Simon picked up. ‘Hey, bitch.’
Sticks was trying not to laugh. I couldn’t tell what made him happier, Simon picking up or Simon calling me ‘bitch’. Vibrancy ahoy!
I brought the phone up to my mouth. ‘Oh. Hey . . . bitch, how are you?’
Sticks connected the thumb and forefinger of one hand in a circle and gave me a sarcastic ‘okay’ sign. I waved him off.
‘I’m good,’ Simon said. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, fine.’ I didn’t want to talk about me. It was a fact-finding phone call. ‘So what’s up? What’s new with you?’
‘Nothing much since Sunday, to be honest.’
It was a reasonable answer. It was only Thursday.
I needed something I could use to convince him to move back to Sydney, so I pushed on. The problem was, halfway through pushing on, he said he had to go, but he’d call right back.
He hung up. I stared down at my mobile.
Sticks said, ‘That was terrible, bitch.’
‘He’ll call back,’ I said.
He didn’t. Ten minutes later, I tried his number again. It went straight to his voicemail.
Sticks sighed. ‘If he’s going to act like that, makes you wonder why you’d even bother.’
I was bothering for Yiayia mostly, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the idea of having him back. I’d lived so much of my life beside him that not having him around felt like a waste of history. When I was sent to day care, it was the same facility where Simon went to preschool. One of my earliest memories was of pressing myself against a chain link fence, calling out to Simon in the big kids’ playground. I wanted nothing more than to be over there with him, partly because the (comparatively) larger play equipment looked unreal, but largely because running around like a hyperactive toddler was just better with Simon.
No matter how hard I cried, they never let me over that fence, and I couldn’t understand why. The equipment wasn’t age-appropriate and we were supposed to learn to mix with kids we weren’t related to, but I didn’t know all that. We wore matching overalls, we were a set. They weren’t supposed to split us up.
There came a point during every playtime when the minders stopped trying to coax me away from the fence, and something would make me stop bawling my eyes out. It was the moment when Simon would hear me and abandon the play equipment to sit cross-legged on the other side of the fence and keep me company.
I was bothering for that.
‘What now?’ I asked.
Sticks was adamant. If I was going to learn anything about Simon’s life, it was going to be without my older brother’s help.
He pushed open the door to Simon’s old room. My brother hadn’t left much in the move – just the furniture, the hulking desktop computer and the stack of vinyl records piled in one corner. We’d never owned a vinyl player, but Simon was the sort of person who collected records just so he could say, with a certain superiority, ‘But I have it on vinyl.’
Sticks sat at the desk and booted up the computer.
‘Before you say anything, it works for me,’ he said, wiping the thin film of dust off the monitor with his sleeve. ‘Going through Damo’s private messages has brought us closer together.’
‘Yeah, but I was hoping to get Simon to come back without having to blackmail him.’
Sticks smirked. ‘When you think about it though, blackmail is just one person exchanging kindness for another person’s discretion, and isn’t that what family is all about? Doing favours and keeping secrets?’ He laughed. I must have looked mortified. ‘Relax, we’re not going to do that.’ As soon as Windows had loaded, Sticks opened the internet browser. ‘Anyway, he’s probably changed all his passwords since he used this computer regularly.’
‘Then what are we doing?’
Sticks was going through Simon’s browsing history. ‘The odds are, he won’t have set up a different profile.’
One click and Simon’s status feed filled the screen.
‘Ta-dah,’ Sticks said
I could see all of my brother’s posts, and he’d posted as recently as . . . immediately after hanging up on me.
SimTsiolk
soph just walked in with a btl under each arm. champers time!
9 minutes ago
‘Well, that’s what’s keeping him from calling back,’ I said. ‘Shove over.’
Sticks relinquished the computer mouse and hopped from the seat onto the edge of the bed. I scrolled down, past hangovers and the parties that came before them. All the details of my brother’s life away from home were there.
Brisbane was treating him fantastically. He was living the life.
SimTsiolk
totes livin da life
13 days ago
He was living any twenty-year-old guy’s dream. Who would want to give that up? And what was there in Sydney that could compete with that?
I eased back into the chair. ‘Crap.’
I lay in bed, staring up at the sliver of paper. In the dark, I could barely make out what was written, but it didn’t matter. I knew the bucket list by heart.
I could feel Friday inching closer.
I was thinking about Mum’s date with John. It had to go well. It wasn’t as if I could keep surprising her with blind dates at Gazette, it was the sort of thing I could only do once. I had to trust that Hayley had gotten it right.
Hayley. Another reason to feel anxious. That had to go well too. I couldn’t flunk out of two first dates in a row. I’d met Hayley more times than I had Maria and she knew my age, so the date itself was going to be easier than the last one.
It was the kiss that worried me. I couldn’t screw up the kiss.
Despite a brief cameo, Maria had all but disappeared from my life. The end of our date had been soul-crushing, but momentary. If I fumbled the kiss with Hayley . . . Her granddad shared a room with Yiayia, seeing her every other day would be a persistent kind of soul-crushing that I didn’t think my ego could take.
And I couldn’t back out now.
I didn’t have Hayley’s number, she had mine. I couldn’t cancel. She was going to be waiting outside the restaurant at eight. I had to be there by then to make sure Mum and John met up. There was no escaping it. The date would happen.
I had less than twenty-four hours to learn how to kiss.
I checked my phone. 12:01. Friday had arrived.
I had twenty hours to learn how to kiss.
Sticks showed up at midday. He was wearing a tracksuit and a sweat headband.
‘We’re going to the gym,’ he announced.
Apparently, I hadn’t shot the idea down hard enough. ‘We’re really not.’
‘Come on, it’s not as if you’ve thought up any other way to get him to talk to you,’ he said.
I would’ve protested, but he was right.
‘Is he here?’ he asked.
I glanced back. Peter’s door was still shut. ‘He’s in his room.’
‘Has he been to the gym yet?’ Sticks asked.
‘Not today.’
‘Good. I’ve downloaded free trial passes.’ Sticks tapped his left pocket. ‘We’ll go, lurk, and when he gets there, you two bond over weights and steroids and junk.’
Damo beeped the car horn.
‘Wait a minute!’ Sticks shouted back. He turned to me. ‘Get changed. I’ll be in the car.’
The gym interior was exactly as I’d imagined it. Exposed air-conditioning ducts and factory pendant lights on the ceiling, wellness psychobabble painted on the walls (A fitter U is a healthier U!) and stretching senior citizens sprawled out on the floor.
But I didn’t instantly hate it. No, the hate only started when we passed an out-of-action leg-press machine with a note that urged patrons to ‘exercise their patience’ while it was repaired.
‘Oh, God, the puns, the terrible puns,’ I muttered.
‘All you have to do is look interested when Peter comes in,’ Sticks said. ‘Nobody said you had to enjoy the puns.’
‘I would be a lot happier if they weren’t there.’
‘Wellness! Positivity! Buzzwords!’ he chanted.
We started in the cardio section. Sticks put down his crutches and hopped on an exercise bike. It was the only machine he could really use. Thanks to his particular brand of CP, he lacked the core balance to ride a regular bike, but fixing one to the ground eliminated that problem.
I mounted the bike beside his and pulled a book out from under my shirt.
‘What’s that?’ Sticks asked.
‘It’s a book.’
‘I know what it is. Why are you reading it?’
I opened to the earmarked page and started pedalling. ‘I want the really beefy guys to know that they might be able to work out harder than me, longer than me, but I can read.’ It was a bit I’d thought up when I was getting changed.
Sticks wasn’t amused. He reached over.
‘Hey!’
He’d snatched the book and tossed it on the floor.
‘I don’t get why you’re on an exercise bike anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if you have some physical disability keeping you from riding a real one.’
‘I can’t ride a bike.’
‘Bull.’
‘No bull,’ I said.
‘Your dad didn’t teach you?’
‘Yeah, because he was such a hands-on parent,’ I said, rolling my eyes back a suitable amount.
I’d made thousands of dismissive comments about Dad in the past. They’d never affected me before, but now . . . I was thinking about the house in Malvern. I was wondering what he was like. What his kids were like. What their names were. Whether they’d like me if they met me.
‘You right?’ Sticks asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’ He glanced around. ‘Do any of these people look familiar? Like, have you ever seen them hanging out with your brother?’
I said I hadn’t, but that didn’t stop Sticks asking the first guy to walk past if he knew a Peter Tsiolkas. He shook his head.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘That’s how we’re going to subtly scope out who his friends are?’
‘It doesn’t hurt to ask.’
‘That guy looked older than Mum.’
‘Ageist!’ he barked. ‘They could still be friends.’
‘That would be so creepy. In what world would –?’
‘Hi there!’ A gym attendant with blonde pigtails and a grin from ear to ear had materialised in front of our bikes. ‘How’s your trial session going?’
Sticks ignored her entirely. He took out his phone.
‘It’s fine,’ I said.
The attendant started jogging on the spot. ‘So, tell me, do you know what your goals are?’ she asked.
I really didn’t want to waste her time. ‘We’re basically just here to stalk my brother,’ I deadpanned.
‘Well, remember if you link your accounts, you can sign up at our affordable family member discount rate.’ She tapped my bike’s handles. ‘Have a great one.’
‘Okay.’
‘Bye!’
I looked to Sticks. ‘She did hear me say “stalk”, right?’
‘I’m pretty certain that even if you said you were here to kill your brother, she would’ve found a way to plug the family discount.’ He was still on his phone.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, mimicking him.
‘Oh, clever,’ he said, tapping the screen. ‘It’s a phone.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Chatting.’ His pedalling had slowed to a crawl.
‘With who? I’m here.’
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘You don’t know them.’ He pocketed his mobile, flashing an app I didn’t recognise as he did. ‘You ready for your date with the handwriting girl?’
‘No.’
‘Pourquoi?’
I bit the bullet. ‘How do you kiss?’
Sticks stopped pedalling. He exhaled deeply. I could tell he was trying really hard not to laugh.
It wasn’t as stupid a question as it seemed. If public opinion was anything to go by, Sticks was something of an excellent kisser. The stories I’d heard about games of Spin the Bottle . . . even girls left kisses with Sticks feeling satisfied.
‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘you’ve got to go . . .’ Then he lost all composure and started cackling.
‘Thanks.’
He cleared his throat and calmed himself. ‘Slow, you’ve got to go slow,’ he said. ‘The worst thing you can do is swirl your tongue around like you’re working against the clock.’
‘Right. How open should my mouth be?’
He bit hard on his bottom lip. Not laughing seemed to cause him pain. ‘You have no idea how good a friend I’m being right now.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’re verging on sainthood.’
‘Just follow her lead. Open your mouth as much as she opens hers. You’re her reflection. She pokes her tongue in, you gently do it back, gently.’
‘Okay.’
‘And try not to breathe too much with your mouth. That’s gross. Oh, and close your eyes.’ He was searching my face for signs of comprehension. ‘Does that clear everything up?’
I felt like I should have been taking notes. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Let’s go over there.’ He was pointing at the free-weights section. ‘I want to narrate people’s thoughts in funny voices.’
It sounded like fun, and it was for a little bit. The novelty wore off as soon as we realised that not only could the people we were making fun of hear us, but they could probably pummel us into the past tense.
In a bid to look like a serious gym-goer, and to avoid the aforementioned pummelling, I got up and fetched two 2.5 kg dumbbells off the rack.
‘This’ll be good,’ Sticks muttered.
‘Shut up.’
I set myself up opposite the mirror and looked down at the weights, not quite sure what to do next. A guy close by raised his dumbbells to either side. I gave it a go. One rep, arms up parallel to the ground, and then down.
I looked back at Sticks. ‘Not bad, hey?’
‘Go heavier,’ he demanded.
I returned the 2.5s and came back with 12.5s. I raised the dumbbells and my arms cramped.
‘Mother of crap.’ I dropped the weights.
Sticks clapped. I would’ve said something about him having a go if I hadn’t caught my younger brother approaching in the reflection. Quickly, I picked the weights back up. So long as I just kept them down and didn’t actually try to exercise with them, I sort of looked like I knew what I was doing.
‘What are you doing here?’ Peter asked, the question heavy with hostility.
He’d brought with him the cavalcade of batshit-crazy.
I turned from the mirror and acted like I hadn’t seen him. ‘Oh, hey! How are you?’
He wasn’t interested. ‘You’re here. Why?’
He was standing right up against me. The way I was beginning to perspire, you’d think I’d actually been exercising.
‘I’m notching up my fitness regime.’
‘What fitness regime?’
‘The one I do a lot.’ My voice wavered as I spoke.
From behind Peter, Sticks nodded encouragingly.
‘I guess our interest in fitness is mutual, hey?’ I added.
‘No, it’s not,’ Peter growled.
Sticks mimed having a drink.
‘Want a protein shake?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to go buy one for me. You know what? I’ll get you one too and we can chat.’
‘No, I don’t want to chat with you,’ he said. ‘This is my gym. This is where I go.’
His face tightened, its hard lines accentuated. It was all I could do not to cower.
‘I didn’t know, I just . . . saw an ad for a trial membership, so I thought I’d have a crack at it. They want me to join. Actually, there’s this family member discount and I –’
‘You’re not going to join.’ He was adamant. ‘You can’t just steal it. This is my
thing.’
I was paddling upstream. ‘I’m interested in fitness too.’
‘No. You don’t have an interest in fitness, stop saying you have an interest in fitness! You played winter tennis and you don’t have an interest in fitness.’ He strung all his words together in a way that made him sound moderately certifiable.
‘It was still tennis . . . sometimes,’ I defended.
Peter forced a laugh. ‘I can’t believe you. You have to do everything I do, don’t you? You can’t just let me have one thing that makes me happy, can you? Just one measly thing I have that’s mine and no one else’s. Can you just not ruin it?’
‘I don’t see . . .’ I stopped myself. I saw it.
Happy. The gym made him happy.
The idea that it might make me happy too instantly ruined it for him.
I watched his chest rise and fall with each short breath. His eyes were wide and his neck, tensed. And in that moment, when we’d both run out of things to say, I realised that I couldn’t fix him. At least, not in the way Yiayia wanted. There was no Peter fix that involved me.
I turned on my heels. ‘Come on, Sticks.’
I felt Peter’s eyes on me as we left.
Sticks followed me out. We sat on the curb around the corner, Sticks tapping his crutches on the road, me replaying Peter’s tantrum in my mind.
I thought of Simon ignoring my calls and ditching me for champagne. And his status feed . . .
Was completing the bucket list really the best thing for them? By meeting Yiayia’s wishes, was I actually working against what my brothers wanted?
I asked Sticks.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You saw Simon’s profile,’ I said. ‘He’s having the time of his life in Brisbane. He’s genuinely happy up there.’
‘So?’
‘So, I’m working on the assumption Yiayia’s right, that her master plan for mending the family will make us all happier. But what if she’s wrong? What if coming back to Sydney won’t make Simon happy? What if moving away from us already has?’
Sticks stopped tapping his crutches.
‘And what if Peter being angst-ridden and distant makes him just as happy?’ I continued. ‘What if neither of them wants the family glued back together? What if the family has already gone the way of the dodo . . . and that’s a good thing, at least for Peter and Simon?’
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