Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend

by Wilkinson, Lili

  ‘I’ve drawn up some designs for the site,’ he says, opening the folder. He doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by the dragon, so I don’t know why I am.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the text all ready to go. We just need to build it.’

  ‘Do you have Dreamweaver?’ George asks.

  I’m about to say ‘No, but Tahni can get it for us,’ when I remember that I’m not in a position to be asking Tahni any favours at the moment. Or really, speaking to her at all. So I just shake my head.

  ‘We need to figure out how to publicise it,’ says George. ‘Flyers?’

  I nod. ‘And we can put something in the school newsletter.’

  ‘Email?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Oh, and we should run a competition. Contribute to the Secret Project and go into the running to win movie tickets or something.’

  ‘The Secret Project,’ George says, smiling. ‘I like that. Sounds like a top secret government file.’

  I feel strangely proud to have impressed him. So much of this project has been his ideas. At least I came up with the name.

  ‘Like those files that prove that the moon landing was fake,’ I say.

  George laughs. ‘Or that Madonna was assassinated by the Ku Klux Klan in the 80s and was replaced with a robot.’

  ‘Or that Bert Newton is an alien in a rubber mask!’

  That really sets George off, and we speculate about which other celebrities are aliens wearing rubber masks.

  ‘What about Oprah?’ I say. ‘Or Paris Hilton?’

  George laughs again. ‘So how was the party?’ he asks, out of the blue.

  Just like that, my nice warm Sunday evening feeling vanishes. It’s as though I’m back at Nina’s. Tahni is looking at me with cold, make-up-smeared eyes. Ben is talking to that hair-extensions girl. The vomit is splattered all over the bathroom. The floral couch is being deflowered.

  I swallow. ‘How did you know about the party?’ I ask, trying to buy time.

  George shrugs. ‘Everybody at school was talking about it on Friday.’

  ‘Oh.’ I feel guilty that George wasn’t invited. But it wasn’t my party. Even though Nina said I could bring whoever. I don’t think George counts. And he wouldn’t have had a good time anyway. Not that I had a good time.

  I’m pretty sure George can read my thoughts, because he says, ‘I would have gone, but I had other plans.’

  I nod. This is a lie, and we both know it. But it makes things easier.

  ‘So?’ he says.

  I stare at him. I really, really don’t want to talk about the party.

  ‘How was it?’ he asks again.

  ‘It was okay.’

  I pick up his folder and consider his notes. A loose page falls out onto the floor. I reach for it.

  ‘Don’t–’ says George.

  I stare at it. It’s a map. It looks like a map from a fantasy novel. Everything’s divided up into little octagons, which are all different colours. There’s a bunch of red octagons together in the area called ‘Eldritch Swamplands’. There’s an even bigger blue section in the ‘Forests of Rangokk’. The biggest section is yellow, which stretches from the ‘Hollow Mountains’ to the ‘Simikk Plains’.

  George snatches it out of my hands.

  ‘Is this from a book?’ I say.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says, folding the map and stuffing it in his pocket.

  ‘What is it? A map to buried treasure?’

  George waves a hand at his folder, which is still on my lap. ‘We should get started on writing this proposal.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Come on, tell me what it was.’

  He looks so awkward, I think he might fall apart. ‘It’s really not important,’ he says. ‘We have work to do.’

  ‘It is important,’ I say. ‘We’re doing a project about secrets. And you seem to have one.’

  I think I might be flirting with George. This is very strange.

  ‘Come on,’ I plead. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell me about the party.’

  Checkmate.

  Now it’s my turn to squirm. ‘It was fine,’ I say. ‘You know, just a party.’

  George raises his eyebrows and his forehead does the crinkly thing it does. ‘So you didn’t have a good time.’

  ‘Sure I did,’ I say, without much enthusiasm.

  ‘Did you and Mister Perfect have a fight?’ asks George.

  He knows about me and Ben. For a moment I feel quite proud – king and queen of the school again. But the feeling doesn’t last long.

  ‘No,’ I say, but I’m not sure if that’s true.

  ‘Then what?’

  What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?

  ‘I sort of had a fight with Tahni.’ I’m surprised that I say it. To George of all people. I really don’t want to talk about it, but it all comes spilling out.

  ‘Ever since Ben arrived, she’s been weird,’ I say. ‘It’s like I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. She just wants to keep me in my little box where she can bring me out and play with me when she wants to. I’m not allowed to have a life of my own. Boys are her territory. I’m just there to be teased for not having one.’

  I stop. I’m coming dangerously close to talking about the whole Imaginary Boyfriend thing.

  ‘Why are you friends with her?’ George asks.

  I shrug. ‘We’ve always been friends,’ I say. ‘Since kinder.’

  ‘So, you’re just friends out of habit?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She’s fun. She’s always thinking up exciting things to do. Like when we went snorkelling in the fountain outside the Art Gallery. Or when we dressed up in our mums’ fancy dresses and crashed a wedding in the Fitzroy Gardens.’

  ‘But is she a good friend?’ asks George.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s she like when you’re not having fun? When you’re sad?’

  I think about this. ‘She bought me a Snickers bar when I failed a Maths test last year,’ I say. ‘And when I had tonsillitis in Year 7 she came over each day after school and told me what I’d missed.’ I smile. She wrote me a letter in every class, and tied them with a pink ribbon for me to read the next day. ‘She’s a good friend,’ I say. ‘Or at least she was.’

  ‘What was the fight about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘She was really drunk, and she wanted to dance with Ben. She was all over him, and I got angry–’

  I stop because I honestly think I might cry or throw up.

  ‘So she’s jealous,’ George says.

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ I say, my voice going wobbly. ‘She has a new boyfriend every five minutes!’

  George smiles his serious smile. ‘Don’t you think that’s why she’s jealous?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you think she has a new boyfriend every five minutes?’ he asks.

  I shrug.

  ‘Maybe,’ says George gently, ‘Maybe it’s because she hasn’t found the right one? And so she’s trying and trying to find one she has a connection with, and you stroll in and find the perfect boy on the first go.’

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. I frown at George. ‘Are you gay?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s no big deal if you are,’ I say. ‘You just seem awfully perceptive for a boy.’

  He laughs. ‘I’m not gay.’

  I’m not sure I believe him.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ George says. ‘When Tahni was “all over” Ben – what did he do?’

  I think about Ben’s hands on Tahni’s waist.

  ‘Did he blow her off?’ asks George.

  ‘No-o,’ I say. ‘He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.’

  ‘So he hurt yours instead.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I say.

  ‘But he danced with her.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t want to.’

  George makes a skeptical face. ‘And he told you that.’

  I bi
te my lip.

  ‘Sounds like a really nice guy, your Mister Perfect,’ says George.

  I think about Ben leaning towards the blonde girl with his special half-smile. I swallow.

  ‘He is nice,’ I say. ‘He is perfect. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’ George says. ‘That he’s a player?’

  ‘You don’t know what he’s done for me,’ I say. I think about what would have happened if Ben hadn’t kept my secret. Who cares if he was talking to some girl? He’s allowed to talk to other girls. I talk to other boys. There’s a boy in my freaking bedroom! Doesn’t mean I want to pash him (shudder). I’m turning into one of those creepy overprotective girlfriends who deletes girls’ phone numbers from their boyfriends’ mobile. I need to chill. Ben wouldn’t have kept my secret if he didn’t like me. He wouldn’t have spent almost all of the party kissing me on the couch. He wouldn’t look at me the way he does if he didn’t feel the same way I do.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ I say to George. ‘Relationships are complicated.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I understand?’

  I don’t want to say this, but I do anyway. ‘It’s obvious you’ve never had a girlfriend,’ I say. ‘You’re too much of a weirdo.’

  George’s lips go very thin. ‘Of course it is,’ he says. ‘Obvious.’

  He reaches over and takes his folder. ‘I should go,’ he says.

  ‘George,’ I say. ‘Wait. I’m sorry. That came out the wrong way.’

  ‘No it didn’t,’ he says, smiling a self-deprecating smile. ‘I appreciate your honesty.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ I say. ‘We still have work to do on the Secret Project.’

  He shrugs on his backpack. ‘My mum is expecting me home for dinner,’ he says.

  I tell Mum I’m not feeling well and go to bed before dinner. This has been the worst weekend of my entire life. I can’t imagine how it can get any worse than this. I realise that having a good long cry might make me feel better, but I can’t do it. There aren’t any tears. I’m tired and empty and more than anything I just want to be asleep.

  I wake up at 3 am, starving. I tiptoe downstairs.

  As I’m walking through the darkened lounge room, I hear noises in the kitchen. The door is ajar, and the kitchen light is on. It’s a strange, sniffling, choking sound. Our old dog used to sound like that just before he threw up.

  I peer around the kitchen door.

  It’s Dad. He has a cup of tea in front of him, and his shoulders are shaking up and down and he’s making this strange, gasping, gulping noise.

  I wonder if it’s Grandma. Maybe she’s dead. I suddenly feel guilty for not visiting her.

  I’m about to say something, but Dad looks so weird. I’ve never seen him cry before. Parents aren’t supposed to cry. They’re not supposed to have emotions, apart from anger, disappointment and pride. And fatigue. But they’re never supposed to cry. It seems like such a personal, private thing. I wonder why he’s crying down here. Why isn’t he crying in the bedroom where Mum can comfort him? Does he think it’s not manly to cry? Is he embarrassed?

  Maybe he hasn’t told Mum about Grandma. Maybe he’s trying to figure out how to tell her. And me.

  I feel cold and sick, a bit like I did last night at the party.

  It’s scary seeing Dad cry.

  I sneak back upstairs and slide into bed. I squeeze Gregory tight. I don’t want to turn the light off. I’m far too old to be scared of the dark, but all of a sudden I want to be a kid again. The party, Ben, Tahni. Mum acting strange. Dad crying.

  Life used to be so much simpler.

  11 re·cal·ci·trant

  –adjective; resisting authority; not obedient; rebellious.

  – The Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words

  The next morning I go downstairs with my face composed. I wonder what I should do when they tell me Grandma’s dead. Should I act surprised? Should I cry? I’m not sure if I can cry, now that I already know.

  Dad’s sitting at the breakfast table, in almost exactly the same position as he was last night. Except now there is a newspaper spread on the table, and he’s wearing a suit and has a bowl of muesli in front of him.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I say.

  He looks up and smiles. ‘Morning, chicken,’ he says, then goes back to his newspaper.

  I open the fridge and fossick around for the orange juice, waiting for him to tell me.

  He turns a page of the newspaper.

  I pour a glass of orange juice, and pull out last night’s leftover curry and start to eat it cold.

  Dad makes a face. Here it comes. ‘Midge, that smells revolting,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how you can eat that stuff so early in the morning.’

  Maybe he’s softening the blow. Maybe he doesn’t want to tell me before school.

  I can’t stand the pressure.

  ‘How was Grandma yesterday?’

  Dad shrugs. ‘Oh, you know your grandmother,’ he says. ‘In her own happy little world. She asked me if I’d come to deliver the new bookshelves. Then she told me a story about when she used to live in Scotland.’

  ‘Grandma lived in Scotland?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ says Dad. ‘She’s never left Australia.’

  ‘Oh.’ I put the rest of the curry back in the fridge. ‘So she’s all right, then? Healthy?’

  ‘As a horse,’ says Dad. ‘I think she’ll outlive us all.’

  This is weird. Surely Dad wouldn’t lie to me about her being dead. But if she’s not dead, then what was he crying about last night?

  I get to school just as the bell rings, so I hurry to form assembly without going to my locker first. I try to convince myself that it’s because I missed the tram, but actually it’s because I don’t want to run into Tahni. Or Ben. I don’t really want to see George, either, but we’re in the same form, so I can’t avoid him.

  Except it seems like I can, because he studiously ignores me throughout form assembly, and then runs off as soon as the first period bell rings. I’m ridiculously glad, because it means I don’t have to confront the fact that’s been churning at the back of my mind since last night. The terrible truth that George was right about Ben.

  As I make my way from form assembly to History, I run into Nina Kennan.

  ‘Great party, hey?’ she says. ‘I was so wasted.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Wasted.’

  ‘Have you seen Tahni?’

  I shake my head and feel guilty.

  ‘She must still be sick.’ Nina leans towards me conspiratorially. ‘I heard her mum took her to hospital. After Chris dropped her home.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘She got her stomach pumped. Alcohol poisoning.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say. I remember her, stumbling away with Chris Stitz. ‘I didn’t realise she was that drunk.’

  Nina winks at me. ‘I’m sure you had other things on your mind,’ she says with a smile. ‘Like that gorgeous man of yours.’

  I ignore this. ‘She really had her stomach pumped? You’re sure?’

  I swallow. It wasn’t my fault. Tahni’s a big girl. She should have known better than to drink so much. And it still doesn’t excuse her behaviour.

  ‘Yep,’ says Nina. ‘I had to have it done last New Year’s. They force a tube down your throat and put charcoal in your stomach. The charcoal soaks up the alcohol and makes you vomit up all this black stuff.’

  Make her stop. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to think about Tahni with a tube in her throat.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘I have a … a thing. See you.’

  I flee, feeling like the lowliest, most hateful and awfullest creature in the world.

  I don’t listen in History. Not even when Mr Loriot misspells goverment, disemmination and reccurrance. I can’t stop thinking about Tahni, lying in hospital with charcoal smeared around her mouth, the same way that eyeliner was smeared around her eyes at the party. I think about what George said. />
  Maybe it’s because she hasn’t found the right one? And so she’s trying and trying to find one she has a connection with, and you stroll in and find the perfect boy on the first go.

  But did I?

  I think about Ben dancing with Tahni. And talking to the blonde girl in the kitchen. I think about all the times he called me on the phone or hung out with me. I think about him kissing me. I think about Imaginary Ben. He wouldn’t have got me to keep doing his MySpace page. He would have done his own English project. He wouldn’t hit me up every recess for a dollar to buy a Mars Bar.

  When the bell goes, I wander out in a daze and shuffle towards my locker.

  I feel hands on my waist and turn. It’s Ben. He leans in to kiss me, and I pull away. I don’t know why, but I don’t want him to touch me. Every thing I ever found adorable about him now seems sleazy and repulsive. His perfect-fitting uniform and perfect floppy hair are annoying. How much time does he spend in front of the mirror every morning getting it to look like that?

  ‘Did you get my email?’ Ben asks. He doesn’t appear to notice my repulsion. ‘I’ve got a few more suggestions for my project.’

  He doesn’t ask what happened to me at the party. He probably didn’t even notice I’d gone.

  I take a deep breath. ‘We need to talk,’ I say. ‘In private.’

  I drag him into an empty classroom. Ben smirks and reaches towards me.

  ‘I like the way you think,’ he says, pulling me towards him and leaning down to kiss me again.

  I pull away. He raises his perfect eyebrows. I wonder if he plucks them. ‘What’s your problem?’ he asks.

  I edge away until there is a table between us. ‘This has to stop,’ I say.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘This. You. Me. Us. It’s over, okay?’

  Ben laughs. ‘Do you have your period?’

  I shake my head. ‘Just stay away from me.’

  Ben stops laughing. ‘What’s your problem?’ he asks again. ‘You wanted the perfect boyfriend. That’s what you got. So what’s with all the angst?’

  I feel as if I’m split in two. A part of me is absolutely disgusted by him, and at myself for letting him use me. But another part is remembering how special I felt when we kissed on the couch at the party. How proud I felt to walk down the hall at school holding his hand. How I loved the sound of his English accent tickling my ear over the phone.