Tim Te Maro and the Subterranean Heartsick Blues

by H. S. Valley

  I shift my weight, but the discomfort stays. ‘That’s fair enough.’

  ‘How very gracious of you,’ he says, and gives the wok another hard flick.

  ‘I’m sorry people were mean,’ I say, and it sounds so weird I almost wonder if he’s using his Minder powers to make me feel sorry for him. I have the presence of mind not to mention it, though; there’s no harm in making peace with him, even if I’m being manipulated into it. ‘I concede you had valid reasons for being a dickhead.’

  He sighs. ‘I’ll have you know, I wasn’t a dick to everyone.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, trying to think of a way to lighten the mood. ‘Apparently that’s all you were to Blake.’

  Elliott smirks at my innuendo – against his will, if the twisted resolution to his expression is anything to go by.

  ‘So kind of you to draw attention to my failed relationship, Te Maro, when I’ve so generously refrained from mentioning your own. Why did Lizzie decide to dump you, do you know?’

  Because I couldn’t keep her happy? Because I’m undergoing some sort of uncontrollable fascination with dick? Because I’m bored of girls in general? Because there’s this whole other part of me I know about but haven’t had a chance to explore? Yeah, nah. That can stay a secret.

  ‘Well, Blake’s better-looking than me,’ I say. ‘Probably smarter, richer and, if your whining and constant bitterness about losing him is anything to go by, he’s obviously good at other things as well.’ Other things that I’m definitely not thinking about.

  ‘You’re right,’ Elliott says. ‘He is better-looking than you, and he has money, but he is definitely not smarter. And I dare say I would have to do more research before confirming whether he was better than you at other things.’ He raises an eyebrow at me and his gaze skitters down my front as he looks away again.

  ‘What?’ I ask, feeling like I’ve lost control of the conversation. He tosses a handful of cashews into the wok like he didn’t just blatantly check me out.

  ‘I might know Blake,’ he says, ‘but I don’t know you. Assumption of your skill level would be pointless. And if I’m honest, probably not very flattering.’

  ‘You probably assume I’m crap at stuff all the time. Have you ever been right?’

  ‘Touché,’ he says, and lowers his eyes to the flame, adjusting it slightly. ‘From now on I will assume you to be utterly marvellous in bed and thereabouts, so long as you have your two best friends to explain what goes where. Apparently you had some trouble with that. And apparently they don’t.’

  One: I’m going to kill Lizzie for whatever she’s been saying. Two: ‘I’ll be honest, neither of them have been nearly as helpful as Silvia’s brother. He really knew where to put it.’

  Elliott drops the spatula. I keep my eyes on Meggan, the peak of her dome shining among the folds of woollen blanket. We’re near enough that I feel him turn away to pick the spatula up off the floor and throw it in the sink. Then he’s close in my periphery, breath on my neck. I can’t look at him.

  Why on Earth did I bring up Mareko now? Is it so important that I defend my honour, that I tell Elliott that yes, I might have let this one girl down, but maybe it was because she was a girl at a time when I wanted a boy, and not because I’m useless to everyone? There’s no need for him to know that we share certain … interests. Telling him seems a bit blunt, suggestive. And I’m not suggesting anything. Just because we shared a bed for the last couple of nights, and he just looked at me like that.

  Unless … What if he’s annoyed that I didn’t tell him and still let him share my bed? Is that not cool? Does he feel violated? He was straight up about his own feelings towards guys, and probably assumed I was only into girls and was, therefore, safe. But now what? Is he going to think I lured him there, lied to him, took advantage of him while he slept?

  But all he says is, ‘Do you mean the former head boy? The one who got Dux Litterarum and Dux Artium in the same year?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I keep my eyes on Meggan.

  ‘Well. You don’t do things by halves, do you, Te Maro?’

  Elliott sounds almost awed and it comes as such a surprise that I make the mistake of turning my head, and we’re suddenly only a hand’s-breadth apart and my eyes are already devouring him, ready as they were to decode his expression so I could make sense of his words. His grey eyes look almost blue in this light and I can feel him – heat and breath and the soft prickle of his magic touching me. He’s … not unattractive.

  The rest of the lesson is slightly awkward, heavy, and we forget all about provoking Graham in an effort to get our meal plated, photographed, eaten and evaluated. It obviously still weirds her out, though, that Elliott and I have partnered up for the egg-baby assignment, and swapped partners to work together in her class as well. She used to be really nice to me, but she’s been shooting us odd looks all lesson. Maybe she’s a massive homophobe. Maybe we have an even better reason to mess with her than just her disapproval of the assignment. I make a mental note to mention it to Elliott later, and do my share of the cleaning up while Meggan’s other fake dad bounces her ’til she giggles.

  He doesn’t look at me again.

  CHAPTER 7

  MISTY FREQUENCIES

  That night, over dinner, Silvia asks me if ‘the whole family’ is going to be in my room again, presumably meaning Elliott, Meggan and I. She sounds wistful, and Sam, on her other side, stops moving to listen, gravy jug poised over his potatoes. He’s almost a foot taller than her, so his curious expression is in full view.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe not, if she’s happy with just one of us. Why?’

  ‘I was just thinking it’s kinda nice, you three being together as a unit,’ Silvia says. ‘You know. Practising. For, like, life. Sharing the work equally, letting Meggan know she has two parents who are there for her …’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a shame they didn’t have us share a room with our assignment partners,’ I say with a smirk, because I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s angling for. She just has to convince Sam to break the school rules. ‘Would’ve been more realistic.’

  ‘I agree.’ She nods sagely. ‘I mean, taking turns having the baby overnight is completely idealistic. More likely, you’d both be up in the night and both end up sleep-deprived, which would obviously affect your schoolwork. What do you think, Sam?’

  ‘It’s not exactly scientific,’ he says, ‘or helpful, you know – sociopolitically.’

  Sam was raised by his dad and grandpa, so he’s already noted that girls are being given the brunt of the care work, and a lot of the guys are coasting on their goodwill. He’s also a Philosopher, which means he’s been overthinking it since he noticed. I didn’t have the marks for Philosophy, but it’s too booky and boring and I didn’t want to do it anyway. Sam revels in it. He likes psychology and sociology and the winding history of how magic came to be, and then came to be so rare. (He thinks it was fifty-fifty on colonisation leading to diluted bloodlines and then atrophy from hiding it for so long.) He’s not afraid of having an opinion. He goes off now, lamenting the inequity of labour and how the egg assignment, in its current incarnation, is reaffirming archaic gender roles.

  Silvia helpfully points out that the only girl in the class who isn’t overworked is Manaia, who ‘accidentally’ dropped her egg-daughter (Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Ravenway III) on the concrete floor this morning and is declaring it a feminist action, since she, Manaia, deserves to sleep.

  ‘She probably won’t want you and Leda in with her tonight then, will she?’ Sam says. ‘Come stay with us. Tim won’t mind.’

  I don’t mind, but only because I’d much prefer I wasn’t the only one with a bed-guest, and if both me and Elliott are there, there’s no chance they’ll be getting up to something I don’t want to see. Or there better not be. When Sam and Silvia got together, we agreed on some ground rules, all of which basically equate to ‘don’t make Tim regret giving you his blessing’.

  ‘Sure, we can have a playdate after
dinner,’ I say, my eyes flicking over to the staff tables to see Graham stuffing her face with potato, gravy dripping onto her chin. Gross.

  Silvia starts planning a tactical evasion of the school rules with Sam, her brown eyes all wide and excited, and I make a mental note that she owes me one. Big time.

  Over at the Minders’ table, Elliott is doing his best to eat thick slices of roast beef with just his fork, Meggan on his lap. I look down at my almost empty plate. Should I go over there and help him cut his meat? Is that weird? I make a list in my head of reasons I shouldn’t do it, not least of which is the fact it’ll look super weird and I’m entirely not ready to deal with the scrutiny that will come with that just for the sake of being helpful. I try not to watch him struggle as I finish my own food, unfettered by the need to hold Meggan as well as hold cutlery. Maybe I could just go over there and take her, give him some time to eat properly. That’s less weird. I’ll do that. I stand up.

  ‘Where’re you going? There’s apple crumble tonight.’ Silvia sounds aghast at the thought I might miss out.

  ‘My turn with Meggan,’ I say, and try to walk casually, like Elliott and I had planned this.

  I’ve never gone over to him before, he’s always come to us, and I’m not convinced I’ll be welcome. At least his other Minder friends probably know I’m partnered with him for this assignment; we made enough of a spectacle of ourselves in class. Maybe they’ve forgotten, though. Maybe it’ll look like I’ve come to start a fight. I should’ve worn my tinfoil hat.

  Manaia is sitting opposite Elliott at one end of the table; a group of guys are sitting at the other end. There’s a subtle divide between them, a matter of only a few inches and some body language. I wouldn’t have noticed from the other side of the room, or before our conversation in Food Tech. I guess he really does only have one friend left. The thought makes me feel sad for him, and it’s … weird. I imagine having only Silvia and, as much as I adore her, I’d miss the boys and the banter and the comforting solidarity of a pack. I wonder what Manaia is like, how close they are, whether her and Elliott ever had a similar relationship to him and Blake. They don’t look like a couple, but I’ve heard rumours. Does he even like girls? Does she? Neither of them have openly dated anyone at school.

  Manaia’s pretty solidly built, bigger than him but shorter, with long, wavy dark hair pulled up into a thick, messy bun. She has freckles, which are pretty cute, but I feel like if I said that to her she might punch me and call me a misogynist. Silvia has a decent respect for her. They’ve only been roomed together this year, but there’s been no whinging about mess, or snoring, or weird smells like there was last year. As far as I know, Manaia is tidy, sanitary and unobtrusive. And she once lent Silvia a book, so I know she can read. She’s also, famously, now egg-child-free, so I know she’s willing to kill something that annoys her.

  She’s also very much watching my approach.

  She acknowledges me with only a nod, and Elliott turns to find out what she’s been diverted by. He smiles when he sees it’s me and I feel considerably less like an endangered animal. When I hold my arms out for the baby, his expression turns soft for a second.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, like he’s surprised. ‘Decent of you, Te Maro.’

  ‘Always that tone of surprise,’ I say as I bundle Meggan close.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Manaia indicates the empty chair at the head of the table and Elliott turns, throwing her a sharp look that seems sort of unwelcoming.

  I can take a hint. ‘Oh, no, I don’t want to impose.’

  ‘We insist,’ she says. ‘Sit.’

  I feel disinclined to disobey, and Elliott must feel the same.

  ‘Of course.’ He recovers some sort of smile, but I don’t trust it, and it’s with a decent amount of reluctance that I actually sit down. ‘Dessert should be out soon,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to be gracious about this new and uncomfortable version of hospitality. ‘Crumble tonight, apparently.’

  ‘Elliott’s favourite,’ Manaia says, smirking. I can’t think why that deserves a smirk – it’s only a dessert.

  ‘More of a trifle man, myself,’ I say, for the sake of saying something.

  ‘Yes, well, everyone has different tastes. I’m all about the classic banana split.’ Somehow she makes it sound dirty. ‘Though Elliott’s been known to enjoy that, too.’

  ‘Silvia’s mum makes a good pineapple pie,’ I say, without considering that she’s the principal and probably doesn’t want to be regarded merely as a maker of pie, but I’m desperate for it not to go awkwardly silent.

  ‘Great at expelling people, too,’ Elliott says, and half a second later there’s a scuffle under the table and he’s wincing while Manaia glares bloody murder at him. I’m not sure what’s happening. ‘As she should’ve,’ he amends. ‘It was a well-deserved punishment.’

  ‘Yes,’ Manaia says. ‘Safety first.’

  Oh, look. It got awkward anyway. I say the first witty thing that pops into my head. ‘If only their parents had had the same attitude towards contraceptives.’

  Manaia lets out a surprised laugh, a loud haa! that leaves her looking delighted and impressed with me. I might not die tonight. Elliott, when I sneak a glance at him, looks … conflicted. Which is probably better than flat-out angry, considering.

  ‘Touché, Te Maro.’

  ‘Always with the French,’ I say, and bounce Meggan a bit on my knee. ‘Your other daddy is a bit pretentious, isn’t he?’ I say to her. ‘Lord knows what I was thinking when I agreed to this.’

  ‘I was wondering the same thing about Elliott,’ Manaia says. ‘But he explained it very articulately and, let it be said, I totally get it.’

  ‘Yeah, Blake is a bit of a dick.’

  ‘Who?’ Manaia says, and I wonder if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Except the stick is Elliott, so who could tell? Maybe both ends are wrong. But also – she one hundred per cent knows who Blake is; this school is the size of a suburban cul-de-sac.

  There’s another scuffling sound from under the table and it’s Manaia’s turn to look pained. It’s weird, I don’t really know what’s going on and Elliott will barely even look at me. It seems he’s fine with turning up in my bedroom in the middle of the night being needy, but I can’t turn up and be helpful at a nice, normal time of day.

  ‘Right,’ I say, and stand, Meggan bundled in my arms. ‘See you later, then.’

  ‘Bye, Other Tim, nice to chat,’ Manaia calls out, reminding me that I’m only a visitor in their lives. Even in exile, their Tim is the important one.

  Elliott says nothing to suggest he feels differently, and when I look back, he’s attacking his roast beef with something like anger and Manaia looks like she’s just had a dangerous amount of fun at our expense. And I can’t even tell how.

  Later that night, Sam and I are rolling squash balls back and forth across the hearth rug, our eggs – propped up in our outstretched legs – acting as goalies. It’s good Kinetics practice, pushing and pulling objects, and, in this case, altering their trajectory so they tap against our goalies and not our gonads. After a little while I manage to stop instinctively trying to use my hands and really lean into it, actually rely on the magic. The whole thing is surprisingly fun and we end up making far too much noise.

  The senior student lounge isn’t very big. It’s a square room with two walls of bookshelves, a large TV, a gas fireplace and a tea station, and it’s all very … grey. The rugs are grey, the couches and chairs and study tables are grey. The pinboards, even, are grey under the brightly coloured notices pinned there. The ‘art’ barely helps liven the place up since it’s mostly charcoal sketches and ancient lithographs.

  Silvia is presiding over us, curled in a grey armchair, intermittently sipping chamomile tea from a grey cup and reading excerpts from What To Expect When You’re Expecting, its bright cover in wild contrast with the ceiling, also grey. I wish we could get some colour down here, but clearly it’s either too much eff
ort, or coloured paint costs too much money. And, unfortunately, even though we’ve learnt to affect organic pigments using magic, they haven’t taught us how to colour anything synthetic. Apparently they’ve had problems with it before. Mum refuses to tell me what happened in case it gives me ‘ideas’.

  The squash balls are rubber, though, which is organic; I wonder if I could turn them the same colour as the carpet and get them past Sam that way? So far, neither he nor I have received a ball to the balls and we have our increasingly passable reflexes and our brilliant egg-daughters to thank for it. Until Elliott appears, distracting me for a second, and one slips past my thigh to tap against my right nut. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s weird and unwelcome and I’m probably making a face when he asks a question I don’t really hear.

  ‘Meggan,’ I lament in an undertone, ‘where were you when Dad needed you?’

  Sam cracks up laughing and I want to throw the ball right at his crotch, but I know what’ll happen. All-out war, with Silvia (and probably Elliott) telling us off for playing rough with the children. Instead, I just ask Elliott to repeat his question.

  ‘I said,’ he huffs, ‘when are we all going to bed?’

  ‘Might wanna take us on a date first, Elliott, jeez.’ Silvia grins at her own joke, but at least she’s joking and not scowling.

  ‘You’re a bit keen,’ I say. ‘It’s only seven-thirty.’

  ‘I’m only asking because I have some homework to do and I don’t want to inconvenience you by being up too late,’ he snaps. ‘I expect we’re all tired.’

  ‘That’s very considerate, Elliott, thank you,’ Sam says. ‘Is eight-thirty reasonable? And do you mind if Silvia stays in the room tonight as well?’

  ‘Perfectly fine, it’s your room,’ he says.

  ‘Do we have homework?’ Silvia hisses at me.

  ‘No, it’s for Physics,’ Elliott cuts in. ‘Have you done yours?’ he asks Sam.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Let me know if you need any help with question eight – it’s worded very ambiguously.’