So, wrapped in the flimsy armour of my Mooks jacket and favourite jeans, I’m ready for what could be a death punch to the heart as Electra, halfway across the track, spots me.
So, I do what any third-rate movie star would do. I smile and wave.
And Electra smiles and waves back.
What a freakin’ relief!
We wander towards her coach’s house through side streets, our runners whispering.
‘You run so fast,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. In real life, I mean. On TV, yes. It’s like you belong somewhere else. Not here.’ I nearly add ‘and not with me’, but I hold back, thank God. ‘You’re fantastic. You and your running. Both. Together or separate, whatever. You know what I mean?’ There. That seemed pretty clear, I would think.
But there’s more.
‘You’re so – I don’t know.’ It really is difficult trying to explain someone to themselves from your point of view. ‘Beyond special. And it’s not just your running.’
‘Well.’ Electra looks at me. ‘Marc,’ she says, then looks away.
I know I’ve said too much. Or that it hasn’t made any sense, or wasn’t cool. Or it could’ve been said better with flowers or a card – but it’s true, and that’s got to count for something, although sometimes too much truth too early on can turn into a very bad thing.
Electra stops walking. ‘That was very nice, Marc.’ She brushes her hair back. ‘Too nice, I think. For me.’
I don’t think so! It’s the truth, and the one thing I don’t do is lie, because lying is such crap, unless you’re about to be tortured, then I say go for it. But other than that, or slight fibs, it’s crap.
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘Although I don’t know if I could get it quite in the same order.’
Electra moves closer, as if someone might overhear.
‘No one has ever said anything to me like that.’ She looks puzzled. And no wonder. ‘Apart from my mum, maybe. And now I don’t know what to do. Or do with you. Because I want to do something. Because you make me want to cry because running is beautiful. And I’m so glad you’re not a person who’d try to get in the way of it. Because I just couldn’t let that happen.’
Something like lightning flickers in her eyes, and although Electra doesn’t say ‘and let that be a warning’, I hear it loud and clear.
‘I’d never stop you running,’ I say. ‘That’s not what I’m about.’
‘I know that.’ She turns away, but when she turns back, trying to smile, I can still see that stormy, simmering, verging-on-angry look. ‘I’m really trying to prove something. No, achieve something. And I hope I can do it this way. You know, for my family. For other people. For myself.’
‘Well, you don’t have to prove anything to me,’ I say. ‘I already know everything that I need to know.’
Electra grabs my hand and squeezes it – hard, because she is strong. It must be all those weights.
‘Oh, Marc,’ she says, ‘You’re so nice. And you do understand, that this is more than just running around a track. That I’m really involved in it. Like, a lot.’
I do understand. I saw it tonight. She’s like a shooting star. On one level you know what you’re seeing. On another level, you’ll never know.
‘It’s more like flying than running,’ I say. ‘It’s one of the best, most perfect things I’ve ever seen.’
Electra moves in.
‘You do get it.’ She smiles. ‘Which is why, well, one reason why, I like you more than any other boy I’ve ever met.’
Then we are kissing, and I find myself in a place I’ve never been before, wondering if it’s possible to ever go back.
I lied about lying; I lied to AA when she was in hospital.
But I was being tortured at the time.
I still am.
And always will be.
24.
I can still see those little black freckles spread across her back like an untidy constellation in a pale gold sky.
Man, what is it with me, girls, and stars?
31
Trav and I are walking home after Thursday night footy training, my knees stiff with mud and dried blood. It hasn’t rained much, so when you hit the deck, you pay for it.
‘So did Mikey ever ring his family?’ Trav rips open a muesli bar with his teeth and spits the wrapper on the ground. ‘I mean, it is just a phone call.’
One big phone call, as I understand it.
‘He didn’t mention it. But he’s not the kind of guy who would.’
‘No,’ says Trav. ‘He’s not. But I mean, like for me, I’m not goin’ missing from anywhere, am I? Despite the old girl’s Mongolian cooking and that Dillon’s a bloody idiot. Where am I gunna duplicate the facilities? I’m not. But with Mikey, yep. Hard yards.’
‘Yeah, from what he said, it sounded pretty bad.’
I realise that I’m starving, and all I’ve got is an apple, which doesn’t count as food, as far as I’m concerned. ‘So what do Mongolians eat anyway?’
Trav shakes his head. He’s like a rhinoceros; dangerous when he’s not getting the type of food he likes.
‘I can’t figure it out. And Dot’s freaked. She doesn’t know whether to eat it or fight it.’
‘It’s not cow’s blood, is it?’ I ask. No, that’s a Masai warrior-thing. And they’re not Mongolian. Or not that I’m aware of.
‘Who knows.’ Trav gets out one of his phones. ‘Still, you wanna come over and risk it? Ring your mum.’ He gives me the phone. ‘And did I tell you there’s a new chick in the street? She’s blonde, but a bit goofy-looking with those Clarke Kent specs. Cute enough, though.’ Trav appears to be picturing her. ‘Even her mum’s pretty pumped. Although I doubt they’re real.’
‘Really?’ I hit my number, thinking that a new girl in your street is both good and bad, unless you have a very long street, like the Hume Highway – because if you get involved, and it ends, which it will, it’s embarrassing because you always see more of her after you’ve broken up than you did before. And her parents, which is even worse.
‘Her dog’s got a rubber chicken just like Dotty’s.’ Trav looks somewhat amazed. ‘What would be the odds against that?’
‘A million to one,’ I say. ‘Take it as a sign.’
‘I have.’ Trav winks at me. ‘And it’s got Hollywood written all over it.’
I head home straight after dinner at Trav’s, which was a Mongolian Lamb, or some type of Mongolian animal, because I’ve got five minutes of homework to be done for yesterday. We have to write a page on A Social Issue that Affects Young Australians Today.
Trav thought Ms Inglis said Infects Young Australians Today, even when I told him it was Affects Young Australians Today, and did his on the Needle Exchange Program because his mum could basically write it, as she works at a rehab centre two days a week. Me, I’ll do it on Missing People, although no one really does go missing around here.
Well, people do leave, but generally it’s just down the road to a new suburb with someone else’s old wife or husband, or their personal assistant. But around here, kids don’t go missing, unfortunately perhaps in Gretchen’s case, but I’m smart enough to know that people from other places do.
I think about Mikey, wondering if I should’ve rung his family, even anonymously, to tell them that he’s all right. But I didn’t, and it seems too late now. And when someone makes it clear that perhaps you should mind your own business, perhaps you should listen.
Still. One phone call. How hard can it be?
I do my Missing People page, managing to get ‘disappeared into thin air’ and ‘walking on thin ice’ and ‘out of a very sticky situation’ all in the first sentence. So good on me, I say, as this will impress Ms Inglis no end, or it won’t, depending on if she really does like clichés or not.
Anyway, after including the address, email address, website, fax number, freecall number, and the name of the Editor of The Big Issue, in case Ms Inglis wants to contact them, it’s taken me less than eleven minu
tes in total, including two TV ad breaks. And now, after attending to my raw knees and scraped elbows, I can kick back and think about Electra.
Her decision to leave Broome, I think, was pretty radical. How can you tell if where you’re going, and what you hope to find there, will be better than what you left behind? What happens if it all goes wrong? Can you go back? Will it be the same? Will you? Or is it that once you’ve moved, you’ve moved on forever?
I know that the choices people make hopefully lead to something better. But it’s also true that some things that you have no choice about can change your life.
Or end it.
When Amelia-Anne left, because she did leave, it was like I was alone in the biggest, emptiest house imaginable. And no matter where I looked, or how hard, or for how long, I knew I’d never see her ever again. I kept coming up against the same locked door in a line of locked doors that never ended. Yet at the same time I can picture her, hear her, and I wish like crazy I could simply make her reappear right out of thin air – but there are some things you just cannot do.
So, maybe I do know how Mikey’s family feels, even if I don’t know exactly how he feels. I also think I understand why Electra came over here to run. I guess it’s about trying to find your future. Or going to meet it. Or deciding to try and live your life in a way that you think might work out best, if you’re ever smart enough to work that one out.
32
Today was interesting because we found out that a lady teacher at another boys’ school got into trouble for having an affair with a Year Ten student. After lunch Ms Inglis gave a talk about the situation, how to deal with it, and what to do if it happens to us. And that the school counsellor’s door was always open, which it isn’t.
‘Are there any questions?’ Ms Inglis looks at us one by one. ‘Because matters like this are serious, and the staff must know about anything like this that is going on. Or has gone on.’
I like Ms Inglis. Even if her legs are a little bit short, she has this amazingly shiny straight black hair, and although she mostly wears cardigans, she wears them over tight tops, kind of like having a bet both ways. And she smells nice, which is rare around here.
I see Trav has his hand up, which is also rare.
‘Yes, Travis?’ Ms Inglis sits on the corner of her table. ‘I’m listening.’
‘What happens if it was mutually exclusive? Would the lady teacher still be in trouble?’
‘Mutually exclusive is a mathematical term, Travis,’ Ms Inglis says. ‘I think you mean, what happens if the relationship was mutual, that is, consensual. That the people involved were in agreement that the relationship was something they both wanted.’
‘Exactly,’ says Trav. ‘Still wrong? A little bit right? Or not right at all?’
Ms Inglis moves away from the table. She’s like a TV lawyer just itching to pound someone into the dirt with facts.
‘If the relationship is like the one we were discussing earlier, Travis, it is all wrong.’ Ms Inglis, whose name is Julia, which I think is nice, jabs the air. ‘It’s very, very, very serious, Travis.’
Now that we’re onto the very serious part of the discussion, I drift off, and start thinking about Electra. Or perhaps I’m still kind of thinking about what Ms Inglis said, because the idea of two people liking each other is an interesting concept.
I mean, why do we want to like other people? And why do we want other people to like us? I mean, what’s in it for everyone? Yes, it’s about happiness and sex, I get that; and how you’re both supposed to achieve more together than apart, but that all seems too simple to describe how I feel about Electra.
There’s something that exists between us that I’m going to call, well, love, because I don’t know what else it can be.
‘Anyway,’ Trav says quietly while Miss Inglis goes to open a window, ‘I’m on the lookout for that new girl in my street. That student-teacher thing has got to be way more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, embarrassing. Jesus. Imagine the parent-teacher interviews? The school social? Man, think about that.’
I am thinking about it, but I’m also thinking about Mikey, in a straight way, of course; thinking that I might’ve chanced upon an idea why he left home. He wasn’t running away. He wasn’t driven away, either. He doesn’t hate his family and they don’t hate him. It’s probably the opposite, if anything. Mikey’s just claiming his rights as a person; and that has as much to do with freedom, of all sorts, as anything else. No wonder he likes art, because I suppose that’s about freedom to do something your own way, as well.
‘Thank God it’s Friday,’ Trav says, stretching. ‘Any more of this shit and I’d go mental. I’m turning off. Goodbye.’
Good thinking.
Enough’s enough.
33
After our practice match on Saturday morning – which was a non-event, even if I did get twenty kicks because the other guys only had fourteen players – me and Trav take Dot and the footy to the park. Trav’s still talking about the six goals he booted, but I’m thinking about going to the movies tonight with Electra. We’re catching the tram, so there’s no need to get my parents involved, apart from some financial assistance.
‘So what movie are you gunna see?’ Trav asks. ‘Something with heaps of sex, I’d suggest.’ He picks up Dot’s rubber chicken and frisbees it past a lady who is power-walking. Dot rips after it, forcing the lady off in an unexpected direction like a derailed train.
I don’t answer, which doesn’t bother Trav as he’s holding the footy to his chest with one hand, and pointing with the other.
‘See? There. Across the oval. There’s that new chick. The blonde with that nutcase dog.’
I can see why Trav thinks this girl’s all right, as she is all right. She throws a ball with a kind of balanced, sexy, whipping action – although why Trav thinks her dog is a nutcase, I don’t know. It looks all right to me.
‘See?’ Trav nods. ‘She’s got those dumb specs but she’s okay, isn’t she? Let’s go over. Man, this is perfect.’ He spins the footy. ‘And you keep out of it. You’re already sorted.’
Well, I wouldn’t say I’m sorted; in my experience, relationships are never sorted, but I am sure not on the look-out for anyone to replace Electra.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘This’ll be interesting.’ I laugh at Trav, who scowls back. ‘Let’s go.’
So we head across the oval, me thinking about Electra, Trav bouncing the footy, and Dot carrying her rubber chicken as if it were a prize-winning hen. God, you have to love Saturdays.
The girl’s name is Hailey and Trav’s right, any idiot can see she’s cool-looking, even if she does wear those inner-city, rectangle-type secretary specs. In other words, I would fit her in my catalogue, if I had one.
‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Trav watches Dot daring the other dog, a big black labrador, to try and get her rubber chicken. ‘Dotty seems to like him. A bit.’
I wouldn’t go that far; Dot’s dog-swearing under her breath, showing off the tips of about thirty teeth.
‘Bono.’ Hailey puts a choker chain on Bono and drags him away from Dot. ‘Because he thinks he’s a star but he’s a boof-head. And he likes bones.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Trav, meaning he thinks it’s dumb. ‘But yeah, perhaps you’d better keep him away from Dot. I mean, she’s really friendly, she just doesn’t like other animals.’
‘Where’s her lead, Trav?’ I ask helpfully. ‘Where’s your poo-poo bag? Shouldn’t Dotty be muzzled, like it said on the council notice?’
Trav ignores this. ‘Anyway, Hailey,’ he says, ‘before I was rudely interrupted by Marc poo-poo Jarvis, chief poo-poo of the Poo-Poo Police. We’re just headin’ off to get a milkshake. So would you like to come? Since you’re new here and we’re the welcoming party.’
Hailey smiles, and brushes back some hair that’s come loose. She seems to get Trav; well, she’s not scared of him like most girls and plenty of guys are, especially Sudoku guys. But then most of them are s
cared of thunder.
‘I’d like to.’ She digs her heels in as her dog lunges in Dot’s direction, which isn’t a good idea. ‘But this dog’s a pain. Next time I will. That’d be good.’
‘Deal.’ Trav nods. ‘Anyway, nice to meet you. So what school do you go to?’
‘St Helen’s Girls’ Grammarrrrr!’ Hailey yells as Bono drags her a couple of metres. ‘Black stockings and blaaaack blazers.’
Trav nods. ‘Yep. We know ’em. Just around the corner.’
‘In fact,’ I call out, ‘the girl I’m going out with goes there. Her name’s Electra Tesselaar. She’s a runner. She’s from Broome. In Western Australia. I’ll tell her to keep an eye out for you. What year are you in?’
‘Ten!’ Hailey yells, as Bone-Head hauls her away. ‘Bye! See you soon!’
‘I told you that dog was mental,’ Trav says, as Dot decapitates her rubber chicken in front of three little kids, who start freaking out because they think it’s real. ‘Now, tool-boy, let’s go get a Coke. How much money’ve you got?’
Mr Geraghty, Electra’s coach, meets me at the front door, which gives me a fright as he is even madder-looking than Coach Tindale, who is only mad in a straight-forward, football-maniac kind of a way, whereas Mr Geraghty is mad in a stare-at-you-until-you-die kind of way. He has a silver crewcut, wears a bright blue tracksuit, and he’s old, which makes him even madder, as coaches only get crazier as the years go by, in my experience.
‘I’m Marc Jarvis,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He smiles a false-toothed smile that is like looking at welding, and puts out a hand that is like a steel claw. ‘I’m Coach Tom Geraghty. Come in, Marc, and meet Mrs Coach Tom Geraghty. Then you can fill out the travel plan book and I’ll try and find Electra for you.’
That shouldn’t be too hard, considering the house is the size of a matchbox.
So I follow Coach Tom Geraghty into a small lounge room where there are so many trophies, cups, medals, ribbons, sashes, and photographs of people running, jumping and throwing things, that it takes me a while before I see there’s a little old lady in a recliner chair watching boxing on television.
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