One True Thing

by Nicole Hayes

  Jake grins and bites into his muffin. ‘You’re all pretty amazing,’ he says quietly.

  I stare at my feet, red-faced. I’m almost relieved when my phone bleeps a message from Dad. He wants me to pick up Luke. I do a mental calculation. Even allowing for Luke to take the ridiculously long time it takes to dry that small, skinny body, lose his goggles, find them, then lose them again, I only have maybe forty-five minutes max.

  ‘You have somewhere to go?’ Jake has a Spirax notebook on his knee, a pen in his hand, and his phone recording on the table between us.

  ‘I have to pick up my brother.’

  ‘I only have a few more questions.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say slowly. ‘Seems reasonable in exchange for the shoes.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he says, ‘I still want the shoes.’

  I laugh. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Or the shopping trip, at least. Maybe some fashion advice?’

  I shake my head, grinning. ‘Wrong girl for that.’

  He sips his coffee. ‘I doubt it.’

  I relax into my seat and watch him jot down notes. Finally, he looks up. ‘So you’ve got a brother,’ he says. ‘Other family?’

  ‘They haven’t taught you how to research?’ I’m joking, but we both hear the edge in my voice.

  ‘Of course. You’re right.’ He glances at his notes and rocks back on his chair.

  Is he nervous? I wonder.

  When he looks up, his jaw is set and any trace of uncertainty gone. ‘Tell me about your brother, Luke.’ He clears his throat.

  ‘I thought this was meant to be about No Politics?’ I cross my legs, determined not to give him anything more than we agreed.

  ‘It is,’ he says. ‘The band. The school. How all of it comes together, how you got your first gigs …’ He’s flicking his pen nib, up and down, up and down, the rhythmic clicking not missing a beat.

  ‘Right, and we’ve covered that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘This is for me,’ he says.

  ‘That’s not what we agreed.’

  He laughs lightly, the warm tones liquid and smooth. Small concentration marks dent his forehead as he writes something down. It’s difficult not to be drawn in by his focus. I’ve since learnt he’s not a footballer earning extra credit. He’s smart and tuned in. And funny. It’s hard not to like him.

  Except he’s a journalist. Harry’s always saying that journalists are never off-duty, that anything we say can be used against us – and Mum. ‘Everything – no matter how innocent – can make her look bad if it falls into the wrong hands.’

  I remember watching Luke’s stricken face at Harry’s words back when Mum first became the Premier. I’d tucked Luke’s hand in mine and reassured him that we just wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d nodded obediently, unconvinced. And they’ve mostly left Luke and me alone. The real journalists, anyway.

  Unfortunately, anyone with a smartphone is their own little publishing site, so a lot of those rules went out the window some time ago. Hence my very own YouTube moment featuring the technicoloured yawn.

  Jake is waiting politely. I wonder if this interview was a mistake. ‘I’ve given you enough,’ I say, mentally sifting through my answers to be sure I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t have. ‘What about you? How did you get into journalism?’

  A smile creeps across his face. ‘Nicely done,’ he says.

  ‘What? I want to know.’

  He chuckles softly and rocks back in his chair, his camera resting on his lap. ‘The usual – family, friends. It’s hard to escape where I come from.’

  ‘Right. Canberra. So, why did you move to Melbourne?’

  ‘Who’s doing the interview now?’

  ‘Why do you get to ask all the questions?’

  He sets down his pen and crosses one leg over the other. ‘Quid pro quo,’ he says. ‘Sounds fair.’

  ‘So … Melbourne in the middle of Year 11? What happened?’

  He clasps his hands in his lap and his knee starts jiggling, I guess to make up for the missing pen. He pulls a face and says, ‘Ugly divorce.’

  ‘More information.’

  ‘I needed to get away. Dad suggested I go with him. New job for him. New school for me.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘It’s never just like that.’ He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. ‘We’d talked about it a while – Mum and me. When I say talked, I mean argued. Kind of came to a head one particularly colourful night.’

  ‘Colourful?’

  He grimaces. ‘Yeah. Not my finest hour.’

  ‘Is she okay now? With you being here?’

  He examines his hands, looks up. ‘Honestly? I think she’s relieved.’ I watch a slow blush colour his cheeks, and he shifts back further into his seat, as though to retreat from what he’s just said. ‘It’s a good school. Great opportunity for me to build a portfolio.’

  I decide not to force the parent issue. I reach for his camera. ‘May I?’ I ask, although I’ve already taken it. The long lens is heavier than I expected and awkward to hold. I whistle low and long. ‘Looks expensive. You’d be crazy to let just anyone get a hold of it,’ I say, smirking. I switch it on and point the lens at him.

  He holds up a hand to block the view. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What? You don’t like the camera unless you’re behind it?’

  ‘Basically,’ he says, smiling.

  I squint at the various dials and buttons, work out which is the shutter, and line him up in the viewfinder.

  He twists his mouth into a demented grimace, making his eyes bug out at the same time.

  Click! I take the photo, surprising us both. I’d only meant to pretend. ‘Sorry,’ I say, holding it out to him.

  He takes the camera, presses some buttons and shows me the screen. The photo is all blurry and dark. It could be anyone.

  ‘Yeah. Not my strong point,’ I say.

  ‘Anyone can learn,’ he says.

  ‘I doubt it.’ I shuffle closer to look at the screen. ‘Are you any good?’

  He hesitates, then says simply, ‘Yes.’ He laughs, a bit sheepish.

  ‘Show me.’

  He flicks through his gallery and stops, then holds the camera so I can see. There’s a series of shots from No Politics’s rehearsal. Most of them are of the band in action, rocking out, despite what seemed like a stilted performance at the time. There are also some individual ones – Van with his bass hanging low where he likes it, his face in profile, his lips pursed as though to hold in all those thoughts; Tyler pounding away like the superhero she is, her short hair a blur, her face often turned away or up, lost in the power of the rhythm; Kessie laughing and messing around, her face obscured by her hair, but still radiant, still beautiful; then there’s me, in profile, full-length and from the shoulder up, but it’s the first close-up that stops me cold. Just one shot, tight and sharp, and so confronting that I gasp.

  ‘That one’s my favourite,’ Jake says.

  I look at him, too shocked to answer. In the picture, my face is slightly turned away and my eyes are cast down towards my guitar, completely lost in the moment. It’s so private, my expression so intimate, I feel exposed. My hands tremble and a part of me wants to delete the image. I could, too. Right now. A couple of clicks and it would be gone. But I don’t because, well, it’s … beautiful.

  I can’t look at Jake, so instead I click on, moving backwards, safely beyond the band’s shoot. I click through a series of street shots of people rushing to work or school, their faces rigid and determined, their heads already having arrived at their destination. All these people caught up in their world, oblivious to the camera. It’s a little horrifying but also compelling. I stop at a shot of a homeless man, suntanned to within an inch of his life, wearing nothing but banana-yellow jocks and standing under a bayside showerhead in a fine mist of water.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. The colour of the underwear is so sharp and vibrant against his
dark skin, with the blue, blue sky and the lush green lawn of the picnic area behind him filling out the image in such summery cheer. Beside him, a Woolies shopping basket piled with everything he owns stands stark and unsettling against the brilliant backdrop. ‘Wow,’ I say again.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Jake asks, his voice low.

  I look up. ‘That’s really powerful.’

  He doesn’t quite blush but there’s a shyness in his smile. Finally, I’ve found something that he isn’t sure of. And I like him more because of this. ‘There’s a flaw, though, that bugs me,’ he says after a moment, taking the camera from me and zooming in on the picture.

  ‘What? I can’t see anything.’ My mind flips back to the photo he took of me, my cheeks warming at the memory. I shake it off.

  ‘There,’ he says, pointing to the finest hairline fracture across one corner of the image. It’s only visible because it’s set against the smooth blue of the sky. I examine it more closely. It’s a faint but distinct lightning bolt that you wouldn’t see if you didn’t know to look.

  ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘How’d that get in there?’

  Jake takes the camera back from me. ‘It’s in the lens. I’m saving up for a new one. I can generally fix it in Photoshop, so it’s no big deal, but eventually I’ll get a new lens.’ He sets the camera on the table between us. ‘In the meantime, it’s like a fingerprint – unique.’ He scratches his chin. ‘Means no one can rip me off.’ Then he laughs. ‘You know, when they make their millions off my art.’

  ‘Is it expensive to replace?’

  Jake grins. ‘No. Unless you consider three and a half grand a lot to pay for a camera lens – without an actual camera. That’s separate.’

  ‘Wow. I’d live with the fingerprint.’

  ‘I’ve got a job at a restaurant in the city. I’m almost there. Be nice to get some stuff published, not that they pay much. But Dad’s big on earning money. Says it’s not real work without it.’ Jake’s mouth twists when he says it, as though he’s tasted something unpleasant. He takes the camera in his hands, almost caressing it.

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  He smiles. ‘At least I can still shoot things I care about.’

  ‘Like homeless men.’

  ‘And beautiful guitarists.’

  Heat. Heart. Head. I feel these things in this order. ‘Van is pretty special,’ I manage to say, pushing the image of my expression in that photo away. The feeling of being naked for all to see, even though I’m dressed in a T-shirt and those wrecked jeans and there’s not a millimetre of visible skin below my neck.

  Jake laughs. ‘Yeah. He sure is.’

  I sip my coffee, glad for the distraction.

  Jake studies me, the camera now resting on his lap. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Quid pro quo.’

  ‘Not sure I agreed to that.’

  ‘Ah, but you didn’t disagree.’ He smiles openly and I see that one of his incisors is slightly crooked. It’s oddly endearing and kind of reassuring that maybe there’s more of him that’s not perfect.

  I fold my arms across my chest. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tell me about your family?’

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ I say, feeling emboldened by that crooked tooth. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  He laughs quietly, and his leg slides forward to rest against mine. Does he know we’re touching? I try not to look at the point of contact for fear he’ll notice.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I have a brother – who I’ve already mentioned. He’s ten …’ I glimpse the clock above the counter and stop mid-sentence. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. I have to go.’ I get up, grab my bag, then reach for my guitar just as Jake does the same. Our hands clash and I jolt back. ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asks, concerned, his hand still on my guitar case, warm beside mine, long fingers grazing my skin, messing with my head.

  I pull back and manage a grim smile. ‘Luke freaks when I’m late,’ I say, heading for the exit. I thrust a ten-dollar note onto the counter to pay for my coffee and muffin on the way past.

  ‘Hey.’ Jake’s beside me, tugging the guitar out of my hands, successfully this time. ‘Let me help you.’ For a second I consider objecting but I let it go, worried about the time we’re wasting. He places twenty dollars on the counter, then sweeps up my tenner and hands it back. ‘It’s common courtesy in interviews. Promise it’s not a bloke thing.’

  I indicate the guitar he’s carrying for me. ‘Really,’ I say dryly.

  ‘Point taken. Just this once?’ He takes the change from the waiter.

  I scan his face. I’m not worried about the bill – I know that’s how it works – but his interest in my family and his being so … nice. I hear Harry’s voice in my head reminding me that journalists are never off-duty, and I know it’s true.

  But still.

  ‘I really have to go. I’m not kidding about my brother. He hates it when I’m late.’

  ‘I’ll come then.’

  I hesitate. What if he’s trying to get an angle or some dirt? What if this is a set-up? I check my phone. I have ten minutes to get there and it’s easily a fifteen-minute walk to the pool.

  ‘We’ll have to run,’ I say.

  Jake shoves his camera in his backpack and tucks my guitar under one arm. ‘So let’s run.’

  And even though my whole body feels off balance without my guitar, I don’t argue. We start off down the street at a steady jog, increasing speed as we go. When we hit the main intersection I have to yank him back so he doesn’t go down the wrong street.

  ‘This way!’ I say, letting go of his hand, feeling more certain of myself when I’m not holding it.

  We turn around and head across the road, dodging pedestrians and cyclists. But I’ve started laughing in that halting out-of-breath way, and Jake has too. Whenever I try to slow down, even for a second, he cries out, ‘Make way!’ to the terrified pedestrians and runs faster, so by the time the pool is in sight, we’re sprinting, my guitar flying on Jake’s left side and me on his right, our cheeks flushed from the cool air and racing hearts.

  We turn into the pool centre’s gates, both of us panting, Jake with my guitar pressed against his chest like some kind of shield. I bend over, half-laughing, half-suffocating, coughing between gulps of air.

  I straighten, look at my watch and punch the air. ‘Yes! And a minute to spare!’

  Jake bows low, a deep sweeping thing that somehow includes my guitar without looking awkward, and then we crack up laughing and try to catch our breath as we head towards the steamy glass doors.

  CHAPTER 9

  BELLWETHER VOTE

  ‘Who’s he?’ Luke frowns up at Jake, his ten-year-old face looking more like a wizened old man’s than a boy’s. His scruffy, wet hair, blond and wispy at the best of times, looks like it’s thinning in the fading twilight.

  ‘Manners!’ I say, mimicking Mum’s scolding voice – high-pitched, fake plummy accent with a touch of her fading Irish brogue. She spent one year in Ireland when she was a teenager – barely a year – and yet she still lets slip with those soft vowel sounds, and an occasional dropping of the ‘h’ in ‘th’ – usually when she’s angry. We tease her mercilessly about it too, Dad leading the way.

  Luke sticks his tongue out at me.

  ‘Classy,’ I say, rubbing his head. He hates it when I do that, but I can’t resist. Maybe it’s those old eyes, or the pale, almost translucent skin and the chronically rattly chest. He seems so frail sometimes, even though the kid can swim the two hundred like a miniature Thorpedo – with the help of his puffer, anyway.

  ‘I’m Jake. You must be Luke.’ Jake stretches out his hand and Luke shakes it.

  ‘You’re tall,’ Luke says.

  Jake laughs. ‘You’re not.’

  Luke looks shocked, then smiles. He squints at me and then Jake, back and forth, his hand shading his eyes. ‘Are you Frankie’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Lu
ke!’ I scold, too fast and too loud to sound innocent.

  Jake finds this hilarious, that crooked tooth mocking me.

  ‘He’s a friend of Kessie’s,’ I add, frowning at my brother.

  ‘Well, I know he’s not her boyfriend,’ Luke counters matter-of-factly.

  Even I smile at this. Luke adores Kessie, but not the way others do – not because she’s beautiful or cool, popular or smart; Luke loves Kessie because she has never lied to him.

  When he was five, maybe six, he confessed to her that he wanted to marry her, and she had explained so carefully, so gently, that if she could ever love boys like that he would be at the top of her list. That she loved girls instead. She told him it was a secret only he and I knew, that it was her job to tell people when she was ready. Then she told Luke that he would always have a special place in her heart because she could trust him more than anyone else.

  And he never told a soul until he knew it wasn’t a secret anymore. I think Luke loved that Kessie treated him like a grown-up, and Kessie knew, somehow, that he was the right kid to trust with this new and complicated thing.

  He might be annoying and whiny, and – at moments like this – really embarrassing, but you have to be impressed with that. I know some adults who couldn’t keep a secret that long. Mum’s colleagues, on both sides of the House, can’t seem to keep a secret at all.

  ‘Kessie’s cool,’ Jake says to Luke, ‘but she’s not my type.’ He looks at me then, that steady, unblinking gaze that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

  I glance away, counting the ridges in the bricks – anything to avoid revealing how his words make me feel. Even the sight of Travis Matthews striding purposefully poolside, his yellow lifeguard uniform making him look like the Hulk with jaundice, isn’t enough to distract me.

  ‘Are you coming to our house?’ Luke asks Jake, successfully yanking my attention away from the fascinating glass brickwork.

  ‘No, Luke. We have to go,’ I say, tugging on his tracksuit top in case he doesn’t take the hint. ‘Mum’s expecting us.’ I reach for my guitar before Jake has a chance to object.