One True Thing

by Nicole Hayes

  Christie smiles vaguely, oblivious to Kessie’s interest. She seems too young and undamaged for politics, and she’s great at turning people around because of it. She’s got a farm girl kind of look with strawberry-blonde hair and freckles dotting her nose, which make her look my age rather than thirty. She’s constantly introducing us to her various boyfriends, none of whom seems able to keep her attention for more than a few months.

  ‘It’s just family,’ Christie says. A photographer approaches Christie and they talk about position and light for a moment, before Christie turns back to me, all business, and says, ‘Ready, Frank?’

  I smile apologetically at Kessie. ‘Back in a bit.’

  ‘Fine. Whatevs. See you at the food table.’ Kessie sashays towards the kitchen, where a steady stream of platter-carrying waiters and waitresses are coming and going.

  Christie and I head towards the ferris wheel, where four photographers appear to be arguing over the cast of a shadow. I stand back and wait, knowing these things can take a while.

  Mum heads over with some guy she introduced me to earlier – the school principal, maybe? – followed by Jesse the Amazer, who is, in fact, a woman.

  I smile at the principal, glad I don’t have to remember his name, then turn to the clown. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say to her, and hold out my hand to shake.

  Jesse the Amazer stares at me dumbly, then places a poodle-shaped balloon in my hand.

  I look at the balloon and stifle the snicker that rises up in my chest, grateful that Kessie isn’t here. There’s no way either of us would have behaved if she were. ‘Thanks,’ I say, without even a sniff or a chuckle. Cameras go off around me, destroying any chance of keeping this one on the down low.

  Mum offers a practised smile, but it’s so deliberate and unshakeable that I know she’s holding back. I raise the balloon to show her, and the world, and say as enthusiastically as possible, ‘Isn’t it cool?’

  ‘Very cool,’ Mum says dryly.

  Mum, Jesse the Amazer, the principal and I then spend the next five minutes posing for the cameras, waiting for the wind to drop and the sun to come out from behind the clouds, for one of the photographers to switch batteries, and finally for Christie to take down Jesse’s details so Mum’s office can send her copies of the photos. And then I’m free, and Harry is calling for Mum to meet someone who is ‘about to change the face of Victoria’ – a promise Harry’s made four times today about four different people – and I find Kessie outside the VIP tent, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘What?’

  Kessie offers me that wide-eyed smile, holding her hands out, palms up. ‘What do you mean? I’m just enjoying this glorious day.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  ‘So, all done with the paparazzi?’

  I sigh. ‘I hope so. My make-up’s gone all vampire on me, and it’s possible that every time the wind blows you can see my bra. It’s not even my good one.’

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Kessie says, but I know she’s making fun of me. For years I avoided all this stuff, always complaining whenever I had to help out for even the tiniest public event. I guess I’m complaining less now. And cooperating more.

  ‘Once Mum’s elected, I can go back to teenage obscurity.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Kessie says, the lightness gone from her voice.

  ‘What? I will. They don’t care about me. It’s all about Yummy Mummy. And Dad, a bit – but Luke and I are just window dressing.’ Harry actually called us that once, which really pissed Mum off.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s not what Jake seems to think.’

  I feel the heat rise to my cheeks just at the mention of Jake D’Angelo, but I manage a fairly convincing shrug and look around for something to eat. ‘Where’s the real food?’

  Kessie waves a hand in the direction of the makeshift kitchen. ‘We can hang around there, make sure you don’t miss out.’

  I need to eat but I’m also really keen to avoid further conversation about Jake. I blew him off for our planned interview last week, and Kessie will be furious if I don’t sort something out soon.

  I find a good spot just a few metres from the servery. A waiter with a platter of sushi passes us on his way back inside. Most are vegetarian – we’re in the hipster northern suburbs, after all – so I pick a raw tuna one, buried amid the avocado and cucumber, even though what I really want is something cooked.

  Kessie is close on my heels. ‘So, Jake, hey?’ she says.

  I swallow my mouthful of sushi and scan the room for more food. A waitress with drinks comes past, and I take a glass of orange juice, thanking her before she moves on. Slowly, I turn back to Kessie. ‘Is that supposed to be a question?’

  Kessie smiles like she’s won something. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘You knew what?’ I ask. I’m holding the glass between us like a sword.

  ‘God! I know you so well!’ She’s positively gloating.

  ‘You don’t,’ I say weakly.

  ‘You like him. Admit it!’

  I’m blushing now, and hating myself for it. I suddenly feel light-headed and there’s a lump in my stomach the size of Uluru. Every time the subject of Jake D’Angelo comes up, I find myself flushed and jittery and generally acting like a moron. ‘I don’t even know him!’

  Kessie grins. ‘You know we’re friends, right?’

  I shake my head. ‘Wait – what was your name again?’

  ‘Hi-larious. I meant Jake and me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He lives around the corner. His dad’s all friendly with mine, and they’ve been over to our house a bit. Actually, Jake rather than his dad. His dad’s not home much.’ I watch as she licks the last sticky remnants of her now-deconstructed California roll from her fingers, mayonnaise shining on her lips.

  I hand her my scrunched-up serviette. ‘Manners!’ I say Yummy Mummy style.

  She ignores this but takes the napkin. ‘Jake surfs,’ she continues. ‘That’s about all it takes for my dad.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ When our dads first met, it never got further than Mr Blythedale asking Dad if he surfed, and my dad saying that he spent enough time watching Luke swim countless, mind-numbing laps to last a lifetime of water sports. Beaches, Dad said, were something to write about, to offer an inspiring view – not for participation, not for getting wet. So now, whenever they run into each other, they barely manage more than a friendly greeting before an awkward silence descends. The fact that Mr Blythedale is about the least likely surfer you’d ever meet – a cross between Seth Rogan and Mr McGoo – does nothing to change the fact that he spends every minute he can on the coast, chasing the perfect wave. And apparently never finding it.

  Kessie licks her fingers. ‘So … we talk a lot – Jake and I.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Kessie smiles broadly, shaking her head. Then she kisses me on the forehead, like my mum used to when I was little after I’d just done something stupid or, worse, adorable. ‘Because …’ she says, drawing out the word, ‘he’s been asking questions.’

  A platter of buffalo chicken wings floats by and I snaffle two pieces, dipping them in blue-cheese dressing before the waiter can escape, thanking god for pub food.

  Kessie isn’t going to let this go. ‘About you,’ she says as she bites into her last piece of sushi.

  ‘He’s writing an article about the band, Kessie. Asking questions is kind of the point.’

  ‘Except you’re the only one he’s asked about.’

  I feel my cheeks colouring. A weird mix of uncertainty and hope swirls in my belly. I’m about to tell her to let it go, that it’s just an interview and he’s just a guy – a journalist too, so more trouble than he’s worth – until I notice a small cluster of photographers hovering nearby. They’re mostly raiding the food platters, but one of them keeps glancing over at us.

  I try to picture what we look like, Kessie and me. Are we doing anything that might look bad on som
eone’s screen? I think we’re okay.

  ‘I’m sure he’s nice, Kess, except that’s irrelevant. I’ll do the interview and that’ll be it.’ I bite into the last chicken wing.

  ‘Nice?’ She shakes her head, grinning. ‘Even I can see he’s hot. An interesting kind of hot, but still. Undeniable.’

  ‘Don’t go all Jane Austen on me,’ I say, my voice a little thin and high for my liking. ‘He’s not my type.’

  Kessie drapes her arm around my shoulder, pulling me towards her in a rough hug. ‘Bless your heart,’ she says in the fake Russell Brand accent she uses whenever she thinks I’m being naive. ‘I’m sure you believe that too.’

  I brush her off and return my attention to the canapés. ‘Why did I bring you?’ I say. The dizziness strikes again, and I lean against a tent pole to steady myself.

  ‘For my winning personality and excellent taste in hook-ups for my straight best friend.’ Kessie bows theatrically.

  I press my lips together, trying not to smile. ‘I’m not his type, either, Kess. Let it go.’

  She straightens and laughs. ‘That’s never gonna happen, Frank. See, I know stuff.’

  My heart is doing little flips in my chest, even as I try to keep my tone flat. ‘Whatever you know, you might as well tell me.’

  Kessie grabs two sticks of barbecued prawns from a passing platter and hands me one. She takes a large, messy bite. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she says. ‘I just had a chat with our friend, and he seems to find it hard to talk about anything else.’

  The prawns look delicious. I’m so hungry my stomach is almost groaning out loud, so this fat, juicy-looking prawn should be liquid gold in my mouth, but it’s like suddenly my tastebuds have keeled over, comatose. All I’m aware of is the aching thump of my heart at the thought of Jake talking about me and the fogginess that’s shrouding my brain. I clear my throat and force down the tasteless morsel, trying not to hurry or seem too interested. The dizziness has passed, but my head feels all floaty and weird. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You, my sweet. You.’ Kessie takes another bite, and I have to wait what seems like ages before she continues. ‘He asked how well I knew you. I said you were like a sister to me, except I actually like you.’ Kessie barely talks to her older sister, Annabelle. I won’t say she hates her, but in the last two years they’ve probably exchanged fewer than twenty-five words. And most of them I wouldn’t repeat in respectable company.

  I don’t care, I tell myself. Jake can say whatever he likes. I just don’t care. I’m about to tell Kessie to find me a glass of water and some Panadol if she really wants to help, when my gaze settles on a mop of dark curls and a set of broad, strong shoulders that could belong to a footballer or a surfer or …

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Kessie says airily. ‘I forgot to say I told him to come.’

  The broad shoulders turn around and I’m staring directly into the emerald-green eyes of Jake D’Angelo.

  I stand stock-still, my feet cemented in place, with only the rapid pounding of my heart evidence that I’m not, in fact, the living dead.

  So much for not caring.

  ‘Jesus, girl.’ Kessie’s voice is all echoey, and I have to force myself to look at her to be absolutely sure she’s spoken.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  She touches her hand to my forehead like my mother does when I’m sick. ‘You feel hot,’ she says, then pulls her hand away, disgusted. ‘And sweaty.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I snap, embarrassed. I really do feel ill. ‘Something’s not right,’ I say. The headache is dull and persistent, my skin feels cold to touch, and there are goosebumps along my arm even though I’m burning up inside and, yes, I’m sweaty.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I look up to see Jake standing beside me, concern etched into his features. I lick my lips but my mouth has gone dry. I can feel it in my gut now, that swirly icky heaviness, and I know that this is not some feverish response to a good-looking guy.

  ‘Not sure,’ I choke out.

  ‘Can I get you some water?’ His hand is on my shoulder, and he’s already looking around.

  ‘I … No.’ I shake my head, then face him. The world starts to spin, and I struggle to focus. ‘Um, maybe. Yeah. Thanks.’

  Jake disappears into the crowd and Kessie tucks her arm in mine. ‘Seriously, Frank. You look like crap.’

  And I feel it. I’m suddenly aware of every muscle I own, every droplet of blood in my veins. Everything is throbbing and beating faster than it should, and somehow louder, too.

  ‘Sit down.’ Kessie tugs me towards the row of chairs we only recently vacated. This time the plastic seems to mould itself to me rather than dig into my back and thighs.

  Jake returns with a glass of chilled water. Cubes of ice tinkle as I take a long drink. Then I press the glass to my forehead, the cool against my skin a huge relief.

  I tilt my head up, determined to settle the roiling of my stomach. I try to stand, but small black dots dance in front of me, and before I know it the Northwoods Primary School’s ‘Sport in the Suburbs’ catering is making an unwelcome reappearance on their brand-new running track – and all over Jake D’Angelo’s shoes.

  I don’t have to look up to know that someone somewhere is capturing every second of it in glorious, high-res detail.

  CHAPTER 8

  MEET THE PRESS

  It takes a full twenty-four hours before I run out of food to throw up, and another twenty-four hours before I have the energy to get out of bed, but I’m determined to go to school because No Politics will never be ready for Battle of the Bands if we don’t dig in.

  I check my phone and there’s a text from Harry warning me that there’s a meme circulating of me throwing up sweet-chilli prawns on the brand-new running track but, he says, I shouldn’t worry because at least they got my good side. Ha. Ha. He also sends me a link to a YouTube guitar tutorial on how to play ‘Just Breathe’. I save the link for later, my head too fuzzy to even think about guitar. I sip the cold water Mum keeps setting beside me every time I sit down but ignore the Vegemite toast.

  First things first.

  I open my laptop, take a deep breath and search for ‘Premier Mulvaney daughter’. Several links pop up, the first three almost certainly the offending vision. I hesitate, then I bite my lower lip and click. There I am in all my vomitous glory, in profile as Harry said, though what constitutes a ‘best side’ when in barf mode is a little hard to judge. I watch myself spew canapés for a few seconds before it fades to a clip of Mum addressing Parliament. It cuts back and forth between us to the subtle strains of ‘The Vomit Song’ just in case we didn’t get the main theme from the visuals alone.

  I sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

  Rehearsal goes surprisingly well. We spend a good chunk of the studio time on the new song, and although the lyrics are sketchy we don’t sound too terrible by the end of the session. When we’re done, we all promise to make every rehearsal – on time (Tyler and Van), without any surprises or unauthorised rewrites (Kessie), and without wigging out (I suspect that’s for me) – between now and our performance.

  I walk out of the studio on a high, convinced that we can pull it together. Tyler falls in step beside me, her short legs working twice as hard as mine to keep up.

  ‘Hey, you right to get the Pearl Jam tickets?’ she asks as we head towards the science lab. As a Fan Club member I’m eligible for two pre-sale tickets before it’s open to the public. They’ll sell out fast, and I have no idea what seats I’ll get, which kind of sucks, but there’s no one else I’d rather take to see Eddie and the boys. Kessie doesn’t love them like Tyler and I do.

  ‘I’ve set my alarm and I’ve checked out the ideal spots – C to J, the first eight rows – and a couple of alternatives if I can’t get them,’ I say, reaching the lab with a few minutes to spare.

  ‘Two tickets, right?’

  ‘Yep. You and me.’ Mum predictably said she couldn’t help score extra tickets when I asked. Having a Pr
emier for a mother is consistently annoying. Having a Premier for a mother who’s always worried about doing ‘the right thing’? That’s a total waste.

  ‘I hope we get them,’ I add. ‘They’ll sell out fast.’ Even Harry’s mate came up empty.

  ‘Thanks for organising it.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I laugh. ‘As if I’d trust anyone else to do it!’

  ‘Good to know you’re a well-rounded control freak.’

  ‘Always,’ I reply, just as Mr De Masson arrives for physics. I say goodbye to Tyler, take the last remaining seat – beside Travis Matthews, alas – and spend the rest of the class ignoring his spectacularly unsuccessful attempts to light his own farts, which he only interrupts with puking noises and references to carrot-filled yawns.

  After school I check my phone and see a message from Jake. There’s a tiny flutter in my chest, which I put down to the last remnants of having thrown up my body weight of hors d’oeuvres so recently, and open the message: Ok 4 this arvo?

  My mind is blank, then I remember – Kessie rescheduled the interview for me. I consider all the reasons to say no. One by one I tick them off: overtired due to illness, have rehearsal, too much homework. They all sound soft and will only delay the inevitable.

  My phone pings and there’s another message: Plus, u owe me new shoes.

  I laugh, then cringe. There’s really nowhere to go, dignity-wise, when someone’s witnessed you puke your guts up. Ok. Carfe Diem opp school – 3.45. I send the message, then tuck away my phone and head into the toilets, careful to do no more than glance randomly in the mirror and roughly – carelessly – brush my hair.

  Carfe Diem is packed. We’re in the front courtyard, watching the university crowd wander in and out, their full backpacks as tired and worn as their clothes. I wonder briefly if Dad’s finished work yet, or if he’s got late classes today.

  Jake’s school shirt is untucked and his tie is flung over his shoulder, and we’ve wolfed down an apple-and-cinnamon muffin each. Jake is on to his second.

  ‘Seriously, I know she looks tiny,’ I say, ‘but Tyler’s got biology-defying power when she knocks out “Moby Dick”. It’s like there are two of her.’