‘No wonder your coach didn’t want me watching you, distracting you,’ Jordan said. ‘You’re like a superhero out there. It’s all “Go, Jack! Rebound, Jack! Shoot, Jack!” I felt like Lois Lane or something, watching you from my hidey-hole in the canteen. Clark, are you listening?’
Jack rolled his eyes. This was so Jordan, giving out a compliment with a backhand. Super Jack. Super Jock. Was that all he was?
He wanted her in a headlock.
He wanted her.
The night air hit his sweaty singlet. It was freezing. Jack put on his hoody.
‘It’s not like that, Jordan. We’re a team.’
‘Team Delanty,’ she stirred.
She could make him feel like there was no right way to answer.
She could make him feel.
As they walked, he put his hand under her sweater. Icy hand against warm waist. Jordan pressed his hand over the fabric, choosing not to comment about how cold he was. What she chose not to say was as fascinating as anything she actually said. With Tylah, conversation had been a matter of waiting, switching onto auto-pilot while she went on about stuff, and, honestly, he always knew where she was heading. She was so … obvious. Jordan was so not.
‘How keen do you think Sam is? On Moo, I mean?’ she asked, pulling away from him and walking backwards.
It was weird. Jordan wasn’t a gossipy type girl. It seemed like a more Tylah-ish thing to say. But with Jordan there was probably some actual, real reason to ask.
‘Um, pretty keen, I think,’ he offered.
Jordan looked serious. Jack loved the way she tilted her head to the side when she was thinking hard. Jack wished he could see inside her head. To figure out what was going on in there. But he couldn’t even guess at this.
‘Moo isn’t as tough as she seems,’ Jordan said quietly. ‘Everyone just thinks she is. Sam had better really like her, cos she’s been through a lot, you know?’
‘Not really,’ Jack admitted.
‘It’s to do with her mum leaving. She tried to explain it to me and Lee and Cec, after I said something hurtful …’ Jordan’s voice drifted off.
Whatever it was that Jordan had said, Jack could tell he wasn’t going to find out.
‘Anyway,’ continued Jordan, ‘she sort of made up some strategies to help her cope, and being funny all the time is one of them. It’s something she does to sort of protect herself. Kind of like doing the opposite thing to what she wants to do. I kind of get it, cos we all do that sometimes, hey?’
Jordan stood there, waiting for a response. Jack couldn’t figure one out.
‘Jack, what does Sam say about Moo?’
Jack grimaced. He felt like the crappiest friend in the universe. Here was Jordan, analysing all this stuff about her friend, and he hadn’t even had a serious conversation with Sam about Meredith. Jack had stirred him a couple of times. But he definitely hadn’t analysed it.
Sometimes he was bloody hopeless. Sam had given him advice about Jordan. He understood how things were with Jack’s dad, and he’d never told anyone about it. He deserved something back.
Basketball was easier than all this.
‘Don’t worry about it, Jack,’ Jordan said. ‘Just ask him how he feels sometime, OK? Oh, and Dad wants you to come over for tea next Wednesday.’
Jack stared at his strange, lovely girlfriend, his distraction. He pushed her away.
‘That’s the opposite of what I want to do,’ he said.
She wasn’t a fast runner, and laughing made her even slower. It was easy to catch up to her.
In some ways.
‘Did you hear anything about the scout?’ Sam asked, leaning over his three-legged stool in woodwork class.
When Jack went to answer, he was competing with the bang-bang of Sam’s hammer.
‘Nah. Coach. Reckons. He’ll get a call. By tomorrow. One way. Or another.’
Sam looked up. He stopped hammering. ‘Did your old man turn up?’
Jack shook his head.
Back at his dad’s after the game, it had been the regular bullshit. His dad was six beers down. Microwave dinner. He didn’t even say anything about the showcase game until halfway through sloppy lasagne in tin foil. Even then it was with one eye on the telly.
‘Couldn’t get there tonight,’ he’d said. ‘Got some overtime at the warehouse. Need the extra bucks now your mum’s taken me to the cleaners.’
Jack had got up from the table. He hadn’t commented. It was best not to comment.
‘So, how’s the girl?’ his dad had asked as Jack threw his foil dish in the bin. ‘She a good sort?’
‘Jordan,’ Jack had answered.
‘Want my advice? Don’t get too serious. Play the field.’
Not really. Jack really didn’t want his advice.
When his dad opened another can, Jack took the cordless phone into his room and re-hashed the game with Coach for ages.
When he came back into the lounge, his dad had passed out on the couch. Jack covered him with a blanket, tucked it around his feet. His dad’s face, cocooned by the blanket, looked old. Behind the closed lids were blue eyes just like Jack’s.
He wondered what else he had inherited from his father and it made him shiver.
So many times, his mum had asked what his dad was feeling. She tried to draw him out, but was drowned out by the telly.
His dad seemed to regard words as litter. Minimise the output. Minimise the pollution.
His mum was locked out by his dad’s couch-slumped focus on the telly. And still, he was shocked when she’d said it was over. He was angry and poisonous. Bent over as if he’d been punched in the gut. As though it was the first he’d heard of it.
Of course, it was her fault. Couldn’t possibly be his. Funny, then, how she seemed younger without him. Happier.
‘We tried to have a bet at our house on whether you’d make the team,’ Sam said with a grin. ‘But nobody would take the negative.’
Jack smiled. Sam was trying to make him feel better. Again.
‘You need to shave down that stool leg, Sambo,’ he said, and it was probably the only advice he was able to give. ‘It’s too long, that’s why your stool is wobbly.’
Sam nodded and pulled the leg out of its cavity. He put it onto the woodwork table for sanding.
Jack nudged him. ‘How much do you like Moo?’ he asked.
Sam’s head was down so Jack couldn’t see his reaction.
‘Apparently she’s really into you.’
Jack could sense something now. When Sam lifted his head, Jack saw that he was biting his lower lip. But there was a smile there anyway. Sam was trying to kill it, but he couldn’t.
‘Serious?’ Sam asked.
‘Nah, just bullshitting,’ Jack stirred.
And Sam must’ve been practising because the corkie he delivered made Jack’s arm throb all through English and PD.
Jack was at his mum’s when the phone rang.
He was showered. Homeworked. On the TV some housemate cried and pleaded with Big Brother from the diary room. It was like watching a car crash – he couldn’t look away. Raw pain on national TV. She wanted out of the Big Brother house, and she wanted it from a giant chair dressed in shorty shorts. He could see how the fake breasts, impossibly round, hadn’t delivered the desired results. She kept touching them, as though they still might rescue her somehow. She wanted to be adored, to be worshipped for her looks. She reminded him of Tylah.
It made him shiver to think how different Jordan was, like he’d discovered another species.
‘Big Brother suggests you sleep on it.’ The disembodied voice bounced around the diary room. In her distress, she seemed to have forgotten she was on telly. Jack wanted to tell the voice to get stuffed.
Get out of there, he willed the girl, and suddenly it seemed all too true.
Sometimes you just have to get out.
The phone was on its third ring. Jack followed it down the hallway, past his mum’s bedroom. He could hear t
he shower going in her ensuite. The phone was never on its cradle. Never where it should be. Warm, warmer, hot, and there it was, under a pile of towels on the laundry bench.
‘Hi?’ he said, and the dryer provided background.
‘Jack? It’s Rob. Rob Teasdale.’
Jack was already nodding. It was Coach, and he didn’t need a surname.
‘Hang on a sec,’ he said, and he took the phone into his room. He needed to be sitting down.
‘Mate, you did it! You’re in the bloody state squad!’
Jack had never heard Coach swear before. Despite all the stress of all the games he’d coached. Coach was obviously pumped, but Jack couldn’t find any words.
‘He’s gonna sign you. And Bronco. Jack?’
Jack’s body was an electric current, full of the message. He felt charged. He punched the air.
It was a few seconds before Jack realised that Coach’s own son hadn’t made it. And yet here Coach was, congratulating Jack. ‘I want to have a barbie for you. To celebrate. Friday night, our place, OK? Bring some mates. Anyone you want. Jack, are you there?’
Jack took a deep breath, thinking about Coach. He was a guy who had supported, encouraged him. A guy who gave him extra time, on the court and off. To reward Coach’s efforts, Jack would leave his team. Getting signed was so good. So great. It felt like he was at the beginning of something amazing. And he felt like he was about to leave something amazing behind him.
‘Rob,’ he said, and he had to say it again and clear his throat because his voice was shot. He wished he was smarter, had something proper to say. ‘Rob … thanks … for everything.’
‘No worries, Jack. So proud of you, mate. You deserve it. It’s been a pleasure. Just you fly, Jack. Just you fly.’
Jack wished it was his own dad. Who spoke like that.
‘Dad’s working late,’ said Jordan. ‘Won’t be back until six, so we’ll probably eat around seven-thirty. He’s going to make a curry.’
Jack looked around the flat. It was just like his dad’s, and so unlike it. A fruit bowl on the kitchen table held a load of different types of fruit. Their fridge was stocked up with veggies and meat and drinks. Not beer.
Jordan looked at him looking. ‘He’s kind of getting into it,’ she said. ‘The shopping and cooking and stuff.’
Jordan had changed out of her school clothes. It was the first thing she did, before eating, even. Her singlet was black with silver writing. When she reached into the pantry there was a gap of skin between her top and her pants. It was only a packet of biscuits she brought down.
Jack grabbed a banana. He would be starving by 7.30. His body knew it wouldn’t be enough. His body seemed to decide so much.
He followed her up the hallway and into her room. She put her iPod into a docking station, pressed shuffle. Jack picked up a photo on her windowsill. It was of Jordan, obviously, standing between her parents.
‘Your mum looks like you. Or you look like your mum,’ he said, sitting on the bed to study it.
Jack saw her body stiffen a little, and then she was behind him, kneeling, looking over his shoulder.
‘How do you ever get used to it?’ she asked.
Jack lay back, resting his head in her lap. He thought about the fruit in the bowl, the promise of a curry. Jordan would be OK. Jack could see that she was healing. Her dad must have started healing, and hopefully her mum was, too.
And he was glad for her, even though he knew it could never be that way for him.
‘I guess,’ he began, and he wanted to get something right, he wanted to be able to tell her something, ‘I just try to make other parts of my life work.’
Jordan stroked his hair.
‘Like making the state squad. It’s so great, Jack.’
‘And like us,’ he said, without thinking about what he was saying first.
He lifted his head, pulled her down towards him. He kissed her and his hand splayed her back, found the gap between singlet and pants. Her skin. And she hadn’t said anything, but her body responded. Jordan’s body replied.
‘Dad’ll be home soon. Are you there, Jack?’ Jordan asked.
He reached up, ran his finger over her lips. The mouth that said so little.
‘Yes,’ he said. And it was a question he could answer. There was so much he didn’t know, but at least he knew this, and it felt like it was enough for now. ‘I’m here.’
There’s a buzz at school today. I sense it way before I know for sure. It’s like the world has shifted, and everyone is trying to figure out why. Something flies through the air while voices and flags are raised to ‘Advance Australia Fair’. An extra dose of patriotism.
It’s announced straight after the anthem, and the sport teacher is virtually hysterical. He practically yells it into the microphone as he points into the crowd. It’s Jack Delanty. Stepping up from perfection. He’s made the state basketball team, and everyone feels like it’s their very own achievement.
The younger basketball type kids move from their regular spots. They hang around him, back-slapping and high-fiving. Jack is nice about it. I can tell there are moments when he would like to escape, but he doesn’t. He will be a role model, and my own heart swells for him too, even though I know I’m being stupid. He doesn’t know I exist, and his success has nothing to do with me.
Nobody settles after that. The boring stuff gets said. The principal takes the mike and drones on, and a fly buzzes around my face, threatens to walk right into my eye. I close my eyes and another reel plays, a snippet of bedtime fantasy. I am morphed into someone Jack might notice. My legs are magically elongated, the purple patches of white skin and veins transformed into a deep, even tan. My mouth widens, and my hair, when I shake it out, is silk. And there he is, beckoning to me …
Assembly is over. I lift my backpack and wait until I can move without the crush of the crowd. Dylan steps backwards, onto my toes. He apologises, and I can see he is searching for my name in his mind. He doesn’t find it.
Groups are formed upon exit. Jordan is with Jack, and something has happened, because they have couple stamped all over their faces. They are handing out sheets of paper to a select few. Dylan, next to me, is selected. I see that he is holding an invitation. It has rows of basketballs and nets as its border.
I can just imagine Jack’s perfect home. The perfect home, the perfect venue for a party for the perfect boy.
I look down so as not to appear needy, to slide under the radar. Again.
I am interested as Jordan does a double take and walks back towards Meredith. They don’t know that I heard. That I heard them talking about her behind her back. But I was there. I heard it. Surely Meredith won’t forgive them. I predict that Meredith will shake her off.
It’s a surprise, then, that Meredith accepts the invitation. That she shoots an imaginary basketball, and shares a laugh with Jordan. But her laugh is less exaggerated than it normally is.
Maybe they have all apologised to Meredith? Maybe they have begged her to forgive them, and she has? Or maybe she is just hiding her anger?
See, that is the problem. I have only pieces of the jigsaw, not the whole puzzle. I need to be more vigilant.
I can’t see Lee, or Sam. But Cecilia is walking quickly, as though she wants to be alone. Cecilia is the one who fascinates me most. Sometimes I fancy that she is like the reverse of myself, like a me with the skin slit open. She doesn’t wait for the others. Her ballerina posture is graceful as always, but her frame seems to be changing from delicate to frail. It takes away from her grace, just a little.
I am starting to form a theory about Cecilia, but it’s early days. I need to investigate.
There are cracks in this luminous group. I can feel them. From the inside out. From the outside in.
cecilia
Cecilia folded the freshly laundered hand towel. Carefully, she placed it in the wicker basket, counting small, coloured soaps on top in a semi-circle. She stepped back. Changed her mind. She rearranged the soaps
in a circle.
She looked around her ensuite bathroom. The hand towel was light blue. It matched the two bath towels that hung on the rack, all with monogrammed ‘C’s. They only needed a little adjustment. They weren’t hanging in exactly the same way, but that could be fixed.
She had been good lately. In one way. Strong. Willpower had kicked in, and stayed for days. She had stuck to it. A proper diet. An apple and a long run in the rain. Three carrot sticks traded for an hour of dance training. And celery was great, because she could burn up its calories in the very act of eating it. Extreme fat loss, as confirmed by the online calorie counter. Cecilia was in credit.
She hadn’t done it, the other thing, since the night of the recital.
She walked out of the bathroom, through the walk-in robes and into her bedroom. It was frustrating to see the bumps in her doona cover, from where the sheet underneath was bunched up. Cecilia pulled the cover off entirely. She made hospital corners on the sheet, tucking them tightly under the mattress, and then re-spread the cover.
The digital clock on the chest of drawers told her the time. Cecilia stared at it. She felt that awful, messy feeling rise inside her. And it kept on coming, that feeling, no matter how many towels she folded. No matter how many times she straightened her bed. It was a feeling that couldn’t be fixed.
Cecilia wished she could stop the world turning on its giddy axis. She wished that she could push back time. Take it back to when everything seemed manageable.
So much had changed. So much kept changing. Boyfriends and periods and kissing and maybe more.
Just thinking about it gave her an involuntary shudder right down her back.
Jordan and Jack. Meredith and Sam. There was only Lee left, and that was only because Jack liked Jordan and not her.
Once upon a time, the girls had felt the same.
Cecilia didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want hands and mouths inside her. She’d had to pretend when Meredith accused her of liking Dylan. Everyone else felt that way about someone. Somehow, Cecilia had missed out on that want, that desire. She had to cover up her lack of it. She had to use all her resources to deflect and protect. It was a difficult combination, like the moonwalk she’d learned ages ago in dance class. Appear to be moving when you’re really standing still.
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