‘Christ, Finch,’ says Eamon.
‘What?’
Harrison laughs politely. I don’t, and neither does Len.
Something’s brewing in me, watching him sitting there silently when there’s still so much to say.
‘Hey, everyone. You know what I think we should do?’ I say without fully knowing I’m going to beforehand. ‘Have one last mini-debate! For old time’s sake.’
Even Martin looks disdainful.
‘God’s sake, Hamlet,’ Ben says. ‘Are you actually allergic to fun?’
‘This is fun,’ I insist.
‘What would we even debate about?’ Harrison asks.
I rack my brain for topics from over the years for what I need – and then I have it. ‘What about: should Australia break from Britain?’
‘Didn’t we do that already?’ Eamon asks.
‘Nope. Let’s do it now.’ I pull myself up with shaky hands to sit on a desk, flicking a quick glance at the back corner. Len’s face is tightly resigned.
Of course he’d figure it out straightaway.
‘So, let’s just discuss it objectively, first.’ I’m talking fast. ‘We’ve got these two countries – allies – with masses of history together. Why would they end it?’
Silence. I think: it’s not going to work.
Then he says, ‘Because it’s what’s best.’
‘Who gets to decide that, though?’ I counter, fury coursing through me sudden and bright. ‘What’s best?’
Len shrugs, casual, but his gaze doesn’t drop from mine. ‘Britain should have already, really, seeing as the whole situation was their fault.’
I stare down the grey-green. ‘If that were true, is it a good enough excuse, for ruining a good thing?’
‘Wait. Since when are you a monarchist?’ Harrison asks.
‘They wouldn’t do it because they want to ruin it,’ Len says forcefully. ‘They’d do it for the opposite reason.’
I lick my lips. ‘Right. Which is?’
‘That they couldn’t give … Australia, what it deserves.’
‘Britain thinks their shit doesn’t stink, though,’ Ben Cunningham cuts in, and I could club him over the head. ‘They wouldn’t think that, would they?’
Len tears his eyes off mine to glare at Ben. ‘Britain’s not that narcissistic.’
I shake my head, refusing to let him off the hook. ‘Maybe they are, if you think they should leave Australia in the lurch like that.’
‘A republic is freedom. You’re being pretty narrow-minded, captain,’ Len says. He looks as riled up as I feel.
‘Shots fired,’ murmurs Eamon, raising his eyebrows.
‘How do you even end a relationship that long, second speaker?’ I hiss. ‘Just: thanks for the memories? Here’s some freedom, that’s it, goodbye?’
‘Hamlet.’
I wish he’d say Henry, but the walls are up, higher than ever.
‘And what if Australia needs … Britain?’ I know I’m reaching, but I can’t stop. ‘What then?’
‘Then maybe Britain has to let them go.’
‘Bullshit!’ I burst out, standing up. ‘That’s such bullshit.’
Len chews his lip. He looks so sorry.
The others are all watching us wide-eyed, unsure of what they’ve just witnessed.
‘Guys …’ Harrison starts uneasily.
‘Just forget it,’ I snap, picking up my stuff. ‘Enjoy the party everyone.’
When I get to my car, the last shred of hope falls out of me and rolls under the seat.
It’s worse than I thought, even with days of prep time. I wipe my face on my sleeve and hit the accelerator hard.
I drive until I’m lost in the tangled streets of the city again, but it’s not far enough.
He’s there in old house fronts and tired trees poking up from cement. He’s the bridge and the river. Each towering building. The burnished sky.
How do you un-know someone if you only know most of you because of them?
How do you even try?
23
We don’t speak after the debate hijacking. Things shift into a new gear, until we’re actively avoiding one another.
I take every possible shortcut at school, kicking my way through the spiky bushes behind shit block so I don’t even have to see him in the quad.
We keep amicable shared custody of The Boiyss.
I tell Mum and Dad a version of things, careful not to leave room for further discussion. Mum argues at first and follows me around a lot, face pinched in concern. I catch them out at least twice sitting in tense discussion on the verandah, but they leave me be.
Weekends are the worst; aimless hours spent overthinking, trying to read, almost-texting. I confine myself to my bedroom.
It’s always been my sanctuary, but there’s no hiding even up here – not with glow-in-the-dark stars and newspaper letters reminding me.
I have a tired crack at writing, but nothing comes. I just stare at the blank page, writing and crossing out bits of him over and over.
MISS
I YOU; IT’S KILLING ME.
KISSED
At the end of the next week, I can’t face Mum’s pinched face or Dad awkwardly patting me like a dog a moment longer. There are only so many times one can say, ‘I’m fine’ before it starts to sound like ‘fuck off’.
I escape to my car and plug my iPod into the ancient aux chord Dad fitted into the stereo with one hand, then turn the key in the ignition with the other.
The Pissar gives an almighty sputter.
‘No,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Come on. We’ve been going so good.’
She revs sadly in response, then peters out.
‘Come on,’ I say again. ‘You made it all the way to the hinterland. Remember that?’
I twist the key and the sputter is louder this time: squeak-clank-grind.
‘Just start, Piss – noble steed!’ I beg. ‘This is not how it ends. Please. For me.’
I smell smoke.
I rip out the key and yell into my fist. I’m so tired all of a sudden. Tired of listening to shitty music and shitty cars and swimming in all the thoughts of him all the time.
I let my head rest on the steering wheel and pull in a few shallow breaths. After a while I roll the window down, the breeze hissing through my ears a reprieve.
‘Henry!’
I look up and see Emilia getting out of her car across the street.
‘Hey!’ I wipe my eyes quickly. ‘What’re you doing here?’
She peers into my car, which is strewn with melancholy Macca’s wrappers and half-empty coffee cups. ‘You texted me an analysis of a Jordin Sparks song last night – of course I’m here.’
‘It was on the radio,’ I lie.
Emilia just looks at me.
‘I’m fine,’ I say flatly. ‘You don’t have to—’
‘We are going to have breakfast, right now.’
I don’t have time to answer before she’s dragging me towards her passenger seat.
We end up outside an old Queenslander three suburbs over that’s painted stark white and has climbing roses on its face. It looks like the other houses on the street, except for the dozen people sitting at rickety tables out front.
We head inside where it’s quieter and walk between green velvet chairs with their frays spun gold by morning light.
Emilia instructs me to sit by the window while she orders iced lattes and a piece of carrot cake bigger than my future.
‘Entrée,’ she informs me, setting the cake down between us and sliding me the spoon. ‘There’s eggs coming.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
She shifts in her seat restlessly before settling with her elbows on the table and her cheeks in her hands. ‘So.’
I t
ake a giant spoonful of cake.
‘You’re doing great, obviously,’ she jokes. ‘Let’s talk about me.’
I chew the cake with deliberate slowness. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh, absolutely. You seem it. Crying in your car, listening to “Tattoo” at midnight.’
‘It was on the radio,’ I lie again.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says. ‘Just tell me. Whatever it is.’
Our drinks arrive. I sip mine semi-aggressively.
Ems doesn’t break rank.
‘Fine.’ I crack first. ‘There was a Cane family dinner. And it … did not go well.’
‘Uh-oh,’ Ems says.
‘It was okay at first. But then it escalated into this completely massive fight.’
‘With his dad?’
I wince at the memory. ‘It was bad, Ems. He was so drunk – ripping into Len, attacking his art – and then they were just going at each other, the two of them, and it was awful, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop it.’
Emilia’s eyes are cry-shiny. ‘How did it end?’
‘John smashed a bunch of these glass tumblers of Sarah’s mum’s into the wall. Then he left.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘He’s gone now – I’ve been checking for his car. And Lacey is there. But. Yeah.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says again, eyes huge. ‘Is Len … is he okay?’
I shrug; thinking about it hurts. ‘Vince says he thinks so. He’s not speaking to me.’
Emilia’s forehead wrinkles. ‘Well, he’s going to speak to me … Wait. Why isn’t he speaking to you?’
I cover one side of my face with sweaty fingers. ‘Because he dumped me.’
Now she looks horrified. ‘He what?’
‘Yeah.’ I pick up my drink just for something else to do with my other hand. ‘Record time, hey.’
Ems pushes her glasses up into her hair. ‘So that’s just it?’
‘Um. Yes?’
‘But why?’
‘I guess he just realised he was better off.’
She slaps my wrist. ‘Henry Hamlet. Don’t even. He … You guys are—’
‘Don’t, Ems,’ I beg. ‘Please.’
She furiously sips her own drink, eyes darting across thoughts she doesn’t voice for a good few minutes.
‘Fools,’ she pronounces finally. ‘Both of you.’
‘Ems!’
‘Nope. That’s my official ruling.’ She drops her voice. ‘You love him, don’t you?’
I slump in my seat and look into the distance darkly.
She throws up her hands. ‘So then, fight for him! Maybe he needs that.’
‘I did,’ I murmur. ‘He hasn’t really given me much of a choice.’
‘That’s just Len being Len—’
‘You can’t fight for anything if the other person won’t even try!’ I slump down further. ‘Sorry, it’s just … It’s been a rough few weeks. Between exams, family stuff, and—’ (Losing the potential love of my life …)
Her face softens. ‘I know, babes. This is a lot to have on your plate. I’m here, okay?’
I look into the distance again, trying to remember what you’re meant to think of to stop yourself from crying. ‘Yeah.’
A dapper waiter sets eggs, sourdough toast and a boat of hollandaise sauce between us. Ems divides everything up neatly, ladling sauce all over my eggs and pushing them towards me.
‘I’ve got a lot on my plate,’ I say, in an effort to lighten the mood.
She pity-laughs. ‘Corn.’
I pick at my eggs for a bit, hiding my eyes.
‘I miss him.’
Ems pouts sympathetically. ‘I know.’
‘I’d say he misses you back,’ she says, when we’re mopping up sauce with our crusts.
I pause mid-mouthful, teeth gritting together. ‘Doubt it.’
Ems stirs ice in her glass. ‘Please. You’re like his cornerstone. Why else does a football player do debate club? Think about it.’
I look up.
‘Because he wanted to spend time with you, Hen. He cares about you too.’
‘Maybe,’ I allow. ‘Just not enough.’
She shakes her head, thoughtful. ‘Maybe too much. He’s always kind of had this way, with you – like you were his. I think losing you terrifies him. So he’s pushing you away.’
I consider this for a second. She’s describing it the wrong way around, but I don’t have the energy to push it.
‘Can we change the subject, now I’ve done my time?’ I ask faux-brightly, desperately scanning my brain for Myspace gossip. ‘What’s this I hear about you being seen on the lam with Eamon Matthews?’
Her cheeks immediately flush a delicate pink.
I stare at her in surprise. ‘Emilia Elizabeth Eastly,’ I chastise. ‘Emilio Estevez. Mon petit triple E. Have you been holding out on me?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to talk about this – not now.’
‘Now is the perfect time. I’m an emotional vampire. I dine exclusively on other people’s drama.’
She laughs and fiddles with the lace collar of her shirt.
‘Come on,’ I press. ‘Let me live through you.’
Ems sighs. ‘I’d like it to be put on the record that it wasn’t my idea to tell you this in your hour of need.’
‘I’ll adjust the record accordingly. Spill.’
‘Eamon and I …’
‘Mmm?’
‘We’ve been … seeing each other. A little.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Seeing each other seeing each other?’
She nods. ‘It’s actually going really well.’ Ems searches my face for signs I’m about to collapse in a heap.
‘Relax,’ I say. ‘I’m happy for you. If you’re happy,’ I qualify.
She still looks guilty, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. ‘I am.’
‘Great! Eamon’s cool. I never understood why you didn’t give him a shot.’
She hesitates, like she’s deciding something. ‘I guess I can tell you, now you’ve made a mess of your own love life.’
‘Hey now.’
‘Oh, sorry! You know I didn’t mean it like that—’
‘It’s fine,’ I cut her off. ‘It’s true. Tell me what?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘The reason Eamon and I went our separate ways, at the start of the year.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Was because I …’
‘What?’
‘This is so embarrassing!’ She scrunches up her face. ‘I slept with him.’
I lean forward with my chin on my hands, waiting for the rest.
‘On the first date,’ Ems adds.
‘And?’
‘That’s it! It wasn’t even a first date – it was the first time we ever hung out. And after that I realised I really liked him, and I’d ruined it before it even started.’
She’s wringing her hands on the tabletop like she’s just confessed to a white-collar crime.
‘Wait. That’s why you’ve avoided him like the Black Plague?’
‘Is that not reason enough?’ she asks.
‘I thought it was something bad!’
‘That is bad!’ she whisper-yells. ‘I gave him the whole cow, or whatever. I threw the cow at him, actually – he wanted to wait. But I just wanted to get it over with before uni, and he was there, and he was nice, and … Why are you laughing?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I cover my mouth. ‘I’m not.’
She glares at me, sipping the last remnants of her drink.
‘You don’t understand. The rules are different for boys – you can get away with stuff like that and it won’t make anybody like you less.’
‘Ems, trust me when I say, categorically, that sleeping with a teenaged
male is not going to make them like you less.’
She’s silent for a second. ‘You’re probably right. But I was too embarrassed and awkward after that. I couldn’t go near him.’
‘Aw. My poor little prude.’
‘Like you can talk!’
I tilt my head. ‘Actually …’
Em’s mouth falls open. ‘No!’ She throws a piece of toast at me. ‘Who’s been holding out on who, hmm?’
I don’t say anything.
She senses the shift in my mood, and rushes in with a distraction. ‘Anyway. He messaged me over the holidays and we talked it over. We talked a lot – he’s actually got some really interesting opinions on things.’
‘I know.’ I agree. ‘I’m glad.’ And I am – it feels good to know there’s still romance in the world, even if it’s gone from mine. I might be a shrivelled moth-like shell of a human, but I love her too much to begrudge her this.
‘We should stop talking about this.’ She sighs. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you kidding? This is the most cheering up I’ve had in weeks. Tell me again about throwing the cow at him.’
24
Things get a bit better, after I tell Ems, which makes it a bit worse. I don’t want to get used to us being apart – but it happens, against all odds and against my will.
Our last assessments roll in at school. Ged gives up begging me not to make him a child of divorce in favour of stealing my study cards. Harrison and Vince are quietly disapproving, but neither push the point. Len keeps up his end of the bargain so faultlessly that I almost don’t see him ever.
I stop asking about him, more out of necessity than altruism.
By the time I put my pen down at the end of the last English essay of my schooling life (1984 and freedom of the individual), I’m … better. But not good.
It helps that the two weeks before Gran’s wedding are a total frenzy. We’re all in a flurry of preparation, running last-minute errands and double-checking the numbers for catering. Mum has two meltdowns; I have one. Dad and Ham steer clear.
It’s not until we’re a week out that I remember about the photos. I don’t bring it up, hoping maybe if I don’t, it’ll just go away – but I’m not the only one who remembers.
‘Henry!’ Mum calls upstairs on Thursday night. ‘What time is Len getting to the ceremony?’
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