Stan

by C. J. Duggan

  “Pizza?” he asked, holding up his plate in question.

  “Oh, um, no, I’m good, thanks.”

  Ringer frowned. “It wasn’t a question. Do you think you could bring me a piece?”

  “RINGER!” Ellie yelled out in dismay, casting him a filthy look as she brought a paper plate over to Bel.

  “What?” Ringer shrugged in true wonderment. “What did I say?”

  “Don’t be such a pig. Here you go, Bel, it’s a bit cold but that kind of adds to the flavour, I reckon.” Ellie smiled brightly at Bel, who just looked back at her, all wide-eyed and uncertain. The poor girl was probably still shell-shocked from before. I wasn’t managing to do much more than just stare silently at her myself. I cleared my throat. “Um, you can zap it in the microwave if you want.” I pointed to the kitchen.

  Smooth, Stan. That was sure to break the ice.

  Break the ice? What the hell did I need to break the ice for?

  Bel followed my direction, then looked back to her slice. Her mind was ticking as if English wasn’t her first language. After a moment’s pause, she took the pizza she said she didn’t even want and carried it over to the bench. “Thanks, it will be fine,” she said, pulling out a seat at the island bench and facing away from us.

  I spun around to Ringer, managing a heavy ‘you’re a dead man’ scowl.

  Ringer held up his hands, mouthing ‘What?” in innocence, his demeanour unflappable until Ellie walked past him and sucker punched him in the ribs.

  “You know what.” She gritted. “Shut up, Ringer.”

  I, for one, wasn’t a fan of cold pizza and opted for the zap, casually making my way into the kitchen, walking in front of Bel’s eye line as I popped in the plate, cool and calm, even if I could feel Bel’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. I spun around, leaning casually against the bench, and folded my arms. Bel’s eyes flicked down to her plate, studying the half-eaten pizza with interest. It was then my eyes caught my other captured audience, Ringer and Ellie, who quickly spun back around on the couch.

  I shook my head, my attention settling back on Bel who was now fixed on me, her mouth gaping, her eyes alight. I straightened with interest; was she about to say something, finally going to move beyond the awkwardness of the moments before?

  “You’re smoking,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bel

  Stan paused for a mere moment as he slowly registered my words.

  A cocky grin curved the corner of his mouth and he straightened, almost puffing out his chest like a peacock. I am sure he was about to say, “Why, thank you.” Until I watched in horror.

  “No, Stan, seriously, your pizza is on FIRE!” I pointed over his shoulder.

  Stan spun around. “Oh, shit!” He plunged his fist on the button, flinging the door open, and stopped the sparking, fiery tray as he grabbed it out and chucked it into the sink, as if playing a game of hot potato. He doused the flames with water from the tap, an acrid stench of foul-smelling burnt offering filling the room.

  “Mate, what the hell?” Ringer appeared next to Stan, peering into the sink, swiping at the air. Stan reached into the sink, lifting up the chargrilled remains of what once was a piece of garlic bread, wrapped in foil. “Mate, you can’t nuke tin foil,” Ringer said in all seriousness.

  Stan slowly turned, his gaze landing next to me, fixing on Ellie who stood next to me at the island bench, biting her bottom lip.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  Ellie grimaced. “Oops.”

  Stan chucked the charred garlic-infused rock back into the sink. “Christ, Ellie, I said I didn’t want any garlic bread.”

  “I didn’t mean to, I must have set it on your plate by accident.”

  Ringer laughed, slapping Stan on the shoulder. “Way to burn the house down while the parentals are away. To think they actually put you in charge of this place.”

  Stan’s knowing gaze flicked to me. “Yeah, well, it’s not by choice.”

  I wanted to shrink away from those eyes, for the ground to open up and for me to disappear. What had turned out as a split-second joke had ended up with me being forced to hang with Stan and his weird friends. Stan and his girlfriend who he was now mad at. I was alarmed how I took such pleasure in how mad he had been at Ellie, how annoyed his glare was, especially since Stan never got mad, but my joy was short-lived when his accusing dark stare fixed itself on me.

  I pushed my half-eaten pizza aside and slid off the stool. I wasn’t going to be in the firing line just because he nearly set the kitchen on fire—best avoid the drama. I made my way to the lounge room, taking the nearest singular recliner and tucking my legs to my chest, avoiding the light murmurs from the kitchen and focusing on a home reno show on Lifestyle.

  Never before had I so wanted to be held up in my caravan with my annoying, idiot little brother and his myriad of questions. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to head over to his friend’s place tomorrow and steal him back, then I wouldn’t have to stay here. Forced to endure Stan and his model-esque girlfriend, and her long legs, and infuriatingly flyaway hair. Not to mention his obnoxious mate, Ringer. What kind of a name was that? It was like I was on a double date from hell.

  Speaking of the devil, Ringer appeared. Jumping over the back of the couch and settling himself in, he reached for the remote.

  “You don’t want to watch this, do you?” And without waiting for my reply he delved into channel flicking.

  I just looked at him. It was like I was back home with one of my older brothers, minus the farts, but, hey, the night was young. I eyed the clock on the wall; it was painfully young.

  “Sa-weeeet, Mad Max is on,” Ringer called out to the others.

  “Oooh, a young Mel Gibson, don’t mind if I do,” said Ellie, whacking at Ringer’s legs for him to move so she could sit on the couch next to him. I recoiled into my recliner more, so missed seeing the approaching figure in the corner of my eye as Stan made his way over from the kitchen. I obviously was the only one feeling out of place as Ringer and Ellie debated about the hot ratio in Mel Gibson’s career without a care in the world.

  It was only when Stan’s figure passed in front of me momentarily blocking out my view from the TV that I realised something odd. He made himself comfortable in the leather recliner opposite me. I glanced to the space next to Ellie, who was entranced in Mel careening psychotically down a back road on the TV. If she wondered why Stan hadn’t sat next to her, she didn’t let on.

  Wow, was he that pissed over the garlic bread he didn’t even want to sit next to her? Maybe he just didn’t want to be near Ringer? Maybe he was just sitting in his chair? And why the hell was I thinking so much about this? Even though there was a part of me that was relieved—I didn’t have to submit myself to the awkwardness of a loved-up couple pashing on the couch—I also didn’t want to be a witness to any couple’s domestic, especially not theirs.

  As Mel Gibson ran down the highway on an intent line to his wife and child who had dramatically been mowed down by a pack of post-apocalyptic motorbike maniacs, I was also in no real mood to watch him seek his revenge.

  I pushed the cushion off my lap and forced my recliner back into place. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

  My attention snapped by the same sound of Stan’s recliner locking into place as he stood.

  “Bed? Already?”

  Everyone’s gaze turned to him.

  “I mean, it’s early. You don’t have to if you don’t want to watch this; we can watch something else, right, Ringer?”

  “Aw, mate, but this is the best part.” Ringer pointed to the screen in despair. Ellie elbowed him again, gritting her teeth and mumbling something about being nice.

  “No-no, it’s okay, watch it, I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Stan’s watchful eyes burned into me as if he didn’t believe a single word I had said. Was he worried I would tell on him for not being a gracious host? Not likely. The fact he was even here from my doing was mega awkward,
so I would just grin and bear the next few days and report that all was well.

  And all would be. I was now saying my goodnights and excusing myself from forcing them to let me be a part of their ‘gang’. The last place I wanted to be was potentially alone with Stan and Ellie when Ringer decided to leave. And then a thought crossed my mind: was Ellie staying the night? Oh, God, why did that notion make my stomach twist? I found myself standing in the kitchen at a bit of a loss as I didn’t know where anything was and I didn’t dare ask, but I didn’t need to as Stan brushed past me and opened the cupboard above my head.

  “Glass?”

  “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

  “There’s water in the fridge.”

  I smiled. “Mind reader?”

  “It’s a gift; I also take a glass of water to bed. It’s how I roll.”

  I grabbed the jug from the recess and felt the coolness sweep over me as the door closed behind me.

  Stan took it from me. The brief feel of his warm fingers brushing over my cold hands caused a strange stirring in the pit of my stomach, a bizarre feeling that had no right to belong there as my gaze flicked to the back of Ringer and Ellie’s heads on the couch.

  “You really don’t have to go to bed, you know; the movie’s nearly finished. Ellie will probably force us into watching Pretty Woman next if that’s more your thing.”

  “Ah, not exactly,” I said, taking the glass he had filled for me and sipping on it.

  I felt Stan watching me and as my eyes briefly flicked up mid-drink, I caught his light brown eyes resting on me, but he didn’t look away. My gulp of water went down the wrong way as my concentration wavered. I started coughing, placing down the glass to gain some breath.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, half laughing as he moved beside me to whack me on the back as if to dislodge something.

  I nodded my head because it was the only thing I could manage in that moment.

  “Jesus, Stan, what did you do to her?” Ringer called, he and Ellie looking back over the couch at all the commotion.

  Stan stepped away, holding up his hands in protest, as if to say, “Nothing”.

  I coughed, clearing my throat. “Just went down the wrong way,” I said, waving away their concern, if they had any as their frowns disappeared and their heads spun back around to the TV.

  My eyes were watering a little as I tried to contain some dignity by simply swallowing down my unease.

  “I would say sip some water but I’m afraid you can’t be trusted,” Stan mused.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to die on your watch,” I said, taking a small, slow drink to ease my raspy throat.

  “Better not. My parents would never trust me again. But then again, that sounds like it has its perks,” he said, mainly to himself, as he leant his elbows on the breakfast bar. He didn’t say it in a snarky way or anything, it was just very matter-of-fact.

  “Aside from you dying, of course,” he said in all seriousness.

  “Of course, that would just be awkward for everyone,” I joked.

  “We would be majorly put out. Ringer wouldn’t be able to watch the rest of his movie.”

  “Oh no!” I feigned horror.

  Stan grimaced at the thought before laughing.

  Laughing.

  Were we actually kind of joking? Sure, it was at the expense of my own mythical demise, but it did feel kind of good he wasn’t holding any kind of grudges.

  Changing the morbid subject and making sure Ringer and Ellie were solely focused on Mel Gibson, I lowered my voice a little.

  “Listen, Stan, I—”

  “I know,” he said.

  I frowned, looking up at his good-humoured expression. “More mind reading?”

  “I told you, it’s a gift.”

  “Well,” I said, grabbing the water jug to put back into the fridge. “Believe me when I say I’m really, really sor—”

  I paused. My eyes locked onto the fridge door, a fridge door aligned with magnets and invites to birthdays, bills and photos, but from all of that my eyes focused onto something so intently as if laser beams shot out of my eyes. There it was. My name, big, bold and in red.

  Bel’s duties:

  Sweep verandah

  Clean women’s’ shower and toilet blocks

  Wipe benches in games room

  Spot clean laundry

  Man office from 3-5

  My mouth was agape, I turned to Stan.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ah, yeah, about that.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stan

  The jug didn’t make it back to the fridge.

  Instead Bel slammed it onto the counter, excess water sloshing over the edges as she cut me an acidic look before she turned away, storming a familiar path toward the hall door, pushing through and slamming so hard the photo frames on the wall jumped.

  “What is going on?” Ellie exclaimed in annoyance. Ringer also looked none too pleased that his relaxing evening was being disturbed by Bel and my dramatics. I personally was just relieved I hadn’t worn the jug of water.

  “Nothing,” I said unconvincingly as my glower focused on the closed hall door. “Hey, is that movie over? Might be time to call it a night.”

  Ringer clicked the TV on mute as he stood. “Mate! Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, look, I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I just don’t—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Ringer switched off the TV and chucked the remote on the couch. “You want a lift home, Ellie?”

  “Ah, yeah, thanks.” A stunned Ellie looked from Ringer to me.

  I sighed, weary. “Sorry, guys. I’m just … yeah.”

  Ringer grabbed his car keys from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Mate, you got to stop being a doormat.” Ringer stole an apple on his way out, taking a big bite. “Shee your tomomorerh,” he said before heading out the front door.

  Ellie smiled a small smile. “Don’t you listen to him,” she said, hugging me goodbye. “Don’t you dare change, Stan.” She pulled back, looking earnestly into my eyes. “But just so you know, when it comes to Bel, the jury is still out for me.”

  I stared back her, genuinely confused by her words. Women completely confused me. It was like they spoke a different language.

  She smirked. “Don’t be blindsided by a pretty face. You’re a good guy, Stan. I want you to be happy.”

  And before I could reply the sound of Ringer’s insistent blast from the car horn sounded. Ellie rolled her eyes.

  “I better go.”

  ***

  Wild night all right.

  Scrubbing the remnants of burnt food off from inside the microwave, wiping up spilt water off the bench, and fluffing up the cushions on the couch that were all skew-whiff thanks to Ringer.

  I wasn’t sure how I planned to break it to Bel about her list of duties I had kind of lied about her committing to. I might have even let it slide, I thought, seeing as she seemed a bit out of her comfort zone tonight. I felt bad she wanted to go to bed so early, but after the jug slamming tantrum and the expected storming out of the room, seriously, that door was going to need new hinges soon. It only made me more determined to make her pull her weight around here. She sabotaged my weekend; well, revenge was so sweet. And just when I thought that maybe I would just let bygones be bygones, Ringer and Ellie’s words would drill into my mind.

  Don’t be a doormat.

  Don’t be blindsided by a pretty face.

  Over and over the words played in my mind as I held Bel’s glass of water in my hand. I had been thinking of getting a fresh glass and taking it to her, but then the words rang true in my head.

  Man up, Stan, I told myself as I scoffed and poured the water down the sink. No more Mr Nice Guy. From now on, it would be all business; from now on, it would be all hands on deck. She wanted to get me back for sabotaging my weekend; well sweetheart, now you are going to join in on the weekend fun. No lounging around her luxurious caravan,
no freedom in her days. If I was to suffer, she had to suffer: pure and simple. No more feeling sorry or falling for the doe-eyed looks from those big green eyes. No way, no time for that.

  I switched off all the lights with a new determination. This was business Stan: bad-arse, no-nonsense Stan. I tried not to think about the fact I hadn’t left the kitchen and hall light on with the subconscious thought of what if Bel got up in the middle of the night—strange place—and she was pretty uncoordinated, a definite inability to find light switches. Besides, the last thing I needed was her breaking a leg; I needed her to help out around the park tomorrow. I stilled in front of my door, glancing to Bel’s closed door with a smirk.

  Sweet dreams, Belin-DA!

  Being in bed by 8:45 p.m. on a Friday night was a new low. I could have stayed up, but solitary confinement seemed like the order of the night. Even though the house was big and now plunged into semi-darkness, I could still very much feel the unnerving presence of the infuriating girl next door. The girl I had to stop thinking about. Instead, I decided the night was too young, and I made my way over to my old stereo, partly for entertainment and partly to annoy said neighbour. A little laugh escaped me as I turned up the volume as Levon Helm and the Band started up, and I sung each and every word expertly with Levon and boys at the top of my lungs.

  When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go?

  Straight down the Mississippi river, to the Gulf of Mexico

  See, Levon knew all about it—if I had my way I would be heading to Mexico, too.

  Any place but here, thinking about anything other than the girl who keeps haunting my thoughts. The night had turned into a one-man party and there was only one thing for it. I had the tunes; all I needed was a beer or two … or ten.

  Hangover be damned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bel

  You have got to be kidding me!