by Melissa Keil
She slips a leather-bound notepad and a pair of cat-eye glasses out of her bag. She settles the glasses onto her face.
She pushes herself back from her desk and crosses her legs, balancing her notepad on her knee. Behind her, two girls discreetly do the same.
Victor Cho chokes on his own saliva and wakes up with a snort.
Beside me, Allison grimaces.
Mike removes the pencils from under his lip. He catches my eye. I know what he’s thinking. At least Justin and the Vessels should be preoccupied for the foreseeable future.
I roll my eyes. He crosses his. I try not to laugh.
I return to my Fortress of Solitude.
Samuel Kinnison and the Extremely Gay Weekend
Mike told us he was gay a year ago, on the weekend my parents were away for a silent meditation retreat. Two days of sitting in a field and refusing to speak. Apart from the field, I couldn’t really see how it varied from any other weekend in our house.
It was Friday night, and Mike, Adrian and I were in my lounge room rifling through my DVD collection. I was trying to convince them to commit to a Friday the 13th marathon, rather than watching Tron for the eighteenth time, when Mike took a giant swig of his Coke and said:
‘I think I might be gay.’
I looked at Mike. Adrian looked at Mike. Adrian looked at me. Mike looked at his Coke. I finally managed to say something semi-useful, which I think was:
‘Are you sure?’
Mike shrugged. ‘Probably.’
Adrian’s experience with sex extends as far as the various female-oids that plaster his bedroom walls. Since the likelihood was slim that either Princess Leia or a Number Six Cylon from Battlestar Galactica would be appearing in my vicinity, I was exploring the option of clinical asexuality.
So we did the only thing we could think of. We googled stuff.
After stumbling on some guy’s Olivia Newton-John fan page, we downloaded Xanadu, possibly the worst cinematic abomination that my eyes have ever been subjected to. At Adrian’s insistence we rented Lesbian Vampire Killers, which, quite frankly, was just confusing all round.
We watched Dirty Dancing. Mike fell asleep, but I had to admit I kind of liked it, which made me question my own sexuality, raising a whole heap of other questions I chose not to examine.
Adrian offered to take a bullet and kiss Mike. Mike suspected that Adrian hadn’t brushed his teeth since grade four. We checked out a bunch of scared-straight websites, but, according to Mike, nothing on any of them could rival the horror he felt at the thought of kissing Adrian.
Eventually I raided Dad’s vintage porn stash, and after poring over pages of girls with giant breasts bending over farm equipment, Mike sat back in Dad’s La-Z-Boy and said: ‘Pretty sure I’m gay.’
And that was that. We haven’t really discussed it since.
Not that it’s weird or anything. Mike is just Mike. Mike has been Mike ever since we met in that Building Self-Esteem through Drama workshop both our mums signed us up for when we were eight.
I don’t care that Mike is gay. I figure that since there’s little chance of either of us ever touching anyone else’s parts, our relative sexualities are somewhat pointless topics of conversation.
•
The Extremely Gay Weekend is on my mind today for several reasons. Partly because I’m concerned about Mike. But mostly because of Dirty Dancing.
The chain of events that led to these thoughts is as follows:
3.20 p.m. The final bell rings, and I head towards the IT office to meet the others. Apart from the morning’s arse-planting, I’ve coasted through this day under the radar. This is because the only thing on anyone’s radar today is Camilla Carter. When I catch occasional glimpses of her, she’s wallpapered by an adhesive layer of groupies.
There’s been much googling of her dad in between classes. Adrian is even inspired to look him up on his iPhone, and Adrian is rarely inspired to use his iPhone for anything other than Angry Birds.
The net is full of Henry Carter’s stuff: articles and reviews and photos of a dark-haired guy who looks way too young to be anyone’s dad. There’s one story about him and Camilla’s mum – some English model who was almost big in the 90s, who was married to her dad for, like, five minutes. Two photos of Camilla are also making the rounds; in one, she is leaning over her dad at the launch of the new Wombats album. In the other she’s hanging out with some of the cast of Harry Potter.
By this point I lose interest. I assume the vague proximity to celebrity will keep the Vessels occupied for at least a month. A potentially incident-free month, the likes of which have not been seen since we had that substitute teacher in year ten who looked like the channel-seven weather girl. I can’t guarantee that the reprieve will be anything other than passing. But I can guarantee a few things. There will be angst. There will be gossip. And unless new girl turns out to be a cyborg, she will be of no relevance to me.
What is relevant to me is the fact that Mike has dropped out of karate school.
Mike has been obsessed with karate since year seven, when he discovered that kicking people in the face was a legitimate sport. He trains almost religiously, and is actually fairly brilliant at it. He is definitely one of the best black-belts at his school.
Today he has wandered into the IT office, dropped six cans of Coke onto Alessandro’s pile of cables, and said in his monotone voice:
‘I’ve decided to stop training. I’m hanging up my shin pads.’
Even Alessandro, who only knows Mike from a distance, pauses.
Midway through last year, I was employed by the school as Alessandro’s assistant. Our IT coordinator does not really need an assistant. He needs a shower, and possibly a dentist. Alessandro decided to finagle my services after stumbling on a lunchtime incident between me and Justin Zigoni. The incident involved a cricket stump, a length of skipping rope, and a geyser-like blood nose that would have made even the most hardcore horror writers proud.
Alessandro looks like what I imagine Adrian might look like in ten years’ time, except Alessandro is six-foot-four and knows the passwords to everyone’s email account.
No-one messes with Alessandro. He’s happy for us to hang out in his office whenever we like. When we are here we are, basically, free.
We are listening to Foals in the background, because we always listen to Foals in the background. There is order to Monday afternoons, and in a world of stupidity and looming hostility I have come to depend on it:
On a normal Monday, Mike and Allison will show up at three-thirty with Coke and Mars bars from the shop across the road. Allison will perch on top of the filing cabinet with whichever Akira novel is on rotation that day. Adrian will engage Alessandro in approximately twelve minutes of argument about Call of Duty. I will have one computer playing Battlestar Galactica, which we don’t really need to watch with the volume up since we pretty much know it all by heart. Adrian and Alessandro will conclude their argument with some variation of the phrase, Why don’t you stick to Space Invaders/Checkers/Pong. And then Alessandro will storm out and not return until it’s time for us to leave.
Today, Mike is spinning slowly in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling.
Allison has stopped tapping her Volleys against the filing cabinet. She is chewing on her hair again.
Adrian is eating his second Mars bar because I am glaring at him so he doesn’t say something stupid, and the only thing that ever stops Adrian from saying stupid things is having his mouth full.
Mike stops spinning. He looks sideways at me.
‘Any reason why you’re quitting?’ I say eventually.
Mike shrugs.
‘Is it because of a guy?’ Adrian says, spitting a shower of chocolate over Mike’s arm.
I up my glare from stun to kill.
Mike sighs. ‘No. It’s not.’
I feel like I should add something more. Something insightful. Something quote-worthy.
But then comes the segue to Dirty Dancing.
My top five all-time greatest movie lines is a constantly evolving list. The ratio of Star Wars to horror-movie quotes varies depending on my mood – but there’s one line I can’t seem to shake from the list:
‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner.’
I agonised over its inclusion. For a start, it’s a girl movie. And it’s a dance movie. And it’s forever associated with the Extremely Gay Weekend, which, as mentioned, we do not discuss. If I’m narrowing it down to five lines only, a Dirty Dancing quote should not even make the top-hundred long-list. But, for pure cheese and applicability to multiple situations, I cannot not include this line.
I have very little hope that my own life will ever produce anything close to a single, great line. I’m desperately running through my mental movie-quote list as I try to think of something passably encouraging to say to Mike.
Except Mike is looking over my shoulder. His eyes widen. Adrian stops chewing on his Mars bar. Allison stops chewing on her hair.
And then I hear a voice behind me. The voice says:
‘Dude. Nice laptop wallpaper. Six in the slinky red dress? Did the blonde on a corvette have the night off?’
It may not be Dirty Dancing-worthy. But it turns my head anyway.
Camilla Carter is standing in my doorway.
‘I’m looking for Sam,’ she says.
The few times I’ve spotted her during the day, the only thing I noticed – apart from being surrounded by suck – is that she keeps changing her hair. Sometimes it’s up. Sometimes it’s down. At the moment it is twisted into some sort of bun-thing on the top of her head. I’m not sure I understand the schizophrenic hair-thing – I thought girls spent hours getting their hair right before they ventured into the world.
Adrian points at me. Mike points at me. Allison points at me. I realise – after staring at Six in the slinky red dress on my Battlestar Galactica laptop wallpaper for eight seconds – that I am, in fact, Sam.
‘I’m Sam,’ I mumble.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Camilla.’
I do not detect any exclamation marks in her voice. I detest people who talk with exclamation marks. Plus one.
She raises an eyebrow at my computer. ‘You do know she’s an evil bitch, though, right? Despite the spectacular boobs.’
No-one moves.
‘Sooo … the office sent me down here. I can’t get on the network. They told me you were the person to speak to?’
She is holding a MacBook Air in her hands. She sounds like Kate Beckinsale in Underworld.
‘If it’s a bad time I can come back later. Only I have some sort of welcome pack in my inbox, apparently. You know, map to the toilets and secret S&M dungeons and everything …’
No-one moves for another six and a half seconds.
Adrian stands. ‘Mars bar?’ He holds one out.
Camilla steps into the room and takes it.
The sequence of actions has the same effect as Neo finally figuring out how to control the Matrix. The room bursts into a flurry of misdirected activity.
Allison leaps down from her cabinet and Mike jumps out of his chair, and together they shove past Adrian and push a stool towards Camilla. She sits. She unwraps the Mars bar and takes a bite. She holds her MacBook out to me.
The only thoughts I am capable of thinking are that the sanctity of my safe house has been compromised, and the order of my Monday has been disturbed. I take the laptop from her without a word.
‘Thanks,’ she says with a mouth full of chocolate. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I’ve met you guys yet. It’s been a blurry day.’
Adrian sticks out his hand. ‘Adrian, Mike, Sam, Allison,’ he says quickly. ‘But you’ve already met Sam. I’m Adrian. Adrian.’
Camilla shakes his hand. She smiles at Allison. ‘Guess that makes you not Mike?’
Allison grimaces. ‘No. I’m Allison. Uh … nice to meet you?’
‘Likewise,’ Camilla says brightly.
I open up her laptop. Her wallpaper is a picture from a black-and-white movie that I think is called Manhattan.
I do not know what this means. But I figure the faster I work, the faster I can return the four of us to our status quo. I also know that no good can come from having someone like her in a confined space with Adrian.
I balance her laptop on my knees and start typing as quickly as I can. It is not quick enough.
Adrian pokes at her tattoo. He actually jabs his stupid fat index finger into her arm. I don’t need to look at Mike to know that he is holding his breath.
I know basically nothing about girls. But I’m fairly certain they don’t like it when you poke at them like they’re a half-ripe avocado.
‘Is that real?’ Adrian asks.
Camilla looks down at her arm. ‘Yup.’
Adrian frowns. ‘How did you get it?’
She shrugs. ‘We’ve travelled a lot. There are plenty of places that don’t ask for ID. And Dad’s big on self-expression.’ She f licks her fingers over the ink like she’s brushing off some imaginary dirt. I notice a row of tiny music notes twisted in between the blue flowers.
‘Did it hurt?’ Allison whispers. Several strands of hair are still caught in her mouth.
Camilla grins. ‘Like a bastard.’
No-one seems to know how to respond to that.
I click the Firefox icon on her MacBook and the school homepage pops up. I feel that I may be a few moments away from starting to sweat profusely.
‘Done,’ I mumble. I hand the laptop back. She takes it, and she smiles at me. I notice that Alessandro has tacked a new Barbarella poster to his pin board. I notice that Adrian has a dribble of caramel stuck to his chin fuzz. I notice that her eyes are hazel.
‘So what’s your realm?’ she says.
‘Pardon?’ I croak.
She points at my laptop, which has kicked over to my screensaver. It’s an image of a night elf from World of Warcraft.
I can feel the eyes of my friends burning into my head. ‘Oh, ah … Alliance … Frostmourne.’
‘Hey, cool. I’m trying to level-up a dwarf on Frostmourne.’ Camilla grabs a Post-it. She scribbles something and then hands the Post-it to me.
The Post-it says ‘AltheaZorg’.
‘I’m usually on around nine. It’s more fun when you’re not surrounded by bots.’ She slips her MacBook into her satchel. ‘Thanks, Sam. And thanks for the Mars bar, Adrian. Nice meeting you all. See ya.’ She waves, and smiles, and disappears from the office.
I stare at the Post-it.
Did she just ask me to play Warcraft? Is she a noob that I’m going to have to walk through a simple quest? Or have Justin and the Vessels of Wank put her up to something? Will there be a cast of the school’s biggest arsehats hanging out over a computer this evening plotting some brainless, but no doubt still humiliating, practical joke?
I have no idea. But there is only one solution.
I am never playing Warcraft again.
How I never played Warcraft again, and other useless resolutions
Monday’s routine has effectively been ruined, so I’m feeling less than cheerful as Mike and I walk home. Not even the combination of Battlestar and Foals could drown out the droneage that resulted from new girl’s visit. A school full of morons is supposed to be fawning over her; my friends are supposed to have more sense.
Besides, Alessandro’s office is my Neutral Zone, one of the few places I can be free of the many nemeses put on this earth solely to cause me pain.
I’m explaining all of this to Mike as we walk, but I’m not sure Mike is listening.
Mike is busy threading the cord on his jumper from left to right. He tugs the brown rope until it almost disappears inside his hood, and then he pulls it slowly the other way. He has been doing this for three blocks now.
I am an idiot. How did I not notice this sooner?
Mike Adams does not say much. His face is capable of displaying maybe three distinct expressions. But right now he might as well be holding a megaphone
and yelling, ‘I. Am. Having. A. Problem.’
I forget about Camilla Carter. ‘So … karate?’
Mike squints at the road. ‘Yeah. Think I’ve had enough.’
We walk another block in silence. Unless he’s been replaced by a pod person, Mike would not just quit karate. His bedroom smells of Deep Heat and runners. Every available surface is covered with trophies. And last year he skipped the Star Wars six-film marathon at the Astor – one of the most important events on our calendar – because his dojo had a training weekend.
I clear my throat. ‘Just had enough?’
He shrugs. ‘Yup. Just had enough.’
I know he’s lying. I don’t know why. So we don’t talk about it.
We do stand on the street corner near the park for fourteen minutes, discussing Mr Norrell’s history assignment, the latest episode of The Walking Dead, and whether Adrian is going to make it through the month without someone punching him in the face. We conclude: pointless, awesome, and probably not. And then Mike waves, and I wave, and we go our own ways.
I add the karate situation to my list of problems.
I walk the four blocks from the park to my house, past the topiary and people with prams that seem to be multiplying daily, Night of the Living Dead zombie-style. I sometimes wonder what would happen if zombie hordes did invade. I doubt anyone would actually notice.
I know I should be able to find a story in anything. Good screenwriters can pull interesting films out of the asinine and mundane. But everything I’ve read about writing always begins with ‘write what you know’. What I know is: quiet streets, topiary, moronic high school arsehats, and homework. Has anyone ever made a film about homework? Probably. I bet it was French.
I step between the fake Grecian columns and open my front door. Mum is hunched over the piano in the lounge room with one of her students hunched next to her, a skinny kid named Kendra or Kendal or something. Kendra/Kendal is butchering Rachmaninoff, one finger at a time. She slips on the notes and turns. Mum swings around as well.
‘Hey, Sam! How was your day!’
How was your day! Not even an attempt at being anything other than vanilla. And yes, my mother is an exclamation-talker.