The next day, I’m walking home from my summer job at a local café, eating an ice-cream, and I run into that guy again, the one from the student house down the street. When I see him walking towards me, carrying a plastic bag of groceries, I turn away and pretend I don’t see him. It’s embarrassing to be caught stuffing my face. But he approaches anyway.
‘Hey!’ he says.
‘Oh hello!’ I fake surprise. He’s caught me slurping a chocolate-chip double header like a greedy dog. I should have gotten a single cone but a free ice-cream (of any kind we want!) at the end of a six-hour shift is the one perk of my horrible job. All through the long hot hours dealing with boring, patronising, inconsiderate people I’d been consoling myself with thoughts of four scoops instead of two. This guy looks at it dripping onto my hands, and is obviously amused.
‘Hate ice-cream, do you?’
I find myself blushing. Cynthia is right. He is very good-looking! How come she could tell from that distance and through the trees? Straight nose, wide face and big, perfect smile. Lots of money has been spent on those teeth. I know because it was the same with mine. My mouth was so full of plated silver bars and wires I could barely talk, much less eat anything but mush, for about four years. Dressed in a snow-white T-shirt, long cotton beach pants and thongs, he looks completely comfortable inside his tall, muscular body. A mite edgy though, moving his weight from one foot to the other, as if he might sprint off at any minute. Part of me wishes he would. I’m in my sweaty black T-shirt, short black skirt and plain sandals. My long dark hair, which is usually my best feature, is greasy and tied back in an elastic band and I haven’t plucked my eyebrows for yonks. I remember the conversation with my sisters the day before. I’m meant to say something sassy at this point, so . . . I have a go.
‘I’ve been in the coal mines,’ I say, ‘and this is the inducement to go down again tomorrow.’
‘Say no more.’ He grins again, looking right at me this time. ‘You heading home?’ I nod and we begin to walk off together. Relief washes through me. It’s much easier not looking directly at someone you find attractive, at least when they’re paying attention to you.
‘Have some?’ I say politely, for something to say. I hold out my ice-cream, not thinking for a moment that he’ll take me up on the offer because it’s so obviously been slurped over by me.
‘Thanks.’ He stops, puts his hand over mine and takes a big suck of my ice-cream, on both sides. He leaves his hand on mine for a second longer than he needs to. I’m too surprised to feel pleased. But I do get a zap of something that feels like electricity shooting up my legs.
‘I was hoping I’d run into you again,’ he says suddenly.
What? I’m now seriously overcome with shyness. What are you meant to say when someone says something like that? I frantically try to imagine what Cynthia or Dorothy would say. Should it be, Oh yeah, me too, or something more cool and offhand like, Oh really? Are you hard up for friends?
In the end I cough and pretend I don’t hear him.
‘So you liked that school?’ he asks. I turn and look at him in surprise. I don’t remember mentioning what school I went to.
‘I’ve seen you in your school uniform,’ he says, as though reading my thoughts. I do my best to ignore the rather flattering realisation that he must have noticed me well before I’d set eyes on him.
‘No, I hated it,’ I say. ‘Right from the start, I hated it. I don’t know why I stayed there for so long.’
‘Really?’ He seems surprised. ‘Why?’
Damn. I wish he hadn’t asked me that! I don’t know him well enough to go into details. Then I think, What the hell. All those magazines tell you to be yourself. Okay. I take a breath. Go for broke. Be myself. What is there to lose?
‘There was a very tense social scene there,’ I say, then take a fresh mouthful of ice-cream to give myself an extra second or two to come up with something lighter. ‘I didn’t like it at all. Too many little Britney look-alikes for me.’
‘So why did you stay?’ he asks, frowning seriously.
‘Well, I won a scholarship and . . .’ I shrug, wishing like hell I hadn’t brought up the Britney thing. He probably loves that blonde, cute, bubbly look. What guy doesn’t? How do you do this stuff ? All I’ve done so far is sound like a twisted, jealous bitch. ‘And I guess I wanted to do well so I ended up staying,’ I mumble on. ‘My best friend was there, too. I mean, it was good from the academic point of view.’ My voice is trailing away stupidly. ‘I guess.’
‘My sister went to that school.’
‘Is she still there?’ I ask very politely, thinking please make her be an older sister who went there ten years ago! Or at the very least make her be in Year Seven. Someone I couldn’t possibly know.
‘No, she’s just finished too,’ he said. ‘Like you.’
‘Oh?’ I smile to show that I think that’s a pleasant coincidence. But I’m desperate to change the subject because I’ve got this sinking feeling I’m going to find out something really unpleasant. At least make her one of the nerds or a sporty type who was completely oblivious to what was really going on. Within the social hierarchy, I mean. I search around for something to say.
‘Did she like it?’ I ask weakly.
‘Yeah, she loved it.’
I nod as though that is a perfectly reasonable answer.
‘Alisha,’ he says shortly, then flings one arm out quickly to stop me from walking straight out into busy traffic. ‘Alisha Cummins.’
Alisha Cummins! Oh shit! If any girl epitomised all that I hated about that place it was Alisha Cummins. Not only did she look and play the part of the teen queen, gushy and insincere, but under all that she was nasty. Most of her friends were not all that bright. They tittered and giggled and played along with whatever they thought was the current definition of cool. But Alisha was bright and she ruled. Fair and tall, with perfect skin, she must have done a lot of ballet when she was younger because she moved like a swan. She and her cronies gave it to anyone who didn’t toe the line.
‘You know her?’
‘Yeah, I know her,’ I say, feeling flat and dull now. My luck, huh? Within the first five minutes of meeting this attractive guy I find out he’s closely related to someone I loathe. ‘Your sister is . . . not my favorite person,’ I say quietly. We’ve turned into my street now and I just want to get away from him. I know it probably seems like an overreaction, as if I’ve caught a dose of my sisters’ theatrics, but even the mention of that girl brings up such a . . . taste in my mouth. I’m not good at pretence.
‘She’s got big problems,’ her brother goes on, uneasily.
‘Really?’ I almost laugh and try to imagine Alisha’s problems. A gap in her diary? Not enough suntan oil? Daddy put his foot down about a spending spree?
‘Yeah,’ he sighs, ‘she’s got a lot of stuff to work out.’
‘Well I guess we’re all in the same boat there,’ I mumble, not looking at him. ‘Got to rush now. See you around.’
‘Why?’ I see he is genuinely startled but I don’t care and start to walk off.
‘Why do you have to go?’ he calls after me. I stop and turn around. ‘Why do you have to rush?’
I hesitate and I say the first thing that comes into my head, ‘I’ve got to do something for my mum.’
‘What exactly?’ He’s amused now. He can tell I’m lying and it’s embarrassing. But I can’t backtrack without losing more face.
‘My turn to cook dinner.’
‘Gee, you must eat early.’
It’s about three in the afternoon. I feel myself flushing all over again. I hardly ever blush and I’ve done it twice within the last ten minutes.
‘Yeah. Special dinner,’ I mumble, not meeting his eye. There is an awkward pause. ‘Complicated dishes.’
‘I’m not my sister, you know,’ he says.
I don’t know what to say to that. Part of me knows it’s completely fair enough but I stand there looking around me like a kid ca
ught out doing something naughty. He comes over and stands in front of me again.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ he says softly.
‘Rose O’Neil,’ I mutter.
‘Well, I’m Nathaniel.’ He holds out his hand and what can I do but take it. ‘Everyone just calls me Nat,’ he goes on. ‘We’re having a house-warming party next Friday and I want you to come.’
‘Why?’ I pull my hand away, shocked. I so don’t want to go to his friggin’ party! Then I look over to our house where Mum is walking through the front gate with a bundle of books under her arm. She waves gaily before disappearing into the house and I almost groan because I know I’ll be in for another sisterly advice session as soon as I’m inside.
‘A lot of reasons,’ he says, ‘but one big one.’ I look up curiously and he smiles. ‘The first time I saw you, Rose O’Neil, you were riding your bike through the Edinburgh Gardens in red boots, your hair was flying out behind you and you were . . . singing. You had this kind of . . . defiance about you. I thought to myself, Jeez, that is one cool chick. I’d like to get to know her.’
I am actually touched by this admission, but I quickly squash the feeling. So . . . I sing on my bike. Big deal! I’m glad he saw me in Cynthia’s red boots though. I love those boots. I pinch them when I know she won’t be home.
‘You saw me,’ I say in a bored voice, not meeting his eyes, ‘but did you hear me?’ I can hold a tune and that is about it. My singing voice is thin and ordinary. Anyway, I’m not stupid. Some guys are experts at these cute little flattering tactics.
‘Yeah, I heard you.’
‘Poor you,’ I say.
‘My sister won’t be there,’ he pleads with a grin. ‘She’s in Sydney.’
‘You’re in a different crowd to me,’ I say. ‘I’m just out of school. I probably wouldn’t fit in.’
‘You’ll fit in.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ In fact, Alisha’s presence was a huge issue for me. Now I know that she won’t be there, I wouldn’t mind going. He grins and shakes his head as though he can’t work me out but thinks I’m funny anyway.
‘I just know it,’ he whispers. I look up to see if he’s serious and he gives me one of his charming grins. ‘If you don’t like it then it’s not as though you’re going to have to travel a long way home.’
‘Well, maybe I will,’ I say, edging away. He leans forward and touches my hand briefly.
‘Say you’ll come? Between eight and nine on Friday. The big corner house, right?’
‘Okay.’
I don’t finally decide to go to the party until about an hour before it’s due to start. All afternoon I tell myself there are a million reasons not to go. For a start, I won’t know anyone. Secondly, I hate his sister. Thirdly, he has to be fake because he’s way too good-looking, and fourthly . . . At about this point I know I’m scraping the barrel. Too good-looking? Come on, Rose!
Of course, the sisters won’t let me go out in the boring outfit I had in mind. Dorothy takes charge and I have to say that, when she is done, I walk out that door feeling . . . pretty good. But nervous, too, afraid that I’ve overdone it. My hair is tied back in a tight knot, they’ve smeared aqua and gold paint around my eyes and my body is packed into this really gorgeous little purple skirt. More like a square of sequinned material actually. Dot knows how to drape it around my hips and pin it just so. On top I’m wearing a black silk blouse of Cynthia’s that she found in an opp shop which has tiny buttons down the front and a wide, low, embroidered neckline. Under the skirt I’m wearing lace tights that stop at the ankles. I refuse to wear Cynthia’s stilettos because I know I’ll fall over in them so, much to their disappointment, I settle on my black ballet flats.
The whole look is way too exotic for me, but for some reason – very unusual for me – I let the sisters take over. I leave the house feeling excited. Not that it translates into confidence as I walk up the street towards that thumping electronic sound – the kind of music I really hate, but never mind. This is a student party. What if I am way overdressed? What if they all look at me and snigger, Who the hell is the try-hard?
I have to force myself not to turn back.
But there is no need to worry. I walk in the front gate and he is standing near the doorway, talking to a couple of guys and three girls. He pulls away from his friends and jumps down from the verandah onto the grass.
‘Hey ya Rose!’ he says warmly, as if he really is pleased to see me. ‘I was hoping you’d come.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile at him. He takes a step back and grins.
‘Wow! You look . . . different!’ I smile gamely. ‘Really good,’ he adds quickly. I can tell he means it so I give a little prayer of thanks for the sisters, glad now that they’d made me dress up. I sense the little crowd behind us eyeing me up and down curiously, but I don’t dare turn to them.
‘Yeah well . . .’
He laughs, takes my elbow and steers me inside. We pass more people and I get more looks. I’m not used to this. I tend to dress way down most of the time. I make a point of not calling attention to myself. As we get further down the wide passageway and into the hub of the house, the music – bland electronic filler that is muzak as far as I’m concerned – gets louder and louder. By the time we hit the huge crowded lounge room we’re shouting at each other.
‘So this is it.’ He waves at the posters on the tattered papered walls, and the DJ with all his equipment in the corner. ‘Our house. We’ve been cleaning up all day for this. What do you reckon?’
‘Great,’ I smile. ‘When did you move in?’
‘About four months ago. But we all had exams so we couldn’t have a party till now.’
‘Who else lives here?’
‘There are five of us.’ He points to a plump girl with red hair sitting on one of the couches. ‘Mally!’ She hears her name and looks over. ‘That’s Mal, everyone’s pal.’
‘Get lost, Cummins,’ she shouts, and gives me a wave.
‘And Luke and Pete.’ Nat points to two guys who are doing something to the lighting system in the corner. ‘And there’s Petra. Her room is out the back.’ He takes my elbow again and leads me through the throng, out to a big, bright kitchen. Fewer people out here and most of them are busy organising food and drink.
‘We’re all students,’ Nat explains, ‘like most of the people here, actually.’ He grimaces. ‘Bit boring, huh?’
I’m surprised by this. Boring? I don’t know what he means. I can’t wait for university.
‘At least you’ve got something in common,’ I mumble lamely.
‘Too much.’ He frowns briefly as he pulls glasses from a brown cardboard box. ‘I like to mix with different people.’ He gestures at everyone in the room. ‘We all went to private schools. We’re all white and Anglo and basically from rich backgrounds.’ He looks directly at me in a kind of challenging way and then smiles self–consciously. ‘Well . . . richish. Upper middle class. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah I do,’ I say, surprised. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Drink?’
‘Oh sorry!’ I remember the bottle back in the fridge at home. ‘I should have . . .’
‘Hey,’ he laughs, ‘we’ve got plenty. What will you have?’
Nat is the host, or one of them, so I’m expecting that after introducing me to a few people he’ll be off any minute to get drinks, greet friends and generally do what has to be done. There are a lot of people here, and a lot of drinks to pour. He does it all – with ease – but keeps coming back to me, explaining who people are and where they fit in, introducing me, asking me bits and pieces about my family and work. After about an hour, with the second bottle of Stoli in my hand, I realise with a rush of heady delight that this totally charming, genuine, fantastic-looking guy is actually interested in me.
A new crowd comes in and there are more introductions, more jokes and more drinks offered. Mally comes in and puts trays of little pies in the oven.
‘Ha
lf an hour,’ she punches Nat’s arm, ‘and we’ll serve these.’
‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘Let’s go out the back,’ he says to me, grabbing my hand.
So we take our drinks out into the soft still night and park ourselves on the old slatted seat and he rolls himself a fag.
‘Smart girl,’ he says when I refuse one.
‘How long have you smoked?’
‘Couple of years.’ He takes a drag and sends the smoke out into the night air. ‘But I’m gunna give it up soon.’
‘That’s what everyone says,’ I smile.
‘I started when I was at home,’ he muses. ‘My little rebellion against the old man’s rule. He absolutely hates cigarettes.’
‘Do you see them much?’
‘About once a week. Mum would go to pieces if it was any less,’ he sighs. ‘I go home for Sunday lunch usually.
‘I just got so sick of it,’ he says, when we get onto why he moved out of home, ‘family breathing down my neck the whole time.’
I nod and try to imagine moving out myself, then back away from the idea so fast it’s scary. My family breathes down my neck the whole time, too. Does this make me a cowardly, dependent person?
‘Maybe they breathe in a totally different way to mine,’ Nat grins when I try to explain. ‘Sounds to me like you all get on.’
‘Yeah we do,’ I say, frowning a bit, ‘but my sisters are on my case the whole time. I mean it. It does get annoying.’
‘I just had to.’ His mouth is tense and I get a strong sense that the decision to move out might have been pretty fraught. ‘Even though home is the more comfortable option.’
‘There is something admirable about moving out, away from your comfort zone,’ I say seriously.
‘Well, I’m glad you find something admirable about me.’ He smiles into my eyes and I blush a bit because he’s flirting and I don’t quite know where to look. So I look at my watch and laugh.
‘And I’ve only known you an hour,’ I quip.
‘Just think what you’re going to find out in the next hour!’
‘What! You’ve got more . . . admirable qualities up your sleeve?’ I go all wide-eyed and innocent.
Rose by Any Other Name Page 5