Summer Skin

by Kirsty Eagar

  ‘Little bit,’ Jess said, relief in her voice. ‘But listen, I—’

  ‘Want to go?’

  It was unbelievable, really, how quickly he could become that other person.

  •

  This time as Jess scaled the wall there were no jokes about Mitch looking up her skirt. He went first and waited for her on the other side, staring blankly in the direction of uni. The shopping trolley looked lonely on the other side of the road, abandoned for a second time. As they headed off, Jess skipped to get into step, and regretted it immediately. They stayed that way, though, striding out efficiently like some four-legged piece of machinery, harvesting the night. And the silence between them didn’t just feel uncomfortable, it felt uncrossable.

  Things changed when they turned into Carmody Road. Mitch started to pull ahead, walking faster and faster, as though he had some urgent appointment to get to at one o’clock in the morning. By the time they neared the roundabout, the distance between them was big enough to be symbolic. If it wasn’t for the fact that they’d never talk to each other again, Jess might have just let him go. As it was, she wanted the last word.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted. Mitch didn’t show any signs of having heard her. ‘Oh, come on, who else would I be talking to?’ He slowed reluctantly, stopping under a streetlight without turning around.

  ‘I love how the time-out ended as soon as I said I wouldn’t do stuff with you,’ Jess said when she reached him. She stared at his profile. ‘Really, you should have thanked me. I bet I’m the first girl you’ve ever just talked to.’

  ‘No, that’s not right,’ Mitch said, his voice carefully neutral in a way that was meant to block her. ‘I used to talk to this other girl sometimes.’

  ‘Well, I hope you treated her better than this,’ Jess said. ‘Me? I wish that you’d never let me take that jersey.’

  He lifted his chin at her. ‘We finished?’

  ‘Oh, we’re finished,’ she told him. Mitch started walking. ‘Actually, no, we’re not.’ He stopped again. ‘Why did you let me take that jersey? Just tell me that.’

  Jess thought he wasn’t going to answer, but eventually he turned around, facing her for the first time. ‘You want to know why? Because Julian’s dead, and I’m alive, and I hate myself for that every fucking day. His parents gave me that jersey when they found out I was coming back. They thought I should have it, because I was his best mate. His mum hadn’t even washed it, because it used to smell like him—’ Mitch broke off, swallowed. ‘That’s why I washed it. In case it still did.’

  ‘Mitch, stop,’ Jess said, her hands pressed hard against her chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And then you rock up,’ Mitch said, his eyes wide and haunted. ‘You’re going to steal it—this jersey, that means so much to everybody. And just for that moment I wanted you to. I thought, Good. Take the fucking thing. You carry some of it.’ He rubbed his eyes, and Jess thought he was crying, but when he pulled his hands away, she saw he wasn’t.

  Then he started to walk again. Jess trailed behind him the rest of the way. Even though he wasn’t walking fast anymore.

  CHAPTER 15

  CHEROKEE

  Jess woke late the next morning, and while she’d never liked Sundays—too saggy, too melancholy—this one stretched before her like an interminable wasteland. Everybody had disappeared, T-floor echoingly empty, a wind tunnel. She streamed Triple J, just to hear some noise, but Cat Power was playing, which only heightened the ache. And when she showered, she noticed that her fingertips, pruned when she’d gone to bed, were smooth again, the smell of chlorine faded from her skin.

  Perhaps that was why she ended up stalking Mitch online. She wanted proof of him. Or more of him. But he didn’t seem to have a social media presence, or to be anywhere else for that matter: St Luke’s hadn’t been online for long enough to include his time there, and the Knights newsletters were protected. There were a couple of fleeting mentions of him in articles about the Uni rugby team, but the fact he’d made an impressive debut didn’t really do it for Jess. There was a funny taste in her mouth when she searched for Julian Lloyd instead, along with ‘car crash’ and ‘Bundaberg’.

  She found three articles. The first was a perfunctory news piece: a man had been killed at around 1.30 a.m., following a New Year’s Eve party, when the car he was driving left the road and crashed into a tree. He was the sole occupant of the vehicle.

  The second article confirmed the man as being Julian Lloyd, aged nineteen, and the use of the word ‘man’ seemed incongruous in relation to his age. He was a boy, like Jess was still a girl. The article included a photograph of an emergency service worker near what was supposed to have been a Holden ute, but was unrecognisable as any sort of vehicle—the driver’s seat had been eaten by a mash of metal; the front wheel was kinked towards the body of the car at a right angle. There was a second circular shape beneath the driver’s seat, resting on the road, and Jess eventually realised it was the car’s steering wheel. The article quoted a police spokesman who said that the crash was under investigation, and it was believed speeding and alcohol had been contributing factors. The police were to prepare a report for the coroner.

  Jess remembered Mitch talking about himself in the third person on the night of the toga party. I bet he’s a fucking arsehole. Actually, I know he’s an arsehole. It’s a fact. Coroner certified. He’d been at the party, she was sure of it, and he felt he should have stopped his friend from driving. It was the sort of thing from road safety campaigns—Real mates don’t let mates drink drive. But, to Jess, one small detail made the horror involved in Julian’s death very real: the misplaced steering wheel. Julian’s hands had been holding it. If it had ended up down there, what had happened to his hands?

  The third article was more of a tribute piece. Promising future cut short by tragic crash. And even before Jess read the headline, her breath caught, because she’d seen the photograph: Mitch standing with another guy who could only be Julian, both of them wearing their school blazers. It had clearly been taken a few years earlier, but Mitch was still so recognisable, so immediately Mitch, it made Jess want to understand the things that made him who he was. Oddly enough, with Julian there, it became possible.

  Julian. While Mitch was tanned, Julian was so pale that it made his tousled hair seem impossibly black by comparison; inky. It might have just been the photograph, but his eyes weren’t brown as you would have expected, but a deep, dark blue. He was thin-lipped, his mouth open, showing white teeth and the tip of his tongue, and that, combined with the upward tilt of his chin, made his expression challenging, almost sexual. No. To Jess, it was sexual. She felt the punch of his presence. He was the type of guy that she would have crushed on, but never approached. If he wasn’t interested, he would have been cruel, and if you’d had to approach him, he definitely wasn’t interested. If he approached you, the flirting would have been flinty, the opening negotiations to something even more dispassionate.

  His arm was slung around Mitch’s shoulders, his forefinger and thumb cocked like a gun.

  Beside him, Mitch seemed more reserved, facing the camera squarely, his arms held loosely in front of his body, maintaining the T of his frame, even as Julian leaned on him. Resisting? Maybe. As always, his blue eyes pierced her, and he looked older than Julian, mature for their age, his chin shadowed by stubble. But there was something about his brow, a hint of tension, the slightest pull between his eyebrows, that marked him as less sure than his friend. It was an odd thing to notice, another small detail, but to Jess it was crucial. Of the two boys in that photograph, Mitch was the one she didn’t know.

  CHAPTER 16

  TEAM

  Jess wound her way through the tables at La Dolce Vita, red-faced and sweaty and slightly underdressed in running shorts and a T-shirt featuring a Rolling Stones-style tongue framed by forked fingers, her hair in two loose plaits. She wasn’t a huge fan of the place. For a start, she found it geographically confusing, what with a replica Eiffel Tow
er mounted directly over an Italian restaurant. The tower itself was meant to signpost the entire complex of shops and eateries, which was named Savoir Faire, but no one ever called it that. People referred to it as Park Road, Milton, and they adopted a superior air, running the three words together: Park-Road-Milton, like Paris-France, or in this case Paris-Italy. The people who had most cause to refer to it were keen on alfresco dining and drinking coffee in the same indefinable way that they were keen on Tuscany: as an attitude, a state of mind.

  Heather frequented Park-Road-Milton a lot. That was one of the things Jess actually liked about the place: its association with her aunt. She stood as Jess approached, smoothing her skirt over her ample hips and taking a certain pleasure in it, giving Jess’s T-shirt a discreet nod of approval. And maybe it was the Pavarotti piped through the sound system that made Jess’s heart feel too full, or perhaps it was something quieter to do with family and safe havens.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Heather breathed, ignoring Jess’s protests that she was too sweaty and engulfing her in a hug.

  Jess ostentatiously kissed Heather on one cheek, and then the other. ‘Sweetie.’

  ‘Little shit,’ Heather scolded, and then made an Aaack! noise as Jess licked her nose. She sat down, her expensively streaked, ash-blonde bob ruffled and looking better for it, smiling as she dabbed at her nose with her napkin. She was wearing a muslin scarf loosely knotted at the neck of her linen shirt, which must have been the new thing among patrons, because at Jess’s work quite a few patrons of the arts had been wearing their scarves that way, too. Jess did this stocktake and was comforted by it. Together the details added up to her aunt. Someone who knew her, and where she was from.

  She went to dump her backpack on the ground, knocking her knuckles against the table edge. ‘Ow! Fuck!’ she cried, making people at the nearby tables turn around.

  Heather, unperturbed, glanced down at her runners. ‘Did you jog here?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m going to keep going after, too. Run in to work,’ Jess said, flicking her hand. ‘I’ve got my shoes and clothes in the bag. I can shower in there.’ She thumped into her seat. ‘But if Vivian finds out, I’m toast.’

  ‘If you need money for buses, darling, just let me know.’

  Jess smiled. ‘Thanks, but I think you’ve done enough. I’m doing it because I like it. It stops me thinking. Well, I do think, but only about my breathing.’

  They ordered drinks, then Heather leaned in to tug one of Jess’s plaits. ‘Been doing a lot of running lately, Jessie?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe. Why?’

  ‘You look thinner. Dark moons around your eyes. Are you getting enough sleep?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jess said, her voice suddenly croaky. ‘No.’

  Heather waited.

  Jess sighed. ‘I met the wrong guy.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, I knew something was up.’ Heather paused, appearing to pick her words carefully. ‘Wrong like Brendan? Or a different wrong?’

  ‘Different. Completely different. He was muscly, and he was smart, and he was rich, and hot—so hot. And we could talk. He kept up with me. Do you know how rare that is?’

  ‘Do you mean to say this boy is dead?’ Heather sounded shocked.

  ‘No, it’s not him who’s dead,’ Jess said with a frown. ‘Oh, I get it. Past tense. Yeah, funny how I did that. He’s not dead, but he might as well be, because I haven’t seen him for weeks. Even if I did, he probably wouldn’t talk to me, and I definitely shouldn’t talk to him. Uh-uh.’ She paused, and then added in a doleful voice, ‘We played Classic Catches.’

  ‘Classic Catches?’

  ‘You know, when one of you throws the ball, and the other one has to dive into the pool and catch it before it hits the water. Like cricket.’

  ‘Darling, I’m familiar with Classic Catches. It’s the context that threw me.’

  Jess charged on, hardly hearing. ‘And now he’s in my head, all the time. I think I’m going crazy. Nineteen years old and I’ve got an imaginary friend. Seriously, he was with me when I walked in here, making comments about my arse, and saying, “So this is the famous Heather.”’

  ‘Well, he sounds wonderful,’ Heather said, rolling with all this in her usual effortless way. ‘Bring him over for dinner. Tell him you need a date and use it as an excuse for getting in touch. I’ll make salmon confit.’

  Jess laughed, and then sighed, and then laughed again. ‘That will never happen.’ She pressed her fingertips to her temples, staring at her aunt. ‘I’m so stupid. He wanted me to do stuff with him and I wouldn’t. And now, all the time, I keep wishing I did.’ Heather raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Jess huffed. ‘I’ve got a libido.’

  ‘You get that from our side, sweetheart,’ Heather said, patting her hand. ‘And that’s not why I’m looking at you. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this business, but I haven’t known how to broach it. I don’t want to overstep the line. I’m not your mother, after all.’

  ‘That’s all right. I like having a team behind me. What business?’

  ‘This pornography business.’

  Jess started to laugh. ‘Have you been watching porn?’

  ‘From what I can gather, everybody’s watching it,’ Heather said, and then thanked the waiter as he placed a cappuccino on the table. ‘I have something for you,’ she told Jess, opening her purse and placing a twenty-dollar note on the table.

  ‘I said I don’t need bus money.’

  ‘It’s not for that. It’s for a website.’

  ‘What sort of website?’ Jess asked suspiciously.

  ‘Make Love Not Porn. There’s this lovely—’

  ‘Oh God, Heather, that’s disgusting! It’s all real people having sex, and some of them are old and really hairy—’ Jess shut up abruptly when she noticed that all of the same people had turned around again.

  ‘Why are girls today so frightened of hair?’ Heather asked calmly, spooning froth from her cappuccino.

  ‘Actually, it’s not just girls. That guy I’m telling you about? He shaves his chest. And trims the garden, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, hip, hip hooray. Finally I can sleep knowing that we’ve achieved equality.’

  Jess laughed in surprise. ‘Snarky!’

  Heather’s face was serious. ‘What did this boy want you to do, Jessie?’

  Jess looked away, her voice low and ashamed. ‘He said it would just be a couple of his friends. And a donkey.’ Heather flicked froth at her, and she grinned, dropping the act. ‘I don’t know. He said he wanted to touch me.’

  There was a short, charged pause.

  ‘Oh,’ Heather said.

  ‘I know.’ Jess leaned forwards, feeling alive, lit up. ‘And I think he might be good at it, too. Touching, I mean.’

  ‘Well, thanks be,’ Heather said with some passion. ‘Because with all those camera angles, there is no touching in those movies. That’s what’s been lost. Women aren’t participants, they’re receptacles.’

  ‘Um, thank you,’ Jess said to the waiter as he placed an iced chocolate on the table. And then, to her aunt: ‘Okay, can you stop talking about porn? Because it’s fucking weird.’

  Heather ignored her. ‘How on earth are you going to run after drinking that?’

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘So, why did you say no to him?’ Heather asked, back to the subject at hand.

  ‘I can’t do the one-night-stand thing.’ Jess attacked her iced chocolate, shovelling cream into her mouth. ‘I think there’s something wrong with me.’

  ‘But what if he genuinely only wanted to touch you?’ Heather asked.

  Jess thought about it. ‘Even if he had meant it—and that is an enormous, unicorn-sized “if”—he’s from Knights and I’m from Unity. So it can’t happen. Ever.’

  ‘Two households, both alike in dignity?’

  ‘Yeah. Except not so alike. What’s the definition of a bitch? A girl who won’t sleep with you. What’s the definition of
a slut? A girl who has. That’s what they’re like. Complete misogynists. And Romeo’s no exception. Doesn’t like women.’ Jess slurped at her drink, ignoring the straw.

  ‘Then he doesn’t like himself.’ Heather rubbed a fingertip over her top lip, and Jess, prompted, did the same. ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘I know. So as far as I’m concerned, we can never be. Because look!’ Jess used her spoon to draw a circle in the air around her aunt’s face. ‘Some of the best people I know are women.’

  ‘Special girl,’ Heather said, with a look of such love that Jess shifted in her seat. ‘Why don’t you help him then? Let him get to know a woman. Be friends.’

  ‘I don’t think he wants friends. I don’t think he wants anyone at all.’ Jess stabbed at the island of ice-cream in her iced chocolate. ‘He’s fucked up. His best friend died in a car accident last year.’

  ‘Oh, the poor boy. You can’t hold that against him, Jessie.’

  ‘I’m not. It kills me that he’s so alone. Do you know I’ve never seen him text anyone? Not once.’

  They stared at each other for a second.

  Jess dropped her eyes. ‘But even if he didn’t want to be alone, he wouldn’t want me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Heather scolded. ‘You’re beautiful, and smart, and funny—’

  ‘Good to know. Wait, aren’t you my aunt?’

  ‘—and very independent,’ Heather finished, ignoring her.

  ‘Three thousand bucks says I’m not.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Jess shook her head. ‘It’s okay, I don’t need boosting. What I mean is, there’s someone else. I don’t know what went on between them, but it’s obvious he’s still really hung up on her. And compared to her, I’m … I don’t know what I am, but I’m not a diamond girl.’

  Heather straightened, pulling at the hem of her linen blouse, her tone brisk: ‘What you aren’t is a second-place girl.’