The First Third

by Will Kostakis

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said.

  I had a taxi arriving at quarter-past six, which didn’t leave me much time. I spent it lying on the floor, head propped against the side of Yiayia’s footrest. We were watching her favourite soap. There were corrupt generals, evil twin brothers and ladies with porcelain faces and spiteful vendettas. They spoke slowly enough for me to understand the gist of what was going on, but I let my grandmother explain it to me anyway.

  Mum hovered in the background. She was going through Yiayia’s pantry and clearing out everything that had expired.

  The soapie finished at six. As the opening credits of another one started, I took my bag into one of the spare bedrooms.

  I knew I’d be pushed for time visiting Yiayia before heading to Flippant, so I’d packed a change of clothes – a white shirt that was crinkled to the max after spending the day scrunched into a ball, a skinny black tie on loan from Lucas, a pair of suit pants and Papou’s jacket.

  The guest room’s built-in wardrobe had mirrored doors. I stepped into my pants in front of my reflection and thought about the night ahead of me. Excitement had smothered my nerves. I had a chance to really make something of myself, and as daunting a task as speaking in front of four hundred people was, it was nothing compared to what could come after.

  It helped that I was certain nobody would have an anecdote to rival mine.

  ‘So, my grandmother gave me her bucket list,’ I recited quietly as I buttoned my shirt. ‘And you’re all probably thinking, “Oh, how sweet, he took his grandmother skydiving or some shit,” but no, my grandmother isn’t your ordinary grandmother, so this wasn’t your ordinary bucket list.’

  I shut up. I heard footsteps just beyond the door. Mum nudged it open.

  ‘I was wondering where you’d gone,’ she said.

  I put my arms through the sleeves of Papou’s jacket and threw the tie around my neck.

  Mum seemed apprehensive. ‘I’d ask you why you’re all dressed up, but I’m afraid you’ve set me up on another blind date.’

  ‘No blind date. Fancy dress poker night.’

  ‘On a Thursday?’

  It wasn’t the greatest alibi, but I couldn’t exactly change it. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  I started doing my tie and Mum walked over, hands outstretched. ‘Here, I’ll –’

  ‘I can tie a knot, Mum. Ugh.’

  She was already pulling on the wider end. ‘What is this? It’s a shoestring.’

  ‘It’s Lucas’s.’

  She squinted down at it. ‘How am I supposed to tie a Windsor?’

  ‘I don’t think you can with these.’

  Mum folded the tie over itself. ‘Your grandmother asked about John.’ Another fold. ‘I told her it didn’t work out.’

  It was the first time she’d mentioned John since Tuesday. I hadn’t wanted to bring him up. ‘Did he call?’ I asked.

  ‘He texted and said he wanted to be friends.’

  ‘And how many messages did you send back?’

  ‘Just the one.’ She tightened the knot and drew it hard into my neck. ‘Smart-arse.’ She folded down my collar and added, ‘I told him where he could shove it.’

  ‘Good.’

  She tapped my shoulder so I’d face the mirror. The tie was perfect, but I was watching her reflection. Her features drooped.

  ‘Sorry about setting you up,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be.’ She had started brushing the back of the jacket with her hand. ‘I always lose my breath when I see you wearing this.’ She straightened up and assessed me in the mirror. ‘It sits well on you.’

  My phone vibrated on the bed. It was an automated message, my taxi was around the corner. ‘When’s Peter coming?’ I asked, slipping my mobile into my pocket.

  ‘He’s not. He has an excursion tonight. The school’s taking him to Flipper, I think it’s called.’

  Flipper? That sounded a lot like . . . ‘Flippant?’

  ‘That’s the one. What is it?’

  My heart was racing. Peter was going to be there. I felt like I’d been caught out. I hadn’t, not yet anyway. I didn’t want to look at Mum in case she knew I was withholding something. I started stuffing my school uniform into my bag. ‘Um. It’s a stand-up comedy night,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a weird thing for the school to take him to. And don’t do that.’ She wrestled the bag off me and started removing clothes. She fanned my pants out. ‘You have to wear these tomorrow.’

  A car horn sounded.

  ‘Go, I’ll take these home with me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I was almost out the door when she said, ‘Good luck.’ It took me a second to get that she was talking about poker.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And do you have money for the taxi?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And go kiss your grandmother.’

  ‘I know, I –’

  ‘Hurry up, the cab’s waiting.’

  I realised the only way the conversation would end was if I just stopped speaking. I darted inside, pecked Yiayia on the cheek, listened to her wax lyrical about my handsomeness and then ran back through the house.

  When I passed the guest room, I saw Mum had laid my uniform out on the bed. She was ironing out creases with her hands.

  The theatre was in Newtown, twenty minutes away. I had planned on rehearsing for the whole taxi ride, but I couldn’t shake the thought of Peter. He was going to be there. He had founded a comedy club, he had skill, he had ambition, he was admired and his older brother was going to snatch away his dream in front of him and everybody who admired him.

  And it felt cruel to poke the bear. Despite everything the bear had done, every moment he had spent making me feel insignificant, the bear was still my younger brother. I still loved the bear. I didn’t want to take away his dream.

  I would rather he liked me, gave me the time of day, said my name.

  But on the other hand, that sense of purpose I had felt during my set at the New Pavilion – was that really worth giving up because my younger brother couldn’t share a passion? If I got up there on stage, was I really a bad guy? Wasn’t the onus on him to just grow up and accept that two brothers could have similarities, maybe even the same job?

  Why did I have to give up my opportunity for someone who didn’t like me, who didn’t give me the time of day, who wouldn’t say my name?

  When I arrived at the theatre, I joined the other semi-finalists in the dressing room. The air smelt like BO and hairspray and there was barely any room to move. I found myself a corner and kept to myself. I figured then it’d be less likely that someone would realise I was at least two years younger than everybody else. The guys had spent enough time outside high school to grow ironic handlebar moustaches, and the girls had piercings no headmaster would allow.

  I was upbeat, at first. I was about to compete in the Flippant semi-final, but the more snippets of conversations I caught, the more I felt like an imposter. It wasn’t just because I’d assumed somebody else’s identity. The others shared crudely shot videos of their pub gigs on their phones. I couldn’t legally enter a pub. They spoke about the craft. The craft I knew was a crummy ’90s movie starring Neve Campbell. They all had these long journeys that had culminated in the Flippant semi-final. I had ten days.

  And I kept thinking of my brother. He would have belonged in that room of semi-finalists. Sure, he’d be underage too, but he’d have past experiences to share, comments about the artistry to exchange, a history that went beyond, ‘Well, I didn’t want to get carded . . .’

  And I wished he’d let me offer him my place. I wished our roles had been reversed, and I could sit in the audience and watch him.

  I had to try one more time. I took out my phone. There was no reception. And a stagehand was calling my name, Steve’s name. Before I knew it, he was walking me down a narrow corridor lined with framed posters of the theatre’s past productions. Still no reception.

  I could hear the laughter through the w
all. The ­semi-finalist before me had nailed her final punchline. She was thanking the applauding crowd when we got to the wing. She wore a bright red dress with bold white polka dots. She reminded me of ­Minnie Mouse.

  Across the stage from us, the MC from the night at the New Pavilion was standing in the opposite wing. He passed a sheet of paper back to a stagehand, purposefully adjusted his bowtie to lean too far in one direction and stepped out.

  ‘Sarah Watson, everybody,’ he announced. He gave her a chance to curtsy one last time before encouraging her to walk off the stage the way he’d come. ‘It’s time for our next semi-finalist. He won one of our South Sydney regions.’ He adjusted his bowtie. ‘Give it up for Steve Wright!’ He was watching me, arm stretched out in my direction.

  ‘Good luck,’ my stagehand whispered.

  I stepped out onto the stage and the applause of four hundred people lapped against me like a hard wave. I was looking out into the crowd. The light from the stage illuminated the faces in the first few rows. I was searching for Peter’s face, but I wasn’t even completely sure I wanted to find it. Then my eyes fell on the kid who’d caught me hiding in the back of the amphitheatre. And three seats over, Peter.

  It was all in his eyes. He looked defeated.

  Billy Tsiolkas, the snatcher of dreams.

  I stood behind the microphone and tried to tear my gaze away from my younger brother, but it always snapped back to him, crestfallen.

  What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t exactly invite him onto the stage, but I couldn’t ignore him and give my routine as planned. I wouldn’t do that to him.

  The audience members I could see were watching me expectantly. I had to say something. I leaned into the microphone. ‘Hello.’

  A handful laughed uncomfortably. Peter didn’t.

  ‘I, um, had a set prepared, but, um, there’s someone in the audience tonight who wants this more than me,’ I said. ‘And I want him to know that he can have it, and when he does, I’m going to be in his audience cheering him on. Whether he likes it or not.’

  Peter hadn’t looked away. The kids from the comedy club who recognised me were talking amongst themselves.

  ‘Right, here goes.’

  I cleared my throat and pushed up my sleeves. If I was going to forfeit my place in the semi-final of Sydney’s leading amateur stand-up comedy comp in a bid to repair my relationship with my younger brother, I was going to do it in the most spectacular way I could.

  ‘A mushroom walks into a bar and orders a drink. Bartender says, “I can’t serve you.” Mushroom says, “Why not? I’m a fun-guy.”’

  Peter sputtered out a laugh. Nobody else did.

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been great.’ I waved. A couple of ­people booed, but most of them just chatted amongst themselves, unsure what it was they’d just witnessed. ‘If you’ve got a drink, take a sip every time the MC touches his bowtie. I’m out!’

  I jumped down off the stage and ran up the aisle.

  Peter didn’t get home until after eleven. I had been sitting on my bed, watching videos on my laptop (and definitely not waiting up for him, if anybody asked). No matter how grand my gesture was, there was no guarantee Peter wouldn’t just ignore it. I didn’t let my hopes get too high, and as I heard Peter’s footsteps coming down the hall, I told myself that the odds were he would walk straight past my room.

  His footsteps stopped outside my doorway. I glanced up from my laptop. He was leaning against my doorframe. He was smiling. It lit the room.

  ‘How did you get into Flippant?’ he asked.

  ‘It just happened.’

  ‘And how did you know about Comedy Club?’

  ‘I am your brother. I do notice things.’

  He slid off the doorframe and walked away.

  I hadn’t known what to make of it before he called back, ‘Goodnight, Bill.’

  ‘Goodnight, Peter.’

  The next morning, I was copying Lucas’s Maths homework before first period when Peter walked past our aluminium picnic table. He waved. Lucas waited for him to walk out of earshot before he said, ‘That’s new.’

  ‘Don’t jinx it.’

  ‘Have you invited him to come tonight?’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s warming to me, but let’s not pretend he’s ready to sit around and watch your uncle tune our mum.’

  ‘Fair call.’

  ‘Besides, he’s spending the night at Yiayia’s.’ I turned the page of his exercise book.

  ‘She’s good?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The only disconcerting thing about my visit to her place the night before was how disappointed Mum had seemed when she spoke about John. ‘Is there any chance of your mum not trying to set Mum up with her brother?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Mrs P checked her watch. We were fifteen minutes into the dinner party and her brother hadn’t arrived. She and Mum were in the kitchen with the assorted dips. They’d been drinking, so they were making the sorts of jokes you’d prefer not to hear your mother tell. Mum was laughing so hard her asthma was playing up. If she had any idea that she was getting set-up, then she wasn’t showing it.

  Lucas and I were on the lounge with a controller each, playing a game that I was convinced hated me.

  ‘You have to shoot or I’m going to keep on killing you,’ Lucas said.

  ‘I’m pressing the buttons and it’s not working.’

  My half of the screen went dark. He’d shot me. Again. ‘Hey!’

  ‘It’s working for me,’ he said.

  Mrs P sighed after a particularly potent laugh. She leaned against the counter, turned to us and said, ‘Lucas, check on your father.’

  He paused the game and looked out into the yard. Damo and Mr P were manning the barbecue. They seemed fine. He said so.

  ‘Get off that and go outside and ask if they need anything,’ his mother said sternly.

  He dropped his controller on the lounge and hopped up. ‘Fine,’ he groaned.

  ‘Sometimes, Lucas . . .’ She turned to Mum and explained, ‘He’s back to being Lucas now.’

  ‘You never called me Sticks,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but I had to put up with other people calling you it.’ She noticed Mum’s bottle was empty. ‘Did you want another Coopers?’

  Mum was reluctant. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  But Mrs P went momentarily deaf. She opened the fridge and passed Mum a fresh bottle.

  The doorbell rang. ‘That will be Shaun, I’ll get it.’

  She rested her drink on the counter and disappeared down the hall. I jumped up and walked over to a place I could see the front door from. Joel hadn’t arrived yet and it might have been him.

  It wasn’t. Mrs P was embracing her markedly taller brother. She pulled away. By the looks of things, she was only just revealing to him that there was someone she wanted him to meet. She tried slicking his hair back and he resisted.

  ‘Psst.’

  I looked to Mum. She was eating a thin piece of carrot. ‘Is this a set-up?’ she asked softly.

  I figured things were only going to get more unsubtle from there on in. I nodded.

  ‘Okay then.’ She rapped her fingers against her bottle nervously.

  Mrs P led her brother into the kitchen. He was coarse, but in that women’s fiction kind of way. His flannel shirt was tucked roughly into his jeans and he had a stubble beard.

  His eyes instantly locked on Mum. ‘Hi there,’ he said, extending his arm. ‘I’m Shaun.’

  Mum shook it. ‘Kath.’

  ‘Coopers?’ Mrs P asked. She’d already popped off the cap.

  Her brother accepted it. ‘Cheers,’ he said, before taking a swig.

  And Mum didn’t look like she had any complaints.

  Lucas poked his head inside briefly. ‘The meat’s ready.’

  I laughed.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Mrs P’s eyes flared. ‘Let’s go outside, shall we?’

  She shepherded us out into the yard, to the table lit by mosqui
to-repellent candles. Kenny G started playing from the speaker system.

  Every little thing about the backyard dinner had been carefully considered, from the seating arrangements (when Lucas went to sit between Mum and I, in the spot intended for Shaun, Mrs P pulled his ear) to the topics of conversation (Mrs P had hidden a palm card under Lucas’s placemat that outlined talking points).

  ‘So, Uncle Shaun,’ Lucas said, lifting the corner of his placemat and making no effort to disguise the fact that he was reading, ‘how’s work going?’

  Shaun grimaced. ‘It’s going okay.’

  Lucas looked to his mum, who nodded encouragingly. He squinted down at the next dot point. ‘I think it’s great to learn a trade. They’re recession-proof.’

  That piqued Mum’s interest. She leaned into Shaun a fraction. ‘What’s your trade?’

  ‘I’m a carpenter.’

  ‘You’re good with wood, then?’ Mum deadpanned.

  Shaun laughed and I buried my head in my hands. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘This is going to be fun,’ Lucas said, stealing a sip of his father’s beer.

  ‘How much are you benching now?’ Damo asked his uncle.

  That was my cue to tune out. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to hear people talk about less than the gym. I checked my phone, but there were no new messages. Joel was a half-hour late.

  Maybe I hadn’t sold Lucas hard enough.

  Mum grabbed Shaun’s closest bicep and gave it a light squeeze. ‘Oh, you do work out!’

  I groaned. Lucas was enjoying it.

  ‘What?’ Mum asked. ‘When in Rome . . .’

  ‘Do the Romans!’ Mrs P finished for her.

  She and Mum both squealed.

  Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.

  ‘Yeah, not so fun now, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Remind me not to take your mother to Italy, will you?’ Mr P said dryly.

  ‘Dad, don’t make it worse.’

  The doorbell rang. Mrs P counted the heads at the table. Everybody was accounted for.

  ‘Who could that be?’ she asked, putting down her cutlery. ‘If that’s You-Know-Who across the street coming over to complain about the noise, I’ve had just enough to drink to call her a you-know-what.’