My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  Her hair is out; she's wearing a tight black top beneath a warm jacket. I run a hand across my chest, under the seatbelt. She looks the best I've ever seen her.

  Stopping at some lights I rest my hand on the gear shift, just centimetres from hers on her knee. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch her, but her hand slips away.

  Friends.

  I have to get used to it.

  kiss and tell

  The Bluebird and Ryan's van are on the street in front of the beach house, so I park the Pissan on the footpath beside the fence. Ryan and Mike, sitting on the grass, see us at the gate. I remove the stake and swing it open. They wave and call out.

  I introduce Sam, even though they've met before. Mike's got a ciggie in his hand and Ryan's got a VB. It's just after midday and they look like they're on siesta. Ryan strikes up a friendly conversation with Sam, asking about the trip up.

  ‘What do you think of the Pissan?’ he asks.

  ‘I've got a sore butt,’ she says and gives me a sidelong glance.

  Mike's staring at her as if surprised by how good she looks. His feeding gaze makes me edgy.

  ‘How's the corner store?’ she asks him.

  He puts on a grin. ‘Yeah, all right. Gotta work tomorrow, but. Reckon I'll rock up pissed. I do it all the time,’ he boasts.

  She laughs politely.

  Then he waves a dismissive hand. ‘Nah, I'm only joking. So how you been? Haven't seen you for what? Two days?’

  ‘Two days?’ I say.

  Mike has a wicked grin. ‘Sam's in there all the time,’ he says.

  The four of us wander around the yard and Ryan lists all the things that we need to get done: buy ice, ice-cream, snags for the scabs who will turn up with nothing. Sam heads inside to check things out and as soon as she's gone both of the boys look to me.

  ‘What's going on, Sticks?’ Mike asks.

  They grin in anticipation, leaning forward.

  ‘There's nothing to tell.’

  ‘Oh, c'mon, Sticks,’ Ryan says. ‘There can't be nothing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘So you're not pulling?’ Mike says.

  ‘She doesn't like me that way.’

  Mike cranes his neck, looking towards the doorway of the shack. His lips are pursed in surprise. ‘I thought she was supposed to be easy.’ He looks back at me, his eyes questioning, wanting an explanation.

  ‘We're not together,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ His eyebrows lift. ‘Coz, I like to know when a chick is ripe for the picking. You wouldn't mind, right?’

  ‘Rack off!’

  ‘I'm just kidding. Jeez, Sticks. It's a joke.’

  Wanting to kill the conversation, I ask, ‘Where's Gez?’

  ‘Out in the surf,’ Ryan says.

  ‘And Lisa?’

  ‘She's coming up later.’

  I baulk. ‘Who with?’

  Ryan shrugs. ‘One of her girlfriends, I s'pose.’

  ‘I hope her friend's hot,’ Mike says. Then he rummages in his pockets and holds up a small zip-lock plastic bag. It has half-a-dozen pills.

  ‘Es?’ I ask.

  He grins wildly. ‘Eighteenth birthday present,’ he says.

  ‘Jeez, Mike.’

  We turn to the street as a cab pulls up and Cuppas hops out. He pushes through the gate carrying a carton of Dark and Stormy and a bottle of Bundy. He's wearing black jeans and a black button-up Wolfmother shirt. I bet he doesn't even know their music. His face is red and covered with beads of sweat. ‘I'm early,’ he says. ‘Had to catch a train up, then a bus, then a cab,’ which means he couldn't get a lift. It also means he didn't get an invite. It said six p.m. onwards, and that's only if you wanted to throw a snag on the barbie.

  ‘Good to see a few of youse here already,’ he says. ‘Where do I put the grog?’

  Ryan and Mike look to me.

  ‘Who's this knob?’ Mike asks.

  ‘Cuppas,’ I say. ‘You'll get along. You're quite alike.’

  ‘Get lost.’

  Ryan laughs.

  There's so much to do before everyone arrives. Sam and I head off to the servo and buy bags of ice, bring them back and dump them in the bathtub. Then we go to the kitchen and organise the booze. Ryan and Mike have bought three cases of VB each; I bought another one on the way up. Together, Sam and I stack the fridge, and the whole time we chat about things we expect will happen—placing bets on who'll drink too much, who'll get together, and argue over whether or not The P will have his hair restreaked. On my haunches, I stack the alcohol into the fridge as Sam passes it to me.

  A cold, stinging sensation runs down my back. I arch my back, jump, slam my head on the open freezer door.

  ‘Arrrgh!’ I yell, grabbing my head. Ice drops from my shirt and around my feet.

  Sam smirks. ‘I'm so sorry,’ she says in between fits of laughter. She wraps an ice cube in a tea towel and tries to hold it against my head.

  ‘It's not funny,’ I say, ‘it stings.’

  ‘Stay still,’ she says, reaching up on tiptoes, struggling to keep the tea towel in place. ‘Give us a look,’ she says, and presses both hands on my head.

  ‘Hey! That hurts.’

  ‘I can't see anything.’

  I stoop down, knees bent. ‘Careful.’

  Her breasts press softly against my jaw as she runs her fingers through my hair. I can smell her shampoo, can feel her warmth against me. I wrap an arm around her waist, as if needing to keep balance.

  ‘What! That's it?’ she says. ‘That's nothing!’ Then she pushes me away.

  I touch the welt. ‘What do you mean?’ I show her the blood on the tip of my finger. ‘See.’

  Holding my wrist, she pulls my hand close to her face. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here,’ I say, one finger upright.

  She smirks and lets go. ‘That's nothing,’ she says again then reaches into the fridge for a Smirnoff Twist. ‘Do you think it's too early?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but crack it open for her and take a beer for myself.

  We stare out the window at the guys in the backyard. Ryan's mowing the lawn and Cuppas is following Mike as he gathers wood from the garden. Mike waves to us. Sam waves back.

  I kick her foot. ‘C'mon,’ I say, ‘we should get our bags.’

  She follows me out to the Pissan where I lift her bag from the tray before getting mine. Back inside we stop in the hallway and she points to the doorways of various rooms and looks to me.

  Pushing my luck, I say, ‘There'll be heaps of people, we'll have to share.’

  ‘Really?’ She follows me silently into the room at the end of the hall. It's dark and stuffy, so I part the curtains and open the windows. She's watching me.

  She puts her bags down on one side, so I put mine on the other. I sit on the right side of the mattress and say, ‘It's pretty good, I've slept on it before.’

  She sits to confirm my statement, but says nothing. Then she gets up and looks out the window.

  Friends, I think. Doesn't that make a double bed awkward? ‘We can sleep head-to-toe if you'd prefer it that way,’ I say. She looks at me critically.

  ‘I'll crash on the floor,’ I say.

  •

  It's almost evening when Gez finally comes in from the surf. He's dripping wet. His eyes are bloodshot from the salt, his muscles more lean than usual from paddling through the breaks.

  ‘Lisa here yet?’ he asks.

  I shake my head, tear open a chip packet and pour them into a bowl. He towels off, pulls on a shirt. ‘When did you get up?’

  ‘Bit after lunch.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No,’ I say, insulted he automatically jumped to that conclusion.

  ‘Right,’ he says and looks around. ‘Who'd you come with?’

  I keep pouring chips. I don't say that Sam's laying out mattresses in the garage.

  ‘How hard was it to get the Pissan?’ he asks, trying another tack to get me talking.


  ‘Easy,’ I say.

  He picks a chip from the bowl as I try to cover it with gladwrap. ‘You could've come up with us. There was room in the Bluebird.’

  I look at him, wondering where all this sweet talk is coming from. Just this week he basically cut me from his life.

  ‘Thanks for the invite,’ I say, and dump some cheerios into an empty saucepan.

  Wondering how long the ice will last I head to the bathroom and he follows, keeping up with his idle banter. We pass the Sports Illustrated calendar on the way. He stops, takes it down, flicks through and asks, ‘Which one was it again?’

  ‘None of them,’ I say.

  ‘Wasn't it June?’

  He holds the model up to me. Her face reminds me of Sam, which gives me a sinking feeling. ‘None of them,’ I say again.

  He pages through slowly. I leave him to it, wondering why he even cares. He's got Lisa Patrick.

  Back outside I go to the barbie and stoke it up. Sam approaches me and says, ‘I think we should go for a walk.’ The way she says it sets goose bumps on my skin. It's firm, resolute.

  We follow a boardwalk over the dunes leading to the beach. I can smell her perfume over the salty air. It's sweet but not overpowering. I try to keep my mind off us and on the scrub around us and the feeling of sand in my toes, but her presence overwhelms me. Halfway along a sandy path, fenced in on either side by a wire fence, she stops and turns to me.

  ‘What's happening?’ she asks.

  I lean against the fence and brace myself. Friends, she'll say, we're just friends. A couple come over the rise, walking their dog. It pauses to sniff my feet. Sam keeps watching me as they pass. Not wanting to hear it from her I say, ‘We're just friends, aren't we?’

  ‘Friends?’ Her eyebrows are creased. ‘Is that what you call us?’

  ‘That's what you call us.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘To your mum today.’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I've—’ She fiddles with the stitching on the bottom of her top. ‘I've been waiting for you to tell me how you feel. Every time we walked home together I thought for sure something was going to happen, but nothing.’ There's an edge to her voice and she looks up at me. ‘And today? What's happening today?’

  I shuffle in the sand.

  ‘Jack, I'm confused.’

  What do I say?

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘I like you, Sam,’ I say, barely audible. ‘I like you heaps. More than anyone I know.’

  She sucks her lips in, trying to hide a growing smile. We stand for a moment, still separated. I edge closer. She stands on her toes and plants me a kiss.

  the party

  When we get back to the beach house, we're holding hands. Mike looks up from his VB stubby and nudges Ryan in the ribs. Sam loosens her grip, but I hold hers tighter. I want her to know I mean what I said. I'm not going to hide, not this time.

  When Gez sees us, I expect him to give me an approving nod, or even a good-on-you smile, but he just turns away and goes inside. Fine, I think, I don't need you anyway.

  At dusk people start turning up with birthday presents of wrapped-up booze and eskies full of beer and steak. Ryan gets the barbie going and slaps on a cake of butter. I turn up the stereo so we can hear it outside.

  The first few arrivals lay hugs and handshakes on Gez. He puts on a smile, sips his beer until it's warm. Lisa's still not here.

  As numbers swell, the bathtub overflows with stubbies and rum; cases of booze cover the kitchen benches. People file through the front gate while Ryan and Mike stand like property owners watching their prized herd. Their friends turn up—guys and girls from Ryan's uni classes, a few odd-looking ring-ins that hang out with Mike.

  Everyone gathers in the yard. They stand about talking, soothing their inhibitions with beer and spirits. I can feel the anticipation. Then a sound comes from the street, a beat overriding the music from the house. Everyone turns to see a white Nissan Silvia, windows down, R&B throbbing. It pulls in, the front bumper nearly touching the front gate. Blue xenon headlights light up the party then fade as the motor dies. The R&B cuts out mid beat. The P opens his door and gets out. He's wearing jeans, a tight fitting white shirt. His hair is styled, his streaks re-touched.

  The P saunters around the car and opens the passenger door. A girl I've never seen before gets out—tall, tight butt, big tits: the P's perfect fashion accessory. Us boys all gawk.

  By the time everyone's into their third or fourth drink, Ryan and Mike gather everyone around. The boys hold between them a forty-centimetre spliff.

  Ryan shouts for attention. ‘I want to start proceedings with a gift for my little bro!’ he yells and presents the spliff to Gez. ‘In honour of eighteen years of friendship,’ he says amid approving comments. ‘You're not just a brother, you're a friend.’

  ‘Cut the sop and light the thing!’ someone yells.

  There's a roar of approval. Steve steps forward and lights the spliff now hanging from Gez's mouth. A silence descends as he inhales, his cheeks sucked in. The tip turns brown; the flame dies in the breeze. Steve zips at the lighter with his thumb, sparks jump from the flint, re-igniting a fitful flame. Moments later, the joint lights up and Gez's face glows in the light. Ryan blows out the flame, leaving a red glowing ember. Gez inhales slowly then lets the smoke escape as a wisp through his nose.

  With arms waving, Ryan leads a rendition of happy birthday. It's a raucous blend of drunken and sober voices with barely a true note. Gez nods, but I can see he's still not into it. Sam holds me from behind, her arms wrapped around my waist, her cheek against my upper arm. The P and the girl stand in the circle, his arm draped over her shoulder, his fingers crawling above her breast. Lisa, who arrived not too long ago, is watching from the outskirts.

  After a few pulls, Gez passes the spliff to Mike, who points the tip skywards and inhales. Cuppas holds up a booze bong, which is a funnel with a hose. He peels open a can of Dark and Stormy, gives the end of the hose to Gez, who puts it to his lips. A chant starts, ‘Skol! Skol! Skol!’, and with each chant, we clap, getting faster and louder like a cricket crowd sending in Brett Lee. Cuppas pours the can in, then another. Gez, with his head lifted, lets the booze flow straight down his gullet. He doesn't stop for breath. It runs from the corners of his mouth, down his neck and into his shirt. He finishes, gasps, and points at Cuppas to get another can.

  ‘All right, a refill!’ someone screams and half -a-dozen blokes step forward offering their half-finished drinks. But it's Cuppas who excels again. He pours bourbon into the funnel, someone else pours Coke. Gez devours it as if dying of thirst.

  Someone goes inside, kills the music then puts on something with a bit more rhythm. The crowd breaks up, except for a small group of us around Gez, who keeps on drinking. But now Cuppas is matching him bong for bong. Lisa retreats inside.

  •

  Over the next two hours, Sam and I keep leaving the party to make out. Usually we go behind the house or sneak out behind the back fence. Holding each other tight, our hands move over our clothes, neither of us going underneath—not yet. Her hips press against me and I feel myself rise. I taste the sweet drink on her lips, the hint of alcohol on her warm breath. I'm nervous and excited. I kiss like a camel, my tongue lolling in her mouth.

  She presses her hands on my stomach, edges away and tells me what to do, not to shove my tongue in so deep. Giving up in embarrassment, I take a step back, but she pulls me closer and plants her face on mine. I think of the room. The thought of sex no longer scares me.

  In between snogs, we return to the group and mingle. I try to track down Gez to wish him happy birthday even though he doesn't deserve it. But the whole time he's elusive. I pull him aside, but he lets others interrupt, or heads off to get another drink. Pissed off, I listen to the throb of the music. Just one week ago I still considered him my best friend, a fact I now find hard to believe.

  I see Sam in the distance talking to Greg and Ra
chel. She curls her finger at me, wanting me to come over. But before I do, I gotta see Gez again, give him another chance. I spot him walking to the back fence. He's got a bottle of Bundy. He's using Lisa for support. I walk over, but when he sees me coming he turns away. He stumbles through the gate.

  Watching after them, I let the noise of the party wash over me. There's laughter and shouting, the rustling of a couple in the garden. A chorus of clapping and yelling breaks out behind me. I turn to see Cuppas there in front of a group, waving one arm as he talks, holding a can in the other. The P's egging him on, trying to get him to tell everyone about the first time he had sex. Wanting to hear what he'll say, I move to the edge of the group.

  ‘I was fourteen,’ Cuppas says and finishes off his Dark and Stormy.

  ‘What was it like?’ The P asks.

  Cuppas is lost for a second, his mouth moving in silence. ‘Good,’ he says, gulping the word.

  Bystanders laugh, others grimace as he goes into detail. The P asks, did you do this, did you do that, what did it feel like, did she like it? And because Cuppas is stupid enough to answer, The P doesn't look like a dick for making a spectacle of him. In fact, The P's hot fashion accessory stands behind him, giggling into her hand. Spit flies as Cuppas slurs and sways, barely able to stay on his feet.

  ‘Did she like your fat?’ The P asks.

  Cuppas grabs the middle of his shirt and rips it open. Buttons fly, his stomach bursts out like an unrestrained beast. A milky-white glob, it bulges over his jeans. There's a mixture of groans and hoots of laughter. Cuppas smiles with an open mouth and a string of saliva. He stumbles and falls to the grass. He convulses as if he's about to spew, but swallowing he holds it in. And like that time in the sports shed, I know I should go in and help out, but I slink past, hoping The P won't see me.

  ‘Hey, Sticks!’ he yells. ‘Come here and show us yours!’

  ‘Yeah, c'mon, Sticks!’ Cuppas screams from the grass. ‘Show us your party trick!’