My Private Pectus (10 page)

‘She's not a heifer,' I say.

‘Oooh, defensive,' he says. ‘So you do like her.'

I look out and wonder why the only time Mike gets anything right, it's at my expense. ‘I'll be right,' I say. ‘I'll meet someone else.'

Mike coughs, trying to hold back a laugh. ‘Sticks, you're joining the army.'

‘So?'

‘I don't know if anyone's told you this, but blokes join the army, not chicks.'

‘Some do,' I say.

‘Yeah, but what will your chances be? The ratio will be a hundred to one and you reckon you're going to be that one bloke who gets laid?'

I've got nothing to say to that.

‘I like you, Sticks, but mate, sometimes the truth hurts. It's not gonna be you.'

Ryan gets up, moves across the cliff face and sits next to me. He puts an arm over my shoulders and waves to the city with the other hand. ‘Don't worry, mate. You're right. There's one out there for you.'

‘Are you being sarcastic?' I ask.

But he doesn't answer. He just opens a packet of cigarettes and passes them around. Needing to relax, I take one.

Conversation dies as we stare out at the glow of the city. I can't stop thinking that maybe Mike is right: when it comes to girls I shouldn't care about the rumours or the stigma. When it comes to that stuff, Mike gets off on it. He laughs along, invites people to lay more crap on him. I've seen it happen when Ryan's uni mates come to the unit.

What would Mike be like with a concave chest? I imagine him at a party: he'd rip his top off and suck in his guts, make his torso look like the grim reaper. It'd be his way of breaking the ice and getting attention. Maybe that's all I need to do: reveal myself and get over my issues.

Why can't it be that easy?

The next day I sit with Sam at school. The decision is made easier by the fact that Gez now spends every lunchtime with Lisa, but it's a brave one all the same. At least, that's what I tell myself. But something odd keeps happening. As we chill out quietly under a tree, a year 9er keeps looking at us from about ten metres away. He then walks off to the drink troughs, talks to two of his mates then comes back and stares. He suddenly shouts, ‘It's them!'

His two friends saunter over—shirts out, socks down, faces covered in freckles and zits. One laughs. ‘Looks just like them!' he says.

The other one, with his cap turned sideways like a try-hard homey, just shoves his hands into his pants. ‘Oh, yeah!' he says and nods.

‘Looks like what?' I yell at them.

‘Like the wicked pic up on the wall,' the homey says and points in the direction of the troughs.

Sam and I look at each other. Worried about what it might be, I walk ahead of her to the drink troughs. Then I see it: a picture of her on the wall—actually it's a bad sketch. If it didn't have her name scrawled on there with an arrow pointing to a fat girl, gasping, with a broomstick between her legs, you wouldn't know it's her. You wouldn't know the broomstick was me either, if it wasn't labelled ‘Sticks'.

I rip the picture off before Sam can see it.

‘What is it?' she asks, catching up.

Scrunching it up, I hold it behind my back. ‘Nothing.'

‘Show me.' She grabs my arm by the elbow and tries to reach behind me.

‘No!' I hold the paper out of her reach.

‘Why, what is it?'

‘I don't want you to see it.'

‘Don't be a pain!' She puts a hand out, expecting me to hand it over.

‘You don't want to see it,' I tell her again, then drop it into a bin, on top of someone's putrid, stinking lunch. Sam runs over, peers in, then pulls away. She turns to me, eyes questioning, eyebrows cross. She cramps my space. ‘What was it?' she demands.

‘You don't want to know. It wasn't nice.'

‘Was it another picture? Was it about me?'

I don't want to hurt her feelings. I don't want her copping flak because of me. ‘It was about me.'

‘Jack,' she says, suddenly concerned. ‘What did it say?'

‘Nothing.' She reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.

‘It was nothing, all right!' I snap, hoping it will get her to back off. But it doesn't work.

‘You can tell me,' she says, and her huge brown eyes rest on me, full of concern. And for a moment I don't know what to do. When was the last time someone looked at me like that? But just as I'm about to explain the picture, I hear a snigger from behind. I spin around and see The P and Steve.

‘I'd rather not,' I tell her, then walk away, leaving them all there.

‘What?' she says. ‘Jack!' I can hear her small feet drum after me. ‘Why don't you tell me?' She grabs my hand.

I turn and face her nuggety frame.

She peers up at me, her face set despite the laughter from the boys further back. ‘I know what it's like having lies about you stuck on the walls.'

‘Lies?' The P yells and bursts into hysterics.

‘There's no lies!'

But she ignores him. ‘Jack!' she says, ‘Jack, listen!'

But I can't, not in front of them.

She waves her hands in my face, demanding me to look at her. Eventually she gets my attention. She drops her hands to her hips. ‘Do you think I screwed that guy?'

‘I don't know!'

She moves closer until her breasts squish against my stomach. At first I like it, then the boys' voices fill my mind; their laughter about her appearance. I look at her frame again and don't know what to think. I can smell her, see her cleavage. I feel repelled; feel turned on.

Still peering up she says, ‘I thought you weren't like the other guys.'

I notice a stretch mark on one of her tits. I am, I think. I am just like them.

‘But you snogged him, right?' I say.

‘Jesus!' She pushes me away. ‘That doesn't mean I put out!'

‘Does so!' The P screams.

‘Clear off!' she yells at him. Then she takes my hand and drags me away. Their laughter recedes as we go around the corner of the building.

‘Don't you believe me?' she asks.

‘Did you like him?'

She pulls me to a stop. ‘No,' she says. ‘I was drunk. It was stupid.' Then she half smiles as she poses me a question: ‘Haven't you ever got drunk and kissed someone you didn't like?'

The answer is no, but I can't say it. It makes me sound stupid, inexperienced. ‘Of course.'

She laughs and looks at me with those huge eyes. ‘Then chill out,' she says.

Friday night swings around and I can't wait to go to Sam's little get-together. I still can't believe she invited me out in front of everyone. What a statement! I give her a call and tell her I'm looking forward to it. She says, ‘I'll save you a drink. What would you like?'

‘Beer,' I say.

She laughs. ‘What else do guys drink?'

I spend an hour in the bathroom, grooming. When I shower, there's not a bit I don't scrub and by the end I've removed a layer of skin. Using the handtowel, I wipe the condensation from the mirror. I pull a face at myself and smile. Sam likes me! This feeling is ridiculous, but I love it. Turning side-on, I check my chest and cup my hands over where my ribs protrude on either side of the crevice. It's hard to feel confident with this. I roll my head from side to side trying to release the tension in my shoulders. The bottom vertebrae of my neck grind over each other before releasing with a sharp crack. Standing front-on again, I spot a lone black hair in the middle of my chest. The last thing I want is to end up with an Austin Powers shag pile like Dad, so I grab the hair between my nails and give it a firm tug. It pops free, leaving a red spot like a green ant bite. It stings like one, too. But as I wash the hair down the basin, a feeling of regret comes over me as if I've just washed away my sole bit of manhood.

Later, while I'm lying on my bed, texting Sam, Dad comes in. ‘Roger's invited us over for dinner,' he says.

I dump my phone and sit up. ‘I've got plans.'

He wanders back into the hallway.

‘Hey!' I go after him. ‘I said I've got plans.'

I follow him to the kitchen, where he opens the fridge, takes out the water and pours a glass. ‘You should have told me about them earlier,' he says and pops a couple of pills. He gulps them down. ‘Anyway, Roger does a lot for you and me, and it's not like he has to. You should be grateful and I want you to come and show it.'

‘But—'

‘That's all I've got to say about it. We're leaving in thirty. Don't worry,' he says waving a hand, ‘we'll get back by ten and you can take the ute.'

I storm off, swearing. I go to my room, slam my door and throw myself onto the bed. I punch the wall, kick the bedpost, then call Sam.

She says to me in a quiet voice, ‘Listen, if you don't want to come, just tell me.'

I press the phone against my ear, wishing it was her. ‘No. It's not that at all. I want to. It's Dad, but I'll be there a bit late, that's all. Promise. I want to be there.'

Going by the silence, she's not convinced. She's probably thinking I'm worming my way out, trying to let her down softly. ‘It'll be a bit after ten,' I say.

‘Just text me before you come.'

‘Will you still save me a beer?' I ask, trying to make light of things.

‘If there's any left.' She hangs up.

I trudge off to the TV. Outside, Knight Rider scratches on the glass sliding door, rubs his nose at the join and barks. I close the curtain.

Dad gets about like he's on a first date. He irons his shirt on the kitchen bench, buttons it up, tucks it into his slacks. He goes into the bathroom, comes back out having combed his hair. He threads a belt through his pants, tries to buckle it, but it won't make the last notch.

‘I don't believe this!' he says in a long drawn-out way, as if he's just witnessed something improbable. ‘My belt doesn't fit anymore.' He looks at me.

I change channels.

‘Who would've thought?' He pulls it out and holds it up like a snake. Still examining its length, he goes into the kitchen and stabs a new hole with the tip of a knife.

I'm wearing a blue shirt that has a picture in the middle of a sun with thick red rays against a white backdrop, like the Land of the Rising Sun.

‘You can't wear that,' he tells me.

‘Why not?'

‘Roger wouldn't like it.'

‘Why is that? He never fought the Japs.'

‘Doesn't matter. Go get something else on.'

But I refuse.

The Pasks live on the north side of town and the whole way there Dad reminds me of the speed limits. He repeats it over and over in every speed zone. I chew on the inside of my lip. Eventually, I pull into the Pasks' driveway at Bridgeman Downs, a suburb for the rich, beautiful people on the north side of the city. Every house looks like a terracotta mansion. The lawn is green despite the water restrictions. There's a metal sign bolted to their fence:
bore water in use
.

‘Slow down,' Dad says as the Pissan crawls up the driveway. He leans forward and points, ‘Park over there, by that palm, but not on the grass.'

‘Which palm?' The entire driveway is lined with two-metre-high palm trees.

‘That one,' he says, still pointing.

Taking a punt, I pull up beside one.

‘Look where I'm pointing,' he insists. ‘Up there.'

I run my tongue behind my lip, the skin is in tatters. I park the car beside the garage, as far away from any palm as I can. The garage door is open so that everyone driving past can see Roger's BMW X5, a sleek black beast in its den.

The moment I kill the motor, Roger and Gloria come out to greet us. Gloria smothers me with a wet kiss, which I wipe away the moment she's not looking.

‘Prefer the kisses from the girls at school, eh Jack?' Roger says and winks at Dad. Then he sees the P-plate on the tailgate.

‘Pissan!' he yells. ‘Whose idea was that? Yours, Brian?'

Dad grins and thumbs in my direction.

‘Pissan,' Roger says again. He puts his heavy arm around my shoulders and brings his red dimpled face near mine. ‘Great to see you're finally coming out of your shell,' he exclaims as if I'm on the other side of the street.

The Pasks usher us through the front door. The second we're inside, Gloria says, ‘Oh, before you go any further, I have to show you something.'

‘What is it?' Dad asks.

She leads us through the house and I follow briskly, trying to keep out of Roger's arm length. There are polished floorboards throughout. We end up in the lounge room where there's a dark leather couch, a wooden coffee table and a mahogany bar. In front of the bar is a thick rug. Gloria stands over it. ‘Roger bought it in Turkey, from a quaint little store in Istanbul.'

‘It's beautiful,' Dad says.

Like he cares. He purses his lips and I know what he's thinking: what a waste of money.

Gloria kneels on it and rubs her hand over the rich fibres.

Roger says, ‘I bought it for Gloria as our twentieth wedding anniversary present.'

Dad looks ashamed. Best he ever did for Mum was Thai takeaway. No wonder she cleared out.

Before dinner, I stand in the kitchen, picking at the hors-d'oeuvres as Gloria sorts them onto platters. Behind us is a massive stainless steel fridge, the type that spews ice on command—crushed or cubed. Roger marches in. He fills a glass from a water purifier near the sink then holds it under the ice cube shoot. Ice clinks in, water splashes. Thrilled, Roger watches as if they're nuggets of gold. He gives me the water, offers Dad a beer and Gloria a shandy.

‘He's so sexist,' Gloria says as he puts lemonade in her beer. ‘Like I can't handle a beer because I'm a woman.' But she's smiling, teasing him. I can't work out why she's not serious.

Roger laughs. ‘That's what the girls say about me at work,' he says. ‘If I want to tell them a joke, they ask, “Is it sexist?” and I just say nope and tell it anyway!' He winks at me again. Gloria shakes her head and drinks her shandy, leaving lipstick on the glass.

‘How's the footy team going?' Roger asks Dad.

Dad cracks his beer and shoots me a look, which translated means, keep ya trap shut. ‘Great. The boys are really coming along. Half way through the comp already. Can you believe it?' he says.

Roger turns to me, holding his wine glass up near his chest like it's a stubby. ‘And what about you, Jack? Giving the opposition hell?'

‘Not really,' I say.

‘Not really?' Dad says and puts his beer on the sideboard. ‘You should've seen him a few weeks back. This kid was coming for him, right, and it's not just any kid, it was Dale Petersen. Remember Dale Petersen? We've talked about him before? Anyway, he's the best on the team and Jack nailed him. Puts him on the turf like a sack of spuds.' He punches his palm with his fist.