All That I Remember About Dean Cola

by Tania Chandler

  Donna Doherty trotted past, giggling and spilling her drink.

  ‘Typical sixteen-year-old,’ said Joe. ‘What can I get you?’

  Maybe he was a cop, checking on underage drinking. ‘Lemonade,’ I murmured.

  He went to the bar and came back with two glasses of champagne. ‘Celeste was supposed to meet me here tonight,’ he said, handing me one of the glasses. ‘I own a fashion line.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Which is amalgamated with the America’s Cup.’ He shook his head and sighed melodramatically. ‘But I’m so busy with my acting work these days I hardly have time to get out.’

  ‘What have you been in?’ I murmured.

  ‘Eh?’ He couldn’t hear me over the music.

  ‘What acting roles have you had?’ I shouted.

  ‘TV commercials … I had a part in Mad Max 2.’ He sipped his champagne. ‘But you probably recognise me as a musician.’

  I looked at him more closely. No.

  ‘I was in one of Australia’s most well-known bands.’

  Still no. I shook my head.

  ‘You really don’t know who I am?’ He laughed and clinked his glass to mine. ‘Probably for the best. Come over and meet my friends.’

  I followed him to a corner table, where he introduced me to Peter, a famous football player, and a handful of other important people — designers, managers, a film producer — whose names I forgot instantly.

  While Joe went to buy more drinks, Peter told me he was celebrating having just signed a football contract. He was moving to Queensland in March to play for the Bears.

  I nodded and smiled, having no interest in football nor any idea what he was talking about.

  ‘You’re very pretty,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know who I am?’ Joe said, pushing in between Peter and me, topping up our glasses from a bottle of champagne.

  A large hand gripped my shoulder gently. I turned. Christos. ‘Everything all right?’ he said.

  I gave him a look I would have given my dad, if I’d had one, and he’d embarrassed me with his presence at a nightclub. Christos frowned, walked away, and sat at a nearby table, sipping what I presumed was soda water with a lemon slice, and watching me.

  ‘Is the big dude bothering you?’ Joe said.

  ‘No, he’s OK.’ Turning so Christos could see, I sculled my drink.

  I smiled as Joe splashed more into my glass. The important people discussed politics. I tried to join in the conversation about Joan Kirner, but they changed it to sport and fashion — topics I knew little about. Mental note: read more about those.

  ‘We’re off to meet up with Jimmy Barnes at his motel in town,’ Joe said. ‘Would you like to come?’

  I really wanted to meet Jimmy Barnes, but I glanced at Christos, and told Joe that I couldn’t because my mum was picking me up soon. Joe slid a business card from his wallet. He said to ring and leave my number as he’d be in Perth for a couple of weeks because of the America’s Cup.

  I took his card and asked which band he was in.

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘No!’ I giggled.

  He leaned down, and whispered in my ear, ‘Sherbet. I’m Joey Wild.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘What time are you getting picked up?’

  ‘One thirty.’

  ‘I’ll come back at twelve thirty, by myself.’ He winked, and left with Peter the famous footballer and the other important people.

  Where was Kim? I swaggered over to Christos’s table.

  He frowned at me. ‘You need to be careful of your behaviour around men like that.’

  ‘Men like what?’

  He raised his caterpillary eyebrows.

  ‘You don’t know who they were, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘D’you think I’ve got a daddy complex?’ I heard myself slurring words, and I should have stopped talking, but couldn’t. ‘I don’t know who my dad was. I don’t even know if my mum knew who he was! He was just some truckie stopping in for fuel, a feed, and a fuck at the truck stop on the highway where Mum worked.’

  Christos’s eyebrows changed direction, arching down to meet in the middle. They blurred into two, three pairs.

  ‘Iss called ’literation. Fffuel, fffeed, fffuck.’

  ‘Sit down, Sidney.’ He put a hand on my arm.

  ‘Sssit, Sssidney …’ I plonked my bum down on the stool. ‘I’m gonna be a writer, you know. Yep. Use all the pain in here.’ I tapped my chest. ‘I wrote this t’rific story ’bout a girl who gets pregnant to this guy who betrays her.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. I’d like to read it.’

  ‘Really! I want to write a fire in it.’ I made a big, flickering-fire gesture. ‘You could help me. You know all about fire, dontcha?’

  He lit two cigarettes and stuck one in my mouth. ‘Where’s your sidekick?’

  ‘Petra? At the Blue Light Disco.’ I laughed. ‘She luuurvs you.’

  He blew smoke out the side of his mouth.

  I waved the empty glass still in my hand. ‘Can you get me some more champagne?’

  He went to the bar, and came back with a glass of water. I pushed it away. ‘I’m like my mum — in love with somebody who doesn’t love me.’

  ‘You’re not talking about Coke, are you?’

  I nodded and sniffed.

  ‘You need to find a nice bloke to look after you. Is there anybody else you like?’

  I shook my head.

  Christos got serious. ‘You should stay away from Coke. He seems a nice enough bloke, but his family were involved in some bad stuff back in Italy.’

  I scoffed. Dean’s parents had seemed so lovely. Not a Mario Puzo bone in Frank or Anna Cola’s body.

  ‘You don’t want to know what the Colas got up to. My cop mate showed me the files at the police station.’

  ‘Before they immigrated to Tasmania?’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, I could get my mate to show you too.’

  Maybe I was wrong about the Colas. I swayed and gripped the table.

  ‘Come outside and get some fresh air.’

  I didn’t want fresh air, but I let Christos take my hand and lead me out. Kim and Mahersy were coming back in, wrapped around each other. Mahersy winked, and Kim made a kissy face.

  Around the back, in the car park, Christos said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘But Joey Wild’s coming back for me at twelve thirty. I like him.’ I couldn’t stand up straight, so I leaned against the wall.

  ‘Do you like me?’ Christos said.

  ‘No.’ I giggled.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ He stroked my hair.

  The car park spun. I closed my eyes. He kissed me. His stubble scratched my face; he tasted of salt and smoke and lemon. I kissed him back.

  SATURDAY SUNDAY 26 FEBRUARY 1989

  God, what have I done? I was really drunk, so it doesn’t count, right? Doesn’t mean or change anything. As long as Petra doesn’t find out. The pain inside me has made me stone-cold sober — except for the sickness in my stomach. I can’t stop crying.

  I didn’t know it straight away on New Year’s Eve, but I loved you, Dean Cola, & now it’s over. Getting on with Christos tonight last night felt, in some dumb, drunken way, like getting back at you for not wanting me. It’s all too stupid, too hopeless, too painful, & way, way too fucking late.

  I am such a stupid bitch. If I’ve ever wanted to commit suicide, it’s now. Don’t be so melodramatic, Sylvia.

  It’s OK. Sometime, somewhere, in the future you will read back through this, Sid. You will have gotten over Dean Cola. You will have forgotten all about Christos. Petra will have forgiven you long ago (even better, she will have never found out) & you’ll be best friends still. Possibly sipping champagne together on Joey Wild’s yacht
. You will be better, healthy, no voices in your head.

  It’s OK. It’s OK. It will be OK.

  Oh, I almost forgot — the roses were from Christos.

  I think I slept, but I’m not sure. Something’s wrong with me again. I’m OK now, but after I wrote last night this morning, I started worrying about the Colas’ Mafia connections, & Petra finding out about me & Christos. My heart beat a thousand kilometres a minute, my mouth went dry, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t swallow, my tongue felt like it was swelling, & then my hands, my arms, my whole body was swelling too, floaty but heavy. The outlines of objects in my room started flickering & then melting — like Fricky’s demon face out the back of the drive-in. I could hear voices again but couldn’t make out what they were saying. I know it was just too much alcohol, but it was scary. I was dizzy & vomited as well.

  I have an idea: if Petra does find out, I’ll just deny it. Simple.

  I threw out the roses. I feel sick every time I think about last night, about Christos. About the Godfather. About the melting things in my room.

  I’m not going out tonight. & I’m never, ever drinking again.

  MONDAY 27 FEBRUARY 1989

  Fuck, this is so awful. In the paper today (I’m paraphrasing): A thirty-two-year-old unemployed man was knocked to the ground & his hair set alight in a vicious attack at the rear of Jay Jays nightclub at around 12.30 a.m. on Sunday morning. The victim, from South Yarra, was attacked from behind & did not see his attacker or attackers, who fled the club’s car park before police arrived. The South Yarra man is recovering in hospital.

  It’s Joey Wild. I just know it is.

  WEDNESDAY 1 MARCH 1989

  Still hot, but summer’s finally over. Thank God.

  No more news about the Jay Jays attack. Not even in the Melbourne papers. The man must be OK. Of course it couldn’t have been Joey Wild — he wasn’t unemployed.

  Petra has been quiet all week, which is extraordinarily unusual. I don’t see her at lunchtime because of aerobics, & she’s been avoiding me at recess. She knows. I feel sick again — like my stomach is pushing so hard against my heart that I might vomit it up.

  We got our first creative writing assignments back in English. I’d written mine in orange & red textas to compensate for the greyness of the story, & Boil Head (Mrs Boyle, fill-in teacher) wrote that the colours had given her a headache & marked it B+. I was really angry (I always get A+s or As for English) so I complained to Mr Haigh when he got back from his holiday. He read the piece & assured me that I am an extremely talented writer, and he might be able to change the mark. He said perhaps the reason Boil Head didn’t give me an A was because the writing was a touch flowery & a tad childish, & I should read Hemingway. I borrowed ‘The Old Man & The Sea’ from the library, & read the first ten pages or so, but found it boring. & more than a tad childish.

  I’m up to chapter 3 of ‘The Great Gatsby’ & I don’t understand why Gatsby is great — there are relatively few mentions of him & only one appearance, which is weird because isn’t the book meant to be about him?

  Even if Gatsby isn’t great yet, I think Fitzgerald’s prose is. I can’t believe it was first published 64 years ago. “In his blue gardens men & girls came & went like moths among the whisperings & the champagne & the stars.” (Chapter 3) Oh my God! How I wish I could write like that.

  Have decided to paint my room black.

  I asked Mum & she said there was no Joey in Sherbet.

  AT RECESS, I followed Petra from art class. Sick of the silent treatment, I caught up with her crossing the courtyard and asked what was wrong.

  ‘Did you get on with Christos?’ she said, as we walked side by side.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  I looked at the ground, trying to avoid the cracks.

  Petra stopped outside the locker bay, turned, and glared at me.

  I hugged my books and paints tighter. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Did you?’

  I thumbed the corner of my Handbook of Art, feeling sweat prickle my armpits, hearing myself swallow.

  ‘Slut!’ She smacked the art materials from my arms.

  I stared like an idiot at my things on the ground, sudden tears in my eyes. I blinked hard and looked back at Petra. Her face flushed, her grey-blue eyes darkened to navy — she was about to either explode or cry. She dropped her things too and shoved me against the brick wall. My shoulder blades hit hard. Bruises upon bruises. I struggled for breath. The rough mortar between the bricks caught on my sweater like velcro.

  ‘Traitor!’ Petra grasped a handful of my hair. With her other hand, she slapped my face, her fingernails scratching my cheek.

  Still half-winded, focused on Petra, I sensed rather than saw kids gathering to watch. Petra held me by the sweater — I felt one of the buttons tear from my dress underneath. She punched the side of my face awkwardly. I pushed her and she fell backwards onto her bum. My button rolled across the concrete, stopping in a crack.

  There was a crowd now, shouting, ‘Fight, fight, fight.’

  The schoolyard started to spin, and I was relieved to hear Boil Head’s voice telling us to break it up.

  Donna Doherty helped Petra up, and Petra ran off crying. The crowd dispersed, with utterances of ‘dog’ and ‘slut’ directed at me.

  ‘Mrs Froggett’s office. Now.’ Boil Head pointed, as if I didn’t know the way.

  Perhaps I should have cried too?

  I stood on a chair to reach the last of my Bon Jovi posters. Chips of paint came away with the Blu Tack at the corners, leaving pockmarks on the wall.

  I heard Mum’s car, and Barky barking.

  The back door opened. ‘Yoo-hoo,’ Mum called.

  ‘Did you get the black paint?’ I called back.

  ‘No. But I got something better. Come out and see.’

  ‘I’m busy.’ I rolled up the poster and tossed it onto the pile with the others.

  ‘Come on.’

  I groaned, stepped down from the chair, and dragged my feet to the kitchen.

  Mum didn’t seem to notice Petra’s scratch on my cheek. She smiled and pointed at the Pac King box on the table. It wobbled slightly. My mind playing games again?

  ‘Open it,’ Mum said.

  Suspiciously, I lifted the flaps. A fluffy grey-and-white kitten peered up at me with big blue eyes, and mewled.

  I sucked in my breath and felt my smile touch my ears. I glanced at Mum. ‘Can I get her out?’

  ‘He.’ Mum nodded. ‘One of the girls at work’s cat had kittens.’

  I cradled the kitten in my hands and held him against my shoulder. He smelled a bit pooey and fishy, but he was the softest thing I could remember touching. His claws caught on my sweater; I unhooked them carefully.

  ‘He hasn’t learned how to retract his claws yet. And he’s got fleas. You’ll have to give him a bath,’ Mum said. ‘And don’t expect me to take any responsibility for him. I’ve got my hands full enough. If you don’t look after him, I’ll take him to the vet.’

  I knew she’d never do that; she cared way more about animals than humans. ‘I’m going to call him The Great Catsby.’

  Mum frowned and said she was going to get his flea powder, food, and kitty litter from the car.

  I tested the water temperature in the laundry trough with my elbow. I must have seen somebody on telly do that for their baby — I didn’t know anybody who had a baby, aside from Melissa Quirk, who got pregnant in Year 10 last year.

  The Great Catsby mewled and squirmed as I lowered him into the water, and tentatively shampooed his fur. He was so skinny, looked so fragile, when wet. Barky sat and watched with his ears pricked up.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s nearly over,’ I told Catsby as I rinsed him with a jug of fresh tepid water.

  I lifted him out, wrapped him gently in a towe
l, and tried to dry him as I set him down on the floor. He escaped and shook off the water the way Barky did after a swim in the river. I giggled. Barky barked but kept a safe distance. Catsby fluffed up like a dandelion.

  My frozen towel was starting to warm up as I closed my eyes. Catsby was on the bottom of my bed; I could smell him, or rather, his flea treatment — mint-leaf lollies and baby powder. I heard the buzzing sound in my head, and felt a strong vibration all through my body, like electricity. Perhaps a storm was coming.

  Catsby pounced and attacked my feet. I sat up to look at him. My body felt heavy but, at the same time, as though it might float away. Parts of me separated, like when I’d smoked the joint with Fricky, but not as scary. I lifted my arms; they were light and semi-transparent gold. I could see through them. I thought I was sitting up, but when I looked down I could see my ‘first arms’ folded across the chest of my ‘first body’ still lying in bed. I had four arms! I tried to move my ‘first arms’, but they were too heavy. I couldn’t put my two pairs of arms back together. My ‘second body’ detached completely and levitated towards the ceiling.

  Catsby stared up at me. I could have gone through the roof, but I’d read about different realities and astral planes, and worried about my soul leaving my body, getting stuck, and never finding its way back. I concentrated hard and willed my ‘second body’ back into my ‘first body’.

  I hit the bed with a jolt, like I was waking from a falling dream, but I was fully awake.

  There was a loud crack.

  I heard Mum yell, ‘It’s raining, Stella!’

  Auntie Stella yelled something back that I couldn’t hear over more thunder.

  I pulled my Supergirl nightie on and walked lightly through the house. A game of pool had been abandoned in the lounge room; beer cans lined the mantelpiece. Curtains billowed, doors slammed. Dust was blowing in; I tasted it on my lips. The record on the player in the dining room crackle, crackle, crackled, the needle stuck in the last groove. Through the window, I saw a flash of lightning illuminate a truck up on the highway. The trees were going mad from the wind.