‘Now, Al …’
‘Bugs.’
Mrs Lee smiles at me. ‘Still going by the nickname? I thought you’d have grown out of that by now.’
‘I’m used to it.’
‘That’s just a habit. You can change those, you know.’
‘I like Bugs. It’s me.’
‘Is it? Very well, Bugs.’ She opens the file in her hand and takes out a sheet of paper. ‘These are the choices you’ve made for next year?’
I take the paper and nod.
‘Calculus? I hear you’re struggling a bit with mathematics this year.’
‘I want to take chem; I need maths for chem, right?’
‘Yes.’ She arches her eyebrow. ‘But not necessarily calculus …’
‘But I want to take calculus.’ Did I just say that?
‘That’s fine; you just need to study hard. You’re friendly with Charmaine Fox, aren’t you? She’s planning on taking calculus too. You could study together. Maybe she could help you.’
Doubt it. ‘Maybe.’
‘The rest of your choices are fine; you’ve met the prerequisites.’ She puts the paper back in the file and puts the file on her desk. ‘I’m happy to sign them off for you.’ Mrs Lee swivels back around and leans towards me. ‘If you’re happy with your choices.’
‘I’m happy.’
‘Are you sure? It will be a heavy workload.’
‘It’s OK. It’ll be good training for uni.’
‘Yes. University. Of course, and you’ll be studying …?’
‘Law? Maybe English too.’
‘Law is very competitive.’ She holds her hands about twenty centimetres apart. ‘First year they let many people in, then second year –’ she drops the tips of her fingers towards each other like a loose triangle – ‘and third year –’ her fingers are closer together still. ‘Do you see that small gap, Bugs? That’s what you’ll have to get through.’
I feel smaller and smaller in my chair.
‘But you’ll be OK.’ She pats my foot. The matey-matey teacher thing doesn’t suit her. ‘Be like an eel.’
Slimy and gross?
Mrs Lee wiggles her arm like an eel. ‘Strong, upstream.’ I want to laugh because it’s gotten all ‘Confucius say’ in here all of a sudden. And I wish I was stupid enough not to care about how offensive that is, not to even know it’s wrong to think it. Because then I could just laugh and laugh with the other rednecks. But then if I was that stupid I wouldn’t get the joke anyway, so I guess I just can’t win. ‘You’ll be fine, Bugs,’ she says as she swivels away again. ‘You’re a very clever girl.’
But that’s my problem, isn’t it?
8
At my age the world can be split in two – those with cars and those without. And borrowing your olds’ car doesn’t count; it has to be your car. Those with cars park them in the student car park at school, where everyone can see them from the common room. They zoom off at lunchtime, picking up their mates at the bottom of the hill so Mrs Lee won’t snap them. Or, if all their mates have cars too, they park side by side on the lakefront, windows wound down so they can talk to one another. It doesn’t matter what piece of shit they drive; the withs look down on the withouts because they have cars upon thars.
So does it surprise you that Stone Cold should pull up to my place in a boxy, red, shitty car? It was bound to happen – a
natural progression from that annoying chin tilt of hers, because why waste your energy when you can use a tonne of metal to do it for you?
Stone Cold gets out of the car and leans against it. It’s five in the evening and daylight is beginning to fade, but she’s wearing sunglasses like she’s cruising down Hollywood Boulevard. She’s wearing sunglasses to protect her from the bright California sun and the pop of paparazzi camera flashes.
She lowers her sunnies and raises her eyebrows at me. ‘I got a car.’
‘Your car is old enough to drink. Or to vote – like two elections ago.’
Stone Cold spreads her arms around her door and the roof and kisses the car. ‘Don’t listen to her, baby. You don’t look a day over –’ Stone Cold crosses her fingers – ‘twenty.’
Sometimes that girl cracks me up, even though she’s a Hollywood and a dick. ‘You got a car.’
‘I got a car!’ Stone Cold opens the door so I can look in. ‘Check it out. It’s so old it only has a tape deck. Who still has tapes?’
‘Mum has one.’
Stone Cold looks at me like I’ve just told her we have an alien tied up in a closet. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, she made it with her mates at high school.’
‘Was she a musician?’
‘No, it’s a mixtape, dick.’
‘Go get it then. I want to try this thing out.’
Mum’s room is bigger than mine. Her big window faces the street, so she has these really thick curtains that block out the street lights or, if she’s been working the night shift, the daylight. Everything is neat, neat. I guess if you’ve spent as many years as Mum has cleaning hotel rooms then something rubs off. Not that she actually cleans the rooms herself any more, but she still checks them. I’d hate to be one of her cleaners, man, because she is fussy. She has a go at me because my bed is messy. Like I need hospital corners on my own bed. It’s not like I’m paying two hundred bucks a night. On her bed, the sheets are pulled taut each morning, the top folded down neatly over the old quilt that Nan made her. At the foot her white duvet is folded over, to be pulled up at night when it’s cold. She has a queen-sized bed with two pairs of pillows, even though she’s never shared it with anyone.
Her wardrobe runs the width of her room. I slide the door open and stand on tiptoes to look at the shelf above the rail of clothes organised in groups of black, white, black. Apparently whoever ‘designed’ Mum’s uniform thinks that penguins are professional and hot. She keeps a box of stuff up here – a box of memories, I guess you’d call it.
When I was little, Mum used to go through the box with me and show me her treasures – photos of her friends, letters and postcards from their overseas travel. Somewhere along the way I crept in – a pair of my booties, a lock of hair. A couple of years ago, I pulled it down to have a look while Mum was at work and I found my old teeth. It was a shock – not because I still believed in the tooth fairy or anything, but that she kept them. It’s creepy, like a serial killer with trophies.
I sit on Mum’s bed and open the box. The tape has For Nikki written on it in pink ink, with heart-shaped dots above the ‘i’ in both places. So it’s safe to say that it wasn’t from a guy. I’ve looked through this box a million times and I’ve never found something from a guy; I’ve never found a clue. The only things that come close are photos of Uncle and his mates, and that doesn’t count. I shuffle the lid back on and put the box back, placing it carefully so Mum won’t know that it has been disturbed. I don’t know why, but I don’t think she’s looked at it in ages. It just feels weird today, like I’m invading her space, her memories, her life.
Stone Cold is sitting in the car, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, with the driver door open.
‘Finally. It’s freezing.’ She beckons me with her hand. ‘Come in so I can put the heater on.’
I get in on the passenger side, and the door closes with a satisfying clunk. I want to tell her that someone designed it to make that sound, but I don’t think she’s interested in how her car works; just that it does. She turns on the ignition and the car coughs and purrs. We’re blasted by the smell of dust and petrol as the heater warms up.
‘Did you get it?’ I hold the tape up and she looks at it like it’s some sort of relic. ‘Took you long enough.’
‘I had to pick my way through layers of history.’ I put the tape into the slot and just let it sit there. ‘Ready?’
She nods, and I poke the tape in. It clunks and whirrs and we’re blasted with music, because whoever owned this car last was deaf or something. I turn it down. It’s some sad old song
about a kid who spoke in class, like that’s some sort of big deal. The singer sounds like he’s on nitrous or someone has slowed down his voice. I wonder if Jez would like it. It’s not really his thing, but you gotta like a song that’s named after you, don’t you?
‘God, that’s awful.’ Stone Cold pretty much yells at me. ‘Skip the track.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Well, take it out then.’
I push the eject button, which distorts the singer’s voice even more, but the tape doesn’t pop out.
‘I think it’s stuck.’
‘Maybe it just takes a while?’
‘Nah, Nan and Pop have got a tape deck on the farm. They just pop out, like toast.’ I push the tape back into place and the music starts up again.
‘So I’m stuck listening to this?’
‘Only until you get a new stereo.’ So probably only for a couple of weeks. ‘Maybe Jez could fix it.’
‘Do you think?’
I shrug. I don’t know if he can, but I kind of just want him here. Stone Cold is hyper at the best of times, but when she’s panicking, she’s a nightmare. I kind of just need Jez to say Chill, it’ll be sweet, because from him it sounds like a good idea and not an order.
‘Let’s go then.’
‘I can’t just go, I’ve got to lock the house.’
I can’t see because of the sunglasses, but I just know she’s rolled her eyes at me. ‘Go lock the house then.’
I get out and go inside. I lock the ranch slider and look at the car and Stone Cold hunched inside – it’s like the whole thing is shaking with anger at me. A big, red, angry pimple waiting to burst. It cracks me up, and it’s hard to bend down to put the broomstick in the ranch slider channel while I’m laughing. I close the net curtain, so Stone Cold doesn’t see my face. Sarge grr-ruffs at me from the backyard. ‘I’m just going for a drive, Sarge.’ But drives for dogs mean only two things – a walk or the vet – and I don’t have a leash.
Or do I? Stone Cold seems to have a choker on me, the way I’m jumping at her every command.
‘God, why does everything take so long with you?’ And she’s backing out before I’ve even buckled up.
‘Should we take a cruise down Horomatangi?’
‘Don’t be stupid; I’ve only got my restricted. You’re not supposed to be in the car.’ She drives down Spa Road; drives like it’s totally natural. ‘Dad’ll take it away if we get pulled over by the cops.’
We zoom over the bridge and up the hill to Jez’s place.
‘Is he even home?’
‘I don’t know.’ I grab my phone. ‘I’ll text him.’
By the time we’re at his house, Jez is waiting on the footpath for us. Stone Cold winds down her window and he leans in.
‘You got a car.’
‘Yes, I got a car. I got a car just this afternoon and now Bugs has fucked it.’
Jez is smiling as he looks at me. ‘What did you do, B?’
‘I just –’ I point at the tape deck. ‘I just lent her a tape.’
‘Yeah, and now we’re stuck listening to this.’ Stone Cold grabs his hand. ‘This is how road rage begins, I swear. Can you fix it?’
I’m surprised Stone Cold hasn’t taken his hand and pressed it to her bosom, fluttered her eyelids and fanned herself like a Southern belle. Any opportunity to be a drama queen, she takes it.
‘Let me have a look.’ Jez walks around to the passenger side, and I scramble between the front seats and land on the back as he opens the door and slides inside. Jez just sits there for a moment like he’s trying just to sense what’s wrong – That would be Mr Bombastic, Jez – then he leans forward and looks closely at all the buttons and goes Hmm hmm, like a doctor would.
‘Can you fix it?’ Jez holds up his forefinger at Stone Cold, like he’s shushing her. She shuts up and he arcs his finger down to the tape deck and pushes eject, and the tape squeals and the music stretches but it is still stuck.
Jez laughs. ‘Nah, can’t fix it, eh?’ And he pushes the tape back in and starts to robot to the song.
‘This jam is cool anyway …’ He’s going hard out, and I join him and the car joins in too – bouncing up and down like someone is actually having a good time in here. It’s a crack–up, but Stone Cold lives up to her name. She’s just staring straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel.
‘It’s not funny.’
Jez turns up the sounds. ‘Have you heard it?’
Stone Cold turns it down. ‘It’s not funny, OK?’ She sounds like she’s gonna bawl. ‘I’ve only had it a day and it’s already wrecked.’
‘It’s not wrecked …’ Stone Cold’s glare is reflected at me through the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s not wrecked.’
‘Nah.’ Jez pats her hand, and she loosens her grip on the wheel. ‘We can sort it, eh?’ Jez turns in his seat and looks at me. ‘How about Uncle?’
‘What about Uncle?’
‘He could fix this, sweet as.’
Stone Cold’s eyebrows lift as her eyes widen with hope. ‘Do you think he could, Bugs?’
‘I dunno. Uncle is kind of … well, he’s not that on to it.’
‘Yeah he is.’ Jez thinks Uncle can do no wrong. It’s easy to look like a prince when all you have to compete with are cocks. ‘He can fix it.’
‘You reckon?’
‘At least he was alive when people still used these, eh? I reckon he can sort it.’
‘OK.’ Stone Cold is nodding. ‘Let’s go.’
‘He’s on the farm; that’s ages away. We’re supposed to be at my place studying, remember? My mum will be home at nine.’
‘Nikki’s cool,’ says Stone Cold.
‘No, she’s not.’ I lean through the gap in the front seats and turn up the sounds again. ‘We’re listening to proof of that right now.’
Jez and Stone Cold crack up, and I’m now the killjoy sitting in the backseat with my arms folded.
‘If we go now, B, we’ll be there and back way before your mum gets home.’
I don’t even look at him. I just keep my arms folded and look out the window.
‘Bugs.’ My name is a sigh deep from her chest. ‘Please.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Let her be a sook,’ Jez says to Stone Cold but not really to Stone Cold. ‘I know the way. Left down here …’
‘And then straight on till morning?’
‘Eh?’
Stone Cold rolls her eyes. ‘Peter Pan?’
Jez laughs and points the way with his other hand on his hip like he’s in a school pantomime.
Douche. If you’re not being haunted by the persistent
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of a nine o’clock crocodile, I guess you can be a douche.
My phone rings and ‘Mum’ flashes up on screen. I ignore it – she probably wants to remind me that she’ll be home at nine and there’s plenty of food in the fridge, no need for takeaway, blah blah blah. She must have hit redial as soon as she got voicemail, though, because my phone is chirping away again.
‘God, who’s calling you?’ Stone Cold says. ‘We’re your only friends.’
Bitch. ‘It’s nothing. Phone company trying to offer me a data plan or something.’
‘Why would they call? They should just text or email or something. Like people want to actually speak to someone. It’s annoying.’
I just nod and hope that she’ll take her own advice and just shut the hell up for a bit. But I don’t find out because Jez goes, ‘I love this song,’ and turns the sounds up.
Jez sings OK; better than most. But today he’s showing off a bit, making out like he’s a cheesy pop star or whatever, which would be OK but I like this song too and I just want to listen to it. I close my eyes to block out everything else.
I like how the song starts – just a guitar and her voice; it’s like she’s pulling you into her, pulling you close so she can share a secret: This song is for you. This song is for her. This song is for Nikki.
S
hards of memory are scattered around my mind and I’m scared to fit them together in case I cut my fingers, and even if I did it wouldn’t be perfect – the scars of the break would show and pieces would still be missing. In my memory it is day; the curtains are closed but the light presses in on us, squeezing under and through the curtains, making the room look soft-focus and warm.
An old flat: Mum at the table, the stereo on in the lounge. It is warm, hot; Mum is in shorts and a singlet – her work polo shirt stripped off and on the floor. Her long hair has been scraped into a high ponytail but it is still long, long, almost down her back. The shorter hair around her neck has matted with sweat. She is young, but tired. Probably just got home from cleaning the hotel; the crazy sprint in summer to turn around a room between check-out and check-in.
She doesn’t have a car, so she walks from town down the waterfront to work and then back again in the heat of the day. I don’t know who looks after me, but I know I’m happy when she picks me up and walks with me back to the flat, hand in hand or me riding on her hip if I’m tired and fussy. And I am.
She pulls the curtains to listen to her music. Sometimes she just likes to dance, hard out, and on those days we swirl around the room together; let the beat move our limbs, swivel our hips. But not today. Today she puts me down on the floor in a playpen and I just cry. And she stands there and looks at me like she’s heard it all before. Then she turns and goes to the kitchen. And really, from where I am I can’t see what she does in there, but now in my head I see her walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. Stands there and lets the cool air prick her skin, leans in to get something cold to drink.
I want to give her a beer; she looks like she needs it. But Nikki wouldn’t have had any in her fridge, not with me around. Probably nothing for her at all. So she would have closed the fridge, and run the cold tap, watching the water whoosh out as I went ergh ergh ergh in the lounge, winding up for the big performance when she walked back in the room.
Bugs Page 10