‘I’m not expecting you to get used to this separation straight away,’ Mum says. ‘But it’s so important you don’t get behind at school. If someone is bullying you, then I’d like to think you could tell me.’
I reach for my nearest minifigure, sitting on the bottom of my bookshelf. It’s a cyborg, half-man, half-robot. Life would be easier if I were like that. Every time someone tried to hurt me, I’d file it away in the mechanical side of my brain. Robots don’t have feelings.
‘Have you read Lord of the Flies?’ I ask. We had to read it in English last year. It was about a bunch of boys living on a deserted island where there were no adults. Our teacher told us it was about the conflict between civilisation and savagery.
‘A long time ago.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘It’s like that.’ And heavy on the savagery.
‘So you are being bullied?’
I curl my fingers around the cyborg. ‘I’m just telling you a fact. Do I have to go back to school today?’
‘No,’ Mum says. When she puts her arm around me, she smells so familiar, like perfume and face cream, that I have to put my hands over my face so she can’t see the way my eyes have gone all watery.
I wish I were stronger, a steadfast Five rather than a humiliating Four, but I’m just not.
Bailey’s reply arrives at lunchtime, after Mum has gone back to work. I’m sitting at the breakfast bar, eating a lukewarm microwave pie, when my phone makes a funny dinging sound. Suddenly I’m too excited to be hungry.
#1. Stardust: yes, but some of us more than others #2 Two is also the third Sophie Germain prime, whatever that means (OK, so I’ve been on the net). Is that your favourite number by any chance? #3. No, not sick. My little sister has an ear infection and my mum couldn’t take any more time off work. #4: That’s one mean-ass profile pic.
Mean-ass profile pic? I smile. Oh, Batman.
I reply: #3. What’s your sister’s name? #4: Christian Bale is the best Batman of all time. Just saying.
Bailey: #2: Well, now it’s my fav number. Two, I mean. #3: Libby. She’s the 5 year old. #4: Agree!! #5: Can I borrow your physics notes?
If only. Pity I flipped out before class even started. I’d love to have an excuse to drop my notes around to him.
Sighing, I type: #2: Five is my favourite. I’ll tell you why sometime. #5: I’m not at school either today
Bailey: Are you sick, Five?
I could lie and say yes. But I hate lying. On the other hand, I don’t want to tell Bailey I left school early either, because then he’ll ask why.
Then I’ll have to lie, because there’s no way I’m telling him what really happened.
In the end, I write: Not exactly. Let’s just say school didn’t align with my karmic energy today.
When he answers, Yeah, I get that, I smile. And when he sends another message ten minutes later: My mum will be home by 3.30, want to hang out? I don’t even hesitate.
At four p.m. I sit on the riverbank, the rocks warm beneath my thighs. I’m nervous as hell, because it’s fifteen minutes past the time when Bailey said he’d be there. What if he’s changed his mind?
At five past four I stand up and wander up towards the road. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. Most probably it’s all part of some big joke. I’m the big joke, I think, feeling more and more wound up.
I’ve just walked up onto the sidewalk when I hear the whicker of a bicycle approaching. At first I don’t recognise him with the helmet on, but when he gets closer I see it’s his lion-amber eyes and long nose. The bruise beneath his eye has faded to yellow-green.
‘Hey.’ Bailey jumps off his bike, letting it fall into the grass, and pulls his helmet off. ‘Sorry I’m late. Mum went shopping on the way home.’
‘It’s fine.’ But it’s not. Because now we’re here, just the two of us, and I don’t know what to say, what to do. I follow Bailey back down the grassy bank and onto the rocks. He’s barefoot, and there’s a tiny hole in the leg of his army-green shorts, and I can’t stop looking at him.
Bailey walks until he’s ankle-deep in water and turns around.
‘Coming for a p-paddle? It’s warm as.’
‘Sure.’ I pull off my sneakers and wobble over the rocks. Ahead of me, Bailey walks until the water is up to his thighs.
‘That’s not a paddle,’ I call out to him.
‘That’s a swim.’ ‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ he says, and disappears beneath the water. I walk in to my knees, the current tugging against my legs, and there he is, swimming just below the surface. Bailey stands up about twenty metres downstream, near the bridge, and hooks his finger at me.
‘Come on, Catalan,’ he calls out. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’m in my clothes,’ I yell back. Bailey spreads his arms and tilts his head back. I tilt my head back, too, and all I can see is the cloudless sky, blue-burn in my eyes. And it’s so hot, and suddenly all I want is to be swimming, too, flying through the water. After pulling off my singlet and throwing it onto the rocks, I plunge in.
I stretch my arms out in front of me, letting the current carry me downstream. Oh, it’s so deliciously silent but not silent; just the bubbling of water in my ears and the beating of my fish-heart. I drift until my lungs feel as if they’re going to burst. When I stand up Bailey is no more than half a metre away.
‘Isn’t it heaven?’ He pushes his dripping hair out of his eyes. The water is lazier here beneath the bridge, and waist-deep.
‘It’s heaven,’ I agree. My eyes linger on his honeycomb-golden skin as he peels his t-shirt off. After rolling it into a ball, he lobs it at the riverbank, then slips back into the water and circles me like a shark. I swing my arm through the water, sending a wave of water towards him.
Bailey laughs and splashes me back. We go crazy splashing each other for a couple of minutes, until I dive on top of him and we wrestle beneath the water, limbs and torsos sliding past each other. When I finally manage to stand up, Bailey hooks his arm around my neck.
‘No,’ I gasp, grabbing his wrist, as if that will stop him dunking me again. Bailey twists so he’s facing me, and my hand falls away from his wrist. He trails his fingers down the side of my neck, beneath my chin. My breathing speeds up again. Touching my hand to his hip, I feel the sharp curve of bone beneath my palm. My blood is rushing through my ears, like the river, like the cars on the bridge above. Anyone could see us, anyone could, but when he presses his lips to mine I don’t pull away. I don’t want him to stop. I haven’t kissed anyone before, not like this with mouths open and tongues touching. Oh Jesus, I feel as if I’m going to explode.
Bailey draws back. ‘I’m getting cold — are you cold?’
‘No,’ I say. I’m trembling, but it’s not because I’m cold.
Bailey looks at me for a moment, then nods towards the trees lining the riverbank. ‘Let’s go warm up,’ he says. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I want to.’
We lie on the grassy area between the trees, sun dappling over our glistening bodies. We’re facing each other, noses touching. I can smell the river-scent of Bailey’s hair, can feel the cords of his biceps muscles relaxing beneath my hands. He cups my face with his water-cool hands and I close my eyes, breathing him in. I think I’m getting better at this kissing, because after a while — seconds? minutes? — Bailey groans and drops his other hand to my hip.
And I’m bursting with possibilities now, about how far we could take this, but I’m a bit scared too. So I pull back, so I can breathe, so I can think. Bailey groans again and rolls onto his back, his breathing as ragged as mine.
‘Holy shit,’ he says. ‘That was awesome.’
‘Awesome,’ I agree, still lying on my side, because I’m worried if I move then I really will explode, in a way that has only ever happened before when I’m alone in my room or in the shower. ‘Um, have you done that before?’
‘Once or twice,’ he says. ‘Have you?’
‘I was a kissing virgin,’ I admit. ‘Before now.’ I smile at him, and Bailey smiles back, but he doesn’t try to kiss me again. He closes his eyes, and I watch his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. I want to touch him again, but I’m feeling shy now, so I say, ‘Where did you live before here?’
‘Auckland.’
‘So how come you moved down here?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘We couldn’t afford to stay.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘All the time.’ Bailey’s voice sounds different when he says that. He rolls onto his elbow, so close I stop breathing for a moment. ‘Hey, I still have this.’ He unzips the pocket of his shorts and presses something into my hand. I don’t have to look down to see that it’s the stone I plucked out of the water last week. I can’t anyway, because his hand is still covering mine, the stone warming between our palms.
‘It’s yours,’ I say.
‘I know,’ Bailey says, threading his fingers through mine. Then he kisses me again, slow and deep, like the river.
Chaos theory says that you can’t predict what will happen when a butterfly flaps its wings in Africa. Maybe it will cause a tornado in China, and maybe it won’t. But when Bailey Hunter kisses me by the river that day, his butterfly-fingers on my face, I know nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 8
BAILEY: ZERO IS NOT A PRIME NUMBER
On Monday evening I sit on my bed in the caravan, the windows flung open to let the breeze roll in. Every now and then I get a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, no doubt from the cranky lady next door, who’s always smoking on her back doorstep. I’m trying to study for my history test, but my mind keeps wandering back to a few hours ago, when I was at the river with Felix. I’m thinking about how his mouth was like a plum, firm on the outside and soft on the inside. I’m remembering how he groaned when we were rolling around in the grass beneath the trees.
That makes me feel even more hot and bothered, so I pull off my t-shirt. It smells like river water and sweat. I wish I’d swapped t-shirts with Felix, so I could feel him next to my skin.
Aargh, stop it.
Rolling Felix’s river stone between my fingers, I try to focus back on my notes about the American Civil Rights movement. Jim Crow Laws, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King. It’s hard to believe that American black people used to have to sit at the back of the bus, and were lynched for crimes like arguing for a better price for their crops.
I flop back against my pillows. Maybe I could message Felix, tell him I’m thinking of him. When I reach for my phone, I see a Facebook notification; a friend request from Ethan. Smiling at his profile picture — a cat that looks like it’s taking a dump on a toilet — I accept, and flick through his last few posts.
The last two are obviously related to Joel’s party. One of them is a picture of Ethan in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, looking like he just crawled out of bed: Someone give me some hair of the dog ASAP. The other is a comment on a video posted by Joe ‘Zero’ McCarthy — a video of Felix stumbling around drunk at the party. The caption below it reads: 4 out of 10 for this dare … because four sips is all it took to get Crazy Catalan trashed!!
‘Ah shit,’ I mumble, remembering Ethan’s comment at judo on Saturday: Did you see the video Zero posted on Facebook?
I watch it for a minute or so, right up until Felix falls onto his butt, before shutting it down. I hope Felix hasn’t seen it. Zero McCarthy, whoever he is, seems like a right prick. Ethan’s comment is a fairly neutral: harsh, dude.
There’s a knock on the caravan door, and Jack pokes his nose in.
‘Maddy’s made apple crumble, do you want some?’
‘Yeah, there soon.’ I turn my phone face down on my bed and sit up. Jack walks in and gazes at the calendar hanging on my wardrobe, the one he made me for Christmas.
‘I miss surf club,’ he says. ‘And Auntie Rosina.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ I move to stand behind him and reach over his shoulder, tracing the curve of a wave rolling into shore. ‘If you weren’t so good at drawing, I wouldn’t miss it so much.’
‘I really hate it here.’ His voice wobbles. My stomach dipping, I squeeze his shoulder, and try to sound cheerful.
‘It’ll get better. Hey, I found a cool swimming spot at the river today. I’ll take you there in the weekend. We can ride our bikes.’
Jack sniffs. ‘It’s got a flat tyre.’
‘So, we’ll f-fix it.’ I take my t-shirt off the end of the bed and pull it back over my head. ‘The kids at school aren’t giving you a hard time, are they?’
‘No,’ he gulps. Ah shit, he really is crying now. I wrap my arms around him from behind, feeling his skinny frame shake against my chest.
‘Tell me who it is, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Jack slips out of my arms and sits down on the bed with a thud. ‘No one’s bugging me. No one’s even talking to me.’
I shut the caravan door and lean against it. ‘You need to show them you’re good at something, so they’ll be falling over themselves to hang out with you.’
‘I’m not good at anything.’ He runs a hand beneath his nose. ‘I’m not even good at running like you and Maddy.’
‘What?’ I take the calendar down and sit next to him, flicking through the pages. ‘How about this, Mr Michelangelo?’
Jack looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. ‘Who’s Michel-angel-ho?’
Suppressing a smile, I say, ‘Michelangelo was a famous artist. He p-painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Here, look.’ After typing Sistine Chapel into the search bar of my phone, I pass it to him. Jack tips the phone sideways, staring at it for the longest time, before saying, ‘So what, you want me to paint a ceiling?’
I laugh. ‘No, b-but you could knock those kids out with your art, right? B-b-better than your fists, anyway.’
‘I couldn’t knock anyone out with my fists,’ Jack says, his eyes darting towards me.
‘Yeah, well.’ I press two fingers over my left cheekbone, feeling the familiar ache of the bruised tissues beneath. ‘It isn’t a good long-term solution.’
‘So, basically, you want me to knock them out with a pencil?’
‘I want you to draw them in with a p-pencil,’ I say, wriggling my eyebrows at him. He rolls his eyes at me.
‘Your jokes are the worst.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I ruffle his hair and stand up. ‘Let’s go, that apple crumble will be getting cold.’
When I walk into English the next day, Felix is standing by his desk at the front, pulling a folder out of his bag. As I walk past, I whisper, ‘Hey Five,’ then carry on to the back of the room, glancing over my shoulder at him. Our eyes lock for a brief instant and his face is so open, so unguarded, that it makes me nervous. What if our body language gives away what we did yesterday?
People like you are disgusting and perverted, Olivia whispers in my ear, just before Molly Riordan marches in and announces, ‘You’re blocking the aisle, Four.’ Felix’s face closes over again, his expression stony. Molly steps back, smirking. ‘Hey, you’re not going to freak out on us again, are you?’
Jesus, what a bitch. I’m tempted to say something, but I don’t know what that would be exactly. Also, I’m worried I’ll start stuttering, like I usually do when I get wound up.
I can’t stand to watch, so I gaze out of the window. Joel and Dallas are strolling past, their bags slung over their shoulders. Spotting me, Joel grins and pulls a face. I pull a face back, crossing my eyes and sticking my tongue out of the side of my mouth, and they both start laughing so loud I can hear them behind the glass.
Ms Ralph’s voice pulls me back into the room.
‘Right, class,’ she announces. ‘Before you all get settled, it’s time for a shuffle-up. I want everyone sitting on the left of each pair to rotate clockwise.’
‘Urrgh, that feels good,’ drawls a guy sitting near the front of the room, standing up and moving his pelvis around in a circle. Half the class cracks up laughing.
Others are moaning about why they have to move.
‘Change is good,’ Ms Ralph says. ‘Felix, that means you can move across one.’ From the look she’s giving Molly, I’m betting she’s not just moving the class around for a change.
‘Guess that means me,’ Wiremu says.
‘So long, pardner.’ ‘So long,’ I echo. Holding my phone on my knee so no one else can see, I message Felix: If Ms R does this every week, then in 4 weeks you’ll be sitting next to me, Five (#2)
My phone buzzes about twenty minutes later, after Ms Ralph has set us a writing exercise. Felix’s reply, as usual, makes me smile.
#2. Three things for you to remember: (1) You are the first prime number. (2) Zero is NOT a prime number, and never will be. (3) Infinity ( ∞ ) is an unbounded number greater than all numbers (#5)
Ms Ralph taps her pen on my desk. ‘Phone away, Bailey.’
‘Uh-huh.’ After that, I try not to look at my phone or Felix for the rest of the lesson. But all I can think about is how the inside of his mouth tastes, and how much I’m looking forward to being alone with him again.
It’s not until third period that I realise I’ve left my Japanese assignment at home. It’s due in today, so I cycle home to get it at lunchtime. After slipping it into my bag, I sit on the back porch to eat my Marmite and cheese sandwich, enjoying the eerie silence. It’s not often I get to clear my head like this, with no one else around.
My stomach is still growling after my sandwich. Man, maybe I’m having another growth spurt. When I walk into the kitchen, I find the bread bin empty, and none left in the freezer. I grab a handful of crackers from the pantry and am walking down the hallway to the loo when I spot a flash of blue on Mum’s bedside table. Moving closer, I see it’s a ten-dollar note.
‘Sweet.’ I shove the money in my pocket, so I can buy bread on the way home. After locking the back door, I jump back on my bike and pedal down to the shopping centre and through the subway.
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