Trust me, dude, I know my cougars.’

  That was the worst sentence I’d ever heard.

  ‘She’s not a cougar,’ I said.

  The bathroom door opened.

  ‘Well, she’s not in high school,’ Damo whispered.

  Maria took her seat and pored over the menu. Was she really that much older than me?

  She caught me staring at her and smiled. ‘Do you know what you want?’

  ‘I think so, yeah.’ I was wondering if it was socially acceptable to ask what year she was born in.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’ Her shoulders bounced excitedly.

  There was no way she was older than me.

  ‘It’d be nice to have breakfast here,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ I asked it with the eagerness of a virgin who thought a girl had just given him a big fat hint that they’d be spending the night together.

  ‘It’s such a stunning location,’ she added.

  ‘Yes, right, that.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I also think it would be nice to eat in a restaurant looking out onto Botany Bay ­during the daytime.’ Radiating embarrassment, I buried my head behind my menu.

  Damo was back. He flicked open the docket book. ‘What can I get you this evening?’

  I checked the menu out of habit, even though I knew exactly what I wanted. ‘The bacon-cheese fries, thanks.’

  ‘And for the missus?’ Damo asked.

  Maria wasn’t reading when she said, ‘I’ll have the wild Fijian albacore sashimi with the pea tendril salad and the melon cilantro vinaigrette.’

  Crap. She was definitely older.

  Damo laughed at the joke before he made it. ‘Would you like any cheese melted over the top of that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No? All right then. And to drink?’

  I said that water was fine.

  ‘I’ll have a pinot grigio, please.’

  Clearly enjoying himself, Damo prompted her for ID. She opened her clutch and produced a drivers licence.

  Damo inspected it closely and then handed it back. ‘Yep, I knew you were older, just had to make sure.’

  My guts churned. No matter what, I couldn’t let her figure out I was younger.

  ‘On second thought, I’ll have a pinot, too,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ Damo asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I dared him to card me.

  He snatched up our menus and retreated.

  Maria licked her lips. They were shinier than they had been before. She’d put on lip gloss in the ladies room. I was sweating.

  Call it wishful thinking, but I started to wonder if maybe she knew. Maybe she was into younger guys and it wasn’t going to be a total disaster.

  ‘So, tell me about you,’ she said, folding her arms and resting them on the table. ‘What do you do?’

  Yeah, she had no idea.

  ‘I study,’ I said.

  Year Twelve at Buckley’s College, esteemed private school for boys.

  I added, ‘I’m getting an MD.’ Yeah, Makin’ Dissup.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Maria asked. ‘In what?’

  ‘Communications,’ I said. It was the first thing that fell into my mind.

  ‘Oh!’ Her enthusiasm made me uncomfortable. ‘I have a friend who’s doing Communications.’

  Of course she did.

  My chest was unbearably light and I was one unconvincing statement away from being discovered as a fraud. I decided the more talking she did, the better.

  ‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a chiropractor’s receptionist,’ she said. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth dismissively. ‘It’s not really all that fulfilling, but hey, it’s easy. I’m only twenty-one. Plenty of time to put my BA to good use.’

  She laughed, so I laughed too. I had no idea what a BA was, and I planned on changing the subject before she noticed. I went for something obvious. ‘So, do you have any siblings?’

  ‘One, a younger brother, Harry.’

  ‘Do you two get along?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ she said. ‘Do you have any?’

  ‘Two brothers. Simon lives in Queensland so I don’t see him much and Peter lives here, but we don’t really get along.’

  ‘He’s a teenager, yeah?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I hate teenage boys,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad I don’t have to date them anymore.’

  In the other room, Damo cackled.

  ‘He’s a character,’ Maria said, gesturing towards the door.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

  When Damo emerged, it was with the bottle of wine. He flashed the label at Maria and she nodded approvingly. He poured two glasses.

  ‘So, I just remembered the funniest thing,’ he said, replacing the cap on the bottle. ‘I sent the chef home.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Classic Damo.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maria’s eyes met mine. ‘Well, we’re fine with just wine.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s cool,’ I said.

  Damo gave us the room to ourselves.

  ‘I’m so hungry,’ Maria moaned. ‘I hate Lent. Yiayia’s been so strict this year, timing surprise visits during dinner to make sure we’re not breaking any rules. I’m eating out most nights just to make sure she doesn’t catch me. I cannot wait for tomorrow, I’m going to gorge myself on moussaka.’

  I was reminded of Yiayia comparing moussaka to lasagne, saying it was better for me.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I blurted out defensively.

  ‘You’re smiling.’

  ‘What? I can’t be on a date with a girl and smile at her?’

  When I realised I’d said the D-word, my throat dried up. She caught it too.

  ‘This is a date?’

  ‘I’d hope so.’ My voice wavered, only slightly.

  ‘Good. Me too.’ She raised her glass and initiated a toast.

  Clink. She sipped. I gulped.

  ‘But yeah, I’m looking forward to moussaka too,’ I said.

  ‘It’s so frustrating though. Yiayia won’t teach me how to make it. She thinks that if I know her recipes I won’t need her anymore, and I’m trying to find a gentle way to let her know she’s getting . . . older.’ Maria took a laboured breath. ‘They’re the last of their kind, our yiayiathes,’ she continued. ‘I went to Greece last year and all the yiayiathes over there have blonde hair, botox and boob jobs – they’re not like our ones. When ours came over, they held onto who they were, who they were taught to be by their grandmothers. There’s nobody like them anywhere else.’

  ‘Mine has a jar of Vegemite from 1976 in the pantry,’ I said. ‘She’s moved twice since the ’70s, so she knowingly packed expired Vegemite and moved it into two different homes. I don’t want to imagine a world without someone like her in it – I can’t.’

  Maria swished her wine around in her glass. ‘But it’s coming, though. You do know that, right?’

  If she was trying to make me feel bad about ditching Yiayia at church, she was succeeding.

  When she spoke again, it was in a soft, measured voice. ‘Losing her is probably my biggest fear. I mean, people fear going skydiving and having a faulty parachute, but like, this is a fear that’s absolutely, definitely coming true, and I . . . I’m just really getting way too heavy too quickly.’

  ‘Seriously, it’s fine.’ I grazed her hand. It was a bold move, it should have scared me but it didn’t. My nerves had
dissolved. I knew exactly how she felt. I had that fear. And I was beginning to understand why Yiayia had trumpeted the benefits of moussaka – we had common ingredients. Without realising, we were leaning in closer, confiding in each other, exchanging similar anxieties and stories about our childhoods that seemed more familiar than they should have. We were building our own little bubble. The time escaped us.

  Maria slammed her hands down on the table.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s twelve!’

  Midnight was the most important part of the Greek Easter service. The diehards were there for eleven o’clock. But over the course of the next hour, more people accumulated, until the priest moved out onto the church steps just before midnight and the street was packed, barricade to barricade, with Greeks gripping candles. Then there was a whole lot of tone-deaf singing as the holy light, originating from the priest, was passed from candle to candle.

  ‘Damo, we’re gone!’ I called out.

  We didn’t wait for him to come out. Maria grabbed my hand and we raced out the door.

  When we got back, people were standing out on the street. The singing had already started. We struggled against the crowd but only made it halfway to the church before it was just too dense and we couldn’t move any further. Around us, the flame spread like a pyramid scheme – one candle lit three, which lit three, which lit three. We were nudged and Maria fell against me. We apologised in unison. She kept her hand on my chest.

  As far as first kisses went, I couldn’t have planned it any better. Candlelight and a crowd of thousands pushing us together – it was like I’d cut the last five minutes out of a movie and pasted them right into my life.

  I was about to have my first kiss.

  Maria pressed into me, not because someone had pushed her, but because she wanted to be closer. She tilted her head back.

  It was as clear a sign as any.

  I leaned in. Our lips touched. Her mouth opened, I almost fell in, but I recovered, mostly. My left calf was trembling, and I hoped to God she wouldn’t notice me sweating. All the while, I was wondering if I was doing it right. What was I supposed to do with my tongue? And what about my hands? Was I supposed to hold her?

  I reached for her hips and stuck my tongue in. Pretty sure I poked a molar.

  It was warmer than I expected. I moved my tongue around a little more and –

  She pulled away abruptly and squinted up at me. Something clicked.

  ‘How old are you?’ Her eyes darted across my face. The truth was unavoidable.

  ‘Seventeen,’ I conceded.

  She gasped. ‘Oh, God.’ She cupped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, God.’

  Around us, the singing had died down. Up the front, ­people were talking, looking back inside the church. The priest had moved away from the microphone. Someone was whispering into his ear. He nodded gravely.

  ‘But you said you were doing your MD.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But you study?’ She gasped. ‘As in, you study at high school?’

  I winced. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  I’d seen that look before. Kayla’s. I was right back there, standing under the bus shelter in the rain, watching her run away.

  Maria took one step back. Then another. She was fighting against the crowd, trying desperately to get away. I didn’t try to stop her. She glanced back at me as the gap in the crowd closed.

  She vanished.

  I was fourteen when my grandmother taught me above love and the difference between moussaka and lasagne.

  I was fifteen when I fell in love with lasagne.

  I was sixteen when I met moussaka.

  And I was seventeen when I realised it didn’t matter. ­Lasagne or moussaka, being on the other side of love hurt.

  My name was amplified down the street. I was trying to catch another glimpse of Maria and it had barely registered.

  ‘Billy Tsiolkas, are you here?’

  I turned to the church. The priest was blinking out into the crowd.

  ‘We need to find Billy,’ he said. ‘We have . . . a problem.’

  Yiayia Filyo shifted in the wheelchair, one hand pressed hard against her side. Her breaths were short and shallow, accompanied by sounds that would’ve been hilarious, were we not in a hospital. ‘Ach, pa-pa-pa.’

  I tried Mum on her mobile again. No answer.

  Yiayia suggested I call Peter.

  ‘Jesus, what’s he going to do? He’s crazy,’ I said, scrolling through my phone contacts for Simon’s number.

  My grandmother slapped my fingers with her free hand. ‘Mi peis afto,’ she said. Greek for, ‘Don’t say that.’

  It was just us in the cramped room, sandwiched between the door and the desk. ‘Why not? Who’s listening?’ I asked.

  Yiayia pointed up at the ceiling. While most people imagined God as some loveable old guy with a booming voice and a thing for white muumuus, Yiayia imagined Him as the Eye of Sauron.

  ‘You kiss her?’ she whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maria,’ Yiayia said. ‘You no sick and I no stupid.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Bravo sou!’ She tapped my cheek affectionately.

  I grimaced. ‘Eh.’

  ‘Ti?’

  ‘I don’t think she likes me.’

  The triage nurse came in and shut the door. ‘Sorry about the wait,’ she said, squeezing past and taking a seat at the desk. She peered at the computer screen and then over at Yiayia. ‘You’re File-yo?’

  ‘Fill-yo,’ I corrected. ‘Felicity, basically. And I’m her grandson, Bill.’

  ‘Right, so what’s happening?’

  ‘My grandmother and I were at church down the road. When she stood up at the end of the service, she started to feel faint.’

  ‘And she lost consciousness?’

  ‘Briefly.’ I’d been told.

  ‘Only for second,’ Yiayia said.

  ‘Did someone catch her as she fell? Did she hit her head on the way down?’

  I didn’t have an answer. The nurse was watching me expectantly. I should have been there. I should have been there to catch her. It wasn’t possible for me to feel any worse.

  ‘I fall little bit and Nikko catch me. I no hit.’

  It was the first I’d heard of a Nikko. I was relieved, but not any easier on myself.

  ‘Has she been fasting?’ the nurse asked, typing into the form.

  ‘Lent, yeah,’ I said, ‘but she’s had this pain in her side that’s suddenly gotten worse.’

  ‘It hurt here,’ Yiayia added. ‘Po-po-po.’

  ‘Yeah, just where she’s pushing.’

  The nurse was blunt. ‘Don’t push it.’

  Yiayia immediately released the spot.

  ‘For how long?’ the nurse asked.

  We looked to my grandmother while she weighed it up. ‘One week, maybe two.’

  ‘Yiayia, why didn’t you –?’

  ‘Can she explain the pain?’ the triage nurse asked me, before turning to Yiayia. ‘Is it sharp?’

  Yiayia nodded.

  ‘Are you experiencing any burning?’

  ‘Little burn,’ she said.

  ‘All right.’ The nurse was typing with two index fingers. ‘Does your grandmother have any allergies?’

  ‘No,’ Yiayia said.

  ‘Yes, penicillin.’

  My grandmother nodded. ‘Ne, afto.’

  I asked if the nurse knew what it could be.

  ‘Lots of things,’ she said. ‘Burning suggests some kind of infection in or around the kidney, but there could be something causing that. Kidney stones, perhaps.’

  ‘No. No stone,’ Yiayia said.

  The triage nurse smiled a fraction. ‘I’m sending you back to the waiting room now,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you two painkillers.’ She looked to me. ‘Do you have any older relatives you could call?’

  When Mum got to the hospital, she wanted the play-by-play. The details
were a little fuzzy seeing as I wasn’t actually there, but I talked her through everything as quickly as I could: Yiayia didn’t feel well, she made a scene, they got the priest to get me –

  ‘Why did the priest need to get you?’ Mum asked. ‘Where were you?’

  Yiayia gripped her side. ‘Ach, pa-pa-pa.’

  It was enough to distract Mum for a few seconds. When she turned back to me, she said, ‘Then what happened?’

  I could’ve sworn Yiayia winked.

  ‘One of the junior priests led us through the back and drove us around the corner,’ I said, hurriedly recapping the night’s events to get as far away from the why-weren’t-you-there line of questioning as possible. ‘We registered at reception and saw the triage nurse just before I got through to you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s had a sharp pain in her side and they think it’s her kidney, some kind of infection or stones,’ I said.

  ‘No stone.’ Yiayia was adamant.

  ‘For how long?’ Mum asked.

  ‘One week, possibly two.’

  That was when Mum and Yiayia started. Mum wanted to know why Yiayia had kept it secret. Yiayia wanted to know why Mum was raising her voice. Mum started waving her forearms as she spoke. Yiayia did too.

  The guy sitting opposite me with his hand wrapped in bloodied paper towels looked over like he pitied me.

  Yiayia huffed and looked away.

  ‘And why aren’t we in a room?’ Mum asked.

  ‘We’re waiting.’

  ‘Did you do it right? Did you tell the triage nurse everything?’ she asked me.

  ‘I don’t know. I think?’

  ‘Do you know how long they’ll be?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘Did you ask reception?’

  ‘I don’t think they know.’

  Mum was agitated. ‘Simple things, Bill – think to do them.’

  It was hard not to take it personally. ‘Sorry, I was too busy getting her to hospital to, you know, think to do the right thing,’ I snapped.

  Mum exhaled. Her shoulders sagged. ‘Really, Bill? Now?’

  She had a point. Probably not the right time to be a smart-arse. ‘Sorry.’

  Mum eased into the vacant seat beside me.

  ‘You look pretty,’ Yiayia told her.

  ‘Thanks, Ma.’

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked.