You Were Made For Me

by Jenna Guillaume

  ‘Just like all those sketches and sculptures don’t make you an artist?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And baking some cookies doesn’t make me a pastry chef.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Libby picked up the tea towel I’d thrown at her and began wiping the bowl I’d just put on the drying rack. ‘But it does make you a baker. The same way writing makes you a writer. And creating art makes you an artist.’

  I shook my head. ‘Writers have their writing published. Artists . . . artists have their work exhibited, like in museums and galleries and –’

  ‘– and school quadrangles?’

  I humphed but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Okay, so you’re not a writer or an artist. What are you then? How do you describe the great Katie – sorry, Kate – Camilleri?’ Libby asked.

  I thought for a moment. How would I describe myself?

  Not ‘great’, that’s for sure.

  ‘I’m a student,’ I said finally. ‘A work in progress.’ I held up a handful of soap suds and blew some Libby’s way.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t just own this stuff.’ She reached into the sink to scoop up some bubbles herself, leaning over to blow them in my face. ‘I mean, I’m a scientist. Just because no one is paying me to be one, it doesn’t make me any less of one.’

  ‘Libby, no offence, but I don’t think cutting open a dead rat in Mr Hay’s class actually makes you a scientist.’ I shuddered at the memory of that particularly horrific lesson. ‘You have to, you know, do science.’

  ‘Pfft, come on. I’m just trying to have the confidence of a mediocre white man over here. Do you think Declan Bell Jones spends his time angsting over whether he’s an athlete or whatever? No, he just kicks some balls around and calls himself a champion.’

  ‘Um, I think you’ll find that Declan Bell Jones is anything but mediocre, thank you very much.’

  ‘Mmm, I don’t know about that. As a scientist, I can only look to my own empirical observations, and they have led me to conclude that he is, in fact, aggressively mediocre.’

  I gave a cry of mock outrage, and this time splashed not just soap suds but also water in her direction. Libby shrieked and tried to get at the sink to splash me back. Max barked at all the excitement as though he wanted to join in.

  We had to mop the floor by the time we were done.

  When we’d finished cleaning, Libby and I sat in front of the oven, waiting for the cookies to reach their final, perfect, crispy-on-the-outside, gooey-on-the-inside form. Max curled up next to me and rested his head in my lap. It had begun to storm, and he always got extra whingey and clingy whenever he heard thunder.

  ‘So. What do you want to do now?’ I asked. The wi-fi had stopped working, probably because of the storm, although thankfully we still had power. Neither of us had any data on our phones.

  ‘Watch the cookies,’ Libby said.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Eat the cookies.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then it will probably be time for pizza.’ Libby grinned. My parents weren’t home – Dad was on night shift, and Mum had gone out with a friend for dinner (and probably drinks afterwards). She’d left me money to order pizza and given me strict instructions not to open the door for anyone except the delivery person and to ‘try not to burn the house down’. Even though I’m sixteen, my parents had only decided (embarrassingly) recently that it was no longer necessary for my older brother Luke to babysit – sorry, I mean ‘keep me company’ – if they weren’t home at night. Luke had taken full advantage of that fact this evening, and gone on a date with his girlfriend Mara. I also wanted to take full advantage of my newfound independence, which is why I’d invited Libby over. But the night wasn’t quite shaping up how I’d hoped.

  ‘This is boring,’ I said after a few more minutes of staring at the cookies.

  ‘Hmmm. We could play Silly or Serious?’ Libby said.

  ‘Aren’t we a bit old for that game?’ We’d made it up when we were younger. It was kind of like Truth or Dare, except without the dare part – because we were chickens like that. You had to pick what kind of truth you were willing to admit. We usually went for silly, you know, because of the whole chicken thing.

  ‘Come on.’ Libby nudged me.

  I sighed. ‘Fine. Silly.’

  ‘When was the last time you picked your nose?’

  I screwed up said nose. ‘Uh . . . this morning.’

  Libby cackled. ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘You asked. Your turn.’

  ‘Silly.’

  I was trying to think of a decent question that didn’t involve bodily fluids when I heard the back door slide open. A moment later the shaggy, wet head of my next-door neighbour Theo loomed above us as he leaned over the kitchen island.

  ‘What are we watching?’ He glanced at the oven. ‘Ah. The cookie show. Love this one.’

  He moved around the counter and slid down next to me. Max immediately tried to cram his whole huge body into Theo’s lap as he covered his face in sloppy kisses. That dog is a total traitor whenever Theo’s around.

  ‘You’re dripping,’ I said. Theo couldn’t have been in the rain for long – it was only twenty-two steps (we’d counted) from the door of his granny flat through the broken panel in the fence to my back door – but he had somehow got drenched.

  ‘It’s pissing down.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair, slicking it back from his face, and reached his hands behind his head to remove his damp hoodie. His t-shirt rode up with it, exposing his belly. I quickly looked away, knowing he was self-conscious about it since he’d put on weight last year. ‘Internet down for you guys, too?’

  ‘Yep,’ I sighed. ‘We were just playing Silly or Serious.’

  He snorted. ‘Thought you said you were too old for that game.’

  I shot Libby a look.

  ‘Alright,’ Theo said. ‘Silly.’

  ‘You can’t just butt into our game,’ Libby said, even though Theo had been doing exactly that for most of our lives. He was a year older than us, and at school he always hung around people in his grade, but after hours was another story. He’d practically lived at my house when we were younger. Especially after his mum died. Before his dad let him move into the granny flat out back, Theo was over here all the time. Now that he had his own space, he only came around, like, half the time.

  ‘When was the last time you slept with Mr Fluffybutt?’ I asked.

  Theo grinned. ‘Last night.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Gotta have something to cuddle.’ He nuzzled into Max as he spoke.

  ‘Mr Fluffybutt?’ Libby asked.

  ‘My stuffed alpaca,’ Theo explained. He’d had the toy since he was a baby. ‘Okay, KC. Silly or serious?’

  ‘Silly,’ I said.

  Theo glanced up, thinking. ‘The thing you’re most embarrassed about. Go.’

  ‘The thing I’m most embarrassed about . . .’ I paused, looking down. ‘Isn’t that kind of serious?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Well, you probably think it’s silly. But I’ve never been kissed. That’s the most embarrassing thing about me.’

  I felt Libby bristle beside me. ‘You’re right. That is silly. What’s so embarrassing about that?’

  ‘Hello, I’m sixteen years old!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And don’t you think that’s a little late?’

  She sighed. ‘There’s literally that saying, “sweet sixteen and never been kissed”.’

  ‘Yeah, that was invented in, like, 1806.’

  ‘So kiss someone already,’ Theo said.

  ‘Oh yeah, ’cos it’s that easy,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You kind of need someone else to be willing to kiss you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He raised his eyebrows as if to say, What’s your point?

  Boy, he could be dense sometimes. ‘So I’m not exactly flooded with opportunities.’

 
‘It’s really not embarrassing, Katie,’ Libby said again.

  ‘Says you. You’ve been with Michael since you were practically in nappies.’ Libby had started going out with her boyfriend in Year 6. Even though he went to the selective high school in town, while we went to the affectionately nicknamed Pleb High (short for plebeian), they’d managed to stay together, although they only saw each other a couple of times a month. She didn’t really talk about him much because she didn’t want to be one of ‘those’ girls – you know, the kind whose entire personalities and lives gets overtaken by their boyfriends. Sometimes I wondered if she’d gone too far in the other direction. ‘Face it, I’m a freak,’ I added.

  Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to say something, but Theo cut in first. ‘What about Sam Park? I told you he had a crush on you last year.’

  I scowled. ‘Sam Park eats his own earwax.’

  Theo laughed. ‘Mmm, earwax-flavoured kisses.’

  ‘It can’t be just anyone,’ I said. ‘I mean, after all this time, it has to be special, right? Your first kiss is something you remember for the rest of your life.’

  Theo snorted. ‘My first kiss was with Amber Jones under the skate ramp at the PCYC. Cobwebs and rust. Alex timed it. Twenty-six seconds. Very special.’

  ‘Just because you’ll pash anyone, anywhere, doesn’t mean I have to. My first kiss . . . it’s gotta be perfect. The perfect setting. The perfect guy . . .’ The image of that mole on Declan Bell Jones’s neck flashed before my eyes.

  ‘You’ll be waiting a while then,’ Theo said. ‘Nobody’s perfect, KC.’ He reached for the oven door. ‘Are these cookies ready or what?’

  ‘Theo’s right, you know,’ Libby said around a mouthful of pizza. We were sitting on the floor, the pizza box open between us, a home renovation show on in the background. Theo had gone home to practise his saxophone, which he’d picked up when he was nine. These days, if you asked him what inspired him to learn that particular instrument, he’d name-drop some super cool jazz musician, but the truth is it was Lisa Simpson.

  ‘Huh?’ I said, looking at Max as he pawed at my leg, begging for some food. I’d given him a bowl of his own, but he knew mine was way more exciting. I gave him a piece of crust.

  ‘What he said before,’ Libby explained. ‘About nobody being perfect.’

  ‘I know that.’ I shoved Max’s face away from my plate. He was getting a little too eager.

  ‘And you know that your first kiss, whenever it is, with whoever it is – it’s not going to be perfect either, right?’

  ‘Didn’t you think yours was perfect?’ I remembered her telling me Michael had kissed her while they were at putt-putt in Year 7. She wouldn’t give me any details. ‘It’s personal,’ she’d said. I’d felt a little hurt, but at the same time it was kind of romantic.

  Libby ignored my question. ‘Seriously, Katie. The perfect guy doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I’ll tell Michael you said that.’

  ‘Go ahead. He knows he’s not perfect.’ She stared down at her last slice of pizza, picking it apart.

  ‘Aw, come on. I mean, he’s perfect for you, right?’ I asked. ‘That’s all I want. Someone who is perfect for me.’

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then looked up at me with a smirk. ‘And what would this perfect-for-you guy look like? And don’t say Declan Bell Jones.’

  I grinned. ‘Alright. I’ll show you.’

  I got up and washed my hands at the kitchen sink before heading to my room.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Libby called. She hadn’t moved.

  I reappeared and went over to the dining table, which we hardly ever actually used for dining. I placed what I’d been holding on it, and gestured for Libby to come over.

  ‘Oh my god,’ she said. ‘What exactly am I looking at here?’

  I laughed. ‘It’s the perfect guy.’ It was a sculpture – well, part of one, anyway. I was still working on it. Theo had given me this amazing oil-based clay he’d found at an op shop – he was always scavenging for the retro clothes he loved, and if he stumbled upon cheap art supplies or cool old books he’d pick them up for me. I was practising human anatomy at the moment, and had sculpted a pretty incredible pair of legs, if I did say so myself. They were attached to a muscular torso.

  ‘He’s missing a head,’ Libby said.

  ‘Let’s make him one.’ I sat down and started working a piece of clay in my hands.

  ‘And a penis,’ Libby added.

  ‘That comes last.’

  ‘Not from what I’ve heard.’ We both sniggered.

  After a moment I said, ‘Do you think you and Michael will . . . you know?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Libby deadpanned. She stood up and went to the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked as she got out a pot and heated it on the stove.

  ‘Science.’

  I figured she was actually just making herself something else to eat, and left her to it. She rifled around in the cupboards, pulling out nlank, wordsxs xxssx, xxxxxx xxxssssx, xxssxx, and xxxx xxsss. Then she xxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxx and xxxxxxx. From the xvvvxxxx she xxvvxxx xxxx xxxxx. She added in xxxxxxxx xxx xxxx. And xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx. xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxx.

  (Libby just made me cross out all the details of what she was mixing. She says she doesn’t want the formula to fall into the wrong hands. Even though I’m not entirely sure it was her concoction which had the all-important effect.)

  WHAT ELSE WAS IT THEN, KATIE?

  The clay.

  Oh that’s right, the magic clay.

  If it was the potion –

  Not a potion. A formula. I’m a scientist, remember?! Not a witch.

  Could have fooled me.

  Are you telling the story, or arguing with me?

  I’ve been arguing with Libby. But we’ve calmed down now and are ready to get on with this. Aren’t we, Libby?

  I said, aren’t we, Libby?

  Sorry, I thought you wanted me to stop interrupting.

  Sigh.

  Libby was making her poti– I mean, formula, and I was busy finishing my sculpture. We talked as we worked, outlining my perfect guy.

  ‘He’s tall,’ I was saying. ‘Like, over six foot.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that make it kind of hard to kiss him, short-arse?’

  ‘That’s why heels were invented, smart-arse.’

  ‘I thought heels were invented to make it harder for women to run away from men.’

  ‘And he can bend down,’ I went on, ignoring her. ‘Or pick me up.’ I waggled my eyebrows.

  ‘Alright. He’s tall. What else?’

  ‘He looks like . . .’ I paused, thinking hard as I sculpted and trying to envision the final product. ‘A long-lost Hemsworth brother.’

  Libby snorted.

  ‘He has floppy hair that always sits just right. And eyes the colour of the sky on a clear summer’s day.’ I stuck out my tongue in concentration and was silent for a few minutes. Libby hummed the tune of a classical song I was vaguely familiar with.

  As I moulded a mouth out of clay, I said, ‘His lips are pink and soft. Perfect for kissing.’

  ‘And they taste like cookie dough, right?’ Libby said.

  ‘Right. And he smells of springtime. And the ocean.’

  ‘As long as he doesn’t smell like the lake. Pee-yew.’ (The lake near our school gets pretty stinky sometimes.)

  ‘He has a sixpack,’ I went on. I’d already sculpted that. ‘And that hot V thing boys get at their hips.’ I made a mental note to work on that more when I was done with the head.

  ‘And a peachy butt, I suppose,’ Libby said. ‘Huge biceps, too.’

  ‘Yeah, but not too huge. He’s built, but lean.’

  ‘Tell me, does this lean hunk of Hemsworthy muscle have a personality?’ Libby added something to the pot and – well, I’d better not say any more about that.

  ‘Only the best,’ I
said. ‘He’s sweet.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And kind.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘It’s not! He’s kind even when he doesn’t have to be. He goes out of his way to help people. And animals. He loves animals.’ I looked at Max, who was lying on the bed we’d bought him when he was a puppy. It was too small for him now, but he still loved to sprawl across it. ‘He especially loves dogs. Like, with his whole soul.’

  ‘What else is he into?’

  ‘Me, obviously,’ I said. ‘He’s absolutely devoted to me. And he’s romantic.’

  ‘Acts like a guy in a rom-com, I bet.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  Libby turned off the stove and started rifling through the kitchen drawers. ‘And this wonder boy who smells like the ocean and has buns of steel is sixteen, right?’

  ‘No. He’s older than me.’

  ‘What, like a teacher?’ Libby mimed gagging.

  ‘Noooo. Not that old.’ I scrunched up my nose. ‘Just a year or two older. You know, so we’re on the same maturity level.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Libby walked over to me with a bowl in one hand and an eye-dropper in the other.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘You made the guy a body, right? Well, I cooked him up a soul.’

  ‘Oh! How very sciencey,’ I said.

  Then –

  Well, I can’t tell you exactly what happened next. Libby thinks it’s too risky to share it all. Even though I’m not quite sure why I’m writing this if I can’t even say –

  It’s a record of our experience, dear Katie, but it doesn’t have to reveal all our secrets.

  Right. Well, let the record show that we did some things and said some things and wound up with a hunk of clay shaped like a boy and a bowl of gloop that took me twenty minutes to scrub clean.

  When we were done, I said, ‘What, exactly, was the point of all that?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Literally nothing. This whole perfect guy thing amounts to nothing. He doesn’t exist, and you can’t will him into reality, no matter how hard you try.’ She reached for my sculpture. ‘Hey, you know what we should do? Bury him.’

  I slapped her hand away. ‘It’s a bit early to go burying all my hopes and dreams in the backyard just yet, don’t you think?’