As soon as the three girls stepped outside everyone turned to look at them. Connie was suddenly acutely embarrassed. She felt ridiculously overdressed. They waved at Jordan and went to stand by the table next to the girls who all started commenting on her outfit. She tried to be graceful in accepting their compliments but she crossed her arms and wished she could disappear. Was Lenin staring at her tits? She crossed her arms even tighter. None of the other boys said anything to her. She stared back out to the lawn. She could make out the shape of two figures underneath the huge eucalypts at the bottom of the Athanasious’s garden. There was a bonfire flaring in an upturned metal drum and in the dance of a flame she saw that one of the figures was Richie.
She excused herself and walked past the boys congregated around the barbecue. She tried to be oblivious to their stares, but she felt like a fucking freak. She stepped off the patio and nearly tripped.
‘You okay?’
It was Ali. He was by the pool. He was wearing an oversized white Chicago Bulls basketball singlet and had his jeans rolled to the knees, his feet in the water. What an idiot, she thought, he’s going to freeze. He too was rolling a joint. His skin seemed to glisten, as if oiled. The muscles on his arms were prominent. He knew it, that was why the bastard was wearing the singlet, daring pneumonia just so he could look good.
‘I’m fine.’
He turned back to rolling the joint. ‘You’re more than fine.’
Costa and Blake, who were sitting either side of him, started to snigger. Had she been insulted?
‘Shut up, you idiots.’ The boys instantly stopped laughing. Without turning to her he held up the finished joint. ‘Want some?’
‘Maybe later.’
‘Suit yourself.’
She could feel them watching her as she walked carefully along the footpath to the end of the yard. Maybe they were laughing at her.
Was she going to feel like this all night?
‘You made an effort.’
Richie was sitting on an upturned milk crate. He still wore the same T-shirt from the afternoon.
‘So have you.’
He laughed. Nick Cercic was sitting on another crate. His hair was slicked back with gel and he was wearing the straightest of shirts, a Target special, and suit pants that were way too big for him. He reeked of aftershave. He had mumbled something to her when she approached, what she could only assume was a greeting, and then with an abrupt, jerky movement he stood up and offered her the crate to sit on. The three of them looked at it. Nick’s pants had left an impression on the accumulated dust. Nick mumbled something again and then grabbed his jumper from the ground and spread it over the crate.
Connie was touched. He was being chivalrous. She had come across the word in books but had never before had an occasion to use it. She sat down. ‘Thank you, Nick. That’s very chivalrous of you.’
Richie snorted. She poked her tongue out at him. The bonfire was warm. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders and clutched it in a bunch in her hands. She leaned over and grabbed a cigarette from the packet Richie had at his feet.
Nick, again abruptly, turned and walked off.
‘What’s up with him?’
Richie shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe he needs a piss.’
‘He’s a nice guy but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Connie tried to find the words. Her brain was starting to feel mushy; even sitting next to the bonfire she was suddenly cold again. She spread the shawl back over her shoulders. The drug was coming on. ‘I don’t know . . . he’s so nervous all the time. He makes me nervous.’
‘We’ve had magic mushrooms tonight. He’s a little out of it.’ Richie patted his pants pocket. ‘You want some?’
‘Nah, I’ve taken a pill.’
‘Any good?’
Her teeth were chattering now, her spine felt like it couldn’t support her frame and she felt a little queasy. She wished she wasn’t wearing the stupid dress so she could lie on the grass and watch the night sky. It would be so nice to lie down. Everything would look so pretty, the flickering of the flames, the stars through the canopy of eucalyptus. She tried to answer Rich but found that all she could do was laugh. Which made him laugh. Which made her laugh even harder.
‘It’s good,’ she finally managed to wheeze. And it was, it was very good. She was not feeling sick anymore. She felt really really really good.
‘Same.’
That started them laughing again. Richie was the first to stop. He looked serious.
‘What is it?’
‘Con, you’re my best friend.’
‘And you’re mine.’
‘You’re tripping.’
‘So are you.’
And they started laughing again.
Nick Cercic returned and sat cross-legged on the grass. Connie and Richie slowly exhausted their laughter. Again, Connie wished she could lie down. She envied Nick his cheap pants. He looked a complete dag but he was comfortable.
‘I wish I’d worn my bloody jeans. I feel like a freakazoid.’
Nick was scratching at the earth with a twig. ‘Everyone is talking about how great you look. Everyone.’ He hadn’t mumbled. He hadn’t looked up from his scratching but he hadn’t mumbled. He was such a gentle boy, there wasn’t anything arrogant or macho or mean about him. Which was why all the other boys teased him and why all the girls laughed about it. None of it was meant to be cruel but probably most of it seemed cruel. Without thinking she touched the tips of his ginger hair. He flinched.
‘Sorry.’ It was like an electric shock.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I love red hair.’ Did she? She loved his red hair.
‘Well they don’t come more ginge than Nick.’
Nick looked up, his face glowering. ‘You shut up,’ he snarled at Richie. ‘You’re a ginge as well.’
‘Bullshit, mate. I’m what’s called a strawberry blonde.’
They fell into silence. Connie wondered whether she should speak but she didn’t really care to. She was enjoying looking at the party. Jordan must have changed the iPod to shuffle because straight after the Kaiser Chiefs and Kraftwerk, the party was suddenly rocked by the thundering drums and guitar of the White Stripes’ ‘Seven Nation Army’. Beside her Nick and Richie started to argue about which was a better album, Elephant or De Stijl. Hector liked the White Stripes. Creep. He was too old to like the White Stripes. She noticed that Ali was lighting another joint by the pool. She stood up.
‘I’m going inside.’ She smiled down at Nick. ‘Thank you for the seat. I think you’re a gentleman.’ That sounded so fancy. It must be the dress.
As she passed by the pool, she took the joint from Ali’s hand. He too smelt of aftershave but the odour was discreet, smoky, a little like what she imagined a pipe to smell like. She had two quick puffs and handed the joint back. Their fingers touched. His chest underneath the singlet was smooth and muscled, like his arms. She wondered if he shaved. Weren’t Lebos meant to be hairy?
‘Thanks.’
He said something soft in Arabic.
‘What does that mean?’
He didn’t answer. She shrugged and walked up to Jenna and Tina. They were sitting around the table listening to an argument about politics between Lenin and Tara. Connie sat on Jenna’s lap. Lenin was outraged that Tara was intending to give her virgin vote to the Liberals. He was shaking his head and calling her a moral idiot. She was yelling back at him, Give me a fucking alternative, give me a fucking real alternative. The girls began yelling at both of them to shut up. Costa and Blake had started up a chant: Boring, Boring, Boring! Connie whispered in her friend’s ear: Let’s go. The girls nodded at Tina and the three of them left the table.
They slid the kitchen door shut behind them. Jenna took each of them by the hand and marched them through the house. They walked through the master bedroom, through a walk-in wardrobe and into an ensuite bathroom. Connie stared around her at the white tiles, the old-fashio
ned Aegean-blue enamelled bath sitting on cast-iron feet in the middle of the room, the floor-to-ceiling mirror that covered one wall.
Jenna shut the door behind them and then let out a piercing squeal. ‘Oh my God, how good is this E.’
Tina sat on the edge of the bath and nodded her head vigorously. ‘This is amazing,’ she agreed. ‘I wish we had more.’
‘Bad luck, girlfriend, you had your chance.’
Jenna grabbed Connie from behind and the two girls stared at each other in the mirror. Jenna nuzzled her face in Connie’s hair. She kissed her friend’s shoulder. ‘You look like a movie star.’
Tina stood up and put her arms around the two girls. ‘You’re my best friends.’
Connie kissed Tina on her cheek.
‘You’re my best friends, forever.’
Jenna kissed Connie’s naked shoulder again. ‘And you’re mine.’
Jenna suddenly squeezed her friend’s left breast.
‘And oh my God, how good are your tits?’
Connie shivered. The squeeze had felt good. Jenna’s fingers were still applying light pressure on her nipple. Connie stared at her friends and at herself in the mirror. Their faces were so close. Were they going to kiss? Jenna pulled away. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jeans and lit one.
‘That was close to a lesbo moment, wasn’t it? Mum would have wanted a photo. I think I could do anything on this E.’
‘Can we smoke in here?’ Tina was looking nervously around the bathroom.
Jenna pulled out two more cigarettes and handed them to her friends. ‘Mr Athanasiou smokes in here. In the bath. Jordan told me.’ Jenna switched on the fan. ‘It’ll be alright.’ She made a face. ‘They’re bohemian.’
Connie lit her cigarette and stared at the bath. ‘I wish I could take a bath in this. It’s huge.’
‘Why don’t we?’
Connie stared at Jenna. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Why not?’
Connie shook her head. ‘No way.’ She stared down at her frock. ‘I’d have to get back into this. It would take ages.’
Jenna nodded her head slowly. ‘You look fucking amazing but you look so uncomfortable.’ She opened the door. ‘Come on, let’s go back. Let’s hope that Lenin and Tara have stopped fighting.’ Jenna switched off the light.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Tina, as they walked out into the bedroom. ‘Or that he’s punched out that silly bitch.’
By ten-thirty everyone was drunk or stoned. Or both. Jordan had brought out his decks and Ali and he were taking turns DJ-ing. Connie, who would usually have drunk bourbon, drank vodka with lime instead. She looked terrific, she looked just like Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation, and she had her aunt to thank for that. She nibbled at some food, but had no appetite. She was also scared of spilling something on the dress. All she really wanted to do was dance. Jordan called on Costa and Lenin to shove all the lounge-room furniture against one wall. He had set Christmas lights up in the room and placed an enormous Chinese lantern over the globe that dropped from the middle of the high ceiling. The lantern was so overwhelming that Lenin, by far the tallest person at the party, had to avoid dancing underneath it or his head would knock it. When he occasionally did, the lantern would swing, sending a shaft of light zigzagging across the bodies of the dancing adolescents. Jordan played old seventies metal and hip-hop and jagged punky rock and Ali played rap and urban, electro and top forty. And Connie danced. She danced to Justin and Christina, to Eminem and 50 Cent, she threw off her shoes and jumped around the floor to the Arctic Monkeys and to Wolfmother. She was dancing to an old-school Usher, ‘You Make Me Wanna’, when Ali came up to her. She had her eyes closed and could sense him dancing next to her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He was dancing around her, slowly, confidently. He knew how to swing his body, how to move his feet and arms. He was a great dancer. She moved in closer to him. He was mouthing the words of the song; a line of sweat, a teardrop, was running down his chest. She wondered what it would taste like. The song was fading to an end and Ali rushed to the decks. She closed her eyes and kept dancing. She would not think of him, she would not think about Hector. The syncopated rhythms of Destiny’s Child flooded from the speakers. Connie opened her eyes to find Ali, behind the turntables, smiling shyly across at her. She lifted her arms and let out a whoop of delight. Then he was beside her, and they were dancing again.
By midnight Jenna was in tears on the front verandah. The city lights glittered below them as she sobbed in Connie’s arms. Tina was sitting beside them, stroking Jenna’s hair. Lenin was perched against the verandah wall, a mop and bucket beside him. The light from the moon and from the city behind him cast a faint tangerine aura around the mad frizz of his jet-black hair. He looked angelic, thought Connie. It was Lenin who’d mopped up Jenna’s vomit. Jenna was distraught because Jordan had gone off to his bedroom with Veronica Fink. Everyone knew they were fucking.
Jenna lifted her head. ‘Why?’ she wailed.
She had been wailing the same word for the last ten minutes.
Lenin shrugged. ‘Jenna, mate. I’ve said it to you. They’re just fuck buddies, it’s not like between you and him, it’s not a relationship.’
Jenna raised herself, struggling to keep a balance. She savagely brushed saliva away from her lips and chin. ‘What the fuck is there between him and me? What do you mean? He’s fucking Veronica bloody Fink. He’s not fucking me. I think that means he’s in a relationship with Veronica. He’s not in a relationship with me, I’m the fuck buddy.’ The final sentence wasn’t clear as Jenna once again began to wail. Connie hugged her tighter. Her dress was getting stained. It didn’t matter. Her best friend was upset. Everyone was pissed, out of it, no one would notice. She looked up at Lenin. He looked embarrassed, caught out, as he stared at the front entrance. She turned to look.
Jordan was standing in the doorway. He mouthed something to Lenin.
‘Come on.’ Lenin gestured silently to Connie and to Tina. The girls rose.
Jenna, confused, looked around her. When she saw Jordan she crossed her arms. ‘You can fuck off.’
The boy walked past Connie and Tina and held out his hand to the crying girl. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
‘I said, fuck off.’
Jordan still had his hand outstretched. Connie stood still in the doorway, looking back, not sure if she shouldn’t stay and look after her friend. Lenin gave her a gentle push and they moved down the hall.
‘Let them sort it out,’ he whispered to her.
They went back into the party.
Connie didn’t feel like dancing now and walked straight through the house and into the yard. Nick and Richie were still sitting on the crates by the bonfire. She sat on Richie’s knees and nuzzled her face in his hair.
He stroked her shoulders. ‘You right, Con?’
‘Mmm.’ She lifted her head. ‘Jenna and Jordan are having a fight.’ She smiled at Nick. ‘How are you travelling?’
The boy nodded his head vigorously, his face beaming. She laughed.
‘You’ve had more, haven’t you?’
Richie nodded.
‘You want some?’
She thought about it. She was still warm and secure in the euphoria of the drug but the heightening of the senses had worn off. She was beginning to feel drunk. Reluctantly, she shook her head. ‘Nah. I’ll be completely hammered.’
‘That’s the best way to be.’ Both she and Richie were surprised by Nick’s vehemence. ‘I want to be like this for the rest of my life,’ he continued. ‘I don’t ever want to be normal again.’
‘Mate, you are not normal.’
Nick glared at Richie. ‘What do you mean?’
Connie intervened. ‘What’s so great about being normal? It’s better to be different, not like everybody else. Who wants to be normal in John Howard’s Australia?’
Richie made a rude farting noise. ‘All the dicks at this party. I’m glad you’re not normal, Nicky my boy.’
‘Thanks very much.’
She slid her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘I don’t want you to be normal. I don’t ever want you to be normal.’
Nick stood up. Without saying a word he walked away from them, weaving his way precariously up the path.
‘Another loo break?’
Richie nodded, and laughed.
‘He’s been going all night. I told him to just piss in the garden. No one cares.’ He pointed past the eucalypts to a row of bushes and fading jasmine plants along the back fence. ‘That’s where I’ve been going.’
Connie looked up to the sky. Clouds obscured the stars and the moon. ‘I wish I could piss standing up.’
‘Maybe you can.’
‘Not in this dress. I’d embarrass myself.’
Richie pushed her off him.
‘Am I too heavy?’
‘Yeah, you’re a lard-arse.’ He reached inside his pocket and pulled out what looked like a wad of torn paper. He held it out to her.
‘What’s that?’
‘The photograph of Hector.’
She was silent. She wanted to say, forget everything I said this afternoon. She wanted to apologise. She wanted him to apologise. She knew he wouldn’t and she knew she couldn’t. Richie stood up and sprinkled the scraps of torn photo over the fire. They caught flame, danced above the heat for a moment, then curled into black cinder. There was a bitter, chemical smell. She tried to remember what Hector looked like in the photograph. Young, like her, like Richie, like Nick, like Jenna, like Ali. Young like her. Except he wasn’t. She looked at the curling scraps of the photograph. She wished she could burn him away from her, make him disappear. He doesn’t want me. It still hurt, like a burn, a scald right to the centre of her being. She remembered the relief in his face when he told her it was over. A gorilla, that’s what she had called him. What a stupid, childish thing to say. She was glad that the flames danced before her, that they camouflaged the mortification she was experiencing.
The Slap Page 21