All That I Remember About Dean Cola

by Tania Chandler

  If Dean doesn’t ring today to thank us for getting him home safely THERE WILL BE TROUBLE!

  Couldn’t sleep last night. Kept thinking about Dean, & tossing & turning, then thinking about Dean again, & tossing & turning. I felt sick, thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. Then I thought about Dean some more, & tossed & turned until after 5 a.m.

  I found a Leonard Cohen record in Mum’s collection. It has ‘Suzanne’ on it! I’ve been playing it over & over & over in my room. Our song. I feel so happy, but I will die if Dean doesn’t ring today.

  4.10 p.m. Dean didn’t ring. I didn’t die. I rang him (I feel confident doing that now; our relationship is stronger after last night) but he wasn’t home. Anna took a message. She’s so nice — definitely not Mafia.

  5.15 p.m. He hasn’t returned my call. Nobody else would have stayed with him last night, or helped him get home. He just used me. He needed somebody & I happened to be there. He’s leaving (‘escaping’) anyway — if what he said about uni was true. Good. Fuck him! Why do I have to be such a dumb, gullible bitch? Why didn’t I just stay with Tony? Or go out with Christos? Because I AM STUPID. Well, the next time Dean needs me, he can go to hell. I won’t even talk to him. I will never let him hurt me again. I’m such a liar, even to you — you know I’d follow that bastard anywhere. I’m working on a new poem (a villanelle) about last night. I’ll write it in here when it’s ready.

  6 p.m. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to return my call? I love him. Love feels like a punch in the guts, a physical ache, & God I don’t want to hurt this much.

  Why did I have to pick him when there are so many other guys to choose from? I don’t understand him. Does he want me or doesn’t he? It feels like he wants me if I happen to be there, but if I’m not it doesn’t worry him. How am I to know? Next time I see him I’m going to ask him to be honest & tell me how he really feels. Maybe he still thinks I’m too young. I can’t believe he hasn’t called to thank me & Pop for taking him home.

  6.15 p.m. When the phone rang I almost died. It was Kim asking me to sleep over at her house tonight (she said to bring bathers — they must have a pool). I said I would. Can’t sit around here forever, writing bad poetry, listening to ‘Suzanne’, & waiting for Dean to ring.

  KIM’S HOUSE was in town. It was big and red brick. Town water was restricted, but the garden was neat and green. Elton John’s music played through hidden speakers. Kim’s mum, Rainy, who looked like Barbie in pastel pink, carried platter after platter — salad, cheeses, elaborately sliced fruit and vegetables — from the house to the buffet table in the backyard. Kim’s dad, Ron, who looked like Ken in a barbecue apron embroidered with Le Chef de BBQ, drank beer wrapped in a stubby holder while he flipped shashliks and chops.

  I asked Rainy if she needed any help.

  She smiled. ‘Why don’t you girls go pop your togs on and have a hot tub before everybody gets here?’

  Kim had a TV in her bedroom, and glossy-white furniture that all matched. Soft toys and cushions were arranged neatly on her bed. Knick-knacks, records, videos, and make-up lined her shiny shelves, but there were no books. I tried not to look at her as she undressed and casually tossed her clothes onto the floor. She was skinnier than me, but her boobs were like Rainy’s: big as cantaloupes. I hadn’t worn my bathers for a long time — they were faded and the elastic around the legs crackled when I pulled them out of the plastic Target bag. Kim’s bathers looked new. ‘Hurry up,’ she said, strutting out with a towel over her shoulder. I got changed quickly, and pulled a long-sleeved T-shirt over my bathers. I folded my clothes and piled them neatly on Kim’s dressing table. The towel Rainy had left on the bed for me was thick and fluffy, and smelled of fabric softener. I hugged it, and then wrapped it around my waist.

  A few men, with beers in hand, had joined Ron at the barbecue. Their wives were sipping champagne under the pergola on the opposite side of the yard.

  I watched Kim sit on the edge of the wooden hot tub, swing her legs over, and sink in, moaning with delight. I did the same. I wasn’t sure if I liked the feeling of the bubbles pummelling my muscles, but I liked the smell of the tub — cedar?

  ‘Why are you wearing a T-shirt?’ Kim said.

  ‘My strap’s broken.’

  She twisted her mouth, and adjusted her own straps, pulling her boobs up higher. ‘Can’t wait for Sandro D’Angelo’s party.’

  I’d never been to any of Sandro D’Angelo’s parties, but they were legendary, and I now pictured them like Gatsby’s.

  ‘How’s Christos?’ Kim said.

  I frowned.

  ‘You and him going together now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Had she not seen me with Dean? ‘I’m not with Christos!’

  ‘OK. Take a chill pill.’

  I looked at my T-shirt ballooning in the water, and held it down. ‘How’s Mahersy?’

  ‘Oh my God, Sid.’ She held up her hands, indicating what I presumed must have been the length of his dick. ‘He’ll be here later.’

  ‘What are you two girls gossiping about?’ Rainy leaned her elbows on the hot tub with two glasses of champagne in her hands.

  Kim rolled her eyes.

  Rainy must have caught the surprise on my face when she handed the glasses to Kim and me. ‘It’s OK. Kim’s allowed to have a drink when we have parties.’

  Another couple emerged from around the side of the house, and Rainy trotted over to greet them. Mr Haigh! And his wife. They kissed cheeks and Rainy took the bottle of wine Mr Haigh was holding. His wife went over to join the other wives, and Mr Haigh headed towards us.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ he said. ‘It looks nice in there. Wish I’d bought my togs.’

  ‘Hi, Mr Haigh,’ I said.

  ‘Call me Geoff.’ He pushed his curly blond hair behind his ears; one side sprang back immediately.

  I smiled and sipped my champagne.

  ‘Better go and check if Ron needs any help,’ he said, but he lingered as though he was reluctant to see Ron.

  At the buffet table, I spooned salad onto my plate.

  ‘Would you like one, Sidney?’ Mr Haigh held up a shashlik with tongs.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.’ He shook his head. ‘You girls.’ He added a chop to his plate. ‘How’s Gatsby going?’

  ‘I’ve just read the bit where Gatsby ran over Myrtle.’

  ‘It was Daisy driving.’

  ‘Yes. The yellow car. But I thought Gatsby’s car was cream.’

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t believe how graphic the accident scene was, for such an old book. Myrtle’s breast half-ripped off and that.’ I took a corncob. ‘Still not sure I understand why it’s called The Great Gatsby.’

  ‘You’ll work it out,’ he patted my hand, ‘you’re a smart girl.’

  I looked around for a quiet place to sit. The noise of the party was becoming overwhelming — at least thirty people now, chatting and laughing, and the music had been turned up. I thought I could hear my own Voices too, but it was hard to tell over the sounds of the guests. There were no quiet places outside, so I went to eat inside.

  ‘What are you looking at, sweetie?’ Rainy asked.

  I jumped; I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the ‘Donate Blood’ fridge magnet. Backwards it read: Do olb et a nod.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Do olb et a nod? I nodded and smiled. Rainy stacked a few dirty plates in the dishwasher, and took a bottle of champagne from the fridge. She poured me another glass, and said Kim was back in the hot tub, waiting for me.

  When she’d gone, I tipped my champagne down the sink, and scraped my untouched salad into the bin.

  ‘There you are!’ Kim said as I placed my empty glass on the ledge of the hot tub. Mahersy was in th
ere with her.

  ‘I love this song,’ Kim shouted in my ear as I climbed in beside her.

  Mr Haigh seemed to love it — Elton John’s ‘I’m Still Standing’ — too. He was in the middle of the yard singing loudly and dancing with his wife, who didn’t look impressed. ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘Come on!’ He dragged her by the hand to the hot tub, swiping a bottle of champagne from the buffet table on the way. ‘Well, I’m going in.’ He banged the bottle down next to my empty glass, and stripped off to his underpants. His wife picked up his clothes from the ground while he wobbled up the ladder and splashed into the water. He threw back his head and groaned.

  ‘Is that your glass, Sid?’ He pointed to the empty.

  I nodded; he refilled it, and then topped up Kim’s and Mahersy’s. ‘Could you get us another glass, love?’ he said to his wife. She obeyed, and when she was out of earshot, he turned to me and said, ‘Your face is sad and lovely.’

  I got the Gatsby reference and laughed it off.

  ‘You have the most amazing eyes,’ he said. ‘The colour of chartreuse.’ His eyes were bloodshot, and more twinkly than usual.

  Under the water, I felt his hand on my thigh. I looked to Kim for help; she was kissing Mahersy. Mr Haigh pushed aside my bathers and shoved his fingers inside me. I spilt some of my champagne. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t do anything. I froze.

  ‘You have a nice pussy,’ he said.

  His wife came back with a glass and he filled it with his free hand. He said something that I barely comprehended, about a kidnapping at school; it was OK — the kid woke up. He laughed at his own joke, and whispered in my ear that I shouldn’t be so irresistible to men, and what a cool cucumber I was, with his wife standing right beside us.

  The party expanded and swirled around me.

  MONDAY 13 MARCH 1989

  I feel sick. Staying home from school today.

  MONDAY 20 MARCH 1989

  Sorry I haven’t written for a while. Couldn’t be bothered. Still not feeling well. Haven’t been going out.

  Mum’s been coughing a lot. I think the bonsai are poisoning her. Probably what’s wrong with me too.

  THE FLUE on the pot-belly stove was playing up, and the kitchen smelled of smoke. And the fried fish and chips we’d had for Good Friday lunch. I was at the table, reading a collection of Sylvia Plath’s short stories, having put aside Gatsby. A best-of country-music cassette played softly. Nan counted fifty-cent pieces, which Pop had been collecting since last Easter, into five-dollar piles. She was wearing her best dress, white cotton embroidered with little violets. And too much of the flowery Dioressence perfume Stella had bought duty-free at the airport. Pop was snoring in an armchair, a can of beer still in his hand. Mum and Stella were discussing holidays — holidays Mum would never go on, of course. Mum oohed and aahed over Stella’s exotic destination suggestions, which she couldn’t afford, plus she could never leave the animals, the house, work, me, and a million other excuses for being afraid of life. Why didn’t Stella ever give up wheedling? Barky barked. A fire truck’s siren rang. Pop woke up and resumed drinking his beer.

  ‘The firemen are here!’ Mum rushed to the door.

  Every Good Friday, four or five CFA fireys volunteered to drive around town and the outskirts, collecting donations to auction at the fire station for the annual Royal Children’s Hospital appeal. Stella already had beers out of the fridge for the big men as they loped into the kitchen, which suddenly seemed too small. The first three were older, retired and semi-retired volunteers. The fourth was younger; I’d seen him at Jay Jays. And the fifth — I sighed inwardly — was Christos. I marked the page and closed my book.

  ‘Pull up a pew, boys,’ Pop said as he carried in spare chairs from the dining room.

  Nan made Christos, who had declined beer, a cup of tea.

  He sat next to me and looked at the plate of leftover fish. ‘Didn’t know you were Catholic.’

  ‘We’re not. Nan used to be.’

  ‘Lapsed?’

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. ‘Just doesn’t go to church anymore.’ Thank God. She’d dragged me along with her when I was little. A weird place.

  ‘Same. My family’s not that religious, but we still have some of the traditions.’

  I nodded. We just liked fish and chips.

  He tapped my book. ‘A good read?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was mad, wasn’t she?’

  I scowled. ‘She was a great poet and writer.’

  ‘Still waiting to read your story.’

  How the fuck did he remember that? I felt my cheeks redden.

  ‘Here you go, love.’ Nan handed Christos his cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, gorgeous.’ He winked, and Nan’s smile created rarely seen dimples in her cheeks.

  The rest of the crew shared anecdotes and jokes over their beers. The pet bird some hysterical woman had called them out to rescue from a tree. The firey who’d ‘played in a band’ at pubs and parties on his nights off, until one of his ‘performance’ venues caught fire; his crew had sprung him with an unexpected instrument out — moonlighting as a fireman strip-a-gram.

  Pop told the story he told every year, about the bloke who’d done up one of the Pac King storage units like a posh hotel room, chandelier and whatnot, and lived in it for six months before he got caught.

  Christos finished his tea quickly. ‘Come outside for a smoke?’ he said.

  I was bored, so I agreed and followed him out the back.

  He offered me a cigarette, took one for himself, and lit them both. Red and gold leaves from the maple tree flittered to the ground. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and leaned against the house.

  ‘Cold?’ Christos said, stepping closer.

  ‘No.’ I turned my face and blew smoke away from him, but the wind carried it back.

  ‘Want to come to Sandro D’Angelo’s party with me?’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘First Friday in May.’

  ‘Can’t. Got a family thing on that night.’

  His biceps muscle bulged through his shirt as he placed a hand, above me, on the weatherboards. There was a sweat stain in the armpit, and I could smell his leathery aftershave. He leaned down and tried to kiss me, like he had the right. Like Mr Haigh thought he’d had the damn fucking right. I pulled away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Christos said.

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

  I thought he’d accuse me of being a cock-teaser, like other boys had. But he just tilted his head and half-grinned, as though I’d issued him a challenge. I crushed out my cigarette in the yellow dirt, and rushed back inside, letting the flywire door slam behind me.

  Pop was filling the fireys’ donation tin with the fifty-cent coins. Stella made a show of slipping in a fifty-dollar note. Nan handed over a plastic bag full of assorted items she’d knitted especially for the Good Friday auction.

  I was still shaking from the confrontation out back with Christos when he re-entered the kitchen, all Cheshire Cat charming. Mum proudly handed him a box of old household items, which the fireys would probably snigger about and throw in a bin on their way back to the station.

  ‘Thanks, gorgeous,’ he said. ‘See you down the station for the auction tonight?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mum said.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll give you girls a call next week,’ he said.

  SUNDAY 2 APRIL 1989

  A bad day yesterday.

  Kim & I went to watch Mahersy play football. I don’t like football, & I didn’t want to go, but Kim & Mum talked me into it — something to get me out of the house. I had no idea it was a charity match: CFA & local police versus the team that won the league grand final last year. Dean was the captain of Mahersy’s team, & Christos was the captain of the o
pposition. Dean & Mahersy’s team was winning at three-quarter time. Dean was in the forward (I think that’s what the bit in front of the goals is called), running for the ball. Christos got in his way and Dean pushed him over. I couldn’t see what happened next exactly, but Mahersy told us afterwards that Christos had tackled Dean to the ground, & then tripped somehow & accidentally stepped on Dean’s back. Dean’s a pretty big guy, at least six foot, but Christos is a good head taller & (as Pop would say) built like a brick shithouse. Christos got up laughing & brushing himself off. When Dean didn’t move, I felt a cold stab in my heart, & weird little icy knifings through my whole body. I don’t remember trying to walk out onto the ground — that’s what Kim said I did, but she stopped me. I do remember seeing blood coming from Dean’s mouth & that’s when I must have fainted. Mahersy said that, aside from a bruised rib & chipped tooth, Dean’s OK.

  I PLACED my books in my locker, trying to ignore Voices, which were with me most of the time now. Sometimes there was one voice, sometimes two or more — gender or genders, I couldn’t tell — whispering and mumbling, slippery in my head, like oil sliding around my brain.

  I took out my sports bag and sneakers for lunchtime aerobics, closed the door, and clicked shut the combination lock. A fist smashing against my locker made me cower. The sound hurt my ears. Shelley Cola pushed me backwards and pinned me by the shoulder.

  ‘Stay away from Dean,’ she spat.

  I dropped my sneakers.