The First Third

by Will Kostakis

  ‘She said it was complicated,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Bull.’

  ‘Mm.’

  As much as I wanted to do away with whatever it was that I felt for her, I couldn’t. I couldn’t shake what Mrs Walker-Pryce had said. Hayley had responsibilities.

  ‘Oh, responsibilities! Well!’ Sticks could barely contain the sarcasm. ‘That makes it all okay!’

  I wanted to be as mad as Sticks was, but I wasn’t. Was I disappointed? Yes. Did I feel rejected? Certainly. But Mrs Walker-Pryce had told me to forget organising the date, and maybe she had found out what her mum said and thought I’d –

  ‘No, you’re making excuses for her,’ Sticks snapped. ‘She agreed to the date. There’s only one person who can undo that and that’s her.’

  He had a point.

  ‘She had your number. She should have called. She should have texted. She should have sent a carrier pigeon. She should have done something,’ he said. ‘Anyway, onwards and upwards, now that you can sort of ride a bike, you can cycle your way into someone else’s heart.’

  ‘Mm.’ Because that was what I really wanted to do – start from scratch with someone new. Again.

  Sticks sipped his coffee. ‘Was today okay?’

  It was. Ever since Malvern, Dad had invaded my mind. I’d always assumed he’d moved on, bought a new house and built a new life, but it was different being there. It was different knowing I’d almost rung his doorbell.

  I had suddenly become aware that there was a space in my life he was supposed to occupy.

  And that had bothered me.

  But when Mr P guided the BMX bike and reassuringly pressed one hand against my back, I was reminded that much like Dad had built a new life for himself, I had built my own without him. I’d collected enough people that the vacancy he left was almost insignificant.

  Almost. But it was a manageable, acceptable kind of almost.

  ‘I didn’t want to force it on you,’ he continued, ‘but I thought –’

  ‘It was great, Lucas. Really.’

  He pointed a warning finger at me as he raised his mug. ‘Sticks,’ he corrected.

  ‘Shove it.’

  He sipped his coffee. ‘And if you ever need someone to do that dad stuff with, you can always ask,’ he said. ‘I’m certain Dad wouldn’t mind. He could show you how to shave.’

  ‘I can shave!’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Really though?’

  ‘Prick.’

  ‘You love it.’

  ‘But seriously, thanks,’ I added.

  My grandmother’s operation fell on Monday, the first day of second term. The school holidays had disappeared in a whirl of kidney-stone-initiated craziness and there was probably no more fitting way to see them off than with a visit to the hospital.

  Mum wanted us to see Yiayia before the surgery. In case. She didn’t use those words, but you could feel them hanging over us. We each sat on a chair pulled right up to Yiayia’s bed, even Peter. As she spoke we quietly committed her subtle mannerisms to memory.

  In case.

  Yiayia was having a partial nephrectomy, from the Greek nephro meaning ‘kidney’, and ectomy, as in, ‘Cut it the heck out of me!’ Thanks to the internet, I’d gone to sleep an expert on partial nephrectomies.

  Basically, the surgeon would make a series of small incisions in her abdomen. Through the holes, they would poke around, removing the stones and the part of Yiayia’s kidney that wasn’t working anymore. They’d put in the stent, sew the kidney closed and that was it.

  The procedure was considered safe. Its risks were minimal and complications were rare, but that didn’t mean they weren’t possible. And I’d seen the TV specials – I knew all about the scalpels surgeons occasionally forgot inside you.

  I didn’t know whether it was the influence of working on a bucket list, or because the situation genuinely called for it, but I feared the worst.

  I paid close attention to the way my grandmother’s face lit up when she heard Simon on speakerphone, the way she paused to lick her chapped lips mid-sentence, the way her face skewed when she noticed me staring.

  ‘What you look at?’ Yiayia asked, eyes narrowed.

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And why you no visit?’

  It was the first time I’d been to the hospital since Thursday. I had been afraid of running into Hayley.

  ‘He’s been too busy setting me up on dates,’ Mum said.

  Yiayia feigned surprise. ‘Ti?’ She turned to me and grinned. ‘Cheeky boy.’

  ‘So cheeky,’ I muttered to myself.

  ‘Is he Greek?’ Yiayia asked.

  Mum and I exchanged awkward glances.

  ‘No,’ Mum said.

  Yiayia’s smile faded. ‘Why not?’ She pinched my forearm.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Ma, it’s fine.’

  ‘I joke.’ Yiayia high-fived the side of my face affectionately. ‘You so cheeky and handsome in your uniform.’

  Peter and I were all decked out in the Buckley’s blue and gold. Like all secondary-school uniforms, whoever designed ours hadn’t made any attempt to exhaust all the options on the colour wheel. Its components were either blue or gold, and those that weren’t exclusively one or the other, were both.

  If I spun around fast enough, I’d hypnotise people.

  ‘Speaking of,’ Mum said, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist, ‘you should go.’

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ I said.

  We had already missed first period. Factoring in the walk to school, we’d probably only catch the last few minutes of second before recess.

  I hopped up and Yiayia puckered her lips expectantly. I kissed her forehead.

  ‘No,’ she growled.

  I sighed and stuck my neck out. She took my head in her hands and planted a kiss right on my lips.

  ‘You have good day.’ Yiayia released me.

  I patted her leg on my way around the bed. ‘You too, Yiayia.’

  ‘Eh, maybe.’

  Mum’s eyes flared. ‘Ma!’

  My grandmother shrugged.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Mum assured me, pecking me on the cheek. ‘Be good.’

  By that point, Peter had shuffled up to Yiayia. He mumbled his goodbye.

  ‘Speak up,’ Mum growled.

  He was indignant. ‘What? She heard.’

  ‘Agapi mou!’ Yiayia grunted. Greek for, ‘My love.’ She pulled him down to her level and kissed him. ‘You be good,’ she added.

  She didn’t release him right away. She whispered something.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said softly.

  ‘You sure?’ Yiayia asked it like she didn’t believe him.

  ‘Yep.’

  She released him. He brushed past Mum on the way out.

  ‘Keep an eye on your phone,’ she told me. ‘I’ll call.’

  I didn’t immediately follow Peter down the hall. I stood in the doorway, looking at my grandmother. Yiayia nodded solemnly. It said everything it had to.

  That I needed to finish the list.

  That I really should have set Mum up with a Greek.

  That there was food in the pantry that needed to be eaten.

  And that she loved me.

  I smiled faintly.

  Mine was a full-body worry. It was like someone had grabbed me from both ends, twisted me like a pretzel and was slowly tightening the knot.

  I poked my head through the window that looked into the school sergeant’s office.

  ‘Morning, Sarge.’

  ‘Ent,’ he added. His voice was like tyres on gravel.

  Sergeant Cockburn insisted on two things. One, that he was a sergeant, not a sarge, and two, that the ‘ck’ was silent. (‘Yeah,’ Sticks said, ‘like it is in so many other words.’) He was in charge of absenteeism and neat attire – so basically, he was nothing like a real-world sergeant at all.

  All late arrivals had to go through him.

  ‘Name?’ he asked.

&nb
sp; ‘Bill Tsiolkas.’

  ‘Excuse?’ With the sergeant, you were guilty until proven slightly less guilty.

  ‘I was visiting my grandmother in hospital before kidney surgery,’ I said. ‘Mum emailed a note.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Your brother came through ten minutes ago. I was wondering where you were, then I checked your timetable and saw you had Physics.’

  ‘It’s not like that. He ran, I promise.’

  Sergeant Cockburn didn’t look like he believed me. He consulted his watch and started filling out a slip. When he was done, he passed it over. ‘You don’t have long left of class, so why bother?’

  I checked the slip as I pulled away from the window. He’d signed me in from recess.

  ‘Good man,’ I muttered.

  I passed my Maths teacher on the way to my locker. She asked if I’d had a productive break.

  ‘It was fairly busy, yeah.’

  Mrs Schmidt rephrased the question. ‘Did you study?’

  So much had happened since Easter – the stones, the trip to Melbourne, Flippant, the bucket list, Hayley – I’d forgotten everything that had seemed so important before it, the target subject scores, the potential university courses . . . I hadn’t even set foot in a classroom and Buckley’s had already dragged me back to reality.

  I was in Year Twelve and reality sucked.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You have a good day.’

  It was too early to receive word from Mum, but I checked my phone anyway. Nothing.

  Sticks and I had an aluminium picnic table we called our own. We (I) had dragged it all the way from the cafeteria and positioned it at the top of the rugby field’s bank, just before the slope became too steep for stationary objects to remain, well, stationary.

  I sat on the tabletop with my feet on the seat and flicked my feelings out into the universe.

  BillyTsiolkas

  Thinking of you, Yiayia.

  Just now

  Yiayia was my display picture. She had been since my seventeenth.

  Mum had booked us a table at a boutique hotel for a sit-down dinner and the photo had been taken in the lobby by a staff member. Yiayia had said something in Greek about our photographer’s looks just as the picture was taken. The result was a photo of me with my head in my hands and Yiayia with this accomplished I-just-said-something-rude-the-silly-girl-didn’t-understand look on her face.

  And it was priceless.

  I zoomed in on the image. She seemed so proud of herself.

  ‘And where were you in English first period?’ Sticks asked, dumping his crutches on the grass and hopping up onto the table beside me.

  ‘I had to visit Yiayia. They’re operating today.’

  Sticks’ smirk disappeared. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  I wasn’t and I was certain he could sense it. He asked, ‘So what do you want? Distraction or compassionate friend?’

  ‘Distraction.’

  Sticks rubbed his hands together. ‘All right, so . . .’

  And he regaled me with stories of first-period English shenanigans. A couple of minutes in, my mobile vibrated. It was Simon. Any news?

  The news came at the end of lunch. I was fetching my books out of my locker when my phone rang. Mum’s picture had taken over the screen.

  The pretzel knot tightened. I answered the call, heart pounding and chest tight.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mum’s tinny voice said. ‘Everything went okay.’

  The knot loosened. I relaxed into my locker and asked if she was sure. She was. I asked if there was anything I needed to do and Mum told me to spread the news to my brothers.

  I tried Simon first. He picked up after the first ring.

  ‘Hey.’ His tone was deep and serious. ‘Do we know?’

  ‘Yiayia’s fine,’ I said. ‘It went okay.’

  Simon exhaled. ‘I’ve been petrified all day.’

  ‘Me too.’

  There were a few seconds where we didn’t say anything, we just let the relief sink in.

  ‘I should probably get back to work,’ Simon said eventually.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thanks for calling.’

  It was a strange thing to say. Did he think we wouldn’t have?

  ‘See you,’ he added.

  ‘Bye.’

  I tried Peter next. His phone was off or he had no reception – either way, I’d have to find him and tell him in person. Joy.

  The corridor had already started to clear as students made their way to fifth period. I left my things in my locker and returned to Sergeant Cockburn’s window.

  ‘Sarge,’ I said. ‘Ent,’ I added immediately.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Tsiolkas?’

  I needed to know what room Peter was in so I could pass on the message.

  The sergeant consulted his computer.

  ‘He is not in his regular class, it appears,’ he said. ‘He’s been pulled out for extra-curricular activities.’

  I hazarded a guess. ‘In the gym?’

  ‘No, he’s in the amphitheatre,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  Comedy Club.

  Peter was in Comedy Club. Apparently, the school had an extra-curricular group for aspiring comics and my brother, who thought any close relative who shared an interest with him had ‘stolen’ it from him, was in it.

  He was an aspiring comic. And I had become one entirely by accident.

  ‘Perfect,’ I muttered.

  Peter had taken the amphitheatre stage. I watched from the back. It was dark, and as far as I knew, nobody could see me. The other students had been sourced from different years. They were sitting up the front, their ties loosened and their shirts untucked.

  ‘Now remember,’ the supervising teacher said, ‘speak clearly and don’t forget your pauses. It’s all in the delivery.’

  Peter nodded. He looked up at the almost-empty amphi­theatre. I crouched down behind the back row.

  He started.

  There was a confidence in his voice I hadn’t heard before. It sounded like he was talking through a smile. I poked my head up from behind the seat to confirm it. Yep. Smiling.

  It was Nice Peter, the version of himself he reserved for teachers, friends and Yiayia, the kind of Peter I only saw brief glimmers of. There he was, in full view, juggling anecdotes and acerbic observations.

  And he was funny, properly funny.

  ‘Whatcha doin’?’

  I almost jumped out of my skin. A kid had walked in late and crouched beside me. He was literally a couple of centi­metres away from my face.

  ‘I . . . uh . . . left my pen in here last period.’ I turned away so he wouldn’t realise I looked like the guy on stage and started feeling around underneath the chair.

  ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘You really don’t have to.’ I really didn’t want him to.

  ‘It’s okay.’ He was patting the floor in search of the non-existent pen, but his eyes were glued to the stage.

  Peter delivered a punchline and the kid snorted. ‘I wish I was as good as that guy.’

  It was weird talking in the opposite direction, but I couldn’t risk him noticing the family resemblance. ‘How long have you been doing this?’ I asked.

  ‘Only started last term.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’s Pete. He was the one that got the English Department to start running the club last year,’ he said.

  I stopped sweeping my hand over the same spot on the floor. Peter had been doing it for that long and I hadn’t even had a clue?

  ‘Oh!’ The kid pulled his arm out from underneath the row of seats. ‘Found it.’

  I turned to face him. He’d found a pen. It wasn’t mine, but it seemed like a pretty good pen, so I was totally taxing it.

  He handed it over.

  Peter finished his routine and the others started clapping.

&nb
sp; ‘I should head back,’ the kid said.

  Before he could get too far, I said, ‘Oh, actually . . . I’ve also got a message from Sarge. That’s Peter Tsiolkas, right?’

  The kid nodded.

  ‘Can you tell him that his grandmother’s surgery went well today?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I didn’t leave until the kid passed on the message. I could just make out Peter’s face.

  He was relieved.

  I stopped by the hospital after school to give Mum a break. She was reluctant to leave, but I could tell she needed a rest and a glass of shiraz the size of a fish bowl, so I insisted.

  I didn’t like seeing post-operation Yiayia. Visiting her in the hospital had never bothered me before, because she’d basically acted like Yiayia, only in hospital. But it was different, post-op. She lay flat, her hair was a stringy grey mess and her voice was stripped of whichever quality had made her sound human.

  When we were alone, Yiayia asked about the list.

  I said everything was going ‘super’.

  I was convinced that Simon was never coming back and I was inadvertently pursuing something Peter was passionate about after he’d expressly stated that us sharing any interests ruined them for him. But Mum had a second date, so it was super-ish.

  ‘Why you sound sad?’ Yiayia whisper-croaked.

  ‘I’m not sad.’ I was a bit. Okay, I was a lot.

  She raised her hand slightly and I guided it up to my cheek. Her palm felt coarse against my skin.

  ‘Ama ixeres poso s’agapo,’ she croaked. If only I knew how much she loved me.

  The woman had seen enough soap operas to know how to instantly reduce someone to a blubbering mess. You’d think that after seventeen years I’d be immune to her emotionally manipulative charms, but nope. Blubbering. Mess.

  She rubbed her hand over my face. She was trying to dry my eyes, but only ended up smearing my tears and knocking my nose a few times. When I’d had enough, I grabbed her wrist gently and laid her hand down by her side.

  She blinked heavily. She was fighting to stay awake.

  ‘I okay. You go.’ She let her eyes close.

  She could fall asleep if she liked, but I wasn’t leaving her side until visiting hours were over.