My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  ‘Onya, Sticks!’ Mike says. He leans forwards and plants a hand on my shoulder. ‘You're finally loosening up.’

  Puffed up, I drive back to the unit with my jaw sore from smiling. Slowing down at the driveway, we can smell the brake pads and burning rubber. The car coughs and splurts as the revs drop to an idle. It needs another tune already. Both of the boys are laughing. What an adventure!

  ‘I thought you were going to lose it for sure,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Michael Schumacher,’ I tell him.

  ‘That you are!’ Mike yells.

  There's now a motorbike parked on the edge of the driveway so it's tighter to get in. Edging past, the driver's side door is only centimetres from the retaining wall. I poke the nose of the car at the roller door then reverse a bit so I can straighten up. But as I do so, we hear the crunching sound of metal on rock. I put my head on the wheel. The boys get out to inspect the damage.

  ‘There's a gouge above the back bumper, the corner light's smashed in,’ Ryan yells out to me.

  Mike laughs harder than he has all night.

  jerry-atric

  The next morning, Dad wakes me up with a thud on the door. I've hardly slept. I'm freaking out about seeing Gez on Monday. I roll over and wait for the door to open. He comes in. He's nervous. He's rubbing his scar again. ‘I've um—’ He swallows. ‘We're going to see an old mate of mine.’

  I sit up, not caring about him seeing my chest anymore. His gaze jumps between my chest and face, like me looking at the girls at school—only his is more of shock than pleasure.

  ‘Who?’ I mumble and scratch at a zit brewing on my chin.

  Then he does something he hasn't done since I was five. He sits on the end of my bed. ‘He's a doctor. He used to be in the army and I was thinking—’

  I lie down, not liking the idea.

  ‘I'm worried about your chest,’ he says. ‘What if they won't let you in?’

  I put my hands behind my head. ‘That would be a tragedy, wouldn't it?’

  ‘I know! That's what I mean,’ he says. ‘I've been thinking about it ever since—you know—the other day. I can't sleep at night. What if it's serious? I just can't imagine what it'll be like for you if they turn around and tell you “no”.’

  Sitting up again I ask, ‘Do you know what you just said?’

  His face is blank.

  ‘It's not my health you're worried about, it's my getting in.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he says. He opens his mouth and shakes his hands as if he has more to say, but there's nothing.

  ‘Can't we find out at the physical?’ I ask, hoping to delay the inevitable. ‘They'll do a medical then.’

  ‘No. We must know earlier,’ he states.

  Doctor Robertson's surgery is in his house, perched on the side of a hill at Mt Gravatt. We enter the surgery through a door that has a frosted glass panel in its centre. It overlooks the suburbs below. City high-rises break the horizon.

  The bloke's ancient—at least eighty. He tells Dad he hasn't practised much since leaving the forces, just bits and pieces to keep his retirement not too retiring.

  ‘So how can I help, Brian?’ he asks, looking over his glasses. His face is lined, but his eyes are bright, his hair white, his smile full of fillings.

  ‘Um—’ Dad starts, standing beside me as I sit in the seat by the desk. ‘Jack's got a condition. And he's wanting to join up and I—we,’ he looks at me, ‘want to know if they'll have him.’

  The doc peers at me. ‘So it's your appointment?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Do you want him here?’ the doc asks me while nodding in Dad's direction.

  ‘Course he does,’ Dad says. ‘I mean, we both want to be here. We both want to know.’

  The doc raises his eyebrows and lowers his glasses. ‘You sure about that?’ he says, looking directly at me.

  Immediately I like the guy. So I turn to Dad. ‘We won't be long, you can wait outside.’

  Devastated, Dad mopes towards the door, but can't help himself as he opens it. ‘You sure? Sometimes it's good to have some support.’

  ‘I'm fine.’

  He leaves, but I can still make out his shadow behind the frosted glass.

  Doctor Robertson gets me to sit on the bed with my shirt off. He runs a finger over the length of my spine then tells me to stand.

  ‘Do you always slouch?’ he asks.

  I try to stand taller.

  He puts a cold stethoscope on my back. ‘If you want to join the army, you'll have to learn to talk when you're spoken to.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  ‘Jerry,’ he says.

  ‘Huh?’

  He moves in front of me and gives me his mercury smile. ‘You're not in the army yet, son.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Breathe deep.’

  He moves his stethoscope to all parts of my ribcage. ‘Is it still getting deeper?’ he asks.

  ‘It stopped growing about twelve months back, I think.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. He stops with the stethoscope and gets me to bend over and touch my toes. Again he runs a finger over my spine. ‘Do you ever get short of breath?’ he asks.

  I stand. ‘Mostly when I'm sprinting.’

  ‘Short sprint or a big one?’

  ‘Big.’

  ‘Hmmph. So does anyone. What about your heart, do you feel it on your ribs? Does it feel restricted?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any pain, discomfort?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever had an X-ray?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘For God's sake,’ he mutters. ‘Your old man has never chased this up?’

  ‘I never let him see it.’

  Jerry goes back to his desk shaking his head. He scribbles on a form then hands it to me. ‘Take this to the hospital and get an X-ray, come back and we'll talk some more.’

  ‘That's it?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  I go to the door.

  ‘There is one more thing,’ he says. ‘How much do you weigh?’

  ‘Sixty-eight,’ I say, kind of proud I've put on a few kilos.

  ‘Height?’

  ‘Hundred and eighty-three.’

  He jots them down. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he says.

  When we get home, Gez's Bluebird is in the driveway. I run a hand through my hair. The damage looks worse in the daylight. Dad, looking at the X-ray slip, walks straight past Gez without saying hello.

  ‘What have you got to say about this?’ Gez asks, gesturing to the gouge in the corner panel.

  I raise a palm. ‘It wasn't just me,’ I say.

  He holds up his mobile, showing me the picture I sent him. ‘But you were driving.’

  I can just make out the text king of the road under the picture. I grin and say, ‘It goes pretty good, eh?’, figuring it never takes much to ease his temper, but it doesn't work. He holds a hand out to me, his fingers flat and tense. ‘I want the keys back.’

  ‘What keys?’ I ask, confused. ‘I don't have the keys.’

  ‘Give me the keys,’ he repeats.

  ‘For the car?’

  ‘For the unit!’

  ‘The unit?’ I can't believe it. But his eyes are set.

  ‘Shouldn't that be Ryan's decision?’

  ‘Not while my car's there, it's not.’

  ‘Be reasonable.’

  His hand moves closer to my chest. ‘Go get them.’

  I trudge inside and snatch the keys from the desk in my room. With an overwhelming sense of injustice, I consider calling Ryan, but what's the point? Gez is the real reason I ever go to the unit—him and the car. There'll be no point going now. I throw the keys from the front door and they land at his feet. He drives away, followed by a blue plume and an off smell. It suits how I feel.

  And that feeling stays with me for the next week at school.

  Every day, talk of the party increases. Even though it was my idea, it seems that I'm no longer a part of or
ganising it. Getting invited won't be a worry—everyone's invited. At lunchtimes Gez keeps hanging out with Lisa. People try to book a mattress with him, either in the garage or in the lounge room. Others don't bother, planning to see the night through till dawn. And with it being held the first weekend of our September holidays, everyone is going to get totally wasted. I ask Dad if I can take the Pissan, and because his migraines have been bad again he agrees. He won't be going anywhere. I don't even cop the usual banter about driving safe, but he still phones Ryan to make sure he'll be there.

  Leading up to the party, Sam is ecstatic. She talks heaps, grabs my arm whenever she thinks I'm not listening, whacks my ribs playfully if I say something even mildly funny. Whenever I go to my locker she comes with me, stands beside me, chatting, her body against mine. She wears a new perfume, and does her hair differently each day, not much, but enough that I can't help but comment—and she grins whenever I do. She wants something to happen, I'm sure of that now, and she wants it to happen on Saturday night.

  She thinks I've turned the corner. After all, it's obvious, isn't it? Our friendship is public and I don't avoid her despite the comments. And I know I should be excited, I should be thrilled. Finally something might happen. But as the party draws close, Sam's past gets drawn up again. It happens while a group of us wait for English to start.

  ‘You stuck it to Sam yet?’ Cuppas asks me.

  Someone laughs. One guy says, ‘Only the bravest of men would go there!’

  ‘Brave or blind?’ Steve asks.

  Gez leaves the conversation and goes and joins Lisa and a couple of her friends at the front of the class. So I get up, head over, in the hope of striking up a conversation. But as I get closer, the girls look at me. Lisa seems to contemplate my body: her eyes critical as she chews gum.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asks me. ‘Did your dad bash The P?’

  ‘It wasn't a bashing.’

  ‘But he got the sack, right? I heard he can't even walk onto school property.’

  I nod. I look to Gez, wondering why he's so quiet.

  Lisa keeps chewing, eyeing me off. ‘Can you show us?’ she asks with the slightest smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ Gez says. ’You girls have gotta see it. Come on, show ‘em, Sticks!’ He reaches for my shirt.

  I whack his hand away with a clenched fist. I glare at him, but his eyes shift away.

  Cut to the core, I leave them.

  After school Sam and I linger at the bottom of her street. During the whole walk she talked about everything and nothing and kept looking up at me, smiling.

  ‘I can't wait for tomorrow night,’ she says and moves closer.

  ‘It should be great,’ I say, instead of ‘me too’.

  And before we part she edges closer again, close enough to touch. Her eyes look beautiful and hopeful. My arm twitches. I'm almost carried away by an impulse to hold her, but I stop at the thought of Lisa, her jaw rotating, eyes piercing. And then there's Gez's voice, show 'em, Sticks! I look at Sam, aware of the tension in my shoulders and neck. What if I do make my move at the party? What then? After the kissing, the hugging, the touching, will we lie down together on the sand or in a room in the shack? Will she want to lie with me, naked, exposed, to have sex? What if I can't go through with it?

  ‘I'll pick you up tomorrow,’ I say then head for home.

  it's tough being friends

  I linger nervously in Sam's driveway, watching the house, waiting for her. I don't want to get out of the ute. There's a new Toyota Camry in the driveway which means her parents are home. Relieved, I see her come to the door. I start the motor, but she waves me over then turns back inside. I'm not ready for this, I think, not ready to meet her parents. I rub my eyes and get out.

  ‘This must be Jack?’ a middle-aged woman says as I stand at the door. ‘I've heard a lot about you.’

  Sam shoots me an embarrassed grin.

  ‘Don't worry,’ she continues, ‘it's all good.’

  ‘Mum!’ Sam says.

  I don't know what to say, I've never felt more awkward in my life. I like what's being said, just not who's saying it.

  I watch Sam from behind as she walks ahead. She's in jeans; her hair is wet, leaving a wet patch on the back of her T-shirt. There's not a guy I know that'd take a second look at her, but right now, having heard what I've just heard, I think she looks great.

  They lead me into the kitchen, which is brighter than the entrance, and I notice the grey roots of Mrs Dean's short burgundy-brown hair. Like Sam, she isn't particularly tall. She wears glasses and smart clothes, and has a pleasant expression. Her eyes are more inquisitive and less penetrating than Sam's. She has a gentle smile.

  ‘Honey!’ she calls. I look in the direction she's yelling, into the lounge room. It's an open-plan house. ‘Sam's boyfriend is here.’

  Boyfriend! I clench my fist inside my pocket and almost jump on the spot. I'm stunned by how good that sounds. Boyfriend! I do everything I can to contain my smile. Who would've known it would feel this good. I look at Sam, and mouth silently ‘boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ she mouths back, seemingly angry, and turns away.

  ‘Nice to meet you!’ calls a stubble-faced, grey-haired man from the couch. ‘I'm Sam's dad,’ he adds. Then, after stating the obvious, he turns back to the TV.

  But I don't care about him. I shift my attention back to Sam. What about that rejection? She sidles up to her mum and loud enough for me to hear, she says, ‘He's not my boyfriend.’ The words smack me like a brick in the guts. Up one second, like a runny turd the next.

  ‘He's not?’ Mrs Dean asks.

  ‘No!’ Sam snaps.

  Mrs Dean forces a smile. ‘Sorry,’ she says to both of us.

  Sam turns to me. ‘Don't worry about Dad. He's the shy and retiring sort.’

  ‘Would you like a drink, Jack?’ Mrs Dean asks. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘There's juice, Coke, water—’

  ‘Coke,’ I say.

  After the glass is poured, Sam drags me upstairs to her room. ‘Sorry about them,’ she says as she closes the door. She takes a towel off her bed and starts drying her hair. ‘I know what you're thinking: Mum's a bit over the top. Bit too friendly.’

  ‘She seems all right,’ I say, but only because I figure that's what I'm meant to say. What I'm really thinking is: I want to get out of here.

  ‘Sorry about that boyfriend thing,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  ‘That's okay,’ I lie.

  ‘She's always getting the wrong impression.’

  ‘Easy thing to do.’

  Sam tilts her head for a moment. I drop my gaze. A few seconds later she asks, ‘How many do you think will be there tonight?’

  ‘Sixty,’ I suggest. Not my boyfriend is repeating like a skipping CD inside my head.

  I look around the room. If there's one thing I could have predicted, it's this. There are posters of bands, paintings she's done in art class, pieces of paper with her favourite sayings stuck around the place. A stereo playing quietly. Being in her bedroom should make me feel excited. I've been invited into her private life, but the problem is, she's let me in to observe, not be a part of it. I feel ripped off.

  ‘Where will they all come from?’ she asks.

  I regain my bearings. ‘Apart from school there'll be some of Ryan's old high school mates, also his uni mates. You remember Ryan, Gez's brother?’

  ‘Sunburn Ryan?’

  I nod.

  ‘He's sweet,’ she says, rubbing the towel in her hair. ‘Funny, too. And what about his friend?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His house-mate.’

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Yeah, the one from the convenience store.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask, remembering the stuff Mike has said about her.

  ‘I see him there, sometimes.’ We stand for a moment, looking at each other. ‘You know,’ she starts then drapes the towel over her shoulders. ‘When I met him at Ryan's pla
ce I thought he was a sleaze. Did you see how he was looking at Lisa?’

  ‘He looks at every girl like that.’

  ‘No,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘He chats to me at the store. He's nice.’

  I feel even worse.

  ‘I've got to go and dry my hair properly,’ she says. ‘You can go downstairs and watch sport with Dad if you like.’

  But when she leaves, I sit on her bed. The only surprise about her room is the colour of her doona: pink and white. I expected something less girly, more outrageous, something that would make a statement or draw attention: scarlet, black maybe. There's a Ross Noble quote stuck on the wall above her bed: ‘Not many people realise Fifty Cent is half man half Cossack …’ What the hell does that mean? Nothing about her makes sense.

  Not wanting to be caught lingering on her bed, I head downstairs to talk to the man who's the father of the girl who's not my girlfriend.

  He pats a spot on the beige leather lounge. ‘Sam says you play rugby.’

  I sit down, making sure there's space between us. ‘I was in the school team.’

  ‘Oooh jeez,’ he says, grinning. ‘I've read about you boys in the newsletter. Better luck next year, eh? Not that you'll be there, of course.’

  I laugh it off.

  ‘So what are you going to do when you finish?’ he asks.

  ‘My old man wants me to join the army.’

  He nods, but doesn't press the topic. I fidget, and as if noticing, he says, ‘She'll be a while yet. She puts a lot of effort into looking like a tramp.’

  ‘That's not nice, dear,’ Sam's mum calls, bringing me my glass of Coke. ‘You forgot this,’ she says.

  The drive to the coast is awkward. Sam talks about all sorts of things, she tells me what music we should play, asks if I ever dance.

  ‘I'm going to drink Smirnoff Twist instead of Lemon Ruski,’ she says.

  ‘Why the change?’

  ‘Sometimes it's good to try something new.’ And she peers at me with a flirtatious smile—at least that's how I would have interpreted it until this morning.

  Then she comes up with party ideas: a fire on the beach, midnight swimming in the surf, walks in the dunes. She touches my forearm in excitement. I take my gaze off the road and for the first time notice a dimple as she smiles. I smile back. It's forced, tense, but still hopeful.