Malcolm answered straight away which Juliet took to be a good sign. She hoped his mother wasn’t hovering in the background, the way she often did. This transaction was strictly between her and Malcolm, and whoever it was who kept record of the stains upon her soul.
‘You’ve changed your mind haven’t you?’ Malcolm said, as soon as he heard her voice. ‘It’s all right, I knew you would. It was really an entirely unreasonable thing to ask. I hope this isn’t going to damage our friendship.’
‘No, no of course I haven’t changed my mind,’ Juliet assured him. ‘It’s just there’s something I forgot to mention, which needs to be discussed.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘Well,’ Juliet said, wondering if just uttering the words wouldn’t change her life forever. ‘We need to discuss the price.’
There was a pause, a very long pause. Long enough for Malcolm to have fled the scene, or called up the police on the other line. Technically it was illegal, wasn’t it?
‘Malcolm? Malcolm? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. I was just thinking. I find it’s not a good idea to trust your first instincts, in times of great surprise.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve really offended you, haven’t I?’
‘No,’ came the reply, his voice slow and considered. ‘In fact, now that I think about it, it’s something of a relief. I think, if I didn’t pay you, it might feel sort of dirty, like I was using you. No, upon reflection, this will be much better. I will feel happier all round. Um, how much were you thinking?’
Good old Malcolm. If he hadn’t been 2.6 km away just then she would have hugged him, for free.
‘Well I don’t suppose it would be a good idea to charge by the minute. How about one hundred dollars, all up?’
‘Um, one second,’ and another pause. ‘Yeah, that sounds fine. Mum says she’ll pay half.’
Spent
Malcolm’s excited half had been at war with his terrified half ever since he’d put down the phone and, by the time Juliet arrived, a truce of sorts had been achieved. He had settled on being terrified of his excitement and letting the terror excite him all the more.
He didn’t know where to look when she walked into the room. By then he had been holding his greeting pose for exactly three minutes (cruel of her to be late like that) and the smile he managed was partly due to cramp. The camera was set up, further back than usual so as to capture the whole bed, and he had draped a towel over the mirror. The curtains were pulled shut.
On the clothing front he had gone for a casual look, T-shirt and jeans, and his favourite boxer shorts, fresh on. He lay across the bed, feet dangling off the end, head up and supported by his arm. Next to his elbow sat five $20 notes.
‘Hi,’ he said. The word rushed out of his mouth, only to be tripped by his tongue and fall awkwardly to the floor. He was relieved to see Juliet had also decided against dressing up. No kickboxing whites or Pretty Woman red for her. Just jeans, because Juliet was a jeans girl, and a large loose jacket type thing which she always wore. ‘Ah, here’s the money.’ He sat up and handed her the notes and as their fingers touched a small electric charge stood the hairs on the back of his neck on end. He’d decided against shaving them.
‘Oh, right, thanks.’ It was easy to see the money made Juliet feel uncomfortable. That was good, it made things more even.
‘You’re a little bit late,’ Malcolm said, because it was all he could think of and the silence was choking him. ‘It isn’t very professional.’
It was meant to be a joke but Malcolm watched it burn up and crash to the floor. Tonight nothing would be easy.
Juliet sat herself on the end of the bed. The room was thick with sex and money, making it hard to breathe.
‘Well then,’ said Juliet, looking at her watch. ‘I guess we should make a start.’
‘Um, could we talk a bit first?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Oh, suppose so. You’re the customer after all. What shall we talk about?’
‘I’m not sure. In fact I’m totally without a clue when it comes to this sort of thing. What do people usually talk about before sex?’
‘I think they mostly tell each other lies.’
Malcolm lay back down and Juliet eased along the bed so she was sitting close to his stomach. When he looked up to her face he was confronted by the rise of her chest only centimetres above him.
‘You could tell me how much you like me, for instance.’
‘But I do.’
‘Well done. Tell me why.’
‘Because you’re not like the other girls.’ Malcolm relaxed a little. Talking was taking his mind off the woman beneath her clothes, and the child beneath his. ‘And you’re my friend aren’t you? How am I doing?’
‘Not bad, for a beginner.’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading. What should I say next?’
‘Tell me why I should have sex with you.’
‘I paid you, remember?’
‘But if you hadn’t.’
‘Well, I’m keen to learn, and I think you might be a good teacher.’
‘Not very romantic.’
‘I’m sorry. I knew I’d be no good at this.’ Malcolm got up from the bed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know. I think I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come back here. We’ll skip talking. It’s not that important.’
Juliet took off her jacket. Beneath it she was wearing a small black top with thin straps and, Malcolm was fairly certain, no bra. His mouth went dry. He coughed and made a sound that might have been the beginning of a word.
‘What was that?’ Juliet asked.
‘Um, nothing.’ Malcolm could feel his face burning up. ‘Um, should I take my clothes off?’
He tried desperately to remind himself that this was science, that discipline and exactitude were all that mattered, but his body refused to listen.
‘Not yet.’ Juliet spoke gently, as if she could sense his rising panic. ‘Come here.’
She held out her arm and he lay down beside her, slowly letting his body settle against hers. He was aware of every point of contact: the sweat building on his inside leg, where it rested against her thigh, the place on his arm where skin met skin, the flattening of her breasts against him, the heavy warmth of her breath and his impossibly anxious erection. He tried not to think of any of these things but they swirled about inside his head, a psychedelic mix of hormone and imagination.
‘Kiss me,’ Juliet told him. He opened his mouth and felt her lips touch his, colder than he expected, just lightly. He puckered slightly, because he wanted to contribute somehow, and released the grip of his right hand, which he suddenly realised had been squeezing her back. He felt something else, the end of her tongue flick against his, then disappear.
It was all so thrilling that for a few glorious seconds nothing else in the world mattered, nothing that had been, nothing that could follow. There was only the now, the present building upon itself, spiralling upwards in a teetering tower of yes and please.
Juliet’s hand moved down his back, then to his buttocks, steadily on with careful purpose, to the place where hundreds of thousands of years of genetic inevitability awaited them. Malcolm was seven again, the first time he ever rode a bike. Sailing down the driveway, perfectly excited, hopelessly unprepared. Juliet’s hand brushed the front of his trousers, the bike slid out beneath him and, in the panic of realisation, he fell off the bed.
‘Oh shit,’ he announced into the cruel silence of time starting back up, his elbow bruised, his pride severely grazed.
‘What is it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Oh.’
‘Even I know that was too early.’
Silence again as Malcolm, soggy and broken, walked to the camera and turned off the power. He was glad he hadn’t had the nerve to hit record. Say something, he thought. Please say something. But the look on Juliet’s face told him the only words
she could think of were words that would make it worse. She stood and smiled, the sort of sympathetic smile only the truly hopeless ever see.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it would be right for me to keep this.’
Juliet handed Malcolm back the $100.
Principles
Malcolm could feel the bulge of the tightly folded $100 in his pocket the next day at school. Finally he had found it, something he could not share with his mother. He would spend the money after school, something to cheer himself up. A new computer game maybe, or a concession booklet for the movies. Not that it would work. It was going to take more than shopping to claw his way back out of this hole.
The gloom of failure covered him all morning, even affecting his performance in class, where his answers were uncharacteristically slow and sloppy. It wasn’t the sort of morning that needed another disaster.
It was bad enough just to pass Charlotte in the corridor, see her smile, and know just how impassable the lands between them really were. It was worse having to watch all the other boys, crude stupid boys whom Malcolm had always felt a little sorry for, and realise so many of them had managed the simple act which seemingly was beyond him. It was torture enough to see in his mind the years stretched out before him, barren years of lies and frustration.
Malcolm’s day was turning out quite miserably enough already. It didn’t need the help of the principal, Mr Ramsay, who called Malcolm to his office in the middle of class.
Mr Ramsay was an oddly proportioned man whom Malcolm didn’t much like. He was one of those people who look fat in front, but thin from behind, as if the product of a laboratory mix-up. He had huge, lush eyebrows which curled down over his glasses, while elsewhere on his body the hair was struggling to get a start. His eyes were tiny, his nose on the large side and his teeth were crooked. In fact there was no single part of him that could be called normal, and some days this made Malcolm feel sorry for him. Today, though, Malcolm was far too busy feeling sorry for himself. The only thing he could think, when he was called into the well-appointed office, was I bet you can do it. I bet you do it all the time.
‘Malcolm, please, have a seat.’ Mr Ramsay smiled his wonky smile and his eyes screwed up even smaller, two dark dots beneath the foliage. ‘So how’s this year’s Science Fair project going?’
In Malcolm’s experience Mr Ramsay only did two moods: he fawned and he bullied. It was impossible to respect a man who believed life could be balanced out this way.
‘All right, thank you.’
‘You know we have high hopes for you this year Malcolm?’
‘I have high hopes for myself too, sir.’
‘Oh, please, no need for the sir. You’re not like the others you know Malcolm, and I mean that as a compliment. You understand that, don’t you?’
Malcolm nodded. This was going somewhere. Even through his misery he could see that much.
‘If there was a way of having a school full of Malcolms, I’d be a happy man.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes, very happy indeed.’ Mr Ramsay stopped abruptly and fixed Malcolm with his famous I’ve been straight with you, now you be straight with me stare.
‘So, tell me Malcolm, it’s not true is it, this rumour I’ve been hearing?’
‘What rumour sir?’
‘About your Science Fair entry. They’re saying you’re doing a study of teenage sex. That’s not correct now, is it?’ And the principal’s face told Malcolm there was only one acceptable answer, and Malcolm’s mood told him not to give it.
‘Oh no, I’ve tried to be far broader than that. I think teenage sex could be easily misinterpreted, out of context. I’m more interested in sex in general. Actually, it’s good you raised this because I was rather hoping I could interview you, if you don’t mind.’
Mr Ramsay The Bully rose in his chair, his face contorted with venomous rage.
‘Of course I mind!’ he spluttered.
‘I think people would be quite interested.’
‘I don’t doubt it young man. That, however, is not the point.’
Any other day Malcolm might have read the signs and beaten a tactical retreat, but Malcolm wasn’t in the mood for humouring bullies. Mr Ramsay was, after all, a fairly dim-witted man, and the law was very clear on just how far he could take his little pantomime.
‘Honestly sir, you really could be quite helpful. For example, I am in part interested in the nature of the male orgasm. If you were to imagine a simple scale, where one is a satisfying sneeze and ten is the greatest moment of your life, where would your average orgasm lie?’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay was shouting now, and the stationery in front of him grew damp with spit. ‘I am warning you. This sort of filth may find favour amongst your grubby peers but it is not appropriate in my office, nor indeed in my school’s entry in the National Science Fair.’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ the still seated Malcolm calmly replied. ‘But I have to disagree.’
‘You do, do you? Well perhaps it is not your place to disagree.’
‘Sex is all around us you know. Why, it is this very school that taught me the names of body parts I didn’t even know I had, where I was briefed on puberty, warned of disease and loaded up with condoms. In fact, without naming names, it is fair to say that my own interest in the topic was—’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay advanced another step. Malcolm did not flinch.
‘Sex is all around us sir. Everybody is fascinated by it.’
‘I most certainly am not,’ Mr Ramsay assured him, ‘and neither is my school. All Science Fair entries come through me for approval Malcolm and I will not be approving yours. End of discussion.’
It was a heavy blow to an already sputtering spirit and Malcolm crumpled. ‘Then I will find a school that better appreciates my talents,’ he blurted.
‘And I’m having my video monitor back.’
‘You can forget the work you wanted for the open evening.’
‘Don’t be so childish.’
‘When in Rome.’
‘The entry is out. That’s my final word.’
Mr Ramsay broke away from Malcolm’s stare, as if deep down part of him knew how ridiculous this was. ‘Now leave before you make things worse.’
Malcolm did as he was told. He was shaking and close to tears and needed to be alone. He found the toilets deserted and chose the only cubicle with a functioning lock. Just yesterday two competing dreams had fought for space inside his heart: winning the Science Fair and winning Charlotte. Now he was reduced to that saddest of all things, a man without hope. Through the blur of his tears he focused on the single piece of graffiti in front of him.
I love you Brian — K
‘Lucky bitch,’ Malcolm sniffed. ‘At least you’ve still got your dreams.’
Frustration
The dreams remained locked behind their glass cabinets, where they could be viewed from any angle but never touched. And the people, tired of just looking, turned down the lights and slid between their heavy sheets of frustration.
Frustration. The itch that cannot be scratched, the sadness that words cannot bury. Juliet sent off her letter of intent to the blackmailer’s post box, still no closer to finding his identity, or finding the money to pay him. And with every day that passed she became more certain her secret was almost out. It became so that just looking at her father, seeing the seeds of disappointment already planted in his eyes, was too painful. He sensed her discomfort and made it worse by asking her what was wrong, again and again and again.
Charlotte played every one of her ten favourite romances on the large flat-screen television in her room, but none of them helped explain why Malcolm remained so cold and distant. Perhaps there was an irony to be appreciated in the situation, the sort that would play well in black and white. But in Charlotte’s mind, her own scenario—the fact that the first boy she had ever been interested in, properly intensely interested in, was also the first boy not to be interested in he
r—spoke of a director who had grown old and bitter and should have moved over to make way for a more optimistic generation.
Brian tried to pretend it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The Woman on the Phone. Juliet. Much as it pained him to admit it, he wanted her. But wanting wasn’t having and, although every morning began with the same promise to himself, that he would find a way of seeking her out, every night finished with the same admission, that when it came to this, he had lost his nerve. It was even true that, should you have happened by Brian’s bedroom window on a night like this, you would have heard the sound of a stifled sob or two, for Brian wasn’t used to complications.
Even Kevin, resolutely patient Kevin, slowly chipping away at the granite of Brian’s masculine heart, had moments when he wondered. When the shape before him appeared no more refined than the shape he had started with, and he doubted he would ever find any expression there. He would simply chip on and on, until he or the rock were there no more.
And then there was Malcolm. Malcolm was broken, too dispirited even to feel frustration, for frustration requires a certain force against which it can push. Indeed these were troubled times, times of distracted days and restless nights, times in need of a cure.
A Cure
‘Malcolm I’m in trouble,’ Juliet announced, opening the door without knocking (not unusual) and heading straight for the fridge (ditto). Malcolm, who hadn’t spoken to Juliet since his failure, decided to get things out in the open.
‘You’re in trouble?’ he said. ‘What about me?’
‘Oh, what’s wrong with you?’ Juliet asked, pulling back out of the fridge. ‘You want some cheese on crackers?’
‘No. Um, you know. You were there.’
Malcolm and Juliet Page 6