Overwhelmed

by Marita A. Hansen

  The boys on the other side of the window started nudging each other, being a bit rough like boys normally are. I wondered why they weren’t in class. My maths teacher, Mr. Blake, a stick thin mannequin, appeared to be wondering the same thing, since he was giving them suspicious glances. I focused on him, because he really did look quite comical trying to teach the class while keeping an eye on the boys. His eyes kept flicking between us and them as though he was watching a tennis match.

  Someone tapped on the window, drawing my attention back to the boys. I jolted in my seat, taken aback by what the boy on the other side was doing. He was blowing a raspberry on the window right next to me like some ten-year-old kid, though this boy was probably seventeen or eighteen. If anything, he actually looked quite funny with his nose and mouth squished up against the glass, but I was still embarrassed that he was doing it to me. The boys surrounding him started laughing their heads off as well as a few students in my class who had also seen it.

  My teacher yelled at the boy, then took off out of the classroom. As he rounded the corner of the building, the boys scattered. The one who’d done the glass raspberry blew me a kiss, then ran after his mates.

  “Tom Hamlin!” Mr. Blake yelled. “Office. Now!”

  Tom spun around and gave him the finger before running off again.

  My friend next to me giggled. “Tom is so hot.”

  I turned to her. “How do you know him?” I asked, the guy obviously new to our school.

  “He’s in one of my classes. I heard he was living on some island last year.” She sighed. “Isn’t he hot?”

  I rolled my eyes. My friend Phillipa didn’t know any other word to describe boys other than hot. She was totally boy mad, but unlike me, she got numerous dates. It wasn’t like she was better looking, if anything I thought I was prettier out of the two of us. I had a slim body with big breasts and long black hair, while she had curly poofed-up brown hair that made her head look too big for her tiny body. But she had loads of personality, and knew how to flirt with boys, often getting dates with really good-looking guys.

  Mr. Blake re-entered the classroom, red-faced and pissed off. I turned to look out of the window again, wondering why Tom had lived on an island. My mind went to a novel I’d read about castaways. I smiled, imagining Tom wearing ripped shorts, no top, and drinking from a coconut. I wondered whether I could write a story about him.

  I dropped my gaze to the empty pages in front of me, and started jotting down my ideas for the story, only stopping when the bell rang. All the students piled out of the class, Phillipa and I the last to leave, since we’d been right at the back. Plus, I wasn’t in a hurry since I had economics next, another class my mother had enrolled me in without my consent, which was why I was struggling to pass the year.

  We exited the classroom and merged into the student body now clogging up the hallway. Phillipa and I made our way through the crowd. She started talking about how ‘hot’ Tom was, not allowing me to get a word in edgewise, which was precisely why we got on. I was the listener and she was the talker and, man, could she talk, so much so that it was a medical miracle she hadn’t lost her voice.

  I stopped in front of my locker and opened it, pulling out my books for economics, nodding occasionally so that Phillipa knew I was listening, although all the ‘hot’ talk was starting to get on my nerves.

  I stuffed most of my economics books into my bag and closed my locker, carrying the large one in my arms. I said bye to Phillipa, then turned to leave, walking smack bang into a guy. I dropped my book, barely missing my foot. Cursing silently, I bent down to pick it up, almost banging my head against the boy who’d made me drop it in the first place. I looked up to tell him he was a…

  My irate thoughts instantly evaporated, my words vanishing with them, along with a few brain cells. Bright blue-green eyes stared back at me, the glint of amusement in them matching Tom Hamlin’s grin. I knew I should say something, like telling him he was an idiot, but I couldn’t utter a word. I didn’t even know him an hour ago, yet now he was going to be impossible to forget.

  He picked up the book I’d left lying on the floor and pushed up. I followed his lead. He held the book out for me, but instead of taking it, I continued to stare like a deer caught in headlights, or the brilliant shine of his smile. Yeah, it was an over the top description, but he really did have perfect teeth ... and face ... and hair. Okay, his brown hair wasn’t perfect, because it was messy. Still, it just made him look even more appealing, especially since I ached to comb my fingers through his hair. He flexed his biceps, making me forget all about his hair. I’d never seen a student with arms so muscular. If anything, he looked like he’d walked off a construction site. My eyes went to the tattoo on his right bicep. He had one of those curving Maori ones, although he didn’t look Maori, except for maybe his full lips. I focused on them, wondering what they tasted like.

  He laughed. “I know I’m great to look at, but are you going to take the book or stare at me all day?”

  Oh God, just shoot me now! “Ah … yeah, sorry, thanks,” I said, horrified I was acting like a moron.

  He held the book out further. “You’re still not taking it.” He glanced down at the cover and pulled a face. “But, then again, I wouldn’t either. Economics suck.”

  I grabbed the book off him quickly, feeling my cheeks burn. I let my hair fall forward, using it to shield my face.

  He brushed it aside, doubling my embarrassment. “I thought I recognised you,” he said. “You’re Kelly Botica.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear, feeling self-conscious that he’d touched it, and even more that he knew who I was. “How do you know my name?” I asked.

  “I saw you running at the Eastern Zones on Saturday. You beat my sister Anna. She wouldn’t stop telling me that you only won because you’re a skinny bitch on steroids,” he said, grinning wide.

  I gaped at him, not believing he’d actually said that. I now knew exactly who his sister was, someone who truly deserved the title of ‘bitch’ - the only thing she could beat me at. I’d overheard her talking to a fellow competitor once, telling them that I stole every regional title from her because I was a drug cheat, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t even smoked let alone taken drugs, and the only reason I beat her was because I was faster—plain and simple.

  Tom started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I snapped, not appreciating him mocking me.

  “It’ll piss my sister off even more if she knew I thought you were the hottest chick I’d ever seen.”

  I blinked at him, not expecting that reply.

  He stopped laughing and leaned his face closer to mine. “But, do you want to know what will piss her off even more?”

  “What?” I asked, moving my head back, the guy not knowing the meaning of ‘personal space’.

  “If you go out with me.”

  I pulled a face. “I’m not going out with you just so you can piss off your sister.”

  “No, you’ll be going out with me, because I plan on falling in love with you.”

  I grimaced. “Are you mocking me?”

  He smiled, but this time it wasn’t cheeky, his eyes serious. “No. I just really want to go out with you. I noticed you in that class and couldn’t stop staring at you. My mates dared me to blow that raspberry, which I did so you would notice me. Though, I just hope you say yes, so when I’m in detention I’ll know it was worth it.”

  I blinked again, thinking I must be dreaming.

  “So … will you go out with me?” he asked.

  I nodded, now really hoping this wasn’t a dream, because I was finally getting asked out on a date without ruining it.

  His smile widened. “You won’t regret it.” He pulled out a pen from his bag and grabbed my hand. Instead of yanking it back, I watched as he wrote his number on it. Goose bumps rose at his touch. He ran a thumb over them, then let go and placed the pen’s tip to his own hand. “What’s your number?” he asked.

  I rattle
d it off without thought, my mind still on the fact he’d touched me—and asked me out.

  He finished writing then put his pen away. “Is Friday at seven alright?” he asked, refocusing on me.

  I nodded, lost for words. His whole face lit up as though I’d made his day. Then before I realised what he was doing, he leaned forward and kissed my cheek, the touch of his lips freezing me, BUT most of all, sending shivers down my spine. For that one moment, there was only me and Tom in the hallway, all the other students disappearing with the touch of his lips against my skin.

  He pulled back, and stared at me for a moment, his eyes roaming my face as though he was drinking in every detail. Both of us remained silent, then he raised a hand in farewell, saying, “See ya.”

  I turned to watch him disappear into the mash of students, not sure what to think or whether this was all real. What had happened was better than any book I’d read, and Tom was better than all my book-boyfriends put together.

  A girl walked past me, muttering, “Lucky cow.”

  I smiled, knowing I was.

  3

  PRESENT

  My mobile phone beeped. I walked to my bedroom cabinet and pulled it out of my bag, opening the message.

  I’m lookin 4ward to 2night. <3 Tom.

  I sighed, not feeling the same way, my nerves returning. I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed to go to the Top Hat. The only sex I’d had was with Tom, and for me to go to a place where couples thrived on exhibitionism and voyeurism … it scared the hell out of me. I really felt like texting Tom back and calling it all off, although I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t want to drown his excitement, plus he’d said we could leave if I didn’t like it.

  I replied with a white lie that I was excited too. Once the text was sent, I pocketed the phone and moved to the wardrobe mirror, using my fingers to tame my long black hair.

  The phone went off again, but this time it was a call. I grabbed it, noticing Tom’s number. I clicked it on and answered with a “Yeah.”

  “Hi, honey,” he said. He often called me, which I used to love, but now it just interrupted my day. I hated phone calls, not because of Tom, but because I was usually busy, and worse, I hated small talk. It wasted time, which I usually didn’t have enough of. Though, right now, I was actually happy he was calling, because I needed him to reassure me that the club wasn’t going to be a bad experience.

  “Are you there, Kelly?” Tom asked.

  “Um, yeah. Why are you calling? You just texted.”

  “I needed to hear your voice.”

  Probably because he expected me to back out, my text to him not enough proof that I was as excited as he was—which I obviously wasn’t. Instead, I was scared and nervous, even more so that we were going to this place, because it made me wonder whether it was an excuse for him to be with another woman. Maybe he wasn’t happy with our sex life anymore, because I’d been far from attentive of late, my kisses only in response to his. I also wondered whether he imagined other women while we had sex. I thought about other men, not during sex, but in my breaks from writing when I wanted to see some hot guys. They were just pictures on the internet, many of them usually from online friends who sent the images through to me or put them up on the book website I frequented. I didn’t imagine having sex with these men, but I still looked. Tom looked at other women too, but again, it was just looking. We weren’t a jealous couple, and Tom often made comments about other women, such as on TV. He would say something like “I’d do her,” and I’d reply back with “Nah, she’s average.” Or I’d turn my head if a good-looking guy walked past and he’d laugh, making fun of me for doing it. Or he’d mention something about a woman having a good pair of tits and I’d laugh back. We didn’t mean anything by it, it was just joking and noting that someone was attractive, not that we would actually have sex with them.

  God, I needed to stop thinking about this. The thought of going to the club was winding me up and making me second guess everything.

  “Kelly, are you going to say something?” Tom said, making me realise I hadn’t answered him.

  “Yeah, sorry, I got distracted. You know how it is.”

  “Are you really alright about tonight?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry, I still want to go.” Not!

  “Cool, but you know if you’re uncomfortable in any way we can leave.”

  You already said that like a million times. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Anyway, I’ve got to go and take the kids to my mum’s.”

  “Okay, see you soon,” he said.

  I hung up and headed for Nicky’s room first. As usual the door was shut. I knocked on it and turned the handle, only opening it a fraction. My fifteen-year-old daughter was sitting on the floor with her back against the door, stopping me from entering.

  “Open up,” I said.

  She shuffled away, letting me in. It was school holidays, but instead of finding a job to earn money, she was role-playing on the internet. I didn’t mind it as much as Tom did, since it was teaching her writing skills, which was most notable in her English results. She had gotten nothing but excellences last year, even though she didn’t get along with her English teacher. My girl was rather opinionated, but passionate about what she did and didn’t like. But … and there was always a but with Nicky ... the amount of time she was spending on the internet was turning her into a recluse. She also often slept half the day away if I let her, rarely getting up the motivation to do anything, even the things she used to love.

  “Time to go to Baba’s,” I said, using the Croatian term for grandmother.

  She looked up at me with her computer still on her lap, though it was closed, because God help me if I ever saw what she was writing. “Can’t I stay home?” she asked.

  “No.” Although she was old enough to babysit her eleven-year-old brother, I wasn’t comfortable with it after what had happened the last time. While at my tax job, I’d called home at lunchtime to see if everything was good, but no one had answered. I had continued to call every few minutes, until I finally rang my mother, asking if she could check to see what was wrong, my imagination running wild. My mother had found my son watching TV and Nicky still in bed, Remy having been too caught up in his programme to answer the phone. Since then, I hadn’t felt comfortable leaving him alone with Nicky.

  “Get your stuff, we have to go now,” I said. “And leave your computer behind.”

  A determined expression crossed Nicky’s face. “I won’t go without it.”

  “Okay, take it, but you will have to deal with Baba’s reaction. You know she thinks you’re on the computer too much,” which Nicky was.

  “I don’t care. If I have to go, I’m taking it,” she said, pushing to her feet. She was a fraction taller than me, and instead of having straight black hair like mine, hers was a wild mane of brown. She was a gorgeous looking girl, with her father’s stunning blue-green eyes, although my opinion didn’t mean squat with her, since she thought she was unattractive because of her weight.

  “Fine, bring it,” I said, already having known she would refuse to leave the damn thing behind.

  We headed out into the lounge, finding my eleven-year-old son glued to the TV watching The Simpsons, something he would watch excessively if I didn’t stop him.

  “Time to go, Remy,” I said. “Get your shoes on.”

  “It’s not finished yet,” he replied, continuing to stare at the TV.

  I walked over to it and switched it off, getting a yell in response. “Shoes on now,” I snapped.

  Complaining, he pushed off the couch and walked around the coffee table to the messy pile of shoes by the front door. He looked similar to his sister facially, but was much paler, with lighter brown hair and more blue-grey eyes. He slipped his feet into his favourite yellow pair of Crocs, muttering, “They’re not shoes, they’re Crocs.”

  His sister called him a dumbarse as she walked through the front door. Remy took off after her, yelling so loud I was sure the next road could hear
him. Sighing, I locked up and followed them to the car, the two now arguing over the front passenger seat.

  I told Remy to get into the back, my son already knowing the deal that he got the front seat on the way home. After we all piled in, I backed the Alfa Romeo down the thin driveway. Tom’s expensive midlife crisis had ended up becoming my car, the repayments adding to my stress. But I could never say no to Tom when he wanted to buy something, especially since he worked so hard for the money—while I contributed very little.

  I swung the car onto the road. The houses that framed it belonged to middle class suburbia, a step up from where we used to live in South Auckland. We’d bought the property a couple of years ago, wanting to get Nicky away from the bullying of her last school. Like at home, she didn’t back down which had led to a number of run-ins with other kids, especially on our old road. I had to step in a few times when the kids had gotten rough, not something we had to deal with in East Auckland.

  I glanced at our home, which was nestled on a slight slope. The brick and tile cottage was one of the prettiest houses on the street, although the others were all nice too, the properties well-cared for.

  Nicky changed the CD, putting on her Little Mix album as we headed up the road. Barely five minutes later, I pulled into my parents’ driveway, their large tan-coloured house overlooking a panorama of our town. The view of the Hauraki Gulf, with its glistening blue water and the twin peaks of Rangitoto Island, was stunning. My parents’ property was worth considerably more than mine and three times the size.

  The kids and I headed up to the front door, walking under the balcony. A line of ceramic pots framed the pathway, a mixture of cactuses and brightly coloured flowers filling them. I used the key my mother had given me to let us in, saving her from having to answer the door.