‘Oh, hi,’ I say, speaking loudly because the volume’s like on three thousand. ‘I’m Marc Jarvis. I’m a friend of Electra’s.’
‘Yes, we know, Marc.’ She pats a fat round green and red cushion thing on the floor. ‘Come and sit on the pouffe and tell me all about yourself. Are you an athlete? I doubt it. You look a bit skinny. Then you can fill in the book and be on your way.’
At that moment Electra walks in. She’s wearing jeans, pointy shoes, a white shirt, a black coat, and with her hair held back and her face made-up, I nearly faint, because she is so stunning my first thought is that she cannot be going out with me – my second thought is that my first thought was right.
‘Yes, Marc,’ says Mrs Coach Tom Geraghty, looking at Electra with such pride it’s as if she cooked her up in the kitchen. ‘She’s a gorgeous girl that you must take very good care of because she’s as fast as lightning.’
I nod, realising I must still be stunned, because if I wasn’t I wouldn’t still be sitting on something called a pouffe.
‘Otherwise,’ says Coach Tom Geraghty, wagging a finger that looks like an old piece of bamboo, ‘you will be in very big trouble.’
Despite what I wrote in Coach Tom Geraghty’s Book of Travel Plans, and signed as a true statement, Electra and I don’t go to the movies. This was a decision we both made, so it’s not lying, not in my book, anyway. Instead we catch the tram to Camberwell, walk past the Rivoli Cinema, and sit in the quietest coffee shop we can find.
Unfortunately, the table rocks, which seems to put everything a little out of balance. And even worse, there’s a mirror behind Electra that every so often I see myself in, side-on, looking like a barracouta – or something with a sharp nose and beady eyes, anyway, which is not doing my confidence any good because Electra seems to shine from all angles.
‘When do you play footy next?’ she asks, as we eat these idiotic little things called Portuguese Tarts. ‘If it’s on a Saturday morning, I could come and watch, as I usually run early then do weights in the afternoon.’
I’ve never had a girl come to watch me play. I mean, there are girls who come to watch us, but that’s a whole different kettle of fish – as I’m sure Ms Inglis would appreciate me saying.
‘Next Saturday. It’s a real game. We’re at home, too. You know, just up the road. That’d be good. Look for number 24. That’s me, by the way. Hopefully I’ll get a kick.’
Electra smiles, our fingers encountering each other amongst the sugar, salt, pepper, and table number.
‘That’s not really the point,’ she says. ‘Is it?’
It kind of is, football-wise, but I don’t get into that as I am looking into her eyes, feeling a force like gravity; both of us knowing that we like each other, and that if we move carefully enough, there’s nothing to stop us moving even closer.
Well, of course, I could be wrong, because I can’t imagine me having the same effect on her as she’s having on me, as she’s amazing and I’m not. Then I sense in the silence and non-space between us that she’s a girl as much as she’s a star, and that she can see me pretty much for what I am, which is a non-liar to girls, if nothing else.
‘Let’s go.’ Electra puts my hand down. ‘We can walk back. It’ll be nice in the dark.’
‘Okay,’ I say, taking out money – my dad hit me with a twenty, so good on him, I say, because mostly he gives me what I need if do my homework, and cut the hell out of our door neighbour’s overhanging trees when they’re away. ‘We could walk to Broome, if you like. I’m up for it.’
‘I’m not sure that going back home would get me anywhere.’ Electra smiles, not quite managing to control that flaring killer instinct that always shows first in her eyes. ‘I mean, you know, Marc, I’m over here for a reason.’ Suddenly she takes hold of my wrist. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded a bit shitty, didn’t it? Anyway, hey, I’ve never run away from you, have I?’ She grins, and now has hold of my hand.
‘Well, you have,’ I say. ‘Twice if I remember correctly.’
Electra lifts my hand.
‘Oh yeah. But I stopped, didn’t I? And I’ve never done that for anyone else who’s not under the age of ten.’
Outside, the starry blackness is held up out of reach by streetlights, buildings, and overhead wires. The shops are shut, the street is quiet and echoey, and every so often a tram goes rumbling by, all lit up, heading into the city.
‘I think,’ Electra says, as we wander along holding hands, ‘that it’s quite hard to be a Melbourne girl. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be lost.’ Our shoulders gently bump. ‘You’re helping me as much as anyone at school, and Coach Tom and Mrs Geraghty. Maybe even more. This is a big, big, place.’
It’s unusual that anyone would think that I am a positive influence; maybe Trav’s mum does, because sometimes I’ll go and get Dot’s bowl out of the pool if Trav won’t, but that’s about it.
‘I really want you to stay here, Electra.’ I feel like I’ve just jumped off a bridge, as there is no going back after saying something like that. ‘But I’d never ask you to. I mean, I’m not that stupid. I think I have an idea how these things work.’
We walk.
‘No, you’re not stupid, Marc. You’re exactly what I hoped my boyfriend would be like. You’re smart, and you think about what you say, and what you do. And I know you help me a lot more than I could ever help you.’
I succeed in stopping myself from saying, really?
No, I don’t.
‘Really?’
Electra laughs. ‘You’re so dumb. You’re the best. I’m glad you’re on my side.’
So am I.
Before I head for home, I tell Electra about Hailey, and to look out for her at school.
‘She’s a cool girl,’ I say, the two of us standing out of reach of the twenty sensor lights that Coach Tom Geraghty has installed. ‘I think Trav likes her. So maybe you could drag her along to the footy next Saturday. Anyway, I’ll call you.’ Then we kiss, say goodbye, and I head out into the dark, thinking that I sure have covered some territory tonight, in more ways than one.
34
Coach Tindale starts me on the bench on Saturday, which I doubt would impress anyone who’s come to watch me play. Not that it seems to matter too much to Electra and Hailey, who, as far as I can tell, are looking at Hailey’s shoes. Trav, meanwhile, has started a pretend push-and-shove with an opposition player we know from state school whose name is Bernard Barnard, weirdly enough.
Obviously this push-and-shove thing is a set-up to impress the girls, as even with their mouthguards in, I can see Trav and Bernard are laughing their heads off. So I cross my arms, tap the toes of my boots, and wait for my big chance to get out there and do my thing.
‘Get up and jog, Marc,’ Coach Tindale says. ‘You’re on in three.’
I grab a footy, get up, and start jogging it down towards Electra and Hailey.
‘Other way, Jarvis.’ Coach Tindale points. ‘Run with the other guys. They’re on your team. Remember?’
I turn, give the girls a little wave, and head around the boundary line and back again, until Coach Tindale decides it’s time to release Marc E. Jarvis, white-booted (found at last!) weapon.
‘And don’t just kick it to Bradbury!’
I pretend not to have heard and run beautifully to my wing, to see that the ball is coming my way, on the bounce, bright red, and brand new.
Freakin’ bargain!
I snap it up, hit the gas, run around some idiot, ignore two guys on the lead, and kick it, somewhat backwards, to set it up for Travis.
This works, Trav launching himself upwards like some enormous but weightless space monkey, arms out, hands splayed, to take the mark, knocking over about fifteen people in the process. Quickly he moves back, as if he can kick a goal from sixty out – which he obviously can’t. So I sprint past for the handball, which he doesn’t give.
‘Go!’ he hisses. ‘Into the dead pocket!’
I lead deep into the pocket that Coac
h Tindale has absolutely forbidden any of us to go near, as there’s no way anyone could kick a goal into the wind from there – so consequently I’m totally on my own, and easily mark Trav’s kick.
‘Play on, Jarvis!’ I hear Coach Tindale screaming. ‘Get outta there!’
I don’t. I stop. And because it’s impossible to kick a goal from here, I just hang around looking uncertain, waiting for Trav to get into the goal square. Then I boot the ball in high, and stand back to watch the carnage.
Trav makes a huge leap, flying over the pack to prove what I think might be a pretty standard rule of the aerospace industry: that one rocket can’t fire twice – or not in the same quarter of football. Up Trav goes and down he comes, every point of his big bony body making hard contact with heads and faces, players going down everywhere, Trav hitting the deck without the footy, which hasn’t been touched.
Me? I just watch it land, bounce back at right angles over the head of an extremely surprised father in a white coat, to go through for a miracle goal. And the crowd goes wild, even some dude watching from the footpath.
‘Great kick, Marc! Good on you, mate! You’re a genius!’
It’s Mikey, with a take-away coffee, grinning and waving. I point, yelling at him to go through the gates fifty metres down the road, and come on in. But he shakes his head.
‘Can’t do, brother. Gotta keep moving.’ He hoists his coffee as if proposing a toast. ‘Great goal! You’re a legend! Catch you later.’ Then he gives a thumbs-up and heads off, before I have time to fully think out why he didn’t come in to watch.
‘You are one freak tool, Jarvis,’ Trav says, whacking me on the back as we jog back to the centre. ‘That was wild. Tindale will’ve hated it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re dragged.’
I wouldn’t, either. Not that I care too much; I care more that Mikey thinks that he couldn’t, shouldn’t, or wouldn’t come in to watch us play. Still, I might be wrong about that, and it was a miracle goal, so I angle off happily to my wing, and hit the next centre clearance like a Zulu warrior on the rampage.
Luckily I do get the ball, take a bounce, ignore Trav this time, and spear a forty metre pass in onto Carlo’s chest, who’s come flying out of the forward pocket on a screaming, bullet-like lead. And that, even if I do say so myself, was another great kick.
‘Now yer usin’ your brain, Marc!’ Coach Tindale yells. ‘For a change!’
After the game, me, Trav and Hailey walk Electra to the tram stop. She’s off to do a weights session at school, but is meeting us later. None of us care that we lost the footy – well, Trav and I did at the time, but we don’t now because his folks have gone away for the weekend, and we’re going to hang at his house this afternoon. Thankfully, Dillon is staying at his mate’s hobby farm, probably in a barn, so the coast is clear, and the choice of multiple large-screen plasmas is all ours.
‘So when are you running next?’ Hailey asks Electra as we sit, keeping Electra company until her tram comes. ‘I mean, in a race. We could come and watch. We could say we knew you before you were famous.’
I like Hailey; she comes from Sydney, she’s pretty laidback, and she likes footy. Plus, her dad’s still up there for work – which pleases Trav, as it doubles the opportunities for him to see her without parental supervision. There’s certainly no Book of Travel Plans involved at that house.
‘In a couple of weeks there’s a meet at Olympic Park.’ Electra talks quietly, as if she doesn’t particularly want to tell us this. ‘Under lights. You know, at night. You could come to that, if you really wanted. It’s not that serious or anything. Just a chance for a good hit-out. But there’ll be some good people running.’
‘Yeah,’ says Trav matter-of-factly. ‘You. Marc says you go like an F-18.’
I didn’t, but that’s okay; Trav’s on his best behaviour. Electra smiles as if she’s walked into a surprise party. Then she looks embarrassed.
‘Oh, well, thanks, Travis.’ She’s still smiling. ‘But there’ll be other girls there who can whack me. Really.’
This I doubt. Not if she turns on that killer instinct, furious eyes-thing. No one would risk it.
‘Bullshit,’ says Trav. ‘We know you’re a freak. Otherwise you’d still be back in Broome trying not to get eaten by crocodiles.’
Electra has moved into the corner of the tram stop. At this point she doesn’t look happy or sad; she looks kind of wishful.
‘Please, guys.’ She holds up a hand. ‘No pressure. You know, sometimes I just don’t run fast, and the other girls do. I can’t always win. Even if I want to.’
It must be weird to have a talent that everyone else has an interest in, or an opinion of, and although no one has any great expectations of me, apart from hoping I won’t do crack or get run over, I understand what Electra is saying.
‘I don’t care if you come last,’ I say. ‘Except that you won’t. We only want you to win for you, not us. Although we’ll be rapt, of course, when you do. If you do, I mean. And if you don’t win, well, you know. Whatever.’ Phew. Tiring.
‘She’ll be kicked out of school,’ Trav says, and laughs. ‘And sent back home. That’s what that whatever’ll be.’
‘And this is what that whatever’ll be as well.’ Hailey gives Trav a punch. ‘Leave her alone, you big yak.’ She turns to Electra. ‘We know you can’t always win, Electra. But we’d like you to, as Marc said. I mean, look at me.’ She frames her face with her hands. ‘I can’t run without my glasses fogging up. I don’t need athletic friends. Shit, I just need friends.’
Trav looks at her as if she’s some weird specimen from the science room. I’m still laughing about the big yak thing.
‘Please don’t be such a loser, Hailey,’ Trav says. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Marc.’ He punches my arm, fist like a bullbar. Then he turns to Electra. ‘But anyway, Electra, Marc’s told me about how hard you train, so you’ll go well. And when you’ve done your weights session, call him on his phone, and he’ll meet you at the tram stop near my house.’
It’s good to see Trav acting like a human, for once, because sometimes he doesn’t seem to care about anyone too much. Then I punch him back, which proves I’m not as bad at maths as everyone seems to think.
35
I don’t think Electra’s been in a house that has as many rooms, or televisions, as Trav’s has; it’s got the feel of an expensive furniture showroom, and no matter how far you walk there’s always another display, another bathroom, or more stairs leading off to somewhere else. It’s kind of overwhelming. But at the same time it makes you feel, well, special to be in it.
‘Travis, this is such a beautiful house.’ Electra looks out at the pool and garden, and the three-metre high brick fence that surrounds the whole block. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She’s holding her bag as if she’s a guest about to check into a hotel.
‘Ah, yeah, thanks.’ Trav shrugs. ‘Come in here, anyway.’ He leads the way into the kitchen, which opens out into a huge room that has a table and chairs and, further in, couches, and a fireplace that never goes as no one can be bothered bringing in the wood. ‘So who wants a drink? It’s all here.’
I look at Electra.
‘Do you have Coke or something like that?’ Electra sits on a couch as if she doesn’t trust that it won’t disappear. ‘You know, if I drink, like really drink, I’ll get shot. I just can’t.’
‘No problem.’ Trav has both fridge doors wide open. ‘So, yes, I’ve got Coke or some lemon mineral water-type of shit. And a beer for me and tool-boy. And Hailey? How ’bout you? Name it. And don’t say Sustagen.’
‘Urm … ’ Hailey pulls a face. ‘Would it be okay if I had, say, a vodka, or something. I don’t like beer.’
Trav takes out various drinks and puts them on the enormous central kitchen bench.
‘I’ll go and get some.’ Trav flips the tops off our beers and finds a glass for Electra. ‘D’you want plain, lemon, or passionfruit, Hailey? There’re bottles of it in the other roo
m.’
Hailey snuggles back into the corner of the couch. ‘Passionfruit’d be good.’ She’s taken her shoes off and has on stripy black and white socks like something out of The Cat in the Hat. She seems pretty relaxed in Trav’s house, so I’m guessing hers is almost as big, but without the automatic gates and six-car garage. ‘Can you mix it with lemonade?’
Trav hands Electra and me our drinks. ‘I can mix it with anything.’ He puts his own beer down on a coffee table that has butterflies sandwiched in the glass. ‘So. Lemonade. No worries. Unless Dill gave it to the friggin’ dog.’
Speaking of Dot, she’s in one of her baskets, looking at the girls, a new rubber chicken between her paws, slowly wagging her tail as if she’s not sure if she’s happy or not. But I am. I’m really happy; because Trav’s getting the DVD going, rain’s splattering on the big wide windows, I’m on the same couch as Electra, my white Asics boot has come home, and I have the whole of the rest of the day ahead of me.
And it’s only Saturday.
After the DVD’s finished, which featured Tom Cruise as a hit-man travelling around by taxi, Trav tells me to take Electra on a guided tour of the house.
‘That’s only if you like.’ Trav is wearing footy socks, which he does even to school, which amazes me as it’s not as if he wouldn’t have a million others. I mean, even Dot has quite a wide selection of clothes. ‘Then I’ll start the next DVD. This one’s got the Cruiser travelling by ferry, so it’ll be a little slower.’
I take Electra on a tour of the house, and if it’s Trav’s idea that we stop somewhere, and do something, it won’t happen – as Electra’s not used to sitting on the Bradbury’s couch, let alone zooming in and out of some spare bedroom with Marc E. Jarvis, even if I did kick a miracle goal, and am supposedly goodlooking, which is yet to be confirmed by a second opinion.
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