by H. S. Valley
‘Typical Bloomfield.’ Elliott sighs. ‘Syntax like a sphinx.’
‘She’s a difficult woman to endure, isn’t she? Rather flighty considering her field of expertise is meant to be based in fact. She acts like an art teacher. It’s disgusting.’
‘Maybe she’s been living with one …’ Elliott lifts a suggestive eyebrow.
Silvia looks freshly scandalised. ‘Ohhh … That makes so much sense. I knew Ms Christiansen was dressing differently.’
‘I can’t take credit for noticing,’ Elliott admits. ‘Manaia pointed it out. I never would’ve picked either of them as the type.’
‘Ha. How very heteronormative of you.’ Silvia’s voice is light, teasing, and I wonder what she’s up to – she knows Elliott’s not straight.
‘Not something I get accused of often, by those who know me.’ He returns her look.
‘Really?’
‘I would’ve thought you knew, considering the company you keep?’
‘I did.’ She smiles. ‘I just didn’t expect you to tell me.’
‘I aim to exceed expectations.’
‘I aim for the nose.’
‘I won’t forget that,’ he says, and huffs out a laugh.
‘Best you don’t, considering the company you keep. Lately.’
‘Noted.’
‘Good.’ Silvia’s attention falls back to her book. ‘See you later.’
‘What was that about?’ Sam asks as Elliott walks away.
Theoretical magical entropy he can manage, but some things don’t quite click for him. After years of trying to date under my parents’ watchful eyes, though, I’ve come to recognise an over-protective shovel talk when I hear one. I don’t want to think too hard about Silvia thinking it was necessary, though, let alone explain it. It’d open it up for discussion, and denying what’s going on in my head would feel too much like lying, so I plead ignorance instead.
‘Not a bloody clue.’
CHAPTER 8
ALL FAKE EVERYTHING
Everything’s fine until about half-past eleven. We all fell asleep pretty swiftly, egg-babies included, but I feel like I’ve had half as much rest as I need when something wakes me and I hear the door handle squeak and a baby cry. There’s a whisper and a grumble and the swish of dressing gowns and then the decisive doof of the door closing.
‘Wha’ happened?’ I ask the room, wondering who’s gone and who’s still here, if anyone.
‘Your friends had to leave,’ Elliott whispers from behind me.
‘Why?’ I reach under my pillow for my piece of smoky quartz, utter the incantation and push a little power into it, just enough so it throws out a bit of light.
‘Apparently we were being too noisy.’ Elliott’s profile glows in the dimness.
‘I was asleep.’
‘I was not. And neither were they. And they were … you know.’ He pauses, uncomfortable. ‘Doing things. Things it’s impolite to do in company. Even in a boarding school.’
I sigh. ‘They said they wouldn’t.’
‘They lied.’
I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that Silvia and Sam were getting off a couple metres away, or the fact I slept through it. What if it’s happened before? What if it’s a thing they do? Hey, Sam, I’m gonna sneak into your room tonight and we can hook up right next to Tim again, the thrill of getting caught really gets me going …
Though …
‘Hang on,’ I say, rolling to face him and pushing my hair out of my face. ‘Why did they leave if they were the ones … you know, making noises?’
Elliott looks up at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes. ‘I may have made some of my own. To prove a point.’
‘Elliott,’ I say, suddenly feeling much more awake. ‘Did you make pretend sex noises to scare them off?’
‘No.’
‘Did you make real sex noises to scare them off?’ Ugh, what if they were all going at it while I was sleeping?
‘No … I made fake noises so they’d stop making real noises, but they didn’t. They acted all outraged and Silvia had a small fit, and Sam decided they should go. I imagine Manaia’s going to have to deal with them and their … illicit tomfoolery.’
His word choice is ninety-nine per cent normal and one per cent Victorian spinster. ‘Do my two best friends think I was a part of this?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugs. ‘Now you don’t need to come out to them, at least. I helped.’
‘They already knew, you cockwomble. I didn’t need your “help”.’ I give up on propping myself upright and flop back on my pillow. ‘Just because I’m not out yet, doesn’t mean no-one knows I’m bi.’
‘You’re serious, then? The thing you said about Silvia’s brother wasn’t just you taking the piss?’
‘Yes, I’m serious. And bi. Card-carrying member, thank you. All done. Hello, I’m Tim Te Maro and I’m bisexual, et cetera. Not that it’s any of your business.’
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘We are sharing a bed; it’s sort of my business.’
‘Then sleep over there.’ I point at Sam’s vacated bed.
‘In their fluids?’ he scoffs. ‘No thanks.’
‘Fine, then, I will,’ I say, and throw the covers right off, just to annoy him, letting all the cold air in as I get out …
… just as a whimper comes from the bedside and we both freeze.
‘No, no, no,’ I breathe, realising too late that we’ve got a bit loud and annoyed and that I had definitely forgotten about Meggan even existing. Somehow the presence of Elliott in my bed wasn’t enough for me to remember that one small detail.
‘I’ll settle her, you go to sleep.’ He sighs and wriggles over to my side of the bed.
It’s the least he can do. Dickhead. I take two steps across the gap and lift Sam’s duvet, take a deep, calming breath … and immediately throw the covers back down. Cock-bollocking-arse-buckets. I turn back to my own bed and clamber over Elliott with no consideration for where my knees are. They can all bugger off. All the people. I get under the covers on his side, turn, and face the wall.
‘Ow. What now?’
‘Nothing,’ I snap. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Clearly that’s a lie, if the pain in my shin is anything to go by.’
My god, he’s so annoying. ‘Fine. I’m tired. That bed smells of sex. Everyone is getting laid but me, including my ex-girlfriend, and now my two best friends think I’m sleeping with you, and on top of that –’ I realise I’m on a roll and just let it all out. ‘I’m failing our Environmental Change assignment in Practical Magic and I miss my dad.’
He chooses, of course, to focus on the bit about him. ‘You wish you were sleeping with me.’
I don’t know where he gets his confidence. Well. Maybe I do. ‘Not even slightly.’
‘You could be doing a lot worse.’
‘I’m sure that’s what Blake thought before he left you.’
There’s an outraged squeak from behind me, where he’s still settling Meggan, and this can’t be helping but I don’t care. It feels a lot like it’s his fault that we’re all awake and upset.
And then he has the gall to ask me, ‘Are you ever not horrible?’
I squawk, ‘Me?!’ without thinking of volume; I’m too enraged at the hypocrisy. I spin around in a flurry of covers and tangled hair and he’s sitting up scowling at me, and we have one whole second to seethe at each other before it all goes to hell. Meggan is fully awake and screaming before we have a chance to realise what we’re doing, how much emotion is in the room, thick and regrettable and intoxicating nonetheless. I want to punch him and smother him and yell at him over the screams of our fake child.
‘Could you maybe calm down?’ he says as he scoots his arse up the bed (on my side) and lifts Meggan out of her little purple cot. ‘Shhh, Petal, it’s OK.’ He holds her close and puts his mouth to her dome, whispering, his lips only just touching the golden surface.
‘Sorry,’ I say, and lean back against the wall, pulling the covers o
ver my legs. What a night. I want a drink – a real one, or, failing that, a cup of tea. ‘Got any alcohol?’ I ask him.
I expect him to shoot me a pompous glare, but he laughs dryly and nods. ‘I do, actually, but you might not want it.’
‘I assure you, I do.’ Meggan is still crying, but she’s losing steam now that she’s being held, and coddled, and nastydad-Tim isn’t shouting at her other dad anymore. ‘Is it in your bag?’ I nod at the leather duffel he brought with him this time. The bag from which he’d pulled those black silk pyjamas and fluffy woollen socks, and a fat, fancy-looking pillow. Rich bastard. Weirdly sweet, too well-dressed, and cutely socked as he is.
‘It is,’ he says, and passes Meggan over to me. ‘Here. Apologise to your daughter.’ He leans out of bed to pull his bag closer. His pyjama shirt rides up a little.
The wall is cold and it’s seeping through my pyjamas, so I grab one of my crap pillows out from under his fancy one and shove it behind my back. Something else slides out with it. The shape is extremely familiar, which is good because otherwise I would’ve assumed it was a wētā or something equally bitey and leggy and horribly unwelcome in my bed. I pick it up. Yep. It’s definitely a sachet of lube. Kudos to the New Zealand sex-education system, but also, shit. I’ve just unearthed one of my own health class freebies from lord knows when and now I’m sitting here staring at it like a muppet. Worse, I’m doing it in front of a guy I admitted earlier today to finding mildly physically attractive. Who is also one of the small number of guys in this school who’s also into guys. I wonder if I should be trying to hook up with him. Maybe I should make an effort to get this curiosity out of my system. It’s ruined one relationship already; I’d be doing future-Tim a favour. I’m feeling strangely bold. Sleep deprivation and all that.
Elliott wriggles back onto the bed with a bottle in his hands. ‘Right, Te Maro, get ready to drink your personal problems.’
‘Care to explain this?’ I ask, holding up the sachet.
He looks up and his expression flicks from confusion to disgust to mild outrage. ‘That’s not mine.’
‘Of course not. Must be a coincidence I found it just after you moved in, under your pillow.’
‘It’s your bed.’
‘Yeah, and I don’t recall storing lube in it,’ I lie. I’ve actually just remembered exactly when I stashed it there. The sheets have been changed a bunch of times since, though. Housekeeping must have replaced it every time, exactly where they found it. Somewhere in the school there’s a colleague of my mother’s who has too much insight into my sex life. Brilliant. Easier to ignore that, though, and pretend it isn’t mine. ‘Must be someone else’s.’
‘Sure,’ he says, layered with sarcasm. ‘That seems fair. Can’t imagine why a healthy, single, seventeen-year-old guy might have a convenient stash of …’ He cocks his head to the side, squints. ‘Sylk Natural Personal Lubricant.’ He sounds like he, rightfully, doesn’t believe a word of it.
Maybe I can blame the sleep deprivation again as I ignore his insinuation completely and decide to make things extremely awkward instead. ‘Recently single. There are plenty of reasons a healthy, consenting couple might use lube. It reduces the risk of condoms breaking, which reduces the risk of pregnancy and STIs –’
‘I know that, Te Maro, I don’t need a TED Talk from you about contraceptives.’
‘It can make things more comfortable, especially if –’
‘Oh my god, shut up.’
‘You’re trying something a bit adventurous, or one of you has an unreasonably large dick.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve got a big dick, Te Maro? Really?’ I take note of the slight twitch of his mouth, and the fact he won’t look at me.
‘No, I already said it wasn’t my lube.’
‘So, what, are you telling me I’ve got an unreasonably large dick?
‘No, you said it wasn’t yours either.’
‘So … a ghost hid lube in your bed,’ he says. ‘A ghost with an unreasonably large dick?’
‘Could’ve been.’
‘Oh my god, Te Maro, desist.’
‘People have seen stuff down here. Heard things. It’s old. The deepest tunnels aren’t even concreted, they’re just empty holes in the rock. No-one knows what they were used for. Endless darkness. Could be anything out there.’
‘I’ll accept ghosts exist, but not that they have any interest in giving you lube.’
‘They might be voyeurists.’
‘I think you mean voyeurs.’ He twitches his eyebrow at me. ‘Do you really think someone’s soul is going to avoid crossing over so they can watch you wank? I don’t think you’re quite hot enough to keep spirits on a physical plane.’
‘I meant they were wanking, not me.’ I can’t help picturing it. ‘I wonder if that’s what the cold, creepy feeling you get on the back of your neck is – ghost jizz.’
He snorts, completely against his will, by the looks of it. ‘You have no respect for the dead, do you?’
‘Not if they’re wanking on me. I mean … it would explain that sound of rattling chains if they’re – you know.’ I make a hand gesture to sell my point and he rolls his eyes at me.
‘You’re a walking travesty. Could you –’ He stops midsentence and closes his eyes, cheeks twitching.
‘What?’
‘It –’ his mouth quirks into a smile. ‘It would also explain all the moaning, wouldn’t it?’
It’s in a fit of giggles, half-exhausted and clutching a sachet of ghost lube and our egg-baby, that I realise we might actually be friends now. As we settle down, I pass Meggan over. She’s grizzling a bit, but not crying now that we’re not angry, and he hands me the bottle of illegal booze that he’s pulled out of his bag. It’s definitely not what it says on the label; I’m a hundred per cent sure that no flavour of Powerade is the colour of dried blood.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s port.’
‘Port? Honestly?’ I ask him, withering. ‘Are you ninety?’
‘I wasn’t anticipating sharing it with you, sorry.’
‘It couldn’t have been rum or something normal?’
‘Blake drank the rest of my Mount Gay, said it was his right as part of the queer community to imbibe the blood of Gay Christ or something. To be honest, I often didn’t listen when he talked.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s really not very smart, Te Maro. Really. I’m amazed your girlfriend didn’t pick that up before it was too late.’
‘Maybe she wasn’t very smart, either.’
‘Well, she did break up with a guy whose dick inspires ghost wanking.’
‘Let’s just have a drink and stop talking about my dick, please.’
‘Dick, please, indeed,’ he says, popping the sipper top open, his ring glinting silver in the low light. ‘I swear I’ve never been this sexually bereft in my life.’
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Plus, now my room smells like an old lady’s knicker drawer, which is something I never wanted for myself. Fruit and rot and a hint of nail polish remover.
‘Have you got any glasses?’ he asks. ‘Tumblers? Paper cups?’
‘You didn’t bring any with you?’
‘I wasn’t planning on sharing my forbidden cache,’ he says. ‘For all I knew you might dob me in as soon as you knew I had it.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll go find something to drink the devil juice from.’
I crawl over him again, carefully this time, and tiptoe to the lounge, wondering if I’ll ever have a weirder Thursday.
CHAPTER 9
LIKE SHE SAID
Within a minute I find myself back in bed with an egg-baby in one hand, an ungentlemanly amount of port in a shitty grey mug in the other, and my former-nemesis-turnedtentative-friend right there with me. It’s nearly midnight. We should be asleep.
‘How many days has it been for you?’ Elliott asks out of nowhere. He’s reclined now, on my pillow, on my side of the
bed, and I bet it’ll smell of him. Whatever that scent is that’s slightly like myrrh and slightly lemony. He’s produced a silicon bendy straw in my absence and he looks like a whimsical alcoholic.
‘Since what?’ I sip my port and it’s horrible.
‘Sex, Te Maro, keep up,’ he says. Which, I guess, proves Thursday can indeed get weirder.
‘Um. About three weeks.’
He makes a sympathetic noise. ‘Almost one week for me. The morning before the night we all broke up.’ His hand lifts off his chest and waves around like a sea anemone. ‘Though, that depends on your definition. Maybe it was as long as three or four weeks before that. He got less … reciprocal, at some point.’ He goes quiet and I don’t think there’s anything to be said to that. ‘I wonder when they decided to leave us?’ he says. ‘When did they talk about it? What made it easy to decide on that one day, among all the other days?’
‘I think that seed was also planted about three weeks ago, and I can take a very good guess at what triggered it.’ I haven’t told anyone any of the details yet. I had no intention of doing so, but it doesn’t seem so weird now. ‘Despite a valiant effort at indulging me, Lizzie had some very conventional heterosexual preferences and I did not. We ended up liking different things and what she liked didn’t interest me enough to, um … make it possible to do them. And what I liked she found distasteful. Which makes it extra shitty she’s left me for Blake, since he’s obviously not straight either and probably likes the same things.’
‘Shit.’ He looks sympathetic, like he’s sorry he even asked, but honestly it’s a relief to just tell someone. ‘If it helps, Blake’s a total muppet. He was a tolerable roommate once he started making himself useful, but I would never have called him a friend.’ He snorts, a quiet laugh about something happening in his head. ‘Manaia can’t stand him.’
Another surprise. I’d assumed they were all birds of a feather, Elliott’s group and the other Minders. It’s something of a comfort to hear that even people who aren’t my friends still think Blake’s an absolute walnut. Another point to Manaia.