Can't Beat the Chemistry

by Kat Colmer

  And bingo! Her face flares with warmth; a sunset pink against the cool paleness of her skin. I don’t hide my grin this time. Instead, I make sure she sees the harmless intent in it. I want to rattle her into shaking off some of her spines, not make her wary of me. And after the tampons and pads thing she pulled on me back at the store? Yeah, the girl knows how to get her own back.

  I see the moment she recognises my ribbing for the bit of messing around it is. Her eyes narrow on mine and those cymbal clash lips twitch at the corners, just a little.

  She takes a tentative step into the room and dumps the clean linen onto the bed, hanging on to the pillow case. ‘How often does Theo stay here?’

  I throw her the pillow. ‘Once a month or so. Sometimes more. Rosie thinks he’s the best thing since High School Musical, and the guy knows how to sweet talk Mum.’ I stretch the fitted sheet over the mattress. ‘Your brother can really turn on the charm when it suits him.’

  A flash of reminiscence lights up her face, then just as quickly something douses it. Sadness? Regret? It’s hard to tell, even with that what-you-see-is-what-you-get face of hers, I can’t read this one. Theo doesn’t talk all that much about his sister, and when he does, it’s never personal, only the she’s-studying-this, she’s-topped-that-test kind of stuff. But were they close once? And if they were, why aren’t they now?

  I grab the doona by the corners, flick it in the air so it falls evenly across the bed. MJ’s expression is still pensive when I straighten up. Time to lighten the mood.

  ‘First time Theo slept over he got the couch. Wanna know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thanks to him I was subjected to both Dirty Dancing and Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights that weekend. Count yourself lucky.’ I nod at my bed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice, usually so confident, so full of authority, is barely there. So much for lightening the mood.

  ‘I’m kidding, MJ. I’ll sit through Ghost. It won’t be the last time Rosie makes me watch it.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’ Her gaze wavers and skims the picture on my desk, then returns to mine. ‘I mean I’m sorry about … about thinking you were …’ Her eyes are dark, vulnerable. ‘I’m really sorry, Luke.’

  I stare at her, all milk pale skin and ink black hair. She’s one big contrast, inside and out, and … so not what I was expecting. Sunset pink creeps across her cheekbones, and the way she strangles the pillow with her arms I know this doesn’t come easily to her. But she holds my gaze, bravely waiting for a response.

  And unless I’m a right bastard, which I’d like to think I’m not, there’s really only one thing for it.

  ‘Apology accepted.’ I slide the pillow from her death grip and throw it at the head of the bed. ‘But if you desert for a bathroom break during the pottery scene, I’ll find a way to make you pay.’ I round the threat off with a Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle so she knows I’m teasing. At first her eyes remain guarded, then … a blink, and another, and I glimpse the light of a star or two in the moonless midnight.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get the chicken out of the oven.’ I head out into the hallway. She quietly follows. ‘Then we’ll find you something to sleep in. I reckon Rosie’s got an old T-shirt or two that might fit you.’ Even though MJ’s older, she’s tiny compared to my sister.

  ‘Um, that’s not necessary,’ she says once we’re back in the kitchen. ‘You don’t have to go to any trouble. I can sleep in my underwear.’

  The image is instant:

  MJ.

  On my freshly made bed.

  In nothing but her underwear.

  My fingers turn all thumbs and I almost drop the oven mitt. Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? I swallow, find my voice. ‘No trouble.’ Heat creeps up my face. I yank the oven door open, let the burn from the roast lick at my skin.

  I somehow deposit the roasting tray on the table without dropping the bird on the floor. MJ seems oblivious to my out-of-the-blue clumsiness. Who’d have thought; for once her lack of awareness is a positive.

  We go about setting the table in silence while I will the last of the heat from my face.

  ‘Luke?’

  I glance up, find her watching me, a tentative smile tugging at her lips.

  ‘Thanks.’

  It’s just one word but it’s open, honest, not a spike in sight, and I know without a doubt she’s thanking me for much more than just promising to find her some pjs.

  ‘No trouble.’ I’m repeating myself. A bit of a habit around this girl. And damn if my face doesn’t flare up again. ‘Better go get Rosie,’ I say and head quickly out of the kitchen.

  That night, Ghost is almost bearable. In the past, the Whoopi Goldberg character was its only saving grace, but tonight even the pottery scene is kind of watchable. Maybe it’s Rosie’s extra loud and extra off-key rendition of Unchained Melody that has me smiling. Or MJ’s pathetic attempt at hiding the fact that she’s actually enjoying the soppy movie. Whatever it is, by the time the credits roll and Rosie’s produced an old Glee Club T-shirt that brings MJ’s trademark nose twitch out of hiding, I’m starting to think this weekend won’t be so bad after all.

  ***

  The moment we step into the bowling alley, I know: MJ has never held a bowling ball in her entire life. The way she flinches at the bang-roll-crash soundtrack of the place is a dead giveaway, but it’s the strangler treatment she’s giving her messenger bag that clinches it for me. The harder she cuts the bag strap’s air supply, the more my resolve grows to make this an enjoyable experience for her. Not just because everyone should have at least one feel good ten pin bowling experience, but because the longer I hang with this girl, the more I suspect Theo’s baby sister has an overall shortage of feel-good experiences.

  And if anyone can help create warm fuzzy moments, it’s Rosie.

  In her element, Rosie herds MJ towards the shoe counter. ‘First, shoes.’

  ‘I have shoes,’ MJ says over the music, neat little brows pinching together.

  Rosie gives MJ a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing.

  ‘Not bowling shoes.’ Rosie shakes her head. ‘You need bowling shoes.’

  MJ’s brows are inching back into their natural position when they snap together again.

  We sort our shoes, but not before MJ gives us a horrified lecture on the contagiousness of athlete’s foot when she finds out she’ll be wearing shoes someone else’s feet have been in. Eventually we calm her down and muscle her over to our assigned lane. Her face remains all prissy and puckered—especially when she discovers Rosie has a pair of her own bowling shoes—but I’m up for a challenge today. MJ’s going to have a good time if it kills me, and by the germophobic way she’s undoing the shoes’ laces with thumb and forefinger, it just might.

  ‘Hey, relax.’ I sit down beside her and make short work of untying my runners. ‘As far as I know, no one’s died of wearing rental bowling shoes.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ she mutters under her breath but does the shoes up nonetheless. She stands, one hand tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘All right, what now?’ Her gaze darts around the place like she’s looking for emergency exits. You’d think I’ve taken her into a sniper zone, not a bowling alley.

  ‘You need a ball.’ Rosie drags her along to choose one off the ball stand. I grin when I catch sight of them on their way back. Rosie’s face is lit up like a pyrotechnic display at a rock concert, whereas MJ looks like she’s downed a packet of laxatives that are starting to make their presence felt.

  She’s out of her comfort zone, big time. Even if she researched ten pin bowling online last night before heading to bed—which I wouldn’t put past the stubborn little brainiac—there’s no way reading up on the activity will have prepared her for the real thing. She’ll have to ditch her know-it-all attitude and
let someone else teach her. Call it juvenile, but there’s a small part of me that’s digging this reversal of situations. But more than that, I want her to let go, enjoy herself. To stop thinking about her studies. One weekend without her precious books—or her precious Jason—isn’t going to kill her.

  Rosie’s up first. It’s like an unwritten law in our family—my sister is always the first to bowl. Mum tried mixing up the order once. Didn’t end well. You can’t change the habits of someone so obsessed it borders on clinical addiction. So Rosie always bowls first.

  Arms half crossed, half wrapped around herself, MJ sits next to me, watching Rosie’s every move like her life depends on it. As expected, Rosie’s run up is flawless. A controlled swing of her arm and bang-roll-crash! Nine pins down.

  ‘She’s good.’ There’s no missing the note of gob-smack.

  Most people assume someone with Downs can’t play a good game of bowling. Reality is, Downs people are no different to anyone else when it comes to the game: some bowl well, others bowl crap. And Rosie bowls everyone away.

  ‘She’s here at least once a week with Ten Pins Down, the local Down syndrome bowling club.’

  ‘Ten Pins Down?’ MJ’s nose scrunches. ‘That’s almost as bad as The Not So Dim Sim.’

  ‘True. They make a good pork dumpling though.’

  She adds an eyebrow lift to her scrunched-up nose and I can’t help messing with her, just a little. ‘Between games. They get out these little bamboo steamers and set up their own Dim Sim production line next to the ball return.’ I try to keep a straight face, which her are-you-for-real? expression is making impossible. ‘They call it the Down Dim Sim.’

  The bottom half of her face gets it first, the corners of her mouth twitching while her eyes still search my face for the truth. ‘That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard, Luke.’

  It might be, but her grin is inching towards her eyes.

  We’re both still smiling when Rosie takes the remaining pin down for a spare.

  ‘Nice work!’ I give her a high-five when she plops down beside me on the bench.

  She gives me a smile in return, but it’s not at full capacity. ‘Next will be a strike,’ she says with a nod.

  The girl is determined to beat me.

  I bump MJ with my shoulder. ‘Wanna go next?’

  She eyes the lane with naked distrust but—yeah, I see it—there’s a glint of curiosity. ‘Can I watch you first?’ She leans closer, sending a wave of baked apple and spices my way. Her hands find the hem of her T-shirt again and tug. ‘I’ve, um, never done this before.’

  For a moment I’m stumped. The warm scent of her shampoo or deodorant or whatever catches me off guard. Her straight out admission that she doesn’t know how to bowl keeps me there.

  ‘Yeah, ah, sure.’ I stand, move towards the ball return, more to clear my head than to grab my ball. I feel her eyes on me each step of the way; a touch of moonless midnight, feather-soft, right between my shoulder blades.

  Don’t cock this up. Easier said than done, because with MJ’s eyes on me, all my movements have gone rigid. Don’t cock this up. I know how to bowl, can do it in my sleep, but those pins seem damn far away. Luke, do not cock this up! Why? Why is doing well suddenly so important?

  The question stops me halfway through my run up. I recover, step back to the start. And stop. I’m not competitive, far from it. Sure, I don’t mind winning a friendly game of bowling or whatever, but I’m the drummer, the guy at the back who hides behind the beat, happy for someone else to bask in the limelight. I don’t need the public’s praise, don’t want the weight that comes with that kind of attention. It’d soon grow heavier than the fourteen pounder in my hands.

  I glance down at the ball. The brand name—Superior—leaps off the smooth ice blue in a lick of fiery flame.

  Superior.

  And I know. This isn’t about competition, or about being better. This is about changing the way MJ looks down her pert little nose at me. Sure, yesterday afternoon has put some major cracks into the distorted lens she’s been viewing me through, but somehow it’s not enough. She’ll never think of me as smart, I accept that, but I want her to at least see me as capable, as worthy of her precious time, as … I don’t know—anything other than a drugged-up muso.

  What I don’t want is to think about why MJ’s approval is suddenly so important to me.

  I heave the ball into the crook of one elbow so I can give my teeth access to the skin around the thumb of my free hand.

  ‘Um, Luke? Does it usually take this long?’

  MJ’s question jerks me back to the bowling alley. How long have I been standing here, stroking the bowling ball like some confused fortune teller?

  ‘Yeah, ah, just … strategising.’ Just bowl already. And don’t cock it up.

  I take a deep breath, swing my arm back, take the run-up and bang, roll … You’ve got to be kidding me!

  Gutter.

  The lack of comment from behind me says it all. I close my eyes in self-disgust and push through the wave of embarrassment on my way to the ball return, avoiding eye contact with MJ at all costs.

  ‘You want to play bumpers?’ Rosie asks as I wait for the ball. She’s trying to be kind, but I hear the confusion in her voice; I’ve never needed bumpers before.

  ‘Nah.’ I give her a reassuring wink. ‘Just warming up.’

  She nods in that so-it-shall-be way of hers. Right on cue, my ball pops up on the conveyor belt and brings with it my chance at redemption. I heave it off the rack, the finger holes unusually slippery. Come on, Luke. You’ve done this a million and one times.

  I take another deep breath, and this time I focus on the beat of the song blaring through the alley speakers. All I need is to hook in to the driving duth, duth, duth of the bass. I swing, run up, bang, roll …

  Crash!

  Eight pins down. I release my breath in a rush of relief. Okay, not a spare but respectable.

  Rosie gives me the thumbs up as I turn for the bench. ‘Good job.’

  When I finally risk looking MJ’s way, she’s … back to strangling the hem of her T-shirt. The little hedgehog is stressing too much about her own performance to criticise mine. Way to go, Luke, you self-centred schmuck.

  I grab her ball from the return. ‘Okay, just run, swing your arm, then let go. The trick is to look at the pins, not the ball.’ I hand her the ball, along with a reassuring smile.

  She gives me a tight one in return, but squares her shoulders and takes the ball from me. Next thing I know she’s following my instructions, feet slapping the wooden floor, arm swinging awkwardly behind her, and as I open my mouth to remind her to keep her eyes on the prize it’s bang … bang … thud.

  Gutter.

  I wince, then suck in a quick breath in relief. I know, not my finest moment, but I’m secretly glad there’s one thing I can do better than the great MJ Olsen-Wang.

  Her second turn is a repeat of the first, and when she shuffles back to the bench, her previous determination deflating with every step, I feel like a right bastard.

  ‘We can play bumpers,’ Rosie says.

  MJ’s already small shoulders shrink some more as my ever helpful sister drapes a comforting arm around them. It’s hard to tell if it’s because of Rosie’s suggestion or the physical contact.

  ‘No. I … Don’t change the game for me,’ she says to Rosie with a shake of the head. But when she looks up, those midnight eyes are all round and huge and full of disappointment. It kills me, the way she beats herself up over a stupid game of bowling.

  And I know—before Rosie’s ball has knocked down all ten pins in a cracker of a strike on her second turn—exactly what I have to do.

  MJ

  Big Brother is Calling

  ‘Okay, so two a1 orbitals can be mixed to give two pairs—no, hold up—make that one pair of sp hybrids
.’

  A spinning pen, I’ve come to realise, can be a mighty hypnotic thing, because when Luke stops twirling his ballpoint and looks up at me, I have no idea what he’s just said.

  I quickly glance down at the chemistry notes spread out in front of him on the kitchen table. ‘Correct. What about two hydrogen 1s orbitals?’

  ‘Can be resolved into an a1 or b2 combination.’

  I nod and he gives me a quick grin.

  I can’t help smiling back. I suggested we give the material another once over after we arrived back from the bowling alley, but it was Luke who pulled his pile of notes out a second time after dinner. I have no doubt these extra sessions will help him pass. Maybe even do well. Unlike his earlier performance back at the bowling alley.

  I look across at the other head bent over school work at the kitchen table. Rosie’s performance on the other hand—unbelievable. Four times she blew all ten pins out of the alley on her first go, then twice more on her second attempt. It’s not surprising she won. What is surprising is how Luke managed to lose. Even with Rosie’s well-meant tips and enthusiastic demonstrations, it was me who should have come last. But I didn’t.

  Because Luke was off his game, he claimed.

  And needed bumpers, he claimed.

  So somehow I beat him. Not by much, but enough to suspect he threw his game.

  For me.

  Like a kitten, warmth curls inside my chest, but since I’ve never held a kitten, warm or otherwise, I don’t quite know what to do with it.

  Luke’s pen stills on the page, then he sets it spinning again in long, dexterous fingers. ‘You know, I think this stuff is finally sinking in.’

  I follow the lean line of his arm to his face and trip to a stop smack in the middle of his gaze. There’s an explosion of gold around the nucleus of his pupils, burning ochre bleeding into parakeet green. Chaotic yet ordered, like one of the many coloured pencil shavings perpetually scattered on Theo’s bedroom floor. It’s … arresting. How have I not noticed this before?