by Ellie Marney
He huffs a laugh. Then he leans towards me as he unboxes the deck. ‘Let me tell you, once you learn to win by cheating, it’s damned hard to play square. But you’re here, and you’re offering to play, so I’ll do my best.’
We’re tilted towards each other over the flat expanse of his quilt. He has a plain grey quilt, with a border of red stitching. My knee bumps against his because of the height of this wooden chair. It’s strange, being in the boys’ dorm, playing Shithead on Zep’s bed.
He places the cards on the quilt between us, leans back and draws up one leg. ‘You deal.’
‘You want me to shuffle?’ I nudge the deck. ‘You’re the pro. I’ll probably just embarrass myself.’
‘I do it all the time.’ He lifts his chin. ‘Show me how you do it.’
‘Okay.’ I sound dubious. ‘But don’t laugh.’
‘I would never do that,’ he says, and weirdly enough, I believe him.
I shuffle the deck the easy way first–a simple overhand shuffle. Then I do a waterfall shuffle with a bridge. My eyes are focused on the cards, but when I glance up I see Zep scanning my fingers, and sometimes, the rest of me.
‘You’ve got some moves,’ he notes. His own fingers twitch, moving in small touch-sense exercises like they can’t keep still.
I do a slop shuffle.
He grins. ‘Stop fooling around and cut.’
I do a one-handed cut.
His eyebrow lifts. ‘A Charlier cut. You don’t need to come to my workshops.’
‘Nobody can come to your workshops if you don’t give them,’ I point out.
‘Eh.’ He shrugs. ‘You gonna deal at some point?’
I deal. I don’t try to sail the cards like a croupier, because we’re not playing on baize or on a table top, but I use a proper dealer grip. And then we play.
It’s fast and it’s tricky and it’s fun. So. Much. Fun. This is so much better than playing with the other girls in the dorm. I can lay down quickly, and I don’t have to temper my skill. I don’t have to worry about sparing my opponent’s feelings, because Zep is playing as hard and fast as me.
He still wins in under thirty seconds.
He gathers the deck and sets it back in front of me. ‘Again.’
I shuffle and deal another hand. But I can’t resist some table talk. ‘Come back to workshops.’
Zep shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘The money, the practise and the audiences are all positives.’
‘Getting beat up twice a week–definitely a big negative.’
I consider my cards–too many royals–and what he’s said. ‘How did they know you were off the lot?’
‘Good question, but irrelevant.’ His ace tattoo flexes on his outer bicep as he lays down, picks up. ‘There’s a lot of people in the loop. Folks from the show, folks from Cadell’s… Any one of them could be a sieve.’
I make a rapid-fire play. ‘I’ll talk to Jones. We’ll keep you on the lowdown.’
‘The down-low,’ he corrects mildly. ‘A escondidas… It won’t make any difference.’
‘You can’t just give this up. They’re bullying you, and you’re letting them do it.’
His fingers flip cards onto the quilt so fast they’re a blur. His second win. He nods at the deck. ‘Again.’
I do a quick waterfall, then a nice tight shuffle and re-deal. ‘Fleur said you’re standing as a witness against your father in the court case over the Spiegeltent fire.’
He inclines his head, eyes down. ‘That is correct.’
‘Fleur said you know where your dad keeps his secrets.’
‘Yeah, I know Dad has ledgers…’ He bites his bottom lip. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’ I examine my terrible hand. ‘But if you’re standing up to your dad, and you’re testifying to help the show, why do people talk about you like you’re the bad guy?’
‘Why indeed,’ he muses.
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Because I don’t have an answer. People like to talk. What they don’t know, they fill in from their imagination.’
There’s no way I can win with this hand, but I give it a try. When he shoots me down in flames third time in a row, I concede. I push the deck towards him. ‘Your turn.’
Conversation goes quiet between us as I watch him manipulate the cards. Every performer tries to emulate the masters–I’m sure Zep has seen any number of performers, and tried to copy those moves. But he’s a master himself. If he’s not there yet, he must be very close. His Riffle and Kattar shuffles are quirky and perfect. He makes the deck look like a living thing in his palm. It’s not just him aping someone else’s style–he’s got his own style.
‘You do some unique things when you shuffle,’ I note.
He makes a thumb fan and grins with one side of his mouth. ‘I spent some time street hustling. I’ve got some non-standard flourishes.’
‘So it’s true you lived on the street?’
‘For a while.’ He glances at me, hard and dark, then back down to deal. ‘When I was eleven, twelve. Just a few years. You grow up fast, but you learn a lot. I learned a lot of hustles, a lot of steals. More steals.’
I check my hand while recalling what he said at the workshops. It’s not that hard to put two and two together. ‘You were a pickpocket?’
‘I got by.’ His eyes hold mine for a moment. Then he looks back down as he flips jacks and kings. ‘When did you start training for contortion?’
‘When I was ten.’ I throw down fast–this hand is better. ‘I attended gymnastics as a kid, and people realised I was bendy. My parents sent me to Ubud to train in legong and yoga with a balian–’
‘A what again?’ He pitches cards as play speeds up.
‘Like a specialist teacher. Part guru, part shaman, I guess.’ I keep my hands moving, tallying in my head. ‘She was the one who began my stretch training. I used to perform with a little group of kids, in tourist shows, upscale ones in the big hotels. Then my father got a language teaching job at the university here and we moved–and you just beat me again!’
‘I didn’t cheat,’ he says quickly. But he makes a little smile. ‘Okay, you were distracted. Try again.’
I wait as he shuffles. ‘How did you become a pickpocket?’
His face is lit by the reading lamp, his hair flopping in front. His long, tapered fingers make smooth cuts and turn-overs with the cards. But it’s his eyes that are doing interesting things. When he glances at me, they seem to be saying, I have a secret–are you sure you want to know what it is?
And I do want to know. Oh boy.
For a minute or two I think he won’t reply. Then his voice starts softly. ‘I worked as a mechanic in a whiz mob for a while.’
‘What’s a whiz mob? And don’t you work as a mechanic now?’
‘A whiz mob is a pickpocket gang. The mechanic is the one who does the steal. I lifted the wallets and passed them off to the duke. The duke gets the goods off the scene.’
‘So it was just the two of you?’ The cards in his hands are a red-black-white blur. I think he’s showing off a little now.
‘There’s also the steer, who chooses the mark. Then there’s the stall, who manoeuvres the mark and causes a distraction, and the shade, who blocks the mark’s view.’
‘So the mechanic can work?’
‘Right.’
I take all this in as I watch spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds fly and come together in his palms. We seem to have given up play, or else he’s gotten distracted by the act of shuffling. I can tell he enjoys it. Nobody can be this good without hours of daily practice, and to do hours of practice, you have to love it.
I lean forward on the wooden chair, a little hypnotised by his fingers. ‘You must’ve been a good pickpocket.’
‘I was…an asset.’
His eyes stare into mine for a whole breath, then he looks down to make a complete fan on the quilt. ‘I did it for Angus, and I did it to make ends meet, and I did it for thrills. Now I’ve agreed to use my skills for the show. I’m trying to get something good out of something bad.’
I stop him right there, reaching my hand out to slide the deck back together. ‘Skills themselves aren’t inherently good or bad, Zep.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ he asks quietly.
‘Yes.’ I sound certain. ‘I could use my contortion skills to creep into houses and cat-burgle, but I don’t. It’s not the skills, it’s how they’re used.’
There’s a heartbeat pause, then he unravels his body and slides past me off the bed. He gets close enough that I smell his scent–strangely familiar notes of cloves and sandalwood, probably from his soap. He stands, placing the Bike cards back on his nightstand, turning to give me an odd little nod, like the bow he gave me in the Prac Shed.
‘Thank you for the game.’
I slip out of my cross-legged position so I can twist around. ‘Wait. What just happened?’
‘It’s getting late.’ He offers me a hand to rise from the chair.
I accept, but I’m still confused. ‘You’re kicking me out?’
‘I think it might be time for you to go back to the women’s dorm.’
‘Hang on a second–’
My voice cuts off when he steps in. We’ve been physically close to each other before–last night’s struggle to reach Chester’s van springs into my mind. I suddenly relive the warmth of Zep’s hand on my stomach. That was unsettling enough. This closeness is deliberate.
His face takes up all of my vision, the feathery tips of his hair brushing my cheek. His clove-and-sandalwood scent is stronger now, undercut by the richer scent of his skin. He’s still holding my hand.
‘I wasn’t a good pickpocket, Ren.’ His words are soft and growly.
I’m strangely breathless. ‘No?’
‘No.’ His eyes are dark brown, compelling. ‘I was a great pickpocket. Once I learned how to dip and scale, I was unstoppable. My father put that to use. After the whiz mob folded, I worked single-o for nearly a year, and stole a mountain of wallets and phones…’
Something weird is happening. We move as Zep speaks, turning in a circle. I sense him floating in and out of my personal space. One of his hands grazes the top of my shoulder. The fingers of his other hand stroke against the small of my back, light and dangerous.
I put my own hands up and they come to rest on his chest, hot against my palms. His chest moves as he breathes, hard muscles stretching the fabric of his undershirt.
‘Dipping is an artform. And I dip better than anyone.’ His eyes are deep pools. It’s like drowning in honey. His patter has a mesmerising resonance and rhythm. ‘I can use the momentum of your own movements to pull things out of your pockets. Block your view with my arm. Steal your wallet by pinning it against your own body. Lean in, direct your attention. And while you’re distracted, I can rob you blind…’
His breath fans against my cheek. There’s a faint pattern of freckles across the bridge of his nose. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a boy, and this is the closest I’ve ever been to this boy, which means more somehow.
‘Are you paying attention, Ren?’ he whispers.
‘Y-yes.’ My voice sounds muted, far away.
‘Are you thinking about your pockets? Or am I distracting you?’
It takes me a moment to realise that my hair is flowing over my shoulders. And I know I had it pulled back when I arrived. ‘What the–’
‘Here. You should take these.’
He trails his fingers up my arms to my wrists, gently folds my hands down, palms up. Then he starts placing things into them. My phone. My dorm key. The silver ring I got from my parents, that I always wear. The studs from my ears. He keeps adding things to the pile.
‘My barrette–’ I look up in wonder. ‘How did you do that?’
‘You said there’s no bad skills? My skills are in theft. Deception. Manipulation.’ His eyes are still glued to mine, his skin radiating heat. ‘With the right distraction, I could peel your leotard right off your body without you even noticing…’
It’s like being nose-to-nose with a cobra–my brain is bleating out a warning, Awas! Bahaya! But I’m powerless to resist. Energy hums and sparks in the space between us.
And I don’t think I’m the only one who’s feeling it. I see Zep’s throat move as he swallows.
He steps away. ‘I’m a cannon, Ren. I’ll always be a cannon, and it’s too late for that to change. But at least if I work it in the show, I can put bad skills to good use.’
I can’t speak. I hardly know what to say, and the spell he’s cast hasn’t yet broken.
‘You should go,’ he says softly.
I let him lead me to the window. I clamber back out–it’s more awkward getting out than getting in. I’m halfway down the alley before real consciousness returns. The whole encounter feels dream-like.
Back in my dorm room, it all sinks home, hitting me in a wave of delayed sensation: Zep’s eyes, his voice, the fan of his hands, the heat of his skin, the smell of him, all the stuff he stole off me, my god, and I want to be that close to him again. Soon. As soon as possible.
I put my barrette back in my hair as I walk to the dorm bathroom. I have a shower, standing under the warm spray. After a while, I turn the spray to cold, willing myself alert.
I go back to my room and sit at my desk and google ‘cannon+pickpocket’. That’s how I figure it out–what Zep said and what he meant by it. I have a think. I think and think, and then I think some more.
It’s nearly two a.m. by the time my thoughts are properly ordered, but once I understand everything and I know what I’m doing, my brain quiets enough to let me sleep. But my dreams are in red and black, with slithering snakes and whirling cards, spades and diamonds and clubs and hearts that dissolve, tingling against my skin, falling around me like rain.
Four
On Thursday, I run through my early morning stretches, light and hurried. It’s a very perfunctory practise, if I’m being honest. If my inhalations are a little stiff, I don’t have time to worry about it. I don’t have time to worry about study this morning, either. I have a long list of To Dos that won’t wait.
I’m washed and dressed and ready to dash out when my phone rings. I mute the call: it’s barely seven a.m. and I’m in the dorm hallway. But as soon as I’m through the door (which has a picture of Beyoncé on it) and on the short porch out front, I hit Call Back.
‘Hallo, Ren, ini Mamah.’
I smile at the phone as I take the porch steps down onto the Parade Road, heading for the mess. ‘I know, mama. I called you back, remember? You’re up very early.’
‘I have good news,’ my mother says. ‘Uncle Agus will be visiting us earlier than expected.’
My smile drops at this, but I’m always capable of fake enthusiasm. ‘That’s great, mama.’
‘He’ll be arriving on Saturday. I want you to be here for the family lunch to greet him.’
‘Ah, okay.’ Stall, Ren, stall. ‘Let me see what I can work out.’
My mother’s voice is very clipped and proper. ‘It’s already arranged, Ren. Your father will come to collect you on Saturday, so you can come to lunch. You can stay here Saturday night and we will take you back on Sunday.’
I stop dead in the middle of the road. ‘You’ve organised it all without talking to me?’
‘I’m talking to you now,’ my mother says mildly. ‘You should be here for your uncle.’
‘Okay, okay, fine.’ I re
sume walking, my steps brisk and angry. ‘Mama, I have to go.’
‘It will be so good to see you, Ren.’
‘It will be good to see you too, mama.’ I try not to let the guilt seep in. I look up instead, focusing on the mess, the roof of its long verandah glittering in the early sun, Andi Jones pinning something on the noticeboard beside the door…
Wait just a minute.
‘Uncle Agus has been looking forward to visiting with you,’ my mother says.
‘Sounds great.’ What is Jones doing? The notice she’s tacking up is blazoned with teal and orange–Cadell colours.
‘And he has an idea for you about work and study. But we can talk about it then. I should let you return to your books. Sampai ketemu hari Sabtu ya, Ren.’
‘Iya, kita ketemu Sabtu, ya.’ I thumb to disconnect as I scale the steps and reach Jones on the verandah. A cursory look at the notice makes me even more curious. ‘Hai, Jones, good morning.’
‘Another early riser, excellent.’ She puts a box of thumbtacks back in her pocket. ‘Nice to see you, Ren. Did you get a reply from Zep Deal about the workshops?’
‘I’m still, um, figuring it out. But I’ll have an answer for you before lunch. What’s this?’
She nods at the flyer. ‘We’re doing a performance. Fleur and Marco’s idea. It’s a short gig–Cadell’s is hosting a corporate meet-and-greet, and we’re the pre-event entertainment. They’re putting up a marquee inside the convention centre in the CBD, if you can believe that.’
‘Pre-event entertainment?’
‘We’re calling it a mini-show. The pay is good, but you have to nominate yourself to participate. First come, first served. If you’re interested, get your name down fast.’
‘I’m interested,’ I say immediately.
Jones cocks her head at me. ‘Are you okay to perform? I heard you’re still a bit unwell after the fire.’
‘Just a rumour,’ I say. ‘I’m fine!’
‘Glad to hear it. In that case, make your mark. You’ll be the first one on the list. I’ll be in touch by Friday morning about requirements. Enjoy!’ She thrusts a pen into my hand before strolling off.
