Joel & Cat Set the Story Straight

by Nick Earls

  ‘I bags having the kibachi chicken.’

  I turn around and stare at Mark. ‘It’s hibachi chicken, you mental patient. And you don’t need to bags it. There’s more than one serve. Trust me.’

  I lean back in the front seat and close my eyes. I wonder where Mum is right now. She left yesterday to go on some two-day Buddhist retreat on the Sunshine Coast with her friend Susan. Some place where you’re not allowed to talk. Where they feed you apples and rice crackers in between saving your soul. When she told me about it on the phone yesterday I tried to convince her not to go. It’s crazy. I mean, if you’re not allowed to talk how do you ask for more crackers at dinner?

  ‘Cat, which is your favourite Wiggle?’

  I groan. ‘The Wiggles are like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. You can’t have a favourite.’

  My father gives me a stern sideways glance and says, ‘My favourite is the Red Wiggle, Mark.’

  ‘Or “Pestilence Wiggle” as he is also known,’ I chime in.

  ‘Cat!’

  ‘No, seriously. Just this week in Religious Education, Pastor Simons was reading the Bible and it said, “And I looked and beheld a pale horse and his name that sat on him was the Red Wiggle and Hell followed with him and –”’

  Dad says, ‘You finished?’

  And I say, ‘Pretty much.’

  My mobile phone beeps. The message reads:

  ‘Potato skins call

  Cheese toast sings its siren song

  Liposuction needed’

  This is the third Sizzler haiku Emma’s sent me in twenty-four hours and they’re becoming more and more food oriented. I text her back and tell her (a) enough with the haiku already, and (b) she has one too many syllables in the final line. Then I go back to thinking about Mum.

  ‘Now, guys, I, ah… I’ve got a bit of a confession to make. It’s not just going to be us there at Sizzler tonight. We’re meeting one of my friends from the singles’ group. We’re meeting her there with her son.’

  I stare at my father, who is keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

  ‘WHAT? I’m sorry, but does nobody know how this is supposed to work? It’s a SINGLES’ SUPPORT GROUP. Emphasis on the adjective “support”,’ I say, doing inverted commas with my fingers. ‘Oh my god, so now we’re going to Sizzler with some desperado you picked up on Monday night. You’re taking Mark and me on a date with you.’

  ‘Now, nobody said anything about anyone being desperate –’

  ‘Can I still have kibachi chicken?’

  I turn round, hoping that my five-year-old brother is being sarcastic, but he’s switched on his Game Boy and couldn’t care less about the date thing. He’s too young to understand, that’s why. But I’m sure his therapist will spend hours and hours talking all this through with him in about ten years time.

  ‘Sure we can, buddy. And, Cat, you’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not like that. Sandy is just a friend. Just a friend. Really. She was worried about me.’ He flicks the indicator on to make a left turn into the car park. ‘She was worried that I wasn’t coping with everything,’ he says as he reverse parks, ‘and she reminded me that you guys are my priority – that we’re a family and that I’ve got to focus on the future.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with us meeting her over some fake crab salad, exactly? How is that helping you to focus on the future? And what about Mum? I thought you wanted to get back together with her? She’s been gone less than a week and suddenly you’re putting out the vibe.’

  ‘Cat, I promise you, we’re just friends. Friends. Okay? There’s no vibe.’

  I shake my head and stare out the window and mutter, ‘Well, we’re in and out. I’m not going to sit around all night with some strange woman and her son. I’ve got work to do. I’ve got that tandem story to work on and I’ve got a Modern History assignment to start.’ I unclip my seatbelt, exit the car and briefly contemplate doing a runner. Mum’s apartment in Lissner Street is about a two-minute walk from here. If only she were home and not holidaying with Buddha.

  ‘In and out, guys. I promise. We’ll break land-speed records getting to and from the salad bar,’ says Dad, striding ahead of us towards Sizzler Toowong.

  I drag my feet, walking as fast as a turtle with chronic fatigue syndrome. I watch as Dad holds open the glass door for two female uni students and allows them to go ahead of us in line.

  One of the girls, the one with tussled red hair and a rudely short skirt, smiles, and says, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just don’t eat all the potato skins,’ my dad replies.

  I make a face at him. I think I’m going to be violently ill.

  ‘Come on, Cat. It’s not going to be that bad, I promise,’ he says, ushering me through the door. ‘In fact, I think Sandy’s son might go to your school.’

  And that’s when I spot a woman waving at us from further up in the queue. A woman with short spiky hair who is sporting a startling number of scarves. I hear her saying, ‘Peter, join us up here,’ and when my eyes move to the person next to her to establish who ‘us’ actually is, I’m staring at Joel Hedges, and he is staring back at me with a look of horror and shock on his face.

  Even once we’re introduced and Sandy is saying, ‘This is Joel, my son,’ I’m still having trouble. Having trouble getting my head around the fact that my father went to a single parents’ support group and, out of all the desperate, needy, single women in this town, somehow managed to hook up with Joel Hedges’ mother. Having trouble with the idea that my father is on a date, at Sizzler, with Joel Hedges’ mother. I am about to be forced to eat Sizzler bread with Joel Hedges. And his mother.

  I can’t believe I’m not wearing make-up.

  People are talking around me. It’s possible that I’m being asked questions. I hear something about my swimming training. Something about how I’ve taken this season off because of an old shoulder injury and to concentrate on school. And all I’m thinking is that I need to get out of here. There must be some way I can put a stop to this car-crash of a gathering. I look over at Joel who looks as stressed as I feel. Our eyes meet for a second, but we both immediately look away. I look at his mother instead. God, she probably found out my dad was a doctor and thought, ‘Meal ticket’. Well, if she thinks that my father is going to wind up paying for her Ken Done scarf collection and Joel’s uni fees, she’s got another thing coming. My father is married. He is not available.

  ‘Cat?’

  I feel someone shake my shoulder and I realise we’re at the front of the queue.

  ‘Table for five?’ says Sizzler Shaun. And I hear my father and Sandy and Mark talking about menu items and salad-bar sides and red lemonade drinks and hibachi chicken.

  Then my father turns to me. ‘Cat?’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’ I say this staring at the ground.

  ‘Come on.’ My father nudges me in a playful way, and I want to king-hit him. ‘That’s not like you.’ I watch as he turns to Joel and Sandy. ‘She usually eats me out of house and home.’

  ‘DAD!’

  He turns back and gives me a wink as my face goes red and I glare at him. Then I remember the pimple on my forehead. I reach up and feel for it. It feels like it’s tripled in size. I’m going to have to keep my head down, keep my fringe down to keep it covered.

  We’re moving. The Hedges-Davis Party of Five is moving to a booth round the corner from the salad bar, near the doors to the kitchen.

  Mark scoots into the corner position, followed by Dad in the middle. So I’m at the end of the seat, facing Joel Hedges. Facing Joel Hedges at SIZZLER with a zit on my face the size and colour of a double-decker London bus. If this zit came with a number and a destination, people would be queuing to get on board.

  I keep my head down. I can’t afford for Joel to notice this zit. He’s likely to write it into the next paragraph of our story. So I stare down at the laminate tabletop and rest my zitty forehead against my right hand – cup it over the offending section of forehead,
in fact. I have never felt more gross in my life.

  Sizzler Kylie, our blonde, doe-eyed, zit-free waitress with boobs so big they’re liable to give one of us a black eye, is at the table now, asking us if we’ve been to Sizzler before, if we know how it ‘works’. It’s a buffet, Kylie, not physics, I want to say. It’s not hard to guess how it works. I glance up and realise that no one’s really listening to her apart from Joel. Mark’s playing with his Game Boy. Sandy and my dad are talking about Wendy’s vomitous Bircher muesli recipe. I keep my eyes lowered and my zit covered.

  ‘I’ll be right back with your cheese toast,’ chirps Sizzler Kylie.

  ‘That’d be great, thanks, Kylie,’ chirps Joel.

  ‘That’d be great, thanks, Kylie,’ I mimic, but maybe making Joel sound a tad effeminate and with a lisp. ‘I know, why don’t you just keep ordering cheese toast from her until she gives you her phone number?’

  Joel glares at me, but I don’t care. When Sizzler Kylie walks past delivering water to another table, I say, ‘Look, Joel! It’s your girlfriend.’

  Joel kicks me under the table.

  My father says something about how his favourite thing about Sizzler is the cheese toast, and how it has a fried-cheesy crispness on one side and is buttery on the other.

  Joel chokes on the water he’s drinking.

  ‘So, do you guys have any classes together?’

  Scarf Woman is speaking to me. I try to smile. She looks like one of those crazy drama teachers who watch a lot of SBS, refer to history as ‘her-story’ and always wear purple on International Women’s Day.

  ‘Just Extension English,’ I say, more to my glass of water than to her.

  ‘Ah,’ says Dad. ‘Well, Joel, I hope you have a better partner than Cat. Her partner’s been a real nightmare, hasn’t he, Cat? A real drop-kick, hey?’ My father looks at me, with a nod and a smile.

  ‘Well, I didn’t say drop-kick, exactly.’ I smile weakly at the wooden tabletop.

  ‘Actually, Mr Davis, my partner is a bit of a nightmare. Very selfish. And you might say talentless, verging on remedial. Lazy, as well. So I’m sort of carrying the story for the two of us. But, you know, if my partner needs to ride on my coat tails to get through – nay, pass – Extension English, what can I do?’

  ‘Right, well.’ Sandra adjusts scarf number thirty-seven and looks suspiciously from Joel to me and then back to Joel. Then she says something about the Presentation Night, but I’m only half listening because I’m wondering if feigning a migraine will get me out of this meal.

  ‘Presentation Night? What Presentation Night?’

  My dad, typically, starts complaining that he knows nothing about any Presentation Night.

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ I try and tell him, but it’s too late – Sandra and my father are now organising to sit together. And then go for coffee afterwards. This isn’t sounding like a plan between friends. This is sounding like a date. And there is no way that a school event is an appropriate place for them to go on their second date. As if people at school – our friends, the teachers – won’t notice that my dad and Joel’s mum are getting it on. They don’t even know my mother has left. This cannot happen.

  I look up at Joel who is going on about catering issues. He seems to be as horrified as me at the suggestion that our parents be seen publicly together.

  He kicks me under the table for the second time that evening as he says, ‘I think I’ll go get some salad.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, edging out of the booth.

  ‘There’s that appetite again,’ says my dad.

  I close my eyes and contemplate stabbing myself with a fork.

  ‘You have to do something,’ I plead to Joel, shovelling crab salad onto my plate, not wanting our parents to guess that we’re plotting against them.

  ‘Me? Hang on, I thought your mum was in hospital? Your dad’s two-timing a sick woman.’

  ‘What?’ For a split second I have no clue what he’s talking about. Then I remember the conversation outside Myer. The coma conversation.

  ‘No, he’s… She’s not in hospital. I just said that. I… She’s gone. My parents are just having a few problems right now. And my mum’s moved out, but she’s just confused. They’re going to get back together. They just need time. Believe me, they’re going to get back together. So this –’ I wave the tongs in the direction of our parents. ‘This can’t happen. Right?’

  ‘You really like seafood extender, huh?’

  I look at Joel and then back down at my plate. All the while I’ve been talking, I’ve been piling it high with fake crab.

  I put the plate down and cover my face with my hands. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Suck it up, Cat.

  Suddenly, I feel Joel’s hand on my shoulder and he’s talking to me in soothing tones. I know I should be listening, but all I can think about is the fact that Joel Hedges’ hand is on my shoulder, and I have to force myself to focus on what he’s saying.

  ‘We’ll get this sorted out. I don’t think this is as bad as it seems, Cat. I don’t think this is how my mother is thinking.’

  Suddenly I don’t feel like crying – I don’t know what I feel.

  I look up at Joel, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s taken his hand away and he’s looking across the salad bar at my dad and his mum who are filling their plates and laughing at something. I follow his gaze and watch in horror as Dad puts a fake Sizzler flower between his teeth and pretends to kiss Sandy’s hand.

  We don’t say anything. We just stand there.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Joel tries to catch my eye.

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ I say, as I try to will his hand back on to my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘We’ll sort this out. We’re a team. It’s us against them.’ And the weird moment of intimacy between us is over.

  We walk back to the booth and there’s Mark, mouth full, a mountain of potato skins and cheese-toast crusts in front of him.

  ‘How long does kibachi chicken take?’ he asks.

  I slide into the booth beside him and Joel slides into the seat opposite.

  ‘Well, it takes a while because it’s very special. You see –’ I look past Joel towards the salad bar behind him. ‘OH MY GOD.’

  Joel turns. I hear him gasp and mutter, ‘Holy shit.’

  My father has his arm around Sandy’s waist and he’s pulling her to him. They look like they’re hugging, except that they’re swaying from side to side, and… and he’s got something green – is it asparagus? – between his teeth. Oh my god, he’s dipping her. My father just dipped Joel’s mother in the middle of Sizzler Toowong.

  I thump the table and hear myself say, ‘But he doesn’t even like asparagus.’ And all I can think is that this is not how things were meant to go. My father is not meant to be dancing, finding love in the arms of Joel Hedges’ mother. He’s supposed to be at home, drunk, singing along to ‘Private Dancer’, sending numerous text messages to my mother begging her to come home. He’s not meant to be flirting with some woman at Sizzler who looks like Mary Kostakidis from SBS.

  I tell Joel that if I could wish for one thing right now, it would be for Eislander’s stun grenade.

  Then the Sizzler kitchen doors swing open and three staff poke their heads out, all of them gawking in delight and horror at our parents. And how do I know they’re gawking at our parents? Because Sandy’s voice comes echoing over some speaker system in the kitchen, saying, ‘Oh, Dr Davis, you naughty, naughty boy…’

  Somehow our parents are miked. Somehow their dirty-dancing dirty talk is being broadcast through the Sizzler kitchen for the staff’s amusement. Now they’re doing some kind of flirtatious move involving Sandy feeding my father carrot sticks. And the Sizzler kitchen staff piss themselves laughing as my father puts a radish behind Sandy’s ear. I think I’m going to throw up. I feel the blood drain out of my face and my mind goes blank. Joel turns around, and his eyes are flashing anger. He says somethi
ng about getting more salad and killing one of our parents while he’s there. Then he’s up, out of the seat and striding across to the salad bar.

  This is definitely not how things were supposed to go.

  ‘Has something happened?’ There’s a tug on my arm. Mark’s forehead is furrowed and he’s looking from me to the salad bar. ‘Why is Joel angry? Why was that lady feeding Dad carrot?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say, ruffling his hair. Grateful that Sizzler Kylie is suddenly here to present his hibachi chicken.

  ‘YUM!’ he yells.

  I keep my eyes on Joel who is steering his mother away from the hovering salad-bar attendant. He looks like he’s having a go at her. Totally ripping strips off her. I can tell by his facial expression, plus he’s doing a lot of pointing. Pointing at one of the salad-bar attendants. Pointing at the kitchen. Pointing again at the salad-bar attendant who is now readjusting her headset microphone and trying to look busy refilling the potato skins. I watch as Joel’s mum goes to scoop some salad onto her plate, but Joel intercepts and takes the plate away. Meanwhile, my father is chatting to a waitress. He seems to be making small talk about bacon bits.

  Suddenly they’re all heading back to the table. I grab Mark’s plate and start cutting up his chicken.

  Sandy slides into the booth while Joel says firmly, ‘You want anything else to eat tonight – then you ask me. I’ll get it for you. Capiche?’

  Sandy laughs nervously, but I keep my eyes down and focus on cutting chicken.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ sings my father, and I look up to see him striding back to the table, a plate piled high with pasta in one hand, a spear of asparagus held like a cigar in the other.

  I glance at Sandy, who is shaking her head at him, and, as he slides into the booth, I lean across and hiss, ‘We’re going home.’