Cloudwish

by Fiona Wood

  Billy and Ben Capaldi were the only two year elevens in the first eight. The other crew members and the cox were year twelves. She recognised them, but didn’t know any of them.

  Ben was concentrating so intently she could feel it even from the bank. Sheer, brutal willpower was driving him. But Billy looked angry, as though harnessing every negative emotion to fuel the relentless repetition of the stroke.

  She walked down the embankment to the edge of the water to be closer to the crew’s level, and shot a series of stills as they rowed. She’d give them to the editor of the school newsletter – contributing-to-community-life bonus.

  As well as all the evident mental exertion, she could certainly see great beauty in the harmony of what they were doing. Beauty, too, in the way Billy seemed so easily, so perfectly, suited to the sport. Born to row. His muscled arms, wide, square shoulders and long legs seemed purpose-built – and she supposed, in a sense, that’s exactly what training did: build this body to move that long boat through the water.

  When the cox called, ‘Easy. Rest,’ and the boys relaxed, stretched backwards, their faces broke out in grimaces of relief and grins of satisfaction that were short-lived. The coach was yelling back at them, ‘Let’s have a set of sprints from here to Princes Bridge. On Jonno’s count.’

  Walking back to Billy’s, she felt autumn’s incipience in the warm afternoon, a whisper that the early evening might be cooler than the string of hot nights they’d had for the last few weeks.

  ‘You know when you shower after training . . .?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What, if anything, do you do with your hair?’

  He put a hand up, grabbed a handful of hair and gave it a squeeze. ‘Nothing. I guess I sort of pull it together, like a ponytail, squeeze it, and then I shake my head. That’s about it.’

  ‘I figured.’

  ‘Low maintenance.’

  She smiled at him. He sure was Mr Careless Magnificence. No preening or vanity. Or maybe the vanity was so deeply assured it didn’t need constant reinforcement. Interesting.

  ‘What do you do with your hair?’

  She laughed. ‘Pretty much the same, actually. I brush it and let it air-dry. I can’t be faffed spending time with a blow dryer.’

  ‘We’re so hair-compatible. We should go out. Oh, wait . . .’

  ‘What are you thinking about when you row?’

  ‘I’m not thinking; it’s pure physical effort.’

  ‘No, but where is your head?’

  ‘I’m not kidding; it’s just – for me, anyway – one hundred per cent concentrated, in the moment, in the body. Or I’d fuck it up.’

  ‘So, what’s the good bit?’

  ‘Winning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All the work’s paid off.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘You know, it’s like lots of sport; it’s not an intellectual thing.’

  ‘And yet it’s what’ll get you to Brown.’

  ‘If I do well enough academically.’

  ‘Of course you’ll do well. You’re smart, you will excel. That’s what Crowthorne Grammar does. It’s an excel factory.’

  ‘But with a heart.’

  ‘That’s part of the excel – the human, well-rounded angle.’

  ‘True. Anyway, I’ll definitely excel now I’ve got you as my English partner.’

  ‘That’s not for keeps; it’s only for our first oral prep.’

  Billy leaned in, arm around her waist, and kissed her; as they walked on he held her hand in his engulfing, calloused grip.

  ‘How am I going – breaking down the PDA resistance?’

  ‘I’m still resistant. But back to rowing – what is it that you love? It must be love, right? It takes up so much of your life.’ She imagined that whatever it was that pulled him out of bed at such ungodly hours must be, to him, something as desirable as art was to her.

  Billy looked thoughtful, and dubious. ‘I don’t know that I love it. It’s just always been there – my dad rowed in the first eight, and my grandfather, and so do I. I like it when we’re flying along. The rhythm. If I can forget the pain. And you get used to that. You can put the pain in a different part of your head and ignore it.’

  ‘You’re a machine.’

  ‘Yeah, baby.’

  ‘I’m not a baby.’

  ‘But you’re a babe.’

  ‘Nuh-uh. Is anything we’re talking about in Theory of Knowledge sinking in?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said, rethinking. ‘You’re – beautiful?’

  ‘That’s more acceptable, so long as you don’t just love me for my beauty.’ She was being flippant, but felt embarrassed that the L word had slipped out in this particular context.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Despite your beauty being . . . great . . . it’s the least of the reasons I love you.’

  They walked along a few more steps.

  Surely now she would hear a shimmer of fairy bells. Come on, cue magic SFX. He’d actually said those words? That had to be wish-induced. If his parents knew what he’d just said, they’d probably have her banished from the city. Or at least from the school.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That was a bit intense. Sorry. I’ve never said that before.’ He broke out into a huge smile; he leaned down, and they kissed again, and worry about being affectionate in public was the last thing on her mind.

  Mel was like something from old American TV make-believe land. This afternoon, in that pristine kitchen, sat a plateful of homemade chocolate chip biscuits, and another of chilled grapes and strawberries. Moving through the house was a little more fraught now that Vân Ước had met the parents, but they made it upstairs with no sightings.

  Kissing Billy was like discovering a many-petalled, deep, complicated flower, with her mouth. First, his lips, smooth and strong. She’d never thought of lips as strong or weak, but his expressed such confident intention. They moved over her face and mouth and neck as though with a true compass. These lips were surrounded by rasping whiskers. She touched her fingertips along his jawline and felt the direction of the whiskers change. So alien and beautiful. They created their own growth pattern. There was a tiny whorl under the end of the jawbone on the left side of his face.

  ‘Do I need a shave?’ Billy whispered.

  ‘I don’t know. I like the way your face feels.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  She considered this for a while. ‘Strange, but good.’

  Then there was his open mouth. She loved the taste of him – the inside of his mouth was an unexpectedly great place to be. The whole thing disconcertingly reminded her of the mew; she put it out of her head. Right now, if there were an animal noise she might make, it would be a demanding growl, which might be a bit frightening; perhaps better all round if she avoided animal sounds. At least until they’d known each other a bit longer.

  Surely kissing like this couldn’t be very far removed on the Richter scale from what actual sex must be like. They were inside each other in a seductively involving way, being pulled through concentric circles of longing to the deep centre of things.

  They were lying on his bed now, watching and touching each other, aching, entranced. The maybe-probably-impossible-wish had become a nagging backbeat of anxiety, but this – this was real-world magic – a spell insistently weaving them together.

  The idea of drowning in someone’s eyes had always seemed too silly for words. Not anymore. Not now that she knew Billy’s eyes. The outer circle of each blue iris was thick and black; the blueness, at close range, was assembled from myriad fractured facets; his lashes and eyebrows were dark and defined.

  It felt as though she might have been kissing Billy Gardiner for a thousand days and that they would keep kissing forever. When he put his hand under her dress and up, gently, between her legs, she hel
d it there, and moved against it until she came. He didn’t take his eyes off her face, and she only squeezed her eyes shut because she couldn’t not.

  She’d barely had time to wonder how they’d so quickly leapfrogged to here, or worry that she had no idea how to return the favour, and that he would soon know the full extent of her sexual cluelessness, when there were three sharp knocks on his bedroom door, making them both sit up quickly, trying to breathe normally.

  Billy picked up a book and said, ‘Yeah?’

  His mother came in. ‘Hello, darling. Hello . . .’

  ‘Vân Ước,’ said Billy.

  ‘Of course: Vân Ước.’

  ‘Hi.’

  How must this look to Billy’s mother? They were both in full school uniform; neither of them had even one button undone. Her dress was on the slightly too-big side, loose and almost knee-length. Billy’s books and folder were on the bed, and so were hers. It kind of looked like they’d been working there. They had been working there. Before they were kissing there. The only giveaway was her school shoes. Off, next to the bed. And perhaps their flushed faces.

  Billy’s mother seemed to be talking to Vân Ước’s shoes, those guilty little islands on the floor. ‘I just popped up to say it’s nearly dinnertime. Would Vân Ước like to stay, or does she need to be getting home?’

  ‘Thank you – Abi – but I’d better get going.’ She looked at her watch. It was later than she’d realised.

  ‘What a shame. Perhaps another time.’

  The way Abi said what a shame reminded her of Tiff and Holly’s sorry. And she guessed another time might be when hell froze over.

  chapter 33

  Vân Ước just smiled when she saw Billy at the gate so early the next morning. Last week was outrage and suspicion. This week was irrationality and going with the wish flow. How far she’d travelled from the land of common sense.

  Billy glanced up at the windows of the flats and risked giving her the swiftest kiss on the cheek.

  They walked along Albert Street, talking. Billy was ridiculously pleased about the common room prank he was about to set up, then he wanted to hear all about her folio work, and she admitted that she hadn’t told her parents about her plans to study art.

  ‘Nice con,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not exactly a con; I wouldn’t need to be selective truth-telling if I had normal parents.’ It felt disloyal to speak of her parents in those terms, but as far as her subject choices went, they weren’t normal.

  ‘No such thing,’ Billy said absently. ‘Not that I’ve ever come across, anyway.’

  Closer to school, Billy stopped at a cafe to get a takeaway coffee. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  As they entered the small and, to her, intimidatingly cool place, Billy started ordering, ‘Can I please get a large double shot . . .’

  ‘. . . latte, to take away,’ said the man making coffee.

  ‘Total recall,’ said Billy, admiring. ‘Better get a toasted cheese and tomato on sourdough to go, too. Thanks, man.’ He turned to her again. ‘You sure you don’t want something to eat?’

  She shook her head.

  While they waited for the two slices of bread to be crisped and browned, and the cheese to melt, she tried to figure out why this place intimidated her. Too cool sort of summarised it, but that meant what, exactly? The interior: expensively minimalist designer. The staff: black wraparound aprons, defined biceps, hipster ink and piercings. And the clientele: Lululemon-ed, with high wifi expectations.

  Then there was the absence of a visible price list. The chalkboard had a range of food and drinks written in arty, spiky script, no prices. The printed menus had prices, but by the time you asked for one of those, you were committed to buying something, weren’t you? Or could you just browse the menu, register that a toasted cheese and tomato was going to cost you twelve bucks to go and sixteen to eat in, and back out of there, slowly? How much better was it going to be than the toasted cheese and tomato on Albert Street for less than half the price? Or the one you could make yourself, after school, for about a twentieth of the price? Billy paid and they left.

  She looked at him, happily eating and walking, and decided it was unlikely that he had ever, even once in his life, had to make that kind of calculation. Whereas her life was full of those little lists of impossible figures – how hourly rates would add up to a new lens or more prints for her folio or a return airfare to Sydney or winter boots or Chanel instead of a cheap brand of nail polish (once, just once).

  Billy had finished the coffee and sandwich by the time they got to the common room. He dumped his rubbish into the bin.

  ‘What are you calling that meal?’

  ‘A post-breakfast, pre-recess snack, I guess,’ he said, burping. ‘Sorry, that’s gross. I think I know how we’re going to get this up.’ He walked over to the camera zone and pulled a table right up underneath the corner of the ceiling to which it was fixed. He put a chair on the table and balanced a stool on the chair. He then put another chair on the table next to it. He jumped down and went to the cupboard in the kitchen area where he’d stashed a tripod with telescopic legs.

  ‘Did you nick that from the art room?’

  ‘Borrowed it,’ he said.

  ‘Did you sign it out?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Then you nicked it.’

  ‘But isn’t nicking something for a defined and finite time pretty similar to borrowing?’

  ‘Similar, except in the detail of the owners not knowing where it is or who’s got it.’

  Billy smiled. ‘They’re always telling us that the student body is the school, so if I am the school, don’t I sort of own it?’

  Michael walked in to hear her ask, ‘Won’t they see us? Like, now? On the screens?’ As she spoke, she carefully placed herself out of viewing range, kicking herself that she hadn’t thought of it earlier.

  ‘The full-time security dude doesn’t get in till eight. I can’t imagine them looking at earlier footage unless there’d been some sort of break-in overnight.’

  Billy gave Michael a cool look. ‘Hey, man – you’re turning up a lot, lately. Are you actually following us? Or is this just a whole lot of bad luck?’

  Michael put his bag down. ‘In this case, I am following you.’

  ‘Just so you know, it’s creepy.’

  Vân Ước gave Michael an apologetic shrug as Billy got a folder out of his bag, and from the folder a print of the photo Vân Ước had helped him shoot of the empty room, which he’d stuck onto a piece of cardboard, so it was rigid.

  He got a roll of tape out, made some tape loops and stuck the print on the plate of the tripod where a camera usually went.

  ‘Okay.’ He climbed up on the table, and onto the chair on the table, then pulled out the tripod legs to their maximum length and positioned them so they’d fit on the stool. He manoeuvred the tripod until the photographic image was close to the camera on the ceiling.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Vân Ước.

  ‘Should be about right.’

  ‘Why are you getting Vân Ước involved in this?’ Michael asked. ‘She could get into trouble purely at the service of your weak joke.’

  ‘Yeah, only she has this thing – free will?’ said Billy.

  ‘If you expect this to work, you’ll have to go and check that the photo edges are out of shot on the security screen,’ said Michael. ‘And you also have to know you will definitely get caught within a couple of days, and Vân Ước can’t afford to be part of that.’

  Billy climbed down carefully, so as not to move the chair/stool/tripod assemblage. ‘Okay, now can you go?’

  Michael ignored Billy and said to Vân Ước, ‘It’s not a smart idea for you to be involved. Think about it.’

  She was already involved. ‘Billy said
he’ll take the blame.’

  ‘That’s not always the perpetrator’s call, unfortunately,’ said Michael.

  Billy pulled a Sharpie from his bag and wrote a note – Don’t mess with this – it’s showing the common room empty on the security camera. You’re welcome – and taped it conspicuously in front of the chair/stool/tripod tower.

  A few people were starting to straggle in.

  ‘What’s that meant to be? Art?’ asked Annie suspiciously, looking at the set-up. But on reading the sign, she was thrilled. ‘Classic, Billy. Classic.’

  Billy headed off to training, late again, and Vân Ước to rehearsal.

  By morning break everyone knew that the rebels had taken the common room, and people were freely lighting up cigarettes in there – ‘just like the good old days’, as Pippa said, blowing smoke out the window with a dreamy all’s right with the world smile.

  Billy had a look at the security screens on a bogus visit to lost property and reported that it looked completely realistic. An innocently empty room was all that appeared on the screen.

  More deceptive appearances.

  And Michael, of course, was right; being part of a popular funny-boy prank involved more anxiety than fun.

  chapter 34

  They stood at the edge of the sandpit together at homework club that Friday in a harmonious lull. Nobody was hitting anybody or attempting to take the implement that someone else was using. Vardi was scratching her head again. More lice. Vân Ước would have to remind her mother about the importance of getting rid of the eggs, not just the critters, and give her another information sheet. She probably should have taken Vardi out of the sandpit, but, seriously, it was a losing battle in this age group. Someone was always scratching.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about rowing – you know, what you were asking me about why I like it,’ said Billy.