The Whole of My World

by Nicole Hayes

  ‘Okay, I’m just going to say it.’

  I wait.

  ‘The Eastern Panthers have invited me to train with the under 19s.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment sits like a rock in my stomach. I try to find saliva in my dry mouth that will help me form the right words. Instead, a rasping noise escapes me. ‘That’s great!’ I swallow, breathe and try again. ‘The scouts came through then?’ Almost even, almost neutral.

  He laughs again, that nervous, jittery thing he seems to have only recently learnt. Where’s the cocky Josh I know? ‘Yeah, they did. It is. It’s great.’ But he’s frowning again, with confusion or disappointment.

  I’m meant to be happier. I wind it all back in my head. I am happy. I refuse not to be happy. This is good, I tell myself. Brilliant, even. It’s just not what I expected. But I won’t lose this moment to celebrate with him. I’ve lost too many of them already. ‘Seriously, I thought you were going to say something else,’ I admit, realising too late that I’ve left myself wide open. ‘It really is fantastic,’ I gush, trying to cover my blunder. ‘I mean, I knew they’d want you. I always said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘What did you think I was going to say?’

  My face burns. I struggle to think of a single believable answer that doesn’t involve my inevitable humiliation, but come up with nothing. I shake my head, study my toes and glance over at the halo of light outside the clubhouse.

  ‘Are you still mad about that Ginnie Perkins thing? I told you I didn’t say anything – she knows a lot of the players here. You said you believed me.’

  Ginnie Perkins is so far from my mind right now that it’s almost funny. ‘I believe you,’ I say, feeling a sudden urge to laugh. I don’t know if it’s fear or embarrassment, frustration or stupidity, but a bubble of laughter rises up in my throat. I kill it quickly, but maybe not quickly enough.

  He shakes his head in disbelief.

  ‘What? You’re being weird again.’

  He doesn’t answer. For a moment, I think I’ve ruined everything forever. And then he kisses me. It’s gentle and shy but it’s right on my lips, so there’s nothing brotherly or friendly about it.

  I freeze, his lips still pressed against mine. My mouth won’t move. My mind won’t move. I can’t move.

  He stops and frowns. ‘Jesus, Shell. You don’t give an inch, do you?’ And then I see that his face is, mercifully, as red as mine.

  For a long second my heart seems to stop beating. Time halts. It’s now or never. I close my eyes and my whole body relaxes, as though I’ve been holding on to something for ages and now, finally, I can let it go. I open my eyes again and look at him – right into him – and smile. ‘No, I don’t.’ Before I can change my mind, I kiss him back. Our lips touch softly, then less softly, warm and familiar but also completely new. I can see that mouth in my mind’s eye, having seen it a million times before: the rise and curve of it, the shape it makes when he smiles.

  We kiss for a long time. And soon, neither of us is blushing from embarrassment.

  School has been lonely without Tara, but I’ve been making an effort to talk to girls I didn’t spend much time with before. Elena Irving is funny and smart, and likes a lot of the same music as me. She’s also fiercely loyal, like Josh. Rose DeLillo from my Italian class makes me laugh out loud. She’s shy and speaks really quietly, so you have to listen hard, but it’s always worth hearing. Mum was like that too – she didn’t talk a lot, or force people to notice her, but as soon as she opened her mouth, people would lean forward to listen.

  I’m sitting next to Elena in Australian History when Sister Brigid starts handing our essays back. I notice that Ginnie Perkins got a B, possibly her first ever, but otherwise all the usual names are at the top of the class. I wait for Sister Brigid to give me mine, but she tells me to see her after class. After everyone files out, Sister Brigid hands me my essay with a big red A++ marked on the front of it.

  ‘Thanks. Wow. I’ve never had a double-A plus before.’ I’m blushing again, but I mind less and less now. Mum once told me that you can really trust someone who blushes because you always know what they’re thinking. What they’re feeling. I’d forgotten she said that.

  ‘I hope it’s okay,’ Sister Brigid says, as I scan her comments to see what it was that she liked so much, ‘but I gave your essay to Andrew.’

  I blink a moment, wondering who Andrew is.

  ‘My cousin,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh right. At Glenthorn.’

  She nods, smiling. ‘There’s an internship starting at The Falcon’s Nest, the newsletter. It’s like a work-experience placement but for the whole year – on and off season. One afternoon a week, after school.’

  Heat rushes from my toes to my head, then back again. The world does that slanting thing it does when I’m not expecting something good to happen.

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t do it.’

  Sister Brigid smiles and places her hand on my shoulder, looking me dead in the eyes with that steely gaze that usually ends up with me or Tara being sent to Siberia. ‘Yes, you can,’ she says simply, and lets go.

  The thing is, I think she’s right.

  I cross the street to the tram stop, still buzzing from Sister Brigid’s news. At the lights, I see Ginnie Perkins and her dad standing by their car. He’s yelling at her and shaking what looks like Ginnie’s History essay in his fist. Ginnie is leaning against the car, half turned away, as though ready to run if given the chance.

  ‘Not acceptable!’ Mr Perkins’ voice cuts across the gap in traffic noise, disappearing again as the lights change and engines rev. Ginnie looks over just as her father disappears into the car. For a long second it’s just Ginnie and me, studying each other. There’s a hint of something unspoken in her eyes – not an apology, or even regret. But something like understanding.

  The lights beep their warning not to cross, startling me out of the exchange. I’ve missed my chance and have to wait for another cycle.

  I look back at Ginnie, but she’s in the car now, and it’s heading towards me with the surging traffic. Through the windscreen I can see Mr Perkins still berating her, while her eyes remain firmly ahead. Unwavering. Despite all those clingy friends, the boys who adore her and having more success than any one person should enjoy, Ginnie looks suddenly, painfully, alone.

  Maybe our worlds aren’t as far apart as I thought they were.

  Ever since Mum and Angus died, I’ve hated Sundays. Especially during the footy season. For most people it’s Mondays. But for me, Monday is a day closer to the weekend, while on Sunday, the weekend – the bit about it that I love, anyway – is already over. And there’s something so quiet about them, when the relief and excitement of a day at the footy has passed and I’m left alone with the worry and the dread and the quiet of our house.

  That was before. I like Sundays now. Sometimes I go to Josh’s for lunch, or he comes here. I’ve been at the McGuire house a lot lately. It was weird at first with Mrs McGuire knowing that Josh is my boyfriend. I’m not really sure what I expected her to say or do that first time I saw her after he told them. In the end, I stood in their kitchen, flushed and frowning, thinking hard about what I should say, if I should say anything different or special. But she didn’t wait for me to work it out. Before I had time to adjust to this new situation, she took me in her arms and kissed my forehead like she does with Josh. ‘I’m so happy we’re going to see more of you now, Shelley,’ she said. ‘We really missed you.’ And that was the end of it. Everything went back to exactly the way it was all those years before.

  Well, not exactly. Not with Josh anyway.

  So after Josh’s on Sunday afternoon I usually work on my articles for The Falcon’s Nest. I’m learning a lot, and the editor there, Mrs Evangeline, is nice. She’s a bit bossy and really hates it when anyone’s late, but she loves writing and she wants the paper to be great. No second prize. No room for carelessness. She says that if you’re going to do something, you might as well do you
r best or why bother. I like her a lot, although I’m not sure everyone else does.

  Fernlee Park is deserted when I go there. It’s off-season so the players aren’t around, and the cheersquad has no reason to show up. I haven’t seen anyone since the grand final, but two months after my internship starts, I run into Lisa on Fernlee Park Road on my way to work. She looks so different without make-up, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail; the flat school shoes and the square, sack-like school uniform changing her whole shape and even the way she walks. I almost walk past her without realising until she stops me and says hello. She says she’s on her way to the Glenthorn library, and I explain about the internship.

  ‘That sounds like fun. Must be weird, though, being there off-season.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s quiet. They’ll be back, though,’ I say.

  ‘What about you? Will you be back next year?’ she asks.

  ‘The internship lasts for a year,’ I say, without really answering her question. She means the cheersquad. And training. Will I be back? Honestly, I don’t know the answer, though I know it won’t be the same, no matter what I decide. ‘You?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘I’ll be doing my HSC. Doubt I’ll have time,’ she says, laughingly. ‘Renee won’t be happy. She said she’ll have to go back to Carringbush now, since we’re all so boring.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. ‘How’s Kimberly?’

  ‘Fine. She’s seeing Danny now. Think it’s serious. I doubt they’ll be back next year either.’

  ‘Not going to be many left,’ I say, not really believing it. Red will be there – I don’t even have to ask about her. Sharon and Jim-Bob and their endlessly bickering kids will be there too. Even David and the committee members who always get the best seats. Or someone just like them. There’s always someone to fill their spot. That’s how it works.

  Lisa asks about Tara and I tell her the basics. Nothing about her parents, just about changing schools and moving house.

  ‘She looked pretty wasted on grand final night – and pissed off too,’ Lisa says. It’s meant to be a question and I realise then that she doesn’t know what happened later.

  ‘Yeah, she was pretty drunk. We all were,’ I say. ‘Nothing serious, though.’ Some lies are good. The ones that don’t hurt anyone or don’t fester inside you. The kind that can save your friend from humiliation.

  I’m not sure she believes me, but I don’t care.

  ‘Good luck next year,’ I say, meaning it. I have to start thinking about Year 12 too. And about what happens after that. I have some ideas about what I want to do, but nothing for sure. One week at a time, I tell myself. One week at a time. I’m about to cross the road when I remember someone else. ‘Hey – Lisa! Do you see Bear at all?’

  She stops mid-step, almost slamming into a woman with a pram. She apologises to the woman and turns around, her face flushed and a funny smile on her face. ‘Er, yeah.’

  I stand there, waiting.

  ‘He’s fine,’ she says.

  But there’s more. I can hear it in her voice. ‘Wait . . . He’s mates with Danny. So you’d see him a bit, wouldn’t you?’

  She does something cute with her shoulders before she nods. ‘Yeah. He’s . . . good. Jason is really good.’

  Jason? No one calls him that. ‘Are you and Bear together?’

  She blushes furiously, smiling. She doesn’t quite nod. It’s more of a shrug.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, then wish I could take it right back. But when I try to picture this pretty, slim girl hand in hand with the huge, tattooed Bear, the only thing that can come out is another wow.

  ‘He’s enrolling in TAFE,’ she says, her blush fading, her smile widening. ‘He’s getting fit and losing weight,’ she says quickly. ‘It was the job – all that crappy food on building sites. But he looks great now.’

  I realise she’s defending him to me. ‘No. Hey. Bear – Jason – is great. Really, really great. I think you make a perfect couple,’ I add, meaning it. ‘Say hi to him for me, will you?’

  ‘Yeah. And say hi to Tara for me.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, and decide to call Tara that night. We could catch up for a movie or a concert – something that has nothing to do with football.

  There’s a first time for everything.

  The next Sunday, I’m sitting in our lounge room, having just finished my final draft for the week’s article – a summary of the new players and what we can expect from them over the next few years. Dad has already given it the nod of approval, and we’re both watching the TV. The news is halfway over. There are still footy stories occasionally – the Warriors’ end of year trip, that kind of thing. But it’s faded out with the cricket season starting up. ‘And the big news in footy tonight is the trading of Mick Edwards from Glenthorn to Sydney in what’s seen to be the beginning of the fallout after Glenthorn’s surprise loss in this year’s grand final.’

  I knew it was coming, but I thought he’d go back to South Perth, to be honest, back to those beautiful beaches. Either way, I knew he was leaving Glenthorn, and I thought I was okay with that. Except now, as I sit here in the quiet living room, the words ring in my ears like a siren, announcing the end of something important.

  I can’t look at Dad. He’s been so good with everything that’s happened – with Josh and me, with the McGuires being back in our lives, and with my new job at Fernlee Park. Over the weeks, I’ve noticed some of the photographs from the Arnotts tin appear in brand-new frames on the wall: one of Mum and Dad at their wedding, another of the four of us at the beach – Rosebud, I think, or maybe Rye. And another of Angus and me when we were babies, both of us looking so different to each other – him dark-skinned and dark-eyed like Mum, and me fairer with blonde stringy hair and eyes that look like a mix of Mum’s and Dad’s – that you wouldn’t think we were related, let alone twins.

  Dad has even bought a standalone frame for his bedside table, and in it he’s slipped a photo of him and Mum, taken when they were young, both dressed for a formal dinner or party. Right next to it is a matching photo of them taken right before Mum and Angus died, their clothes from a different time, but there’s the same shiny happiness in their eyes. I think that one’s my favourite.

  I blink at the TV, surprised that seeing Mick still hurts. I don’t brave a look at Dad, but I can feel his worry and discomfort like they’re physical things, standing beside him, dwarfing us both. I’m a little ashamed of myself that it still matters, so I force a smile – which comes out more like a grimace – but Dad seems to take something from it, because he smiles back.

  After the news item finishes and the weather report begins, Dad breaks the awkward silence. ‘I taped the game,’ he says.

  It takes me a moment to work out what he means. There are no games on right now. It’s almost summer.

  ‘The grand final,’ Dad clarifies, sensing my hesitation. ‘I taped it for you.’

  Of course he did. Through all our silences and our difficult moments, Dad always did what he said he’d do. I asked him to tape the match because I thought we’d win. I wanted to sit in the lounge room and relive our success over and over. To revel in Mick’s win – our win – blow by blow, goal by goal, and analyse it all until I knew it by heart. Except we lost and Mick has gone. And nothing will be the same again.

  But I’m still here and this is now, and I refuse to let these moments defeat me. Pick myself up, dust myself off and get back to position.

  I widen my smile and nod at the TV. ‘What are you waiting for? Put it on.’ My voice sounds unnaturally bright, even to me, but it doesn’t crack, and the tears that prick the back of my eyes don’t spill.

  Dad sits on the couch beside me, places his legs on the footrest and smiles gently. He suddenly looks strong to me. Bigger than when I was a little, but more distant, too. And I understand that I will never feel as safe as I did back when I was a small child in my dad’s arms, back when I had a mother and a twin brother, all of us taking care of each other, being a piece
of a whole, the whole being better than the sum of its parts, the champion team always better than a team of champions. But that’s okay. There’s still Dad and me. It’s not perfect, but it’s okay. We’ll be okay.

  The Falcons theme song kicks in and we watch the boys burst through the cheersquad’s amazing run-through banner, the house-sized image of Killer Compton tearing through the middle, and for a second I’m right back there, the roar of the crowd in my ears, the buzz in the air. One hundred thousand people united in the singular hope that today they’ll come out on top. The sun shines with that delicious September clarity and the commentators remind us that this is the biggest day on the Melbourne calendar.

  I settle back into the couch and rest my feet on the ottoman beside Dad’s. ‘You never know,’ I say, the beginnings of a real smile starting somewhere inside me, rising up to touch my eyes. ‘We just might get up and win this time.’

  I am and always have been a huge AFL fan. Much like Shelley, and to the chagrin of my twin brother, I ‘played’ for the local footy club during my primary school years. Because of how girls were viewed back then, this was limited to training with them religiously and wandering wistfully along the boundary line, hoping I might one day get a game. There was a lot of talk that I would, too. This lasted until, following an appeal by my coach to the competition tribunal, the administrators officially banned me from playing, on the grounds that the game wasn’t safe for girls to participate. Although this ban was lifted for girls under 14 only a couple of years later, it was too late for me. By then I was ensconced in secondary school and had already found my way to the steps of Glenferrie Oval, where I deposited myself for a good chunk of my teenage years. There were many times that the only solace I could find from that endless ache that is adolescence was in the shape of a muddied red Sherrin and those impossible-to-accessorise brown-and-gold stripes. So before I thank the people in my life, I’d like to acknowledge my first real love in that oft-cited, heartfelt cry: ‘Carn the Hawks!’