Holy Crushamoly

by Thalia Kalkipsakis

  I shake my head. ‘How could you treat Jagath like that?’

  Dad’s eyes narrow, his jaw muscles clenching, and I wonder if maybe I’ve made my point. But then he says, ‘That’s different.’ He picks up his bowl and stands, even though he hasn’t finished.

  ‘I have nothing against him, all right? I’m just saying they’re different.’ Dad strides into the kitchen.

  I can feel Steph watching me, but I’m too annoyed to make eye contact. I stand up. I can’t leave it there. Every idea, every perspective, has a right to be heard.

  Dad glances up when I come into the kitchen.

  ‘What do you mean it’s different?’ I say. ‘How can you be so sure that you don’t like him unless you get to know him first?’

  ‘Stamata,’ he says. ‘That’s enough.’ Then, ‘Speak like that to me again and you go to your room.’

  I take a breath, try to stay calm. ‘I’m not …’ I say quietly. And then louder: ‘I’m just explaining what I –’

  ‘Stamata!’ Dad blasts.

  This is so unfair. I glare at him.

  He points with his arm straight and finger sharp. ‘Fyge. ’ ‘Go.’

  I’m only two steps away when movement in the living room catches my eye, just a flash. Steph was probably listening and just scurried away.

  Slowly, I swivel to face Dad again.

  ‘No.’ Because he can’t have it both ways. He can’t treat me like a child now, just because I’ve made up my own mind, but treat me like a responsible adult when he needs my help with Steph. He can’t have it both ways.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Dad says slowly.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. All I did was say what I –’

  ‘Go to your room!’ Dad strides around the bench and stops right in front of me. ‘NOW!’ It’s so loud that I’m sure the walls actually expand and contract.

  ‘No,’ I say again, fists clenching but eyes watering. What will he do? Dad might be loud when he’s angry, but he’s never rough. He can’t force me to go to my room.

  And even though I’m scared of what’s happening, I also feel something else, deep within. A surging kind of adrenaline. I’m standing up for what I think. I’m only using words, but I’m making an impact. Saying what I believe.

  ‘You can’t make me,’ I say quietly.

  Dad is almost panting; I imagine his breath as bursts of scalding steam. ‘Go to your room, right now.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll ruin my life? You’ll embarrass me in front of my friends?’

  Dad actually flinches when I spit the last word. He turns slowly, deliberately, and steps towards my lunch box on the ledge. He lifts a yellow paper from inside: the signed registration form for tomorrow’s debate.

  Pinching the top tightly with his fingers, as if preparing to rip, he holds it high. ‘Go to your room or I withdraw permission for tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ I’m loud in my disbelief. ‘I’m part of a team!’

  ‘Then GO.’

  Our eyes meet and I realise I have no choice. Seconds later, a sob bursts from me. The frustration is too much to hold inside. I hate that I burst into tears in front of Dad.

  I spin away, then turn back one last time, shooting him a glare through my watering eyes. A stab of anger. You have no right.

  This time, we’re not on the same side.

  I reach my room, fly onto the bed and scream into my pillow.

  It fades back to sobs but it all flows out. A stream of frustration. It feels good to let it out.

  I roll on my side, calmer now, but still simmering. He has no right …

  Someone taps at my door. So quietly that at first I wonder if it was just a creak of the house. Again, it comes: two tiny taps.

  ‘Not now, Steph,’ I say without moving. Just leave me alone.

  I hold my breath, listening. Nothing more comes. I don’t even feel bad for sending her away. I’m tired of worrying about her. Ever since Mum’s been sick, I’ve been there for Steph.

  Ever since Mum’s been sick, I’ve done my best.

  Ever since she’s been sick …

  For some reason, tears flow again. Suddenly I’m annoyed at Mum, too, for a whole jumble of reasons. For letting Dad say the stuff he says, and letting us grow up thinking it was normal. And more than that. For always being there for us, letting me grow up thinking life was easy – and then just going away.

  Right now, I don’t even care that she had a good excuse; I know she didn’t ask to get sick. But I didn’t have a say in it either.

  I lie on my side for a long time, doing nothing except staring and feeling like crap. I just want to go back to how it all used to be. When everything seemed simple and safe. When I could just be a kid.

  When my legs begin to go stiff I sit up, hugging my pillow to my chest. There’s no way I’m talking to Dad, ever again. Not until he listens to me.

  There’s no way he’s driving me to the debate tomorrow.

  I grab my phone and select Jagath’s name, feeling a fresh surge of adrenaline, as if simply calling him is a way to defy Dad.

  ‘Hey, all set for tomorrow?’ Jagath answers, straight out.

  ‘Yep.’ I bite my bottom lip, harder and harder, as tears once more start to flow. What the hell is wrong with me? I can hardly speak on the phone, let alone in front of a crowd.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jagath sounds concerned.

  Slowly I inhale. ‘Can I catch a lift tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. We’re meeting Zara at the school gate at eightthirty. Can you get there on your own?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  A pause. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah … it’s just …’ What can I say? ‘I had a fight with Dad, that’s all.’

  ‘Not the best evening of the century, hey?’ Jagath says quietly.

  I’m glad he doesn’t ask why. But talking helps. ‘Yeah, he’s a stubborn pig,’ I say and half-laugh.

  Jagath lets out a low chuckle. ‘Sounds like my dad.’

  ‘Your dad’s a stubborn pig too?’ I’m smiling.

  ‘More an ancient dinosaur,’ says Jagath. ‘He thinks I should follow in his footsteps. Work with him in the hotel kitchen … But with homework, guitar and debating, I just don’t have time.’

  ‘And you have other ideas?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Jagath pauses but I stay silent, hoping he’ll keep going. ‘I want to be a human-rights lawyer,’ he says quietly. The tone in his voice makes me think he’s sharing something close to his heart. A secret dream …

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s …’ Impressive. And big. The sort of dream someone who’s going to make a difference in the world would have. ‘You’ll totally make it, Jagath.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Jagath mumbles. ‘You need crazy marks to get into those courses at uni …’

  ‘You’ll get there, I bet.’

  ‘… but I’m going to try.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ I say. I don’t want to sound flippant, so I add, ‘Really. I mean it.’

  Jagath is quiet for a moment. ‘So what do you want to be when – you know – when you grow up and all that?’

  ‘Ah … don’t know.’ Until recently, I would have said hairdresser straight out. But now I’m not sure. Compared to a human-rights lawyer, hairdressing sounds completely lame. ‘Something I’m good at, I guess …’

  And even though I’m being vague, I think about Erin and Mr Mendes, the way they both encouraged me, and a tiny voice pipes up inside. Maybe, it whispers, maybe you could …

  ‘Well, you’re great at debating,’ Jagath says. ‘Ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I say. Though honestly I’m not sure I’m ready for anything.

  ‘Good. Well. I’d better go,’ Jagath says. ‘See you at eight-thirty?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, my heart beating harder as I think about my talk tomorrow. I won’t just be speaking in front of our class this time, but in front of kids from other schools. And adjudicators.
People with lots of brains.

  After I hang up, I pull out the cue cards for tomorrow and stand in front of the mirror, skimming through my speech and pretending I’m in front of a crowd. I even practise gesturing with my hands to emphasise the big points. Sort of daggy, but it’s not as if anyone can see me in here.

  I’m in the middle of my conclusion when someone taps twice on my door. The door opens the tiniest gap, enough only for half of Steph’s face to slide through in slow motion.

  Her single eye lands on me and she lifts one arm, offering half a licorice stick. ‘Want this?’

  Dad gave Steph a licorice stick while I was stuck in my room? He has a stash hidden at the top of the pantry and nothing gets us bouncing around him faster than the crinkle of that bag.

  I think about him sitting out there, watching TV, and the anger burns. It’s not just what he did to Jagath, but the way he refused to listen to my point of view.

  Steph’s still waiting, so I sit on the bed and pat a space beside me. She bounds forward and proudly holds out the thick black stick. You can even see teeth marks at the place where she forced herself to stop.

  ‘Why don’t we go halves …’ I break it in two, but Steph shakes her head when I hold out the quarter.

  ‘No, I saved half for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Steph adores licorice; normally she’d be gutsing her piece down and then scouting around for more. I can’t help wondering how much she understood about my fight with Dad.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I say.

  Steph ends up accepting a small section at the end and we chew together, grinning at each other with black teeth. I don’t feel quite as bad as I did before, but I can’t stop thinking about the debate tomorrow.

  After my argument with Dad, it seems more important than ever.

  Steph’s beside me when I wake the next morning, with just the tangled top of her hair showing. I slide out from under the covers, rocking the bed as little as possible, and sneak out to the bathroom.

  I wash my hair and shave my legs and forearms. Halfway through, I pause, warm water falling around my shoulders. Stupid kids in grade five. They were the ones who first called me Gorilla Girl. They were just being idiots and probably don’t even remember teasing me about my hairy arms. But now that I think about what happened, I realise that I’ve been giving them power over me, and letting their opinion of me mean more than my opinion of myself.

  I want to take that power back, but I’m not sure how.

  When I get to the kitchen Dad’s unpacking the dishwasher. I make a beeline for my lunch box, pull out the permission form, fold it in four and slip it into the pocket of my blazer. Signed and ready. He can’t tear it now.

  ‘Kalimera,’ he says, straightening up, with a pile of plates balanced on one arm. He’s testing the water, I think. Checking to see how I’ll respond.

  ‘Morning,’ I say into the fridge, grabbing an Up&Go.

  ‘I’m taking the morning off work –’ he begins to say, but I’ve already bolted for the living room.

  ‘Phoebe!’ Dad calls, but I just keep going as if I haven’t heard. It’s not like he ever stops and listens to me.

  I organise my gear, brush my teeth and then head back to the kitchen.

  ‘Phoebe,’ Dad says with a tone of relief. ‘What time does it –’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say before he’s even finished. ‘I’m catching a lift with Jagath’s mum, I’ve organised it already.’

  I’m expecting him to try to stop me, but all he does is lift one hand. ‘But I want to drive you …’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’d rather be with my friends.’ The pain in his eyes sends a stab of guilt through me.

  But I turn away. Head out the door. I’m not talking to him until he’s ready to listen.

  We make a pact not to talk about our debate during the trip to Archibald Hall. According to Zara, the last time the team did that they tied themselves up with nerves, lost their train of thought during the debate and totally messed up. Much better to trust our preparation, we decide, and focus on staying calm.

  Jagath’s in the front seat with me diagonally behind him in the back. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap. A ball of energy sits in my chest, waiting like a racehorse in the starting gates. As long as I don’t let it bolt, I think I’ll be okay.

  Zara does most of the talking during the trip, about a public-speaking competition later in the year. Jagath’s mum asks about junior band and Zara chats happily about some trumpet player with freakish talent.

  Jagath keeps turning his head, listening to Zara, but every now and then he makes eye contact and I’m hit with the sense that he’s checking to see if I’m okay. Or maybe he’s just making sure I’m not so nervous that I throw up in his mum’s car.

  Jagath’s mum pulls up right at the entrance and we all pile out. She drives off to park and I follow the others through the foyer and into the auditorium. There are masses of seats all sloping down towards a stage.

  This place is huge.

  Even worse, debaters are everywhere. All in uniform, of course. I’ve always thought ours was lame, but I have to admit that some of the other schools’ uniforms are okay. So serious. And intimidating.

  The uniforms give everyone this total air of confidence, as if they’re the sort of people who know who they are and where they’re going. The sort of students who enter interschool debates and win.

  A hand presses on my back. ‘It seems much worse from here,’ Zara says.

  Jagath steps forward, blocking out the hall and enclosing us in a circle. Just the three of us.

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be easier once we’re on stage. You can hardly see the audience then,’ he says.

  ‘Hope so …’ I snort and let out a laugh.

  Jagath smiles. ‘How about a drink?’

  With her hand still resting on my back, Zara guides me to a cafe at one end of the foyer. Jagath sticks close on my other side. Three of us walking in a row. The McEwan College Junior Debating Team.

  ‘I’ll get drinks. Coffee? Orange juice?’ Zara asks once we find a table. ‘Nothing with bubbles,’ she adds. ‘Unless you want to burp at the wrong moment.’

  ‘Ahhh …’ I don’t really feel like anything. I scan the board, pulling coins out of my side pocket. ‘Maybe just an OJ?’

  I hand her some coins and Zara heads over to the counter while Jagath and I sit next to each other at a table. As we settle in, our eyes meet.

  Jagath leans towards me. ‘How’re you doing?’

  He’s not just talking about the debate. I rest my elbows on the table. Our arms are close. ‘Don’t know, really.’ I can’t think about Dad right now, not with the debate looming. It’s as if he’s the last brick in my tower. If I let myself focus on last night, my world will come crumbling down.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ Jagath says, and I feel the faintest brush of his arm. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I even manage a smile, because I do trust him. I’m not looking at him when I say it, though. I’m staring at our hands resting back to back on the table, so close that our skin tones stand out in contrast. Mine pale like coffee cream, and his dark like chocolate.

  Before I know what’s happening, his arm shifts ever so slightly closer to mine and his fingertips brush against the back of my hand.

  It’s a shy sort of question. Are you …?

  Could we …?

  My skin tingles. But then I go cold. Goosepimply. A realisation hits me. He likes me. He likes me. He likes me.

  Suddenly, it’s all too much to take in. Fighting with Dad last night, being here now, Mum still not home. It’s as if my brain has hit overload. Jagath’s so amazing, but I can’t deal with this right now.

  I’m not even sure what to think, let alone what to feel. My cheeks flush as I pull my hand back, clearing my throat as if nothing happened.

  Our eyes meet again but this time, it is awkward. Jagath goes to speak but then his mouth sort of droops. He just asked a question witho
ut words, so what can he say now?

  His arm pulls back like mine did, and we’re left sitting together as we were before, except now there’s a huge chasm between us.

  ‘Those drinks sure are taking a while,’ Jagath says softly, craning to see across the room.

  ‘Yeah. What time do we start again?’ I ask, even though I know exactly.

  ‘Eleven. But we’ll have to wait through the first round,’ Jagath says.

  I summon the courage to glance at him and smile, trying to show that I’ve just been caught unawares, but he quickly turns away. It’s clear from the way he’s avoiding my eyes that he knows I understood his question and he thinks I’ve turned him down. Jagath’s not dumb.

  Neither am I. If I hadn’t freaked out and pulled my hand away, everything could be different right now.

  All through the first round we act as if nothing happened, but the whole time I’m aware of Jagath sitting in the audience beside me. My private radar of the world does a blip each time it circles past him.

  We sit in a row, with me in the middle, and Zara leaning in to whisper pointers: why going over time is a bad idea, even though you don’t lose marks, how one guy who keeps cracking jokes is letting his side down, and how another girl who pauses during two key moments is one of the best debaters she’s ever seen. Jagath keeps quiet.

  The first round finishes and the audience transforms into a mass of moving bodies. Our team heads around to the waiting area. Zara ducks into the toilets and I realise Jagath and I are about to be left alone.

  ‘Wait up!’ I call to Zara and dash in after her. I can’t talk to Jagath now.

  When I’m locked in a stall I take time to focus, breathing slowly in and out as I imagine myself on stage, convincing the audience of our argument.

  I’m here to do a job: second affirmative speaker. I want to do it well.

  The first debate starts up and we wait in a side room. We’re next in line. Zara charts a circuit of the room, muttering through her opening and gesturing at the walls. Mr Mendes pokes his head in to say good luck and then disappears. Jagath sits frozen still, frowning into space as he listens to the action on stage. He can’t prepare much now; it’s his job to refute the other team’s points, so he can’t plan anything until he hears them speak.