Head of the River

by Pip Harry

  ‘You think?’ Leni asks, looking unsure.

  ‘Yeah. I personally don’t like the guy, but he loves rowing and he wants it so hard. So I heard you and Adam broke up. He’s pretty cut up about losing you.’

  ‘I deserve to be dumped. I was a terrible girlfriend.’

  ‘Not terrible. Misunderstood.’

  ‘Feel like a run later?’ she asks.

  ‘Not a snowball’s chance.’

  ‘Might head out on my own then. Get some salt and grease into you.’

  I need the world’s longest shower and to take last night’s clothes to the laundry and disinfect them. But having a shower means leaving the four walls of my bedroom and I won’t do it. Instead, I lie in bed with my laptop and try to reach out to Penny via messages on my Facebook wall.

  I update my status.

  Sunday, 12 December, 10.47 am.

  Cristian Popescu is so sorry.

  I’m hoping for an inbox message from Penny and I obsessively refresh the page. I get eighteen replies from guys at school saying what a loser I am. One from Adam telling me to turn my phone on.

  I rifle through my playlist trying to find the right words. The right mood. No song is right. They can’t possible say what I feel when I see her glide past in her boat, when she kneels down to screw in her oar or ties her hair back in a ponytail. How much I want to hug her, not even do anything X-rated. Well, not yet anyway. Just hold her and feel her chin rest on my chest and smell that girl smell. Have her whisper something, just to me, and to feel that everything might be okay.

  Desperate, I make up my own poem.

  Cristian Popescu Beautiful girl/ stupid boy/ A big mistake/ I take it all back/ will you give me another chance?

  I regret pressing the update button immediately. I might as well have posted Cristian Popescu is hopelessly in love with Penny Misson, who hates his (weak) guts.

  My friends, and I use that term loosely, send eleven messages in rapid-fire succession. Most of which go a little like this:

  Nick Jamison: Cristian you sad, sad prick.

  Adam Langley: Awww, babycakes. I think you’re beautiful too. Meet me later?

  I type ‘Inbox?’ hoping Penny will contact me privately.

  Adam sends me a private instead. Forget it Poppa. She’s never going there again.

  I sigh, hoping Penny will show up. Nothing. Is she out there, looking?

  I get another message on my feed.

  Jodie Popescu: Cristian, I’m coming in.

  Thirty seconds later there’s a knock at the door and Mum bustles in. She crinkles her nose as she’s hit by the rank stench of my BO and stale alcohol. She opens up the blinds and the window, letting light and a fresh, welcome breeze into the room. It’s sunny out. I wish it was raining.

  ‘Mum, can you not spy on me on Facebook?’ I ask, pulling my covers up to my chin.

  She collects my filthy clothes and dumps them in my hamper and then pushes it out to the hall.

  ‘I will spy on you for the rest of your life,’ she says. ‘What happened last night? You came crashing in at 1 am. Woke the whole house up. I don’t know if you remember, but you were very drunk. Very sick. I had to put you to bed.’

  That bit of the night floods back to me. Oh God. It’d been a while since Mum had to help me take my shoes off. I brace for a lecture on the evils of alcohol.

  ‘I’m not crazy about you drinking, Cris. You’re underage, for starters. Why did you go overboard?’

  ‘I dunno. I didn’t have enough to eat, I was trying to impress a girl, I guess.’

  ‘A girl? Which girl?’

  ‘Penny, you know, she’s in Leni’s crew. I like her and I chucked up all over her.’

  Mum rests her face in her hands and looks at me. She sighs.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And now I feel like a complete idiot and I want to die. I can never leave this room. Seriously, don’t make me.’

  ‘First of all, you will leave this room. Because you need a shower. You stink. Second, I didn’t raise you to vomit on some poor girl and then not properly apologise. So get up, scrub yourself, go and buy Penny some flowers, take them round to her house and tell her you are very sorry. Got it?’

  I want to tell Mum to get the hell out of my room, get out of my life and stop treating me like I’m not about to turn eighteen, but I find myself agreeing. That’s the power mothers have over their sons.

  ‘And next time, don’t drink so much. Or better still, don’t drink at all. You should see the state of some of the intoxicated teenagers we get at the hospital. Would put you off drinking until you’re fifty.’

  ‘That’s already happened,’ I say.

  After a cleansing cold shower, I put on my best jeans and the lucky T-shirt I usually pick up in. I walk over to Aztec Rose, the florist on the corner. The place Leni and I go to buy flowers for Mum on her birthday. I’m overwhelmed by the explosion of blooms, the stench of their perfume. I stand there, stunned, until a lady asks if I need help. Yes, I do, in so many ways, I think. Help me.

  ‘I want to, um, buy some flowers, for a girl.’

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ the lady asks. She has a nose-ring and is wearing spotty purple gumboots. She looks nice so I blurt it out.

  ‘To say sorry for being a dickhead last night.’

  She laughs. ‘We get that a bit around here. You’re on the right track.’

  She plucks a bunch of small pink roses from a bucket, water beading on the petals. They’re sweet and old fashioned. I sniff at them.

  ‘They smell pretty good.’

  ‘These are a winner with the ladies,’ she says gently. ‘Shall I wrap them up? Here. Write something.’

  She gives me a free card and a biro and I think about what I’m going to write for ages. The lady doesn’t seem to mind. Finally, I use my best handwriting to say: ‘I’m sorry. From Cristian.’

  ‘Off you go,’ she says, as I pay her in gold coins. ‘Good luck.’

  I stand on the road looking at Penny’s house for about twenty minutes. She lives in the most perfect chocolate-box house, in the most perfect tree-lined street in the quietest, most drug-addict-free neighbourhood. It took me over an hour to get here on two trams. Even though I ache to see her, I can’t make myself walk up the leaf-free brick path with its abundance of pink roses. Why, why did I pick roses?

  As I’m dithering, I miss my window of opportunity. The door to her garage rumbles to life and I hear the voices of her family and the bark of a dog. Panicked, I chuck the flowers as hard as I can towards the verandah, like a morning newspaper, and hope she finds them. I run away like a scared little boy, ducking behind a tree for cover as her family’s Subaru four-wheel drive glides past. Roses or no roses, Penny is not about to forgive me. That’s fine and understandable. But I think I love her. I do. For real.

  Leni

  When I don’t know how to sit with myself and my skin feels a size too small, I run. I lace up my shoes, strap music to my bicep and close the door behind me. The house is too quiet. I can practically hear it breathing. I need to break out of the silence and let my whole body scream. My plan is to run to the river and do an ergo. I pound the sticky footpath, past beautiful, surreal graffiti walls, Asian nail joints and hipsters eating eggs in cool cafés with industrial lighting and uncomfortable stools. People wasting time. I don’t like sitting in cafés.

  As I run I imagine a number in my head. Big, bold, black type.

  7.20

  That’s my number. Or it will be in January on rowing camp. I’m writing everywhere. On my inspiration board, above my bed, next to the toilet, on my mirror, the fridge door. Everywhere I turn, there it is staring back at me. Daring me to achieve the impossible. No female student at my school has ever rowed that fast in a 2000-metre ergo time trial. I would be smashing the current record by ten seconds. As I run I ima
gine what the time will look like on the ergo readout. Flashing up in digital as I pull my final stroke and collapse like a deflated balloon over the handle.

  The number thing was champion runner Cathy Freeman’s idea. She wrote her dream 400-metre time down before the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Put it up everywhere to remind her. On 25 September 2000, Cathy snatched the 400 metres in a time of 49.11 seconds. She was the first Aboriginal athlete to win gold. I’m not old enough to remember it, but I’ve seen the YouTube clip. The entire country went nuts.

  Mum reckons if I write the number down, my body will follow.

  ‘If you want something, you have to see it in your mind first,’ she said as we peeled potatoes elbow to elbow one night before dinner.

  She waved her hand at the framed photo from the Seoul Games that hangs above the TV. It’s a little faded and dusty, but there she is. An Olympic champion. Young and strong, her face lit up with joy and relief. A gold medal hangs around her neck, an Australian flag draped around her shoulders. She stands next to her pair partner, Veronica. The Han River is hazy in the background.

  ‘I thought about winning that gold medal in Seoul every day for four years,’ she said. ‘When I finally did it, I was fulfilling a promise to myself and to Veronica.’

  I’m preparing to fulfill my own promise as I spring from my toes, down the leafy wide streets of East Melbourne, past the Punt Road footy field and Melbourne Park. Over Swan Street Bridge to Adam’s side of the river. I take my cap off and tuck it into the back of my shorts, letting the breeze hit my wet hair.

  I look down at the fancy Garmin watch Adam bought me for my seventeenth birthday. It’s telling me how fast my heart is beating, how many ks I’m eating up, where I’m going on a map and whether the ground is rising or falling. What it can’t measure are the thoughts racing through my head. Why can’t I stop thinking about Sam when I should still be cut up about Adam?

  A thin strip of path curls by the river, down to the boatsheds. The Sunday scullers and veteran crews are out. I don’t want to stop when I reach the sheds, so I turn left to the Tan’s sandy running track. I cruise past the mums pushing prams and the fun runners in training. Counting them as I pass. One little Indian, two little Indians, three little Indians. I hurt. All over pain that begs me to stop. To sit down. To drink at the air. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m not there yet. If I stopped now, everything would be ruined. Besides, when I push into the pain zone, I’m the best version of myself.

  As I head down the steep slope of the Anderson Street hill I really let myself fly. I feel strong and fearless now, digging deep into my reserves to find more heart, more courage, more strength. It’s like mining for gold in a vein that’s been scraped dry. I scrabble in the darkness for my precious nugget and take it up to the surface. The metal is bright and hard, and finding it makes me more determined not to stop.

  ‘How far down you can dig when you’re really suffering makes the difference,’ says Laura, ‘between losers and winners.’

  Winners find gold, every time, no matter how dark it gets underground.

  At the sheds I run up the stairs to the gym. I ignore the searing pain in my thighs and chest. When I hit the top, I’ll fall to the ground and lie still, listening to my heart slow down. I reach the final step and beep my watch to signal I’m done. Thirteen point two ks. Later, I’ll sync the numbers into my laptop. Compare them to my last run. As I gasp for air, hands at my hips, I see there’s a lone rower hunched over an ergo, dripping fat drops of sweat onto the wooden floor.

  Sam.

  He’s got headphones on and can’t hear me. He’s totally lost in his own tunnel of pain. He drops the erg handle and swigs at a water bottle behind him. He has to turn around to reach it, and as he does, he sees me. We look at each other – both red faced, wet, exhausted and unable to speak from lack of oxygen. He takes his headphones out, the music still blaring from the little buds.

  He seems dazed and clears his throat, wiping down his arms and face with a towel.

  ‘Leni, hi. I was doing a quick 10 k.’

  Nobody does a quick 10 k. It’s a thankless slog and we both know it.

  ‘You’re in better shape today than most of the rowing squad,’ I say, assuming Sam was out drinking last night too.

  ‘You mean Adam’s party? I wasn’t invited. Besides, I don’t drink alcohol. I was at home by myself this morning. Thought I’d come down to the river and, y’know, hang out with the boats. Did you go? I guess so, you’re Adam’s girl, right?’

  ‘We broke up last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  I watch for a change in his face. Any indication he feels the same way about me. There’s not much to go on.

  ‘I was going to do an erg too,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘But I might have killed myself on the run down here.’

  He waves me over to the ergs and I sit on the one next to him. Rolling up and down on the slide.

  ‘I’m sorry I was a bitch last night. You’ll be a good captain. I was disappointed for Cristian.’

  Sam holds up his hand for me to stop talking. One of them has a big blister that’s raw and infected.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Last night was always going to be weird. Mercury was in retrograde.’

  ‘Mercury in what?’

  ‘The stars.’

  I go to laugh, but he’s deadly serious. Sam’s into astrology. Another shiny thing for my nest.

  ‘Is it just me or is there a weird vibe between us?’ he says. ‘I like you, you know that, right? Actually it’s more than that. I admire you. I’m looking forward to being co-captains together.’

  We’re still breathing heavily, looking at each other with the same intensity of the library. Except today it’s a romantic moment that can’t be denied. It hangs in the air – hot and urgent. I know for sure if Sam decides to kiss me, I won’t pull away. I shiver as the sweat cools on my skin.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Sam asks.

  ‘A bit.’

  If I get up from the ergo, the moment will shatter. Sam knows it too.

  He leans in closer, his lips touching mine. I taste his sweat and he tastes mine, and there’s a hunger between us that I’ve never felt before. He kneels down in front of me and brings me into him.

  Radiating heat from the training and from each other, we, close up the shed and walk together towards the city. Past the club insignias and balconies with rowers enjoying a beer after a light row. Sam tries to hold my hand but I shake it off, worried one of my parents’ mates might spot us. The river is a hotbed of gossip.

  ‘Not here,’ I tell him.

  We walk towards the Swanston Street tram stop, looking up the skirts of the Arts Centre. The 86 clacks down the road towards us as if to break things up. I want to hold on a bit longer. Like a kid who hasn’t finished playing with their toys, being dragged off to bed. Sam holds my hand again, and this time I let him. I squeeze it and he winces. He swaps sides and offers me his non-turning hand. It’s smooth and blister free. I trace my finger in a circle on his palm.

  ‘This is my tram.’ I say, regret in my voice. I have enough money to get back home, tucked into a pocket in my shoe.

  ‘Don’t get on it. Please,’ Sam says as the tram stops in front of us. ‘Come to my place. We can watch a movie.’

  I’m still in my running kit. It’s damp and turning festy.

  ‘I should go home and change.’

  With Adam I would’ve made an excuse, slipped away. With Sam, I was caught. I was thrashing in his net.

  The driver dings the bell twice and the doors close violently.

  ‘I think I missed it,’ I say, knowing this is much more than a missed tram.

  Sam opens the door to his apartment. It’s so empty it practically echoes. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out to a point blank view of Docklands, boats bobbing on their leashes. A white leather couc
h and a glass coffee table are the only furniture in the room. Garish paintings overcompensate for the grey sea outside. The only sign a teenage boy lives here is the gaming console on the floor and Sam’s running shoes kicked off next to it.

  ‘You live here by yourself?’

  ‘My parents are down every month and I have a housekeeper who leaves me food to eat and checks on me. My sisters come by. Sometimes.’

  ‘So you, like, look after yourself? Is that even legal?’

  ‘Yeah. You can leave home at sixteen. Besides I don’t need looking after.’

  He motions to the white granite kitchen.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he says formally.

  This whole play date suddenly feels like a bad idea. There’s no buffer between us. No one to stop things going too far.

  ‘Can I have a shower?’ I ask. I can smell myself, sweat drying in the folds of my skin.

  His eyes widen. With what – surprise? Excitement?

  ‘Don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘Of course, let me show you,’ Sam says.

  He pulls a clean towel from a cupboard and disappears into a room I assume is his bedroom. I linger outside the door, shy now. The room gives nothing away. No photos, no posters. His bed is a thin camping mat on the floor and a sleeping bag. He doesn’t seem to use the king-size bed, studded with dozens of fancy Asian silk cushions. A mountain bike is propped in one corner, a small silver statue of Buddha beside it.

  ‘Where’s your stuff?’ I think of Cristian’s room with its mess and boy stench. This room smells like incense.

  ‘No point getting too comfortable here,’ Sam says. ‘I’ll be gone at the end of next year. Besides, my parents expect it to look like a showroom when they visit. It’s their stuff. They decorated it. I’m staying here temporarily.’

  He throws me a pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. ‘Too big, but they’re clean.’

  He leads me to a bathroom so white it hurts my eyes.

  ‘You’d better go now,’ I say, gently pushing him out and shutting the door. Maybe because I don’t trust myself, I use the lock.