My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what did I say?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What are you, thick? About me root.’

  ‘I dunno. You said she's got big tits.’

  Mike leans forward. ‘What's your problem, Sticks? Don't you like talking about girls? You gay or something?’

  I should make a T-shirt. On the front it will say in capital letters NOT GAY. On the back it will have JUST FRIGID.

  Dad is silent when I get home, even though it's late. Everything suggests he's not made it to bed. The TV is on, the volume down low. There's a blanket on the couch and coffee grounds are scattered across the kitchen bench. Knight Rider yelps excitedly in the backyard. Dad's at the laptop. He thuds on the keys. He gets up, plunges a coffee, but says nothing, just lets me sweat it out. But as I wait I realise he's not going to say anything. Maybe this has gotten too personal, too emotional? I watch him closely. Regret is pasted over his face. His lips are taut, there are bags under his eyes, he's sweating an unusual amount and smells like it, too. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. There's no doubt he's in shock at what he saw, but I suspect there's more. He's freaking about what he did to The P and what Hassold will do when he finds out. Dad's a goner for sure.

  I leave him to his laptop and go shower. I fire another text off to Sam. My final apology for missing her party, I tell myself.

  In the morning, I don't bother with breakfast. My stomach is queasy. I can't get out of my mind what will happen at school today.

  I choose to walk, but more in the hope of avoiding The P and Steve on the bus than to chance a meeting with Sam. But she's there, sitting on the gutter on the corner of her street. I stop in front of her, not sure what I'm meant to say, feeling like I've said it a dozen times in phone messages already.

  She gives me a cautious smile.

  ‘It wasn't my fault, you know,’ I say.

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘Why didn't you call back?’

  She crosses an arm over her chest and rests her hand on her shoulder. ‘I'm not so sure about us,’ she says.

  I nod, doing everything I can to hide the melting feeling inside my chest.

  She looks at me, but I don't say anything more. So she goes on. ‘Greg and Rachel were all over each other all night,’ she says.

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘It was,’ she says. ‘So I was really peeved.’ She pats the concrete gutter. ‘We've got a while,’ she says.

  I take up the invite and sit down. I tell her about what happened at the Pasks, from Dad telling Roger about my failed try, to me puking up everywhere and collecting the keys the next day. ‘I really am sorry I didn't make it,’ I say again.

  She smiles at me. ‘I bet you are.’

  ‘So Greg and Rachel just pashed in front of you?’ I ask.

  ‘Didn't they ever!’ she says. ‘You should've seen them.’

  We laugh and look at each other, but our smiles quickly fade as if there's no more to say.

  ‘We should go,’ I say.

  It's nice to be with her, walking up the hill, but I feel uneasy, tense. I want to tell her how bad it felt when she didn't return my calls; that I am sure about ‘us’. I want ‘us’. But the closer we get to school, the more distracted I get. I've got other things to worry about, like what kind of flak I'll cop. I trudge beside her, my hands thrust in my pockets. Once at school, we go our separate ways.

  The P and Steve are there with Lisa and co. She's laughing as The P talks with his hands, his stature tall, proud, and confident. But as I walk by, their conversation stalls, eyes watch me, lips move in whispers. Later, at my locker, a couple of guys wander past, but before they round the corner, they stop and have a second-take with squinted eyes like Clark Kent with X-ray vision. On my way to class, I hear voices from the veranda above. ‘Caveman,’ they snigger. I spend lunchtime in the library.

  Sam joins me again for the walk home. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn't, even though she would have heard the story by now. Maybe she's embarrassed for me. Maybe she's embarrassed by me. I watch our feet like I always do when I'm not sure what to say. The muscles in my neck feel like rocks. It's strange this feeling I have—of being close and distant with her at the same time.

  As we walk past Charlie the Hoarder's, she asks, ‘How's your dad's bird aviary going?’

  I stop and rest my hands on the fence, like that afternoon about six weeks ago.

  ‘He started on it a little while back,’ I say, ‘but he hasn't touched it again since.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He's been crook. And now he's in deep trouble for sure.’

  With her back against the fence, she asks, ‘What do you mean?’

  I run my finger over the cracking paint. ‘His incident with The P.’

  She turns to me. ‘Or do you mean his incident with you?’ She tilts her head, trying to get a view of my face. ‘Come on, Jack. I know what happened; everyone's been talking about it.’

  I scratch at the flaking paint which digs into the skin under my nails. ‘Want to go in?’ I ask and point at the piles of junk.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah, you said you've never been in there, remember?’

  ‘Jack, don't you want to talk?’

  ‘C'mon,’ I say and push the rusting gate. ‘Let's see what we can find.’

  We scrounge through the junk. There're sheets of rusting corrugated iron, a pram without wheels, a 44-gallon drum two-thirds full of water. Sam finds a pair of Converse shoes with fluorescent yellow skates screwed to the bottom. I find a plastic yellow daisy covered in dirt. While she's not watching, I wipe it clean on my shirt and then give it to her. She takes it, tucks it behind her ear, twists it and laughs. We get closer as we explore. Eventually our hands brush and shoulders touch. She leans against me and points at something beneath a cracked plastic clothes basket. ‘What do you think it is?’ she asks. I don't want to say because I don't want her to move, but she takes a look anyway.

  Beneath is a skateboard, its under-body chipped, the trucks scratched from rail slides. I hold it up and she rubs her hand over it, removing the dust so we can see the graphics, but with all the use this board has had, we can't make them out too well. There's a name on there: Brian Heffernan. Whoever this kid was, he obviously didn't want to lose his board because his name is printed on with felt pen. It looks like he's gone over it several times. Sam covers up the last three letters of his surname. ‘Heffer,’ she says. ‘Do you know some of the guys call me that?’

  I try to gauge her thoughts by her face. She's not smiling, not moping, either, and those huge brown eyes just look at me without an ounce of self pity. ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.

  She turns the board over and runs her hand over the sandpapery surface. ‘Do you like being called Sticks?’ she asks.

  I shuffle my feet in the dirt. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Didn't think so.’

  It strikes me that nobody has ever bothered to ask me that. Her eyes are still on me, deep and penetrating. ‘I don't think you're fat,’ I mumble.

  But the moment I say it, the tension returns. Things have gone one step more personal than I intended. Maybe if we had that commitment of boyfriend and girlfriend then I could talk about this kind of stuff—in fact, both of us could say anything we want because we'd know it's ours. Just ours. But Sam and I have no such boundaries. And without ever having a girl close to me in my life—not even my own mother—I just don't know what to do. Too nervous to take it further, I ask, ‘How much do you think it's worth?’

  There's a shift in her face. I thinks it's disappointment.

  ‘Let's ask Charlie,’ I suggest.

  Leading her up the stairs, I feel gutless. We knock on the door. The old man comes out and we bargain him down to fifteen bucks, which is still way too much, but I pay him anyway.

  ‘So is it mine or yours?’ Sam asks when we get to the gate.

  ‘I paid for it,’ I tell her.


  ‘Yeah, but I found it.’

  We get out to the footpath where she puts it down, pushes it back and forth under her foot and glances down the hill. ‘Do you dare me?’ she asks.

  I look down the slope. There are trees and power poles on one side of the footpath and fences on the other. She's got guts. ‘For sure,’ I say.

  Placing the board on the concrete, she sits down and looks up. ‘Could you hold it steady?’

  Kneeling behind her, I keep the board still. She shuffles her butt back as far as it will go, then rests her feet on the nose of the board, the tips of her shoes poking over, her knees up around her face. ‘You're gonna hold me, right?’ she says. ‘Keep your hands on my shoulders and make sure I don't go too fast, or into a tree?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I say, and give her a nudge.

  ‘Jack!’ she screams, but the board starts sluggishly and she recovers quickly. Squirming, she tries to maintain balance as the board squirts from side to side on the footpath. Her feet skid off a couple of times but then she gains pace and straightens her line. Running behind her, I rest my hands on her shoulders as the board skips and skids over the cracks in the concrete. She screams and I yell, ‘Slow down!’ but her shoulders slip from my grasp. All I can do is sprint after her as she careens downwards. She nearly takes out a bush, then brushes by a power pole and scrapes a fence with her knee. All the time she alternates her feet, trying to maintain the safest line. Loping after her, my heart pounds as she shoots across the street at the bottom of the hill. She crashes into the gutter on the other side and somersaults onto the grass.

  When I get to her, she's lying there, laughing with tears in her eyes. ‘Where were you?’ she screams. Both of her palms are grazed, she's got a scratch on one knee. I offer a hand, but as I try to haul her to her feet, she fights back and pulls me to the ground. We lie next to each other and laugh. She rolls towards me and props herself up on one elbow.

  ‘That should've been you, not me!’ she says, still trying to contain her laughter.

  ‘Why's that?’

  ‘You're the guy, you're meant to be the brave one.’ I know it's a joke, but it only makes me feel worse.

  king of the road

  ‘It's registered!’ Gez yells down the phone line. ‘I'll meet you at the unit in an hour.’

  I jump off my bed. I can't believe it! It's still going to happen. Me and my best mate cruising the streets in a rust-bucket that we—or should I say I?—got going. How cool. I was thinking for sure it'd be christened by him and Lisa in the back seat, but good ol’ Gez, he's come through.

  And I'm gonna make a night of it. I have a shower, sort out my hair, find my favourite shirt—the one with the sun that Roger's supposed to hate. I give Sam a call and tell her what I'm up to, not because we've got plans, but because I've gotta share it with someone. We talk as I lie on my bed. It comes easy and natural and I wish that she could come too, but that wouldn't be right. Tonight's a night for the guys, just me and Gez.

  When I get to the unit, Ryan and Mike are there. Both of them have just come back from shifts at the corner store and are still in uniform. They're into their beers and they offer me one, but I say I can't because I'll be driving tonight.

  Both of them pull on their stubbies then go to the tube. Ryan puts on a surfing DVD and turns the volume up. I can't sit down, can't stand still, either. This is too exciting. This is what we've been planning to do ever since Ryan bought the clapper. This is our ticket to freedom. Up the coast whenever we want, no one's schedule to stick to, making our own rules. Our car, our time, and we'll do whatever we want.

  But an hour passes and Gez doesn't arrive.

  ‘What's your problem?’ Mike asks me, annoyed at my pacing.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say and get the guys more beers.

  After another half-hour, I give Gez a call, but his phone goes to message bank, so I text him instead. Impatient, I go down to the garage. Sitting behind the wheel I play with the gear stick. I dream of parking it by the beach with a surfboard on the roof. The smell of salt and seaweed. There's my wettie in the boot, and a bag for an overnight stay. In the back seat are Gez and Lisa, eyeing each other off, but not making out. Sam's up the front with me.

  Another half-hour passes and no word from him.

  I go back upstairs and ask Ryan, ‘Do you know where Gez would be?’

  ‘He's out with Lisa,’ he says.

  My heart sinks, my dream withers like a punctured balloon. It doesn't make sense. He called me.‘When did he say that?’

  ‘Spoke to him ten minutes before you arrived. Sorry, but I think I was supposed to pass the message on,’ Ryan says.

  I can't believe it. Not less than an hour after calling me, he made plans with Lisa instead. What an idiot. I check my messages again. Nothing. I sit down between the guys.

  The surfing DVD is finished. Ryan flicks the channels and settles on Top Gear. How inappropriate. He slides down the couch till his butt virtually hangs off the edge. He rests his stubby on his stomach. ‘What were you and Gez gonna do tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Take the car out.’

  Ryan looks up at Mike. Then they both turn to me.

  ‘Is it registered?’ they ask.

  I nod. They sit up.

  ‘How much have you drunk?’ Ryan asks Mike.

  ‘Four beers. Maybe five. I'm not counting. You?’

  He shrugs. ‘Same.’

  They both sink into the couch again.

  I think about Gez, whether he'd approve of us taking the car without his permission. It'd piss him off for sure. ‘I haven't had any,’ I say.

  They jump up.

  It's on!

  We get into the car and I kick it over, rev the engine hard, red line it.

  ‘All right!’ Ryan yells.

  ‘I don't want it to stall,’ I say and crunch it into reverse. The car lurches back, but I slam on the brakes. ‘The door! We forgot the door!’

  ‘You idiot,’ Ryan says in a tone of endearment. He gets out and opens the roller door.

  Mike hangs his head out the window to help me negotiate the rocks of the retaining wall that skirts the driveway. Once on the road, I drive steady, roll down the window and let the cool wind blow in.

  ‘Have you asked your girl to Gez's party yet?’ Mike asks me.

  ‘She's not my girl,’ I say.

  ‘Do you like her?’ he asks.

  Christ, does he ever think about anything else? And why is he so desperate to know? I watch the white lines on the road stream towards us. But for a change, I don't feel depressed, or nervous or agitated. I feel good, relaxed, thrilled to be out. So what if Gez isn't here! I watch the needle climb and my mood rises with it.

  Mike leans forward from the back, pressing for an answer to his question. And for once, I don't care about telling the truth. ‘Yeah, I do,’ I say. ‘I like Samantha Dean!’ I practically yell it.

  Both of them hoot and smack the vinyl around them. Mike ruffles my hair. ‘I like you, Sticks!’ he yells.

  I look at him in the rear view mirror and laugh.

  ‘And besides,’ he says, ‘the fat ones are good.’

  I look at him again, confused.

  ‘In the sack, I mean. I'd go her for sure if I had the chance.’

  Not wanting this conversation to go into the finer details of what Mike loves to do, I thump the accelerator to the floor, but the Bluebird's donk just spits and shudders. There's no V8 roar, no sensation of the Gs pushing you into the seat. There's just a gradual acceleration, noticed only by the rising needle, like watching the seconds tick by on a clock. Signposts light up in the headlights as we approach a sweeping bend. The car climbs over sixty, over seventy, eighty. There's a yellow warning sign suggesting fifty-five. ‘Um, Sticks,’ Ryan whispers, but it's only a whisper because I'm the kinda guy that would usually slow down. The corner comes at us faster and faster. He grabs the edge of his seat.

  ‘Sticks!’ This time it's Mike and he's yelling. We go into the corner, tyres scre
eching. The back-end of the car slides out and we're nearly perpendicular to the road. It fishtails as I wrestle it back under control.

  Now with adrenaline pumping, I can't slow down. Trees flick past, traffic lights, cars. I slam it down a gear, take another corner, even harder this time. My arse slides sideways on the seat. The boys crack their heads on the windows. I grip the wheel for dear life. The engine screams in protest. Someone blasts their horn at me; another flashes their high beam. Ahead the traffic lights change from green to orange. I accelerate, but then they change red. Slamming on the brakes we come to a screeching halt.

  ‘Well I'll be,’ Mike says.

  I breathe deep, slow. Ryan puts a hand on my arm. I get the message. After a minute or so, my nerves calm down and when the lights change, I back off and just cruise. And for the next hour or two that's all we do—drive about aimlessly. We stop at West End for a curry; go to the bottle-o so the boys can stay fuelled up. I get Ryan to take a photo of me and the car with my phone. I text it to Gez with the words king of the road.

  We crawl along Anne Street in the Valley to check out the clubbing girls. Many wear skimpy tops despite the cold night. We wind the windows down and Mike wolf-whistles at every girl he sees.

  As if tired of his antics, Ryan eventually says, ‘Let's go home for a chuff.’

  Only a few blocks away from the unit, a street comes off the main one at a slight angle. I take my foot off the accelerator—that's until Mike leans forward and says, ‘You don't have to slow down for this one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pick it up a bit. It'll be all right.’

  ‘I do it at sixty-five and that's in the van,’ Ryan says. ‘So you could do it at eighty in this thing, easy.’

  So I slam it down a gear. The car jerks, but I keep the revs high and don't lose speed. Accelerating into the corner, the tyres scream, the suspension rolls until the mudflaps scrape the bitumen. Mike hangs his head out the window and screams, ‘We've got sparks!’

  They yell and whoop as I fight desperately to keep control. Straightening up, the car rocks on the soft suspension, I nearly over-correct.