by Nick Earls
I look back at Emma. ‘You’re right, we’re not. We weren’t so much talking about it, as we were just… Let’s just say Joel was having a go at me about something I’d written. I killed off his character.’ I say this smugly. I can’t help it. ‘And cut his tongue out. Joel was pretty pissed off.’
Emma’s arms unfold and her eyes light up. ‘Really? You killed off his character?’
‘Totally. I screwed his story completely. It was lame anyway. He’s a literary deadweight.’
For a moment Emma looks impressed, but then it’s as if something shifts in her brain and her eyes narrow once more. She leans into me. Her arms resume the folded position. ‘He didn’t look pissed off at you when you were talking. You seemed friendly.’
This time I concentrate on packing up my desk and stacking my French and Modern History text books.
‘Em, I’m seventeen, not twelve,’ I say, shoving blue and red pens into my pencil case. ‘We’re hardly going to cause a scene. And, anyway, you know how sarcastic Joel can be. The whole time we were talking his voice was dripping with sarcasm.’
‘Yeah, I hate how he does that. He’s obnoxious.’
‘Exactly,’ I say with gusto, but I feel like a traitor both to Joel for dissing him to Emma and to Emma for still not telling her about the Peter-Sandra train crash. Or about Mum leaving. Or about how my feelings for Joel are starting to change – I don’t hate him quite as much as I did a few weeks ago. And I was kind of daydreaming about him in French this morning.
The truth is, when I read his email, the stun-grenade comment made me smile. And as vomit-inducing as it was to hear that our parents are planning to get together and do god-knows-what on a date tomorrow night, there’s something about us having to team up, work together, that feels kinda good. And he was really kind to me in Sizzler – apart from the crab-salad comment, maybe – as though he was genuinely upset for me about my parents splitting up.
Not that I can let Emma know any of this. Emma, who for reasons known only to herself has lost interest in the conversation and started talking about the pros and cons of shaving her toes.
The bell goes for lunch.
‘I gotta go,’ I say, pushing my chair back.
‘Okay, well, just wait for me. I’ve got to check out this book on Australian fashion and design. I’ll meet you outside in five.’ She holds up four fingers.
‘Hey!’
I look up from my battered copy of Northanger Abbey and see Joel standing right in front of me.
‘I’m hoping that’s The Art of War you’re reading,’ he says. ‘We’re going to need all the help we can get to take down our parents.’ He tries to suppress a grin, which only succeeds in highlighting the dimples in his cheeks.
I roll my eyes in a playful way and hold the cover up for him to see.
‘Austen? I should’ve known. I hate to think what you’ve got planned next for Eislander.’
I’m about to make a witty aside when I see Emma moving away from the library checkout counter. If she sees me now, again, with Joel, I’m a dead woman.
‘So did you get my email?’ he asks.
‘Ahh…’ I take a few steps back. My eyes are now glued to the library door. ‘I gotta go,’ I say, leaving Joel with a bewildered look on his face.
As soon as Emma’s left foot hits the outside world I’m grabbing her by the shoulders, bearhugging her to within an inch of her life and swivelling her round so she can’t see Joel.
‘Gosh, I’m just so happy you’re, you know, back!’
She struggles her way free from my sumo-like embrace and says, ‘It’s only been five minutes.’
‘Really? It seemed like longer. Let’s go get some pizza.’
I try to drag her by the arm in the direction of the tuckshop, which just happens to be in the opposite direction to Joel, although now he appears to be deep in conversation with Lucy Dawson. Lucy Dawson?
‘I think you just crushed one of my ribs,’ Emma says, rubbing her ribcage.
‘Right.’ I sneak another glimpse of Joel and Lucy. I watch as Lucy takes a closer look at Joel’s First XI cricket badge. It’s probably just an excuse to get closer to him. What the hell is he talking to her for?
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Emma says, starting to turn.
‘Nothing,’ I tell her, pulling on her arm. What is she made of – lead? I can’t budge her. ‘I feel like pizza and it’s for a good cause.’
‘You hate the SRC.’
‘Well, I’ve changed. Come on.’ I give a final tug, which succeeds in virtually dislocating my shoulder, but doesn’t move Emma.
‘Oh god,’ says Emma, pointing just where I don’t want her to. ‘There’s Joel talking to Lucy Dawson. You know, I’ve always suspected he had a thing for her.’
‘What do you mean? He doesn’t have a thing for Lucy.’
Lucy with her long, lean, tanned arms and legs, and her short Sienna Miller-style cropped blonde hair. Over the summer holidays she was in a commercial for Helga’s Bread. Apparently she’s been signed up by Vivien’s Model Management and is moving to Sydney next year. Bitch.
‘Look at him. He’s such a flirt.’
I feel my stomach clench. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not Joel’s type.’
‘Yeah, right. Because a blonde, blue-eyed glamazon with huge breasts and a tiny waist isn’t Joel’s type,’ Emma scoffs. ‘Please. He’s a guy for god’s sake. Believe me, when you go out with someone for five months, you know when they’re keen on someone else. And when Joel’s keen on someone, he always does that thing.’
‘What thing?’ I’m looking – as closely as I can while pretending not to look – and I don’t see a thing.
‘That cheeky sideways-glance type of thing he does.’
‘What cheeky sideways glance?’ I’m wracking my brain, trying to work out if Joel’s ever looked at me that way.
‘I can’t explain it. I just know.’
So I’m standing there staring at Joel and Lucy, who look to be having quite an animated conversation. Maybe Emma’s right.
‘Em, I think you’re wrong. Surely Joel wouldn’t date someone as brain-dead as Lucy.’
She rolls her eyes and says, ‘Who cares anyway. Now come on, are we getting that pizza or not?’
It’s the smell I notice first. A smell reminiscent of coconut, out-of-date cooking oil, Tia Maria and furniture polish. But it’s not until I round the corner of the kitchen that I figure out the cause of the House of Davis pong.
My father is standing at the sink wearing a too-tight long-sleeved red T-shirt, a pair of too-high jeans and sporting the type of orange glow that belongs only on Chernobyl victims. Plus his hair looks like an oil spill.
‘Hey, you,’ he says, washing what looks to be some carrots under the sink. Are they carrots or are they parsnips reflecting the sheen of my father’s tangerine skin? Hard to tell.
‘You’ve fake tanned yourself again,’ I say – it’s a statement, not a question.
‘Too much?’ he says, innocently. ‘I just didn’t want to be one of those pasty office workers and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to back up last week’s application with another hit.’
‘Dad, you look –’
‘Sun kissed?’
‘Radioactive. And what the hell happened to your hands?’
He holds his orange palms out to me and sheepishly says, ‘Fell asleep last night with my hands on my chest.’
His mobile beeps and I watch as he grabs it and reads the incoming text message, laughing.
‘Dad?’
As I watch his orange fingers attempt to punch a response back into the phone pad, the phrase ‘ham-fisted oaf’ springs to mind.
‘Sandy’s promised to teach me how to use predictive text.’
‘Dad, about Sandy,’ I pick up an apple and toss it around in my hands, as though fondling fruit will somehow make me look more credible. ‘I really, you know, I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seeing her.’
&nb
sp; ‘And why’s that?’ he says, now back to peeling carrots. Suddenly I register the fact that my father is in the kitchen cooking us a meal. This never happens. First breakfast and that god-awful muesli, and now this. Dinnertime carrots. What in god’s name is going on here?
‘Well, for starters, because you’ll probably patch things up with Mum. And how would she feel if she knew you’d moved on this quickly, huh?’
‘Cat…’ He puts the peeler down and gives me one of those sympathetic looks not unlike the one he gave me when Mum told him I’d gotten my first period. ‘Cat, Cat, Cat – no one could replace your mother. Sandy and I are just friends. She’s helping me through a tough time and reminding me about what’s important in life.’
‘You turned a visit to Sizzler into a freakish version of Dancing with the Stars.’
‘It was just dinner, Cat. Just dinner.’
‘Well –’
‘Well?’
Think of something. This date cannot, must not, go ahead.
‘Well, Joel and I are dating!’
He turns and looks at me, eyebrows raised, while washing broccoli under the kitchen tap. ‘You and Joel are dating?’ He sounds suspicious, but also pleased. ‘You two acted like you couldn’t stand each other at Sizzler.’
‘Well, that was just a ruse. Because we’re teenagers and that’s what teens do. So, yes, yes, Joel and I are dating, and it’s just too weird and icky that you’re hanging out with my boyfriend’s mother. It’s, it’s, it’s like…’ THINK OF SOMETHING! ‘Incest.’
My father puts the broccoli down and wipes his hands on the Garfield apron he’s wearing.
‘Cat, you’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m not. What if Joel and I got married. Hey? Then what? You’re my father and also my father-in-law because you’re with Joel’s mum? I mean, hello? And, you know, yuck. You’ve got to think big picture here, Dad. And also about… legal ramifications and –’
‘I’m not with Joel’s mum, Cat. Believe me, Sandy and I don’t see each other that way.’
The doorbell goes.
Mark screams out, ‘I’LL GET IT!’ and I hear his feet pound down the hallway.
It’s Emma, and she walks into the kitchen waving a DVD at me. ‘I told you I’d return it. How hot does Brad Pitt look in this?’ She looks at my father, the human jaffa. ‘Hey, Dr Davis. You’re looking…’
‘Orange,’ I say, matter-of-factly. I turn and look at her, ‘Trust me, you don’t wanna know.’
‘Emma, I’m glad you’re here,’ my father says, waving a kitchen knife at her. ‘Please tell my dear daughter that if I went on a date with the mother of a boy she was dating, it wouldn’t be incest.’
Emma looks confused. I grab her arm and attempt to pull her in the direction of my bedroom. ‘Ignore him. That orange stain has got to his brain. Let’s go to my room. I wanna show you this great website – Brodie emailed me the link yesterday.’
Emma, as usual, refuses to budge. She looks back at my father and then at me with her eyes wide and excited. ‘Hang on a second. Who are you seeing? I can’t believe you’re dating someone and you haven’t told me.’
My father makes a tching sound with his tongue. ‘Emma, she’s been holding out on both of us,’ he says smugly, now washing a lettuce under the sink taps. ‘Come on, Cat, we all want to hear about Joel.’
‘WHAT?’ Emma struggles free from my grip and looks at me, confused. And, understandably, a little pissed off. ‘What do you mean? Are you dating, Joel?’
‘No, no, not your Joel. Not Joel Hedges. Joel…’ Oh my god, think of another Joel. THINK OF ANOTHER JOEL. ‘Joel Edgerton.’
God, I’m an idiot.
‘You’re dating Joel Edgerton who used to be in Secret Life?’ Emma says sarcastically, arms folded. ‘Who was in Ned Kelly and that English movie about shoes? Who seems to be a bit busy making movies in America? Joel Edgerton, the gay cowboy?’ She shakes her head in anger. ‘I knew you liked him – my sleazebag ex-boyfriend…’
‘No, see, it’s not like that.’ I look over at my father and roll my eyes, and then yank Emma into the lounge room. ‘That was Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain, and he’s taken.’ Okay, not even a flicker of a smile from Emma. ‘I don’t… Dad’s gone mental. He’s faketanned himself to death and inhaled too many fumes. I’m not dating Joel and –’
‘IT’S JOEL HEDGES,’ calls out my dad, who clearly has no idea how bad he’s making things for me. ‘Definitely not the gay cowboy. He’d have to be at least bi if he’s also going out with Cat.’
Helpful. Very helpful.
I sigh rather loudly, gesture towards the couch and say, ‘Take a seat.’
It takes me a good thirty minutes to explain things to Emma. About Mum leaving and Dad picking up Sandy at the support-group meeting. I leave out the Sizzler fiasco – no need to go there. But I do explain that Joel and I are trying to do something – anything – to stop the whole process.
‘So, see, I just sort of made up the Joel boyfriend thing. Out of desperation. I’m trying to think of anything that will put my father off. And, you know, as if I’d go out with Joel Hedges.’
She looks at me, offended.
‘Well, no, I mean, when you went out with him he was great. But then we found out that he’s a cheater. So, no way would I date him. I mean, it was actually a blessing that I saw him at Indro with that redhead because we found out what he’s really like. You know?’
She nods. ‘Sometimes I think back to that and I still can’t believe he did it. I thought everything was going so well up until then. If you hadn’t seen him cheating with your own eyes, Cat, I would never have guessed that he was doing it.’ She nods her head and stares at the carpet. Then she looks up at me and puts a hand on my arm. ‘So, you want to talk about it?’
I snort. ‘About Joel? Hardly.’
Emma rolls her eyes at me and then squeezes my hand. ‘No, about your mum.’
And that’s when I start to cry.
I feel so much better now that Emma knows about Mum. She was so great this afternoon. She sat with me for ages and just passed me tissues while I cried and talked and ranted and raved and cried some more. Then she left and came back with a litre tub of Love Potion Icecream, and Gone with the Wind on DVD, which we watched despite the fact that she hates old movies, and even though I’m really annoying and recite most of the lines.
I feel so much better. And Emma was certain that Mum and Dad would get back together. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ she said, through a mouthful of ice-cream. ‘I bet your Mum and Dad miss each other like crazy.’ And then she said that Joel’s mother was a loony and that my father was destined to realise that before long. What all of this means, of course, is that I won’t get a chance to email Joel until after midnight.
When I finally get around to re-reading Joel’s email, I smile again at his compliment. And I wonder if he remembers the time we went to the movies with Emma and he teased her about liking that David Spade movie.
Joel’s forwarded me an email. It’s not very long. Just a para or two from his dad about the current happenings in the lives of two people called Laurel and Charlotte, then a bit about tandem stories – with links – and a comment on the Canberra weather. Apparently Charlotte just got an A in some science paper about shrubs. His PS says ‘some photos of your sisters attached’. I sit for a second and try to think what Joel said his dad did for a living. Can’t remember. I look at the email address, which is just a hotmail one. No clues there.
Joel has left the two photos attached. I click on Charlottecamp. jpg and see a pic of three primary-school-aged girls in brightly patterned swimmers grinning from inside a yellow canoe. Clearly one of these is Joel’s sister Charlotte, but which one? I study the three faces but none of them look particularly like Joel. The second pic is called Laurelandfriend.jpg. I click on it and find myself staring at a familiar face. The girl on the left is short and chubby with brown plaits. But it’s the second girl who catches my attentio
n. A girl with red hair, whose smile reaches all the way up to her eyes. For a moment I wonder if she’s a model and I’m recognising her from a shampoo commercial on TV. Or perhaps she used to catch my bus or something. And then it hits me. This is the girl I saw Joel with at Indooroopilly a year or so ago. The girl I thought he was cheating on Emma with. Only he wasn’t cheating. He was with his sister.
I sit there and realise what all this means. I broke Emma and Joel up over nothing. What I thought I saw was not what I saw. Joel didn’t cheat. Never cheated. Up until that moment he and Emma had been very happy – until I labelled him untrustworthy. And we never even gave him a chance to explain, since Emma never told Joel why she was ditching him.
I reach for my mobile to ring Emma and tell her. But as I’m scrolling through my address book, I realise that she might be really angry at me for stuffing up her relationship. She’d have every right to be. Even worse is the possibility that telling Emma the truth might mean a reunion with Joel. And what will Joel think of me when he hears the truth about what I did? Surely he’ll appreciate that it’s an innocent misunderstanding?
Who am I kidding? He’ll hate me.
I look back at his email. It’s friendly. He liked what I did with the story. I press Reply. Fifteen months of disliking each other, and finally things are different. I shut the email.
I open a new email. Type his name. Shut it again.
But I still have to write my paragraph of our tandem story. I’m sick of this story now. Sick of these idiotic characters. Why did I turn this into a film? I don’t even know where to take it.
Joel,
Did my best but I couldn’t dissuade Dad. It’s up to you to put a stop to tomorrow night’s date.
Cat
Thank goodness Steven Spielberg is on hand to talk me through the narrative themes, thinks Spade. Forgiveness being the main one, of course – how, sometimes, people make mistakes, and how important it is to be forgiving when people think they’ve done the right thing and are trying to protect, say, one of their friends and in the end only wind up hurting themselves and those around them. No one wants to see their best friend cheated on. ‘Did you get that, David?’ says Spielberg, slapping the script with the back of his hand. Spade nods and wipes a tear from his eye and says, ‘Okay, Steven. Forgiveness. Yeah. I’m there, buddy.’
