Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  Is this osmosis? Is this symbiosis? Is this reproduction? Is this metamorphosis? What is this? I could not find a single process in Science to name what was happening to my body and how it was responding to Mr Viliamu’s.

  Nor could I comprehend how Mr Viliamu’s body was reacting to my own body.

  What process was this? Really? Could I call it a chain reaction? Was it a voluntary or an involuntary muscular response? But to what, exactly?

  I did not know. Suddenly everything became a great big blur and for a moment I was swimming in a grey ocean, an ocean where there were no waves. No birds. And no blue skies above it.

  Despite the haziness I found myself in, one thing remained certain. That the language Mr Viliamu was speaking with his eyes and his hands was an ancient sacred language. A language that had undoubtedly been spoken by our ancestors before us and was older perhaps than the waves and the birds themselves, older even than the big blue sky.

  It was a language Mr Viliamu appeared to know intimately and spoke with the utmost fluency. A language I had never spoken before, and yet, I found myself drawn to it mysteriously if not instinctively as if I had a natural propensity towards understanding its nuances and hidden meanings.

  I want you to do something for me, said Mr Viliamu. Startled that he finally spoke, I eagerly responded. What is it, Mr—? Mr Viliamu looked at me again. This time, his gaze pierced something in me that was similar to the brush of his arm against my breast. Only this time, I found myself looking boldly back at him as he tried to steer the red pick-up truck while holding my gaze simultaneously.

  I want you to stop calling me Mr Viliamu. Why would you want me to do that? I asked myself. But instead, I remained quiet. Then he spoke again. This time, his voice caused the same sensation his arm had caused earlier when it brushed against my breast and his piercing eyes when they looked directly into mine. Only this time, his voice was like a fisaga, a gentle wind that caressed me and caused me to shiver.

  I want you to call me by my name, Sia, he said.

  But I am calling you by your name, Mr Viliamu, I found myself whispering back at him.

  No, Sia, he said, looking out the window as we sighted the town clock, the Burns Philp supermarket and the Nelson Public Library.

  I want you to call me Ioage, he said.

  Those were the last words he spoke before we went our separate ways, while the sun’s rays danced on the glass of the NPF building windows, its reflection blinding me as I stepped into the street and made my way through the busy crowd, anxiously looking for a store that sold giant white threads, while thinking about seagulls and waves and other unspeakable things that made me grin, inwardly.

  Cerisse Palalagi, HOLLA BAQ series

  Eeh Ma Trikk!, VAGAHAU, SO SAVAGE LMAO!, 2009

  SAARP G, JAAACK!!, GOT JKZ, SOWI BOUT U, 2010

  Txt u Dox, Lol Up To?, Shammit!, Wats Gud?, Nah yooh, 2010

  KING OF BONES AND HAZY HOMES

  From Average Kids and Bigots

  ANYA NGAWHARE

  I DROP ONTO THE wooden bench beside my bag, head finding the brick wall behind me. My heavy arms hang by my sides, lifeless.

  The changing rooms always have this nasty smell to them after a game, a weird mix of dirt and Deep Heat, strapping tape and sweaty unwashed balls. It’s nasty as hell, but also really comforting. It’s one of the few scents that can stop my mind racing.

  It was a fuckin’ hard game. Some kid twice my size rucked the top of my back, and my left hip is aching so bad I just know it’s going to be purple in the morning.

  ‘That forward nailed you, man,’ Bryan laughs, voice raised to be heard over the angry complaints and hurt rants going on around us. He tugs his black-and-burgundy rugby jersey up over his head. ‘I thought you were dead for a minute there.’

  ‘I thought I was dead for a minute there.’ I make my left hand move, force its fingers though the damp fringe in front of my eyes. Every muscle tightens when I shift on the spot. ‘My body’s on fire,’ I huff.

  He pulls his black shorts off with a weird snort, lips caught somewhere between amusement and sympathy. They pick their side when I give him the finger.

  Bryan’s a big guy, six foot four and nothing but tanned muscle. And he’s not ugly, either. He’s some sort of Polynesian, but he doesn’t have a flat nose or overly big lips, and his eyes are a grey-blue, not brown like you’d expect.

  I can see why all the underdressed stick figures are constantly batting their fake lashes in his direction.

  I haven’t quite figured out why he never seems to notice.

  ‘Does that mean you’re not going to Dean’s party tonight?’ he asks, hands on his hips. ‘Assuming he’s still up for it.’

  ‘Shit no,’ I exclaim. Something bursts inside me. It straightens my back, makes my head light. Weightless. ‘The party will be even bigger now that we’re losers. They’ll go fuckin’ nuts. They’re definitely going to burn something tonight.’ I lean forward, right knee bobbing on its own. ‘I’m definitely going. You?’

  He scratches the side of his nose. ‘I have to babysit till eight, but

  I guess I could hang out after.’

  ‘You haven’t suddenly started drinking, have you?’

  He shakes his head slowly. I suck my lips inwards when I feel them curl.

  Bryan sighs. ‘Fine then,’ he says flatly. He hunches over to open his bag. ‘I’ll get your drunk ass home.’

  I jump to my feet. ‘Thanks, man.’

  He waves me off. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  I KNOW DAD’S IN the kitchen before I step through the lounge archway. The familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of him cutting vegetables on the marble bench is unmistakable. I pass the long beige sofa on my way to the L-shaped counter my father is stood at slicing mushrooms.

  ‘Hey, Jake,’ he says when he finally notices me, his deep voice low as always. He pushes the mushroom away, swapping it for a red onion. ‘Dinner should be ready soon. Moira from work gave me a recipe for this eggplant, spinach lasagne thing she makes. It’s really nice. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘I’m on my way out, actually,’ I tell him, eyes wandering to the splash of colour where his sleeves have been rolled up. Sky blue and turquoise, a hint of crimson. A tail I know belongs to a fierce-looking dragon.

  ‘Oh.’ His knife hesitates, stops mid-slice. ‘Just me, then.’

  I look away swiftly, a slight lump in my throat. I try to clear it.

  ‘Where’s Mum and Ari?’

  ‘Ari’s spending the night at Allie’s.’ His pointed nose wrinkles when he adds, ‘And your mother went out with Valerie.’

  I roll my eyes and put my palms on the countertop. The stone is freezing despite the heat from the large open fireplace just a few metres away. ‘She digging for gold again?’

  He chuckles, the sound so quiet I’m not sure I actually heard it at all. ‘Moneybags put a ring on a nineteen-year-old instead of her,’ he tells me, turning to check the cheesy mix in the oven.

  ‘Poor Valerie,’ I drawl. I pull a stool out, sit. Lean forward so my forearms can rest on the bench. ‘On the bright side, her new tits will make it a little easier this time round. The guys will actually be able to see where she is.’

  Dad draws an invisible arc with his hands. ‘Husband hunt five.’ He drops his voice an octave. ‘Platinum card required.’

  My laughter spills out and fills the open room we’re in. Dad joins in, his laughter lifting the mood more than mine. He laughs so rarely that it tickles my insides.

  When we settle ourselves, Dad clears his throat and says, ‘You better get going.’

  I scratch my head. ‘Uh, I um, I might just stay for dinner. No one will notice I’m missing.’

  Dad doesn’t say anything, just bobs his head and continues making the salad. I know he’s pleased though. I can see it in the curl at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU fuckers,’ Noah complains from the wooden deck chair beside mine. ‘I looked like a fuckin’ loner
. You turn up an hour late and Bryan doesn’t show at all.’

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ I say absently, tapping the glass bottle I’m holding.

  ‘You fucking homos,’ he rambles. ‘Cunts.’

  The garden we’re in is really, really nice. Pretty, even. Stone planters line the edge of the patio we’re on, and I can make out the spiky stems of roses from where I’m sitting. Quirky little solar lights are scattered among the flowers, dragonflies and gnomes and even a cat with big glowing eyes, and fairy lights have been coiled around the trunks and branches of the trees, the sail-shade posts too.

  ‘I was here, man.’

  The voice is nasal and a fraction higher than any of the ones I’m used to hearing, and I turn my head to see Josh slouched on the other side of Noah. He’s an average, unmemorable kiss-ass who’s only on the first XV because his dad played for Aussie like a million years ago.

  I look away again, mouth clamped shut. If I was going to suck up to someone, it wouldn’t be Noah Hastings.

  ‘Seriously, asshole, you coulda text or something,’ Noah spits before Josh can add anything else. ‘I couldn’t even hang with Gio because he brought the fag with him. Fuck knows why.’

  I stare at the mouth of my bottle. ‘They’re twins.’

  ‘And what?’

  I skull half my drink.

  ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with a faggot, brother or not. And if he was my brother I’d fuckin’ smash him until he got the message.’

  Matilda appears all of a sudden, her bare skeletal shoulders turned inwards. Her lap-dogs follow her up the slightly curved yard with a few of the boys. They’ve got so much skin exposed that I shiver.

  ‘I thought him being gay was just a rumour,’ Josh says.

  When they come to a stop I notice the phone in Matilda’s hand, but she soon looks over at me with a smile.

  ‘Someone must have seen something or there wouldn’t be rumours,’ Noah returns swiftly.

  I get to my feet. Noah looks straight at me, blue-green eyes thinning with each quick breath he takes. Josh pokes at one of his ten thousand moles like it’s way more interesting than anything I’m doing.

  ‘I have to piss.’

  I walk away before Noah has a chance to bitch about me leaving him on his own again.

  I wasn’t wrong when I told Bryan that tonight was going to be crazy. The backyard is pretty much deserted, but in the house you can’t breathe without bumping into someone else. It’s as if the entire school showed up to mourn our loss.

  When I don’t find a free toilet, I find a nice tree out of sight.

  My heart jerks my body forward when something touches my right shoulder in the darkness, and I spin around swiftly, dick still in hand. A hooded figure stands a metre or so away from me. They tilt their head a fraction and the little rays of moonlight spilling through the tree’s top hits their face.

  I recognise the straight-shouldered silhouette instantly.

  I tuck myself away with huff. ‘You scared the fuck out of me, Matty.’

  The hood falls away and the familiar face becomes clear. Dark hair and round eyes, symmetrical lines. Matty’s lips curl and I’m immediately reminded of Giovanni and the look he gave me when I arrived earlier.

  ‘Not sorry.’ He pulls a small baggie from his back pocket. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Like you have to ask.’

  He pulls the bag away from me, keeping it out of reach. ‘It’ll cost you.’

  I snort. ‘Doesn’t it always.’

  He doesn’t say anything else, just walks towards the front of the house.

  I follow after him.

  We’ve just reached the bottom of the driveway when Bryan comes into view. He moves towards us so silently that he’d go unnoticed if he weren’t so huge. He hesitates when he spots Matty by my side, inspects him with a heavy frown.

  Matty pulls a pack of cigarettes out and slips one between his lips. He lights up, casts a glance my way.

  ‘Thought you’d be drunk by now,’ Bryan says. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, makes himself look even bigger.

  ‘Oh, I’m just …’ I nod towards Matty. ‘He’s got something for me.’

  Bryan’s eyes flick between us. ‘Do you still need a ride home?’

  Matty lifts a shoulder when I look his way, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

  ‘He can take me,’ I tell Bryan, ‘but thanks, man.’

  Bryan’s eyes thin like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just bobs his head and makes his way towards the overcrowded house.

  Matty clucks his tongue. ‘What was that about?’ he asks when he has my full attention. He nods in Bryan’s direction. ‘He wondering why you’re with the school fag?’

  I shove him playfully. ‘He’s probably trying to figure out why the richest kid in a school full of rich kids is dealing drugs.’

  He shrugs, takes another drag. ‘It’s good business.’ He laughs to himself. ‘Daddy would be proud if he wasn’t such a cunt.’

  He exhales heavily, tosses half a cigarette on the ground by his feet. He doesn’t bother to stomp it out.

  ‘You’re so wasteful.’

  He gets his keys out with a cocky smirk. ‘I can afford it.’

  THE PARK HAS AN eeriness about it that sends a prickly shiver down my spine. The swings are completely still, the bark beneath them undisturbed. I take in the rustling trees that line the park edge with a laboured breath. My heart skips a beat when I imagine rotting corpses stumbling out of the untamed bush that lies just beyond them. Snarling zombies.

  I need to stop letting Ari pick the movies we watch.

  Matty moves for the playground like the dark, secluded area isn’t the slightest bit creepy. He doesn’t bother to follow the curved path, just stomps across the moist grass.

  I slip my cold hands into my jean pockets and follow his lead.

  Matty drops down on a wooden bench and starts rolling a joint. I sit beside him, watch his nimble fingers work. People always say that dealers shouldn’t get high on their own supply, but he clearly doesn’t follow that rule. He smokes so much weed that he can probably roll and light up with his eyes clamped shut, not a single crumb wasted.

  Matty takes the first hit and I inch towards him, throat tight. He exhales in my direction and I breathe the musky smoke in eagerly. He takes another drag, longer than the last. I snap my fingers impatiently.

  He shakes his head at me, holds the smoke out of reach. ‘You get what you want when I do.’

  He keeps his eyes on mine when he sucks on the smoke again. The burning tip glows and I lick my lips slowly. He leans forward, blows smoke into my face. I snatch at his hoodie, fingers twisting tightly in the fabric at his neck. I pull him towards me.

  ‘Shithead,’ I say, face inches from his.

  ‘Faggot,’ he returns drily.

  I breathe in deeply, breathe out.

  I close the slight gap between us, press my lips to his.

  He tastes like sweet grass and sharp nicotine, bitter and awful. My fingers lose their grip and I lean into him. My mouth pulls at his desperately like I can lick away the residue of his habits, like I can take away the filth. I feel his fingertips on the nape of my neck, the touch so slight you could miss it.

  He pulls away from me with a sharp breath, finally hands the joint over.

  I watch him silently, smoke pinched between my fingertips. His eyes are on the sky above us, consumed by the stars. He stares like they know all of life’s secrets, like if he’s patient enough a beautiful weed angel is going to float down and whisper everything he’s ever wanted to know.

  ‘Can I stay tonight?’ he asks, voice low enough to be a whisper.

  I don’t say anything, just kiss his cheek and take a drag.

  MATTY HAS A JOURNAL that he takes pretty much everywhere, but he doesn’t write his thoughts like most people do, he draws them. He lets me look at it whenever I please, but he rarely shows anyone else. And it stirs feelings in me that I c
an’t really explain. It does something to my nervous system that makes me want to keep turning pages and look away at the same time.

  The two of us have been in the same art class since year 9, and somehow, despite the fact we’ve been taught by the exact same people, our styles are polar opposites. I enjoy drawing animals in their natural environments. People, too. I draw life. Matty though, well, he’s drawn to death. His journal is a dark place, full of lost and tortured souls.

  I asked him about it once, when we were stoned and on the verge of sleep. I asked him why he was drawn to bones and suffering.

  He just grunted at me and said, ‘They’ll eat my brain if I don’t get them out.’

  I laughed and went to sleep.

  I STEP CAREFULLY, WADE through the sea of dirty washing and empty Red Bull cans that lead to Matty’s black, perfectly made bed. I step up onto it and sit cross-legged in the centre, eyes on the poster-clad walls. Heavily tattooed men cover every inch of available space; some have expensive custom guitars, others have their mouths stretched wide next to microphones. Most are just huddled together with stern expressions on their perfect faces; their lined eyes narrowed, lips pressed into tight lines.

  Matty moves towards the bed carelessly. His feet manage to miss every discarded item like he’s following an invisible path, and he flops down on the bed beside me, half hanging off the right edge.

  I stare down at him. ‘Aren’t you graceful.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he grumbles. His lean arms curl around a plump pillow.

  I uncross my legs to tangle an ankle with one of his. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, if I stay quiet enough he’s bound to fall asleep, surprising the famous men that surround us.

  I’d let him if I weren’t worried about his brothers catching us together. Or worse, his father. Gio introduced me to their grey-haired dad once, and that was more than enough for me. Something about the way he stared gave me the creeps. He’s a scary fucker.

  ‘Stay awake.’ I tap Matty’s lower back gently. ‘Your family will be back soon.’