Somehow, Lou and I end up wandering towards a group that has congregated behind Abdul’s flat, a rectangle of grass that borders their neighbour’s fence. The Hills Hoist stands near an overgrown lemon tree, school shirts and, like, a thousand pairs of boys’ boxers flapping on the lines. If the Razaks’ place is anything like mine, the clothes will hang there until someone runs out of socks or jocks — being rained on, and drying, and being rained on again, till they’re stiff and crispy.
Abdul Razak waves us over. The guys are playing a game of Cards Against Humanity in the dim space, lit with phone torches and a few scarlet cigarette tips.
‘Hey, guys!’ Abdul says with a wave of his red cup.
‘Hey, Abdul. Great party,’ I say flatly, since spewing bile about what I actually think of this party would probably be impolite.
Lou plonks himself on the grass beside me, slapping hands with Abdul and a few other people from school. He glances suspiciously at the faces he doesn’t know, his unconscious scowl and muscles enough to make a couple of guys drop their eyes.
‘So I hear your boy Cameron gave his girl the flick,’ Abdul says, sculling his drink. ‘Man, thought those two would’ve been sending out wedding invites or some shit soon. What happened?’
Lou shrugs. ‘Pretty sure it wasn’t just Cam’s call. But yeah.’ He glances at me. ‘Looks like it.’
Abdul whistles. ‘Whoa. Who saw that coming?’ He refills his cup from the nearby bottles of Bundy and Coke, managing to spill half of it on his jeans. ‘So you reckon Claire’s ready for some Abdul action?’ he says with a lascivious grin.
Lou scowls again, taking in Abdul’s over-processed hair, and jeans that don’t look like they’ve seen a washing machine all year. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re her type,’ he says dryly.
Abdul doesn’t seem fazed. He waves his cup at me. ‘So how’re you doing, Gabrielle? Suppose this means we’re not gonna be seeing you around soccer training anymore, yeah?’ He peers at me curiously through hazy booze eyes. ‘What … are you into again?’
It strikes me that I have no idea how to answer that question. Not even my mum has a nickname for me. I am not the pretty one, or the funny one, or the smart one — I am too awkward to be the future superstar, too scrawny to be the thug. Suffice it to say, I am definitely not the nice one. I am the one who circles behind the others, who keeps myself locked tight in case anyone sees that I’m part of this group for no reason other than fluke circumstance.
God. I’m not just going to lose some of my friends, however this plays out. I’m going to lose the only parts of my personality that anyone cares about.
Beside me, Lou shuffles a little closer. ‘Gabe’s into plenty of stuff,’ he says, with a look at Abdul that makes him return hastily to his card game.
Lou tucks his feet awkwardly beneath him. His brow is furrowed again, and he looks like he wants to say something to me, but then Rema Jabbar appears, stepping accidentally into the pile of cards and sending them flying. There is a chorus of swearing and curses, but Rema brushes them off with a shrug. She drops down beside us.
‘Hey, you guys — ah, you might wanna go check on your friend Sowinski? He’s not looking too great.’
Lou sits up straighter. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, the guy with the ranga hair, right? He’s one of yours? Think he’s passed out in the hallway. Last I saw someone was drawing a Sharpie face on his arse. And what’s the deal with his dad?’
Lou and I exchange an alarmed look as we leap to our feet. ‘Tommy told you about that?’ I ask.
Rema grabs a drink from Abdul. ‘He’s telling anyone who’ll listen, but he’s not making much sense. Something about his dad running off to Queensland with a chick from accounts? Sounds harsh.’
But Lou and I are already hurrying back through the garden, ignoring the calls behind us and the now half-naked tequila-pong players.
We find Tommy Sowinski in the hallway near Abdul’s parents’ bedroom, carrot hair sticking up like some mad scientist, wire-rimmed glasses askew, pants attempting to free themselves from his arse. His typically placid face is shiny and animated, his normally shy grin very slightly deranged. Beside him is Cameron, sans blue-haired Isla. Lara is hovering on his other side.
Awesome.
Lou makes a growly sound. He pushes a few people aside and clears a path for us. And then he slaps Tommy on the back of the head. ‘Sowinski — what are you on?’
Tommy just giggles. ‘Lou! Nothing, man. Just had a couple of beers with your friends. And wine. And, oh, I think someone had Campari? Man, that stuff tastes like mouse wizz. But your mates are cool, dude.’
Lou turns his back on Cameron, pointedly ignoring him. ‘They’re not my mates, Tommy. And since when do you get shitfaced?’
Tommy giggles again, but there’s a hint of pain in his eyes, too. ‘Yeah, well, what else am I gonna do? Go home to the crying and yelling? Hang here with these guys?’ He waves a hand in Cam’s direction, and hiccups. ‘Can I just say how excited I am for more crying and yelling? So great!’ he yells, his jeans wiggling even further down his legs.
Lara attempts to secure Tommy’s pants. Cameron gives us a cheeky smile, but there’s something defiant in it as well. He slings an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. ‘Dude, there’s not going to be any crying or yelling. Claire-bear and me are fine.’ He gives Tommy a squeeze. ‘Come on, man,’ he says with a laugh. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
I’ve always had a soft spot for confident Cameron, but right at this moment, all I want to do is kick him repeatedly in the ball sack.
I close my eyes, desperately trying to dredge up whatever vestige of underwater peace I can find. But this corridor is stifling and stinks like beer and sweat, and nothing of ocean calm is forthcoming.
God, could I be any lamer? Still dreaming of becoming a marine biologist, which is so incredibly childish and pathetic, not to mention impossible with my spectacularly average final score. It’s juvenile, like wishing for a castle and a pet unicorn. Like wishing for me and my friends to all end up living together in a pretty house with a picket fence and a pair of labradors.
Tommy slides down the wall. Lou and Lara grab him under the armpits and haul him upright. Cam stands back, observing their efforts with his smile that’s always seemed kind and genial, but now just seems crap-eating and smack-worthy.
I consider, briefly, just walking out of here. But then Tommy looks up at me through his coke-bottle glasses, his woozy eyes all lost and sorrowful, and my feet find themselves not moving anywhere.
Midnight
I don’t want to be here.
If my world is going to fall apart, I don’t want it to be in this place of booze and grime, forced laughter and preening selfies, while two guys in their undies dance on the hallway sideboard.
Did I mention I really don’t want to be here?
I could go home. My place is less than four blocks away. I could easily take myself and my shallow, feckless heart home to bed. But then what? It’s Saturday, without even the distraction of school on the horizon. No, scrap that — the clock has ticked over, placing me smack bang in the midst of Sunday morning.
Sundays are the worst. Sundays are supposed to be family days, filled with lazy breakfasts and morning TV and slumming in pyjamas till late afternoon. I remember Sundays being market days, and when I was little, zoo days and park days and movie days, back when Mum and Dad were still Mum and Dad, and not the warring pair of strangers that they’ve morphed into.
Sundays are, like, the most pointless days of the week now. There’s nothing more depressing than waking up and knowing that nothing at all is going to happen today, that getting out of bed is optional, ’cause it doesn’t make a scrap of difference to the world whether I’m in it or not. The only reason Sundays are ever bearable are the bored mid-afternoon drop-bys from Tommy or Cam, the impromptu homework sessions with Lara and Claire, or the last-minute invites to breakfast at Lou’s house with his mum and grandma. Maybe I never
fully appreciated just how much I relied on the steady presence of my friends. I should have guessed even that would be fleeting.
Lou wraps an uncertain hand around my wrist.
‘Hey,’ he says quietly. ‘I reckon Tommy’s gonna need the loo in the next thirty seconds ’cause I’m pretty sure whatever he’s drunk is on its way back up. Um …’ He clears his throat. ‘You doing okay?’
I glance down at his hand. His thick, stub-ended fingers curl almost fully around my skinny wrist, and even though he’s not holding on tight, I feel the heat from his skin like a brand. It feels, in this moment, that the only thing stopping me from running out onto the street with a hysterical banshee scream is the warmth of Lou.
As though my hand is operating independently of my brain, I lay my palm over his. It’s like, just for this moment, I can’t bear to lose the contact. Gooseflesh on Lou’s skin pebbles beneath my fingers.
Tommy chooses this moment to unceremoniously remove his pants again. He moves surprisingly fast for someone who still can’t seem to figure out how gravity works, brushing aside a laughing Cam as he whips off his jeans and throws them at the guys still dancing on the sideboard. The pantsless dudes whoop and yell back incomprehensibly, that special vocab only recognised by the chronically drunk and stupid.
Lou lets go of me and grabs hold of Tommy. I collect his jeans from the place they have landed on the Razaks’ umbrella stand, trying not to notice that Tommy is now wearing nothing but faded Simpson boxers with a hole in the left arse cheek.
Lou shoves a shoulder under Tommy’s arm, and Cam does the same on Tommy’s other side. Lara hustles some people out of their way, clearly now in charge of this expedition.
Lou shoots a harried look at me. ‘Just a warning, Gabe — he pukes on me, and you’re gonna be helping clean sick off two of your mates,’ he says with a wry grin.
I fling Tommy’s jeans over my shoulder. The little patch of pale arse skin that’s visible through his boxers seems to wink at me.
‘Yeah. That seems about right,’ I mutter, before following them into the bathroom.
1 a.m.
Lou and Cam hoist Tommy into the bathtub, thank all the gods, now with his pants on again. Someone bangs on the bathroom door, yelling something unintelligible. Lou bangs back wordlessly, but his meaty fist is threatening enough to make the frantic thumping pause for a moment.
‘Shit, Tommy, you need to start hitting the gym,’ Cam says with a laugh. He clears away some cans and bottles and shoves Tommy’s legs over the stained rim of the tub. He scans the disgusting swamp floor, and fishes Tommy’s glasses from beneath a pile of soggy loo paper.
Lou grabs the glasses from Cam, not too gently, and lays them between the half-empties on the vanity. ‘Lay off him, dude. At least some of this is your fault.’
Tommy giggles, then groans. ‘Oh, dude, you should see your face,’ he says, waving a hand at Cam. ‘I dunno why there’s three of you, but all your faces look like they’ve swallowed poo.’ Cam peers incredulously down at Tommy. Tommy squints up at him. ‘’Cept, why is the left one of you so furry-looking?’
Lou shoves past Cameron, but then hovers beside the tub like he’s not sure what to do next. ‘Great,’ Lou mutters as Tommy giggles at nothing in particular. ‘So much for lookin’ out for him. Right, Cameron?’
Cam rounds on Lou, his smile disappearing. He may be the sportiest guy among us, but Cam has never been an aggressive dude. Now he puffs out his chest, his shoulders thrown back. ‘You got something to say to me, man?’
Lou straightens to his full height, too. He tucks his hands into his back pockets, the muscles in his arms popping. ‘Nah. Not much I can say to my mate who’s acting like a giant dick bag.’
Cam takes a belligerent step towards him. He’s way taller than Lou, but thinner, and the menacing effect he’s going for is kinda diminished by the flapping piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. Lou holds his ground, the muscles across his back tensing. There’s barely enough room in here for the five of us, much less Cam and Lou’s puffed-up posturing, and I want to do something, say something that’ll wind back this madness, but I have no experience with my guy friends behaving — well, like guys. It’s Lara who steps between them.
‘Seriously?’ she growls. ‘It already stinks like a mortician’s compost in here. We don’t need the added stench of festy testosterone, thanks very much.’
I manage to unfreeze long enough to insert myself bodily between Cam and Lou as well. I place one hand on Lou’s chest, ignoring Cam’s glare. ‘Come on, Lou. This isn’t helping,’ I say weakly. ‘Tommy needs us right now.’
‘Tommy needs a reality check,’ Cam says, eyeballing Lou over the top of my head.
Tommy waves a hand, scattering the row of novelty soaps on the edge of the tub. He struggles to sit up, unfocused eyes suddenly cheerless.
‘Okay, how’s this for reality?’ Tommy bleats. ‘Everything ends. Life is meaningless and relationships are pointless. No-one sticks around and nothing lasts. We’re all going to die alone anyway.’
Cam grins at him. ‘Much better,’ he says brightly.
Tommy hiccups. He leans over the side of the tub, dry heaving, before collapsing onto his back. Lara sits on the edge of the tub and rubs tentatively at his shoulders.
Lou gets right up in Cameron’s face. ‘See this? This is your fault. You couldn’t just wait to sort out your business till Tommy was more solid? You know the last couple of months have been shithouse for him, and you still couldn’t care less, could you?’
Cameron throws up his hands. ‘Lou, are you seriously saying you wanted Claire and me to pretend to be crazy in love, just to make Tommy feel better about life? What is this, some shitty screwball comedy? Is one of us wearing a fake moustache in this scenario?’
Lou moves in front of me and shoves Cam in the chest with a thick index finger. ‘A moustache might improve your face, arsehole.’
Yeah, Lou has never been quick with the insults. Cam bursts out laughing. Even Lara, busy mopping at Tommy’s forehead with a wet chunk of toilet paper, chuckles. Lou looks filthy, like he’s not sure whether to storm out of the bathroom, or punch Cam in the head.
I, on the other hand, am beyond over this party. I grab hold of the edge of the vanity, the anger and uncertainty that have been building all night boiling over. I’m fully sober, but the world beneath me is spinning and spinning —
‘Argh, for fuck’s sake, stop it!’ I yell.
Cam and Lou recoil. Lara’s eyes widen. Tommy stops his dimwitted giggling. Even the relentless pounding on the bathroom door ceases.
‘Enough,’ I whisper, instantly deflating. ‘That’s enough. There’s no point … it’s done, and over, and blaming Cameron isn’t going to fix anything.’ My eyes are locked on Lou’s worried brown ones. ‘It’s no-one’s fault. It just … is.’
And I realise, as I’m saying it, that the words are true. No-one is to blame here. Not Cameron and not Claire, and, God forbid, not Isla. It’s not Cam’s and Claire’s fault that the rest of us have clung to them like desperate barnacles, too scared of the boundlessness of our futures, too afraid of being cast adrift. But Tommy is right. Everything ends.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to be a grown-up and sensible, but no amount of mental pep talks can seem to stop my eyes filling with tears.
Lara jumps up, but it’s Lou who is suddenly at my side. He drapes a hesitant arm around me, all smoky traces and solid muscle. I wrap my arms around his middle, trying to convince myself that I’m holding on tight for his sake as well as mine, since Lou’s face becomes a delightful shade of puce as Tommy retches in the bathtub.
What is going to happen now to the six of us? How can we still function with a giant fracture down our middle? I know I should be more concerned with my own total lack of a plan or purpose. But all I know is that these five people are my anchors, and one by one, it feels like they’re cutting me free.
2 a.m.
Tommy is asleep in the tub no
w, snoring, his face tucked into a cushion that Lara found in a bedroom. She brushes his hair back with an affectionate huff.
Cameron, wisely, decided to vacate the bathroom. Who knows where Claire has gone? I can’t even bring myself to care anymore.
I’m perched on the closed toilet seat, peeling the label off one of the Razaks’ shampoos. Lou is leaning against the door, tapping his packet of cigarettes distractedly on his forearm. I can all but see his fingers itching to light up.
I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, mostly silent, lost in our own worlds. Outside, the party continues, the beat still shaking the house, and despite the fact that the cops have now visited twice, it’s still so loud that I know it’ll be ringing in my ears well into the day.
Lara stretches out her legs from her place near the tub. ‘Christ, you guys,’ she says with a groan. ‘How long do we let him sleep it off? This tub isn’t exactly ergonomic.’
I wiggle my butt on the uncomfortable toilet lid, and I remember a conversation that the six of us had one night at Cam’s house a few months back. Claire and Cam were planning to look for a house near the city, one of those sweet terraces that we pass on the tram when we occasionally head out east. They’d been talking about it since Year 11, but time was ticking, and their vague plans had suddenly started becoming real. Tommy was going to rent a room with them, already saving money from his shifts at KFC, and claiming his mum’s old couches before she sold them on eBay. Lou wanted to stay close to home, not knowing if he could afford anything else on a mechanic’s apprentice salary, and Lara’s parents were still freaking at the prospect of her travelling into the city for uni, let alone moving out of home. I had made no plans, but I wasn’t worried; content with the fizzy exhilaration of hearing my friends sketching out our future.
For some reason, it’s the thought of Tommy’s couches that finally snaps whatever composure I was holding onto. Two blue, sunken, Fantastic Furniture rejects, safe under plastic wrap in his parents’ shed, waiting for their new home, that I see turning to dust before my eyes. Maybe his mum will just put them out on the street with the rest of his absent dad’s junk. And the couches that should have been the centre of movie nights and pizza nights and random sleepovers will be relegated to the unknown of someone else’s life.
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYa Anthology Page 12