by C. J. Duggan
I wanted to clear my desk dramatically, pull him across the table, and kiss the bejesus out of him, but this was not Hollywood. This became even clearer when the classroom door slid open and a man with an industrial vacuum cleaner strapped to his back walked in, smiling politely at us and well and truly breaking our trance.
‘You’re free to go,’ he said, yelling above the hum of the vacuum cleaner.
It was music to my ears! (His words, not the vacuum cleaner.) I stood, gathered my things, feeling the weight of Ballantine’s eyes on me. I ignored him until I moved around the table, coming to stand beside him. I pushed all the butterflies, tingles and good-God hot flushes aside. I didn’t know if it was his admission that had me feeling more confident, but I looked up at him, a small smile lining my lips.
Ballantine matched my smile, as his knowing eyes ticked over my face. ‘You want a ride home?’
My first thought was yes, but that wasn’t all I wanted from the boy. I wanted his smiles. I wanted his kisses. I wanted him.
•
Ballantine led the way, opening the car door for me in what I thought was a gentlemanly gesture, only to discover he actually had to work quickly to clear a space on the passenger seat – previously covered in papers and empty Solo cans that he grabbed and chucked into the back of the van. He brushed down the black leather, casting me a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry about the mess. It’s mostly sand,’ he said, wiping his hands on his shorts.
‘That’s okay. Occupational hazard,’ I said. A little bubble of pride fluttered in my chest at the way he smiled in response, a feeling I quickly pushed down, deep down.
Don’t get carried away, Lexie.
Ballantine stood aside, allowing me to slide into the passenger seat. He shut the door behind me, walking a path around the front of his car, seemingly as uneasy about our soon-to-be commute as I was. Ballantine slid behind the steering wheel, pulling the seatbelt to click into place.
Seriously, how could putting on a seatbelt be so hot?
I snapped out of my daydreaming and grabbed for my own. Ballantine turned the key, pushed the accelerator, and brought the Sandman to thunderous life. The engine purred powerfully in a way that rattled my bones. The sound, the feel of the leather underneath my legs – this was sex on wheels. Ballantine lifted his hand up to the sun visor, flicking it down so a pair of sunglasses fell into his lap. He slid on the Ray Bans before shifting into drive and pushing the pedal down.
A fifteen-minute car ride isn’t really long in the scheme of things, but when you’re sitting next to a smoking-hot boy in awkward silence, it feels like an eternity.
The affluent houses of the surrounding neighbourhood whizzed by in a colourful blur as we sped through the streets, veering past a marketplace full of shops. I watched on with glee as I took in the yellow Sandman reflecting in the shop windows. If only my friends at Red Hole could see me now. I caught my own smiley, goofy reflection as we pulled up at a red light. My smile quickly dissolved as I straightened in my seat, sobering, and instead leant casually on the opened window for that, yeah, cool, whatever attitude, the whole time screaming inwardly at the thought of sitting next to a boy who had chosen me last night, not because he had a sense of duty to Boon, but because he had wanted to. In no time, the silence, other than the music of Nickelback on the radio blaring out of the sound system, had us turning onto my street and snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned my head around, wishing I had been paying attention as we neared my neighbourhood, our neighbourhood. Had I missed his street sign? Had we gone past it?
Damn it.
I was lost in my own inner monologue as Ballantine’s Sandman thumped its V8 engine up the street, slicing through the peaceful suburban neighbourhood. There was nothing delicate about our arrival as he spun out wide and, much to my horror, turned into our drive. Gone were the midnight runs where he would have parked out front and slightly up a bit to shield any potential curious peeking through the windows. No, there was nothing subtle about it, and there was certainly nothing subtle about the unimpressed death stare we were receiving as Uncle Peter stood in the front yard, watering a line of agapanthus with the garden hose.
Colour drained from my face as I took in the sight before me.
Oh God.
Ballantine, unfazed, tilted his head, with a casual lift of his hand from the steering wheel to acknowledge my uncle. Uncle Peter did not return the courtesy, only the continued alpha stare of death.
I smiled weakly. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said sheepishly, wishing that the ground would open up or Uncle Peter would crack a smile or something? I liked my chances of a sinkhole spontaneously forming way before the latter happened.
Ballantine picked at the steering wheel, his eyes still shielded by his Ray Ban sunglasses. ‘I really want to kiss you, but somehow I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. He peered over to look at me, taunting me.
I thought my heart would break out of my chest, my eyes flicking questioningly to where Uncle Peter still stood.
I cleared my throat, before laughing nervously. ‘Um, yeah. I don’t think so,’ I said, even though I had never wanted anything so much. It was hard to tear myself away, to force myself out of Ballantine’s car knowing that somehow I’d have to make it past Uncle Peter’s Judgey McJudgement eyes. Of course, telling Ballantine to reverse out of the drive and elope with me was probably not an option. So, with a deep breath, I hopped out then shut the passenger door to the Sandman and waved goodbye, before turning to face the music or – in this case – the firing squad.
•
I pressed my back against the front door, sighing with sheer relief. I felt like Indiana Jones must have after he’d just run through a death-defying gauntlet of booby traps. Skipping over the damp grass, dodging the garden hose, making sure not to fall into the hedge, all the while avoiding the laser beams no doubt protruding from my uncle’s eyeballs.
Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.
I had made it. I knew as much as soon as I hit the porch at a run and nothing had been said. It was a small mercy. I really didn’t want a lecture, I really just needed time to process what the hell had happened in after-school detention: a detention I should be thanking my lucky stars for. I wanted to run upstairs to the second storey, step out onto the balcony and see if I could spot any sign of Ballantine’s roof line in the next street over. But at the risk of being caught in the parental wing, I decided to do something even more important for now.
I was going to tell Amanda about Ballantine.
Dropping my bag at my feet, I pushed off from the door, bolting into a full sprint down the hall and bursting through the door of the bedroom.
‘I know something you don’t . . . Oh my God!’ I came to a skidding halt, taking in the sight before me.
Amanda was vomiting into a bucket next to her bed.
I grimaced, stepped back, and turned away. ‘Oh God. Are you okay?’
Amanda answered with another heave.
The room was desperately hot and it was no wonder, seeing as it was basically summer and Amanda had the heater cranked up.
‘Bloody hell, Amanda.’ I made a beeline for the window, sliding it open to let some fresh air in, and moved to switch off the heater.
‘I’m cold,’ Amanda croaked, wiping her mouth and clutching the doona to her chin.
Dodging the sick bucket I placed my palm on her forehead. ‘You have a fever,’ I said. Her skin was on fire.
‘I’m sick, Lexie,’ she sobbed.
‘You think?’ I said, looking at her pale, dishevelled state, and the disgusting puke stain on her t-shirt. ‘You’re a hot mess.’
‘Go away,’ she moaned, turning away from me.
‘Does Uncle Peter know you’re sick?’ I asked gently, rubbing her back.
‘I want Mum,’ her voice was muffled as she lay face down in her pillow.
I pressed my lips together, completely understanding the feeling. It
was how I felt whenever I was sick, or feeling upset. This week my emotions had been up and down like a yo-yo, and I had on more than one occasion wanted to pull the ‘I want my mummy’ card.
‘Okay, hang on,’ I said.
I bypassed Uncle Peter altogether, partly because I was selfishly worried that I might get another dose of death stares, but also because I quickly convinced myself that I was respecting Amanda’s wishes.
Yeah, sure. That’s what it was.
I picked up the phone and dialled Aunty Karen’s work number.
•
The clicking sound of Aunty Karen’s heels along the path outside the house had never sounded so good. I’d tried my best to help Amanda, given her aspirin to help break her fever, fetched glasses of water to help keep her fluids up and provided a cold compress for her brow. I mean, I even emptied her spew bucket. That’s love.
Even though I was genuinely concerned and sorry for Amanda, it didn’t take long for me to grow weary of her diva-like demands.
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘I’m hot.’
‘I’m cold.’
‘Shut the door!’
‘Close the window.’
She snapped every order, the underlying evil Amanda resurfacing like the days of old. It chipped away at my empathy bit by bit. And when I tried to lighten the mood by suggesting maybe her and Boon had caught some kind of kissing disease off each other, her screamed response of ‘Shut up!’ was like the final nail in the coffin for caring. I calmly placed the face washer down and left her to feel sorry for herself.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ she called after me, her voice tired, her vague eyes squinting at me.
‘Oh, I’m just going out here for a sec,’ I said.
Praying for the strength not to smother you with a pillow.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Heaven was in the form of a sleeping Amanda, and the angel on earth was Aunty Karen.
I tentatively popped my head into the bedroom, as if I was entering the lair of a fire-breathing dragon – which was not too far removed from reality. ‘How is she?’ I whispered, creeping into the room.
Aunty Karen smiled. ‘Much better. I gave her something to settle her stomach and she’s kept down all her fluids which is good.’
Amanda was in clean PJs, settled between changed bedding, and had a clean, empty bucket by her side. She was definitely in better hands with Aunty Karen than she was with me.
Aunty Karen yawned, her eyes flicking to the bedside clock. ‘Oh my gosh, is that the time?’ she asked, standing to leave.
It was nine o’clock. I was aware of this, as I’d been forced to sit silently across from Uncle Peter at the table as we ate dinner, the clinking of our cutlery the only sound. At least he fed me, I guess. I had avoided his knowing eyes by calling Laura after dinner to kill some time. It was a rather interesting conversation. I found out that Boon was just as sick as Amanda, and apparently there was something going around. This was not the glamorous Paradise I had envisioned.
I’d ended my conversation thinking that I would’ve felt better having spoken to her; that somehow I would’ve approached the subject of her diary, and told her that she should keep it in a safe place because of Boon’s wandering eyes. I’d also wanted to ask her about Ballantine, to get her to confide in me. But of course I left all those things unsaid. Instead, we laughed about Mr Branson tripping over in the corridor between classes; I confessed to her my after-school detention with Ballantine, waiting for her to confess her undying love for him at the mere mention of his name. Instead, I heard her mum call from the other room that it was time to get off the phone.
So, yes, the irony was not lost on me. The very thing I had accused Ballantine of being, I was being myself. A coward.
I had two choices: ’fess up to Laura or stop kissing Ballantine.
And as I readied myself for sleep, laying down nestling against my pillows, I thought the decision would be simple enough.
I couldn’t do that to Laura. Hos before bros, remember? I never wanted to be one of those girls who would end a friendship over a boy, and even though it was a new friendship, it was one of the only ones I had managed to form at Paradise High. So, as I closed my eyes, I nodded with finality.
Simple: no more Ballantine. No more verbal sparring, flirty looking, or car rides. Nothing.
And just as I cemented the decision well and truly in my mind, I heard a tapping on my window.
Oh crap!
•
I propped myself up on my elbows, looking over at Amanda’s sleeping form under her covers, wondering if she had heard it. But she was unmoving. I heard it again.
Tap-tap-tap.
I leapt towards the window. Kneeling on my mattress, I flung the curtains aside, attempting to still my heavy breaths that were misting the window in front of me. Dazed and confused I pulled focus on Ballantine standing on the other side of the glass. I blinked. Moving to slide the window aside, I peered past him into the dark looking for his sidekick. I turned to Amanda who was still deep in slumber.
I turned back to Ballantine. ‘Um, Amanda’s sick,’ I said.
Ballantine’s eyes shifted to where Amanda slept, nodding. ‘Yeah, so’s Boon.’
My eyes widened in alarm, so much so Ballantine broke into a cheeky grin as he leant casually against the window frame.
‘But there’s nothing wrong with me,’ he said. ‘You?’
Inwardly I cursed the sexy boy before me, the way his dark eyes flicked over my face, the muted shadows and the subtle glow of the streetlight illuminated us just enough for me to be spellbound by him. But more so, I cursed myself. Just like I’d done on the beach confessing Amanda’s love for Boon, I should have done the same for Laura: told Ballantine about her affection, then maybe he would think twice about coming to my window. But then something lodged in my chest and the sudden thought of him going to anyone else’s window made me feel ill.
‘I feel fine,’ I lied.
Ballantine laughed, pleased by my answer. ‘Enough to dance with the devil in the moonlight?’
My heart pounded so fast and loud – I was certain he would hear it – and when, against all my instincts, all my good intentions, I heard myself breathing out, ‘Yes,’ I delighted in the response of his smile.
‘Then let’s go,’ he said, pushing off the windowsill.
I watched on as his silhouette was swallowed by the shadows, knowing that wherever he was going I was going too. It was at that moment I knew I was in deep, deep trouble.
•
The last rays of the sun had dipped well and truly, and the streetlights cast a rich orange glow. It was the same image I had seen in tourist catalogues. Now I was actually living inside those postcards, cruising down the congested streets that were flooded with life, music, smells of eateries, and death-defying pedestrians who were out for a midweek good time. I never fully relaxed – my body tense – as Ballantine zigzagged, expertly manoeuvring through the traffic. He was so comfortable behind the wheel. His right arm perched casually on the open window of the car, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. On and on we drove, stopped and started on every block, catching every red light. Not that I minded. In the intense silence of the Sandman’s cabin I felt goose flesh pucker my skin. Not from the warm, thick breeze that filtered through my open window whipping my hair around, but because I was travelling in a car, with a boy, through the heart of Paradise City.
Even if it was nothing more than simply driving, I wanted to live in the moment, ignore the finer details, and enjoy, just for the next however long, that I was riding in a hot car, with a hot surfer boy. That all the people walking along the streets, or passing us in their cars would think nothing of us – just a couple cruising the streets of Paradise, like young people do. My dreaming led to the thought of Ballantine pulling up in a car park along the beach, a secluded spot picked especially for the purpose of what people drive themselves th
ere to do. I imagined him turning off the engine, the only sound the distant slamming of the ocean against the shoreline, and the beating of my heart. He would look at me, with silent questioning eyes – look for the longest moment – before taking my silence as the answer he was after. Slowly he’d reach across me, his arms would lightly graze my breasts as he leant closer to unclick my seatbelt, letting it slowly slide back into place. I’d feel the heat of his breath across my neck, he would be so close he would be able to feel the erratic thrums of my heart, know the effect he was having on me. But the way his dark eyes would flick to my mouth and then back up again, a ghost of a smile appearing as he revelled in me biting my bottom lip – indenting my flesh – with the need, the want of him. Wishing he would just close the distance. Closer, closer until the final . . .
Ballantine came to a sudden stop, jolting me out of my lustful thoughts. I blinked back into reality, taking a deep breath and attempting to clear my head. I hoped against hope that the muted lighting would disguise my crimson cheeks. I sat up straight, embarrassed by the fact I had been daydreaming the entire trip, amazed at how fast time went when you were having fun. He turned the engine off, and I looked out the window expecting to see Amanda’s two-storey house. I froze, my breath catching at the sight of what was very much not my home, or street, or anywhere that resembled my destination. Confused, I turned my questioning eyes towards Ballantine. Who watched me with a wicked glimmer in his eye. ‘Welcome to the Wipe Out Bar.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
All the tourists swarmed along the streets, looking over menus from local restaurants as maître d’s tried to lure them inside with the seafood platters or a pot and parmi from the night’s specials.