‘Hey, what gives with Sash?’ Jodie carols. ‘Says he’s going to stay up here.’
‘More to the point,’ Kaz rushes in, ‘He’s told us everything. What are you going to do, Emma?’
Heart in mouth… what has Sacha blabbed? I manage, ‘About what?’
‘We know your Dad wants you to stay and…’
I won’t let Kaz finish. ‘Not even an option,’ I retort. ‘I’m going home.’
I stalk into the bedroom where I find an orange hibiscus on my pillow. Sacha. I will have to set him straight, make sure he totally understands there is nothing between us except friendship. All the same, still feeling like a proper bitch, I distract myself by heading down to the foyer. ‘Yes,’ I’m told by the woman at the reception desk. ‘You’ll get a bus to the hinterland in the terminal at Surfers. Oh,’ she adds as I turn away, ‘there’s a message for you.’ She hands over a slip of paper. ‘Came last night.’
Emma Simpson. Your mother called from Melbourne. 7.30 pm. Please phone her ASAP.
I know a twinge of guilt. I’ve been meaning to phone her, but not right now. Julie will only want to hear how I’m getting on with Robert and the truth is I’m not sure what to say. If I say ‘fine’ or ‘terrific’, she’ll be upset. If I tell her the truth, it will only give her more ammunition to talk about the ‘husband-from-hell and that slut he ran away with’. No, I’ll do it tonight when I get back.
As we climb the winding hilly road, the scenery changes from coastline and sea to dense vegetation. Heaps of tree ferns. Avocado, mango and banana trees. I’ve brought my pad and crayons and I manage several quick sketches of the wonderful foliage and the view from the top of a crest. It takes about an hour before the bus makes its first major stop, just enough time to brood over the events of the last few days.
But it’s hard to forget Sacha’s forlorn face. How I wish I hadn’t given in to his need to prove to himself that he isn’t gay. We were in Year 7 when I first noticed his pale hair, delicate skin and fine features. Those few classes we took together, he always sat at the back of the room. Sometimes I noticed him sketching. One day walking past, I glimpsed clever cartoon figures, and paused to admire them. That time he didn’t glance up, only reddened with pleasure. After, I always asked to see his drawings. But it wasn’t until we shared the same art classes, that we became friends. Now I’m even crosser than ever with myself for sleeping with him. Not that I didn’t enjoy the sex. But it’s sure to mess up our friendship. At least that can’t happen with girls. I give a sigh of relief. At least sex can’t come between me and Dessi.
The bus stops at a village completely different from the brash coast. We pass Tudor style houses and shops, English style teahouses and art galleries. Further down the main road I come across heaps of antique-stores. I sift through irons, butter churns, delicate cups and saucers, figurines. In the end I choose a couple of horse brasses. The owner assures me that they once adorned the dray horses that pulled beer wagons. I hand over one hundred and fifty dollars, more than I planned, but this is for Abdul.
I buy Julie a card, scribble a quick message on the back, buy a stamp and post it in the main street. Then it’s time to hop on a bus that will take me back to Broadbeach.
When I go through the foyer, the receptionist calls me over. ‘Ms Simpson, your mother phoned again, just after you left. She says it’s urgent. Do you need to use this phone?’
‘Yes. Please.’
What does Julie want? Suddenly, I’m anxious.
33. DESSI, Melbourne
I’m anxious. That’s because Abdul’s invited me home once again. After the last fiasco I can’t help wondering why. Though I’ll do anything and go anywhere to be with him, I nearly refuse. Then I decide that maybe this time it will be easier, maybe the Maloufs will be more used to having a ‘Skip’ in their house.
I make an effort to dress even more conservatively. Last time I’m sure Mr Malouf disapproved because I showed too much skin. No skirt tonight. Instead I pull on a long sleeved shirt I wear over my loosest jeans. I spend more time on my face than usual. Do Muslim women wear make-up? Yes, Mrs Malouf wore eye-liner and a bright red lipstick that set off her dark eyes. Taking heart from this, I tie my hair neatly back. Just clear lip gloss and a dab of mascara. In the mirror I’m the very image of a ‘good Skip girl’.
Things are great in the car all the way there. Abdul cracks jokes about his latest acquisition, an old dresser he claims is riddled with woodworm. When we get to the Maloufs, at first things seem easier. Old Mr Malouf beams his cracked teeth ‘hullo’. A ghost of a smile flickers across Mr Malouf’s face. Mrs Malouf asks after my ankle in English. Then Mrs Malouf lapses into Lebanese and Mr Malouf returns to acting as if I’m invisible. Only Grandfather’s gaze remains benign. As well, certain vibes between Abdul and his parents keep me on edge. I order myself to stop feeling paranoid. Speaking English must be tiring. Remembering all Leila told me about their natural fear of strangers, I tell myself not to feel hurt.
But what makes things hard is when shortly Mrs Malouf starts quarrelling with Abdul. Watching them argue is like looking into a bowl of fish mouthing angry bubbles. Only my broken ankle and old Mr Malouf’s smile stops me running away. This fight has to be over me. At least the food is delicious so I politely praise the meal.
To my astonishment, Abdul bursts into sarcastic laughter, his father scowls and Mrs Malouf looks embarrassed.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Abdul.
‘Mum doesn’t want you to know all this is ‘take-away’.’
Everyone laughs. Though I make an effort to join in, I know more was said, that it was directed at me, and definitely uncomplimentary.
The meal over, Abdul rushes me into his room and pushes me onto his bed. I shove him away. ‘What have I done?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your folks don’t seem too happy about me being here.’
‘Oh, they think I’m wasting time. And Dad won’t stop carrying on about my hair. They expect me to get a haircut and grow a decent beard.’
‘Why is hair so important?’
He sighs impatiently. ‘Haven’t you ever noticed that good Muslims wear most of their hair on their faces?’ He points to his locks and then the little tuft in the cleft of his chin. ‘These are my little rebellions.’
‘If you go OS, that won’t matter, will it?’
‘Suppose not.’ But he still looks uneasy.
I hold him at a distance. ‘What do they mean by, you’re wasting time?’
‘They think that I shouldn’t be dating,’ he says impatiently. ‘They say I should be concentrating on study.’ His hands slide under my shirt. Right then, old Mr Malouf opens the door and mumbles something.
‘Shit,’ Abdul mutters. ‘Phone.’
He stays away maybe ten minutes or so. I use the time to take an inventory of his wardrobe to see what else I can discover about him. I find jocks, socks, jeans, collared shirts, some classy T-shirts. Two jackets: one denim, one leather, slightly worn. Three leather belts, and four pairs of joggers. Boots, somewhat worn at the heel. A little loose change. Biros, pencils, rubbers, etc. One new passport, no travel stamps inside. Nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Anyone important?’ I ask when he returns. Abdul shakes his head. Five minutes later there’s another phone call. Abdul yells something in Lebanese. This time his mother shouts back.
Abdul’s angry face sends a shiver down my spine. He grimaces. ‘Sorry.’
This time he’s away nearly twenty minutes. Half asleep, it occurs to me to wonder for the first time: What if it’s a woman?
Suddenly I’m chilled to the bone.
Can fortune-tellers be believed?
Just before our final exams we were passing an advertisement for Madam Chloris, a clairvoyant. Emma was really interested. ‘Only fifty bucks to find out if we get a place in Uni.’
‘Why bother?’ I scoffed. ‘She’ll just con you.’
‘You don’t know till you try,’ Emma
persisted. ‘Come on. You go first.’
The fortune-teller turned out to be small, dark and in her mid-forties. She peered at my palm. ‘You’re still at school.’
Considering my obvious age, I wasn’t impressed.
Then Madam Chloris said, ‘You’ve got a brother, he’d be twelve, thirteen. He’s tall and skinny and has very curly dark brown hair.’
That stopped my smile.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘About getting into Uni.’
Red tipped fingers waved my fears away. ‘No worries. You’ve worked hard, and you deserve to do well.’ She peered more intently. ‘Just beware of getting into other people’s cars. And watch out for placing your trust in the wrong person.’
Until now I always thought both warnings were about Jon. Only now do I dare question this. When Abdul returns, I casually ask, ‘Who was that?’
‘Uh... Antler wants me to lend him five hundred.’
‘Will he pay you back?’
‘He’d better. I have to meet him tomorrow at the bank.’
My eyes widen. ‘Thought you said Antler was in Perth?’
‘Did I? Well, he’s back and stony.’ He pulls me onto my good leg. ‘Tell you more later,’ he promises. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Okay.’ I’ve temporarily lost interest in Antler, anyway.
In the living room, both older Maloufs are glued to the TV. I say, ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner.’
Both parents scowl. I feel sick. I know they see me as awful. What do they think Abdul’s doing with me, anyway?
As he helps me into his van, something Sacha once said springs into my mind. I was in hospital, semi-drugged, but awake enough to complain about the heavy boot encasing my ankle. ‘Don’t worry.’ His blue eyes were bright with sympathy. ‘Cripples are a real turn-on.’
‘You mean, because we can’t run away?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Gross. Who’d think like that?’
‘Inadequate guys.’
I half turn to stare at Abdul who is presently concentrating on backing out the drive. Does he think this way? Surely he likes me for what I am. But what if it’s only because of this ankle? He pulls up in the same parking spot as last time.
The parking lot is deserted.
I say, ‘You promised to tell more about Antler.’
‘Sure. What do you what to know?’
I can only marvel at how the further he gets away from his family, how he turns back into the person I love. Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde? As he helps me into the rear, I say, ‘Tell me how Antler got to be your best friend.’
‘The whole school split into gangs, and Antler was boss of the Anglos. We had Wogs, Slopes, and Lebos. The Wogs were so tough they beat the shit out of everyone. Antler decided it was a good idea for Anglos and Lebos to get together to tackle them.’
‘It worked?’
‘It worked. Antler said I was okay for a Lebo. We liked each other so we stayed friends.’
‘Has he ever had a job?’
‘Antler? I once offered to pay him to check out some garage sales but anything a.m. is out.’
‘So how do they survive?’
‘The dole... a few deals... this and that.’ He looks at me curiously. ‘How about you? What was it like being in the top clique?’
I blink. ‘How do you know we were?’
‘Two pretty Anglo girls in a suburban high school. Course you were.’ He slides my top over my head and covers my mouth with his. For a moment Emma’s face flickers between us.
I know he kissed Emma, and maybe more…lots of stuff she didn’t tell me. What’ll she say when she hears what I’m doing right now?
But as those sensitive fingers run down my body, I can no longer resist him. So with his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands on my breasts, my thighs, my arms now around his, this time I’m more than ready.
Sensing this, he removes my skirt and knickers, slips off his jock and presses himself against me. I hear a rustle, then he’s inside… and… and it hurts…
‘Oh!’ I utter an involuntary cry.
He quickly draws back.
‘No go on, go on,’ I murmur, because now I’m sure that he’s my one true love and I will never give him up... no, no, never…
34. EMMA, Surfers
No, no, never… rushes through my mind. Julie might complain about small aches and pains, and visit too many health professionals, but she’s never been seriously sick. Our conversation ricochets in my brain, and I can still hear her fear:
‘…got the results yesterday, Emma. It’s…it’s definitely cancer. Oh my God! And the worst part is that I might have passed the bad gene on to you. Now, as soon as you come back from your holiday, you’re to have a mammogram…’
The woman on the reception desk helps me book a flight home. The plane leaves next morning and that flight is horribly expensive but I don’t care. I still have most of my winnings. Back in the apartment I’m so relieved that the others haven’t returned. My mind won’t stop racing and all I feel is total dread. I now remember when Julie first mentioned something might be wrong, how at the time I viewed it as once again her seeking attention. I can’t believe how unsympathetic I was. Now she’s going to need all the support I can give her. To think that until now all I was fretting about was Abdul being cold and Dessi managing without me. Now I really have something to worry about.
I take a stubby out onto the balcony. The night is balmy and a full moon makes the ocean shimmer and glow. The door opens and I steel myself in case it’s Sacha, and of course it is. ‘Hi.’ He flops down beside me. ‘Did you get my note?’
‘Note? What note?’
‘About dinner tonight,’ he murmurs, crestfallen. ‘Your dad paid me cash.’ He produces a bunch of notes. ‘What do you say?’
Anything would be better than sitting here brooding. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ve booked us a table.’ He’s openly delighted.
Only once we’re seated, does it occur to me to wish I’d bothered to dress a little better. I’m still in my favourite Vinnies’ dress, but the other diners are really glamorous. One glance at the menu tells me that Sacha will be blowing his whole day’s pay on this meal. This makes me feel guiltier than ever. I’m being so unkind. Yet what else can I do? Any softening on my part and I’ll only build up his false hopes.
I wake up he’s saying, ‘…and your Dad said he knows a real estate agent up here and he reckons he’ll give me a reference if I need one. Emma?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’ I make an effort to listen, but all I see are lips mouthing words.
‘What’s up, Emma?’ He reaches across and takes my hand.
Tears fill my eyes. ‘It’s not you,’ I assure him. ‘I’ve had some bad news,’ and I tell him about Julie. ‘I’m going home tomorrow.’
‘That’s awful,’ he says quietly. “I guess that means you won’t be coming back.’
‘I don’t see how, she has no one else. Just me, really.’
Neither of us is interested in dessert so we end up leaving the restaurant and walking along the beach. The surf is sonorous. Soothing. Watching waves wash onto the sand in little eddies like paint spilling out of a jar, helps calm me a little. We sprawl on the beach.
Sacha props himself up on an elbow. ‘I guess you’ll see that Lebanese guy when you get back?’
‘You know I will.’ But my voice is firmer than I feel.
Why was Abdul so distant?
‘So where does that leave me?’
I just shake my head. If only I hadn’t given him false expectations.
‘Everything’s changed for me. He stares out to sea. ‘I don’t know why I thought I might be gay. It was just others saying so. And now... now I think I’m in love with you.’
Oh hell! Why is it always the wrong guy saying the right thing?
‘You must feel something for me, Em. Don’t you?’
Can I be so cruel as to say that I wish I’d ne
ver slept with him, never given into both our distress? Whatever I say can only disrupt our friendship and that’s the last thing I want. ‘Let’s go back to the unit,’ I say at last. ‘I’m really tired. Tell Jon he can have my bed as of tomorrow.’
When we get there, Sacha goes into the living room to bunk down on the floor. I’m very relieved. I need tonight to be on my own.
35. DESSI, Melbourne
I really need to be alone. So after Abdul drops me, I’m relieved to see the windows are dark. As my first lover he’s been the best. I couldn’t have asked for anyone gentler and more experienced. The fact that I’m totally besotted probably helped. Even I realise how infatuated I am. Nevertheless, knowing from others how unpleasant, even painful, first time sex can be, I can hardly wait to climb into bed and relive the whole experience.
I’m wrong. At the back of the house, the kitchen light is still on. Late at night with unexplained shadows flickering over the walls, this house is scary. As something scuttles under a skirting board, I teeter in fright.
Hannah comes into the hall. ‘Dessi, why so late?’
I gulp. Can she tell something important has happened to me? That I’m now different? ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I rush in. ‘Abdul’s safe. He’s not like Jon. He’d never do anything stupid.’
‘Really?’ Hannah tightens her dressing-gown cord. ‘If he’s really so sensible, when do you intend coming clean with Emma?’
I inwardly groan. ‘Mu-um, must we? I’m tired.’
But I can’t shake her off. ‘How about a mug of cocoa? You can sleep in tomorrow.’
In the kitchen I watch her move from fridge to microwave, pushing her hair back in that familiar endearing gesture. She says, ‘How long have Julie and myself, you and Emma been friends?’
I shrug.
‘Since long before you were born.’ She hands me a mug. ‘Lots of nice men out there. Not as if Abdul’s background is similar. Not only will you antagonise your best friend, you’re entering an alien culture.’
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