by Nick Earls
‘It’s all about communication, Cat.’ My mother nods at me wisely, as though she’s turned into Dr Phil. Then she’s up out of her chair, moving behind Mark and me and suddenly hugging us both to her chest and smothering the tops of our heads in kisses. ‘And, if I haven’t said it enough already, I missed you two so much.’
Mark clapped again, while I rolled my eyes and attempted to struggle free of my mother’s breasts. Then I walked off into my bedroom smiling.
On the way to school, it’s hard to say if Emma is more interested in my mother’s return or in the Joel-appendicitis-finger-up-the-arse story. It felt only right to tell her, since she already knew that Joel and I were working on trying to keep our parents apart. And from Luke’s comment in class yesterday, everyone else seems to know anyway.
‘I’m still in shock about it,’ Emma says, adjusting the bag strap on her shoulder. ‘I mean, it’s like some kind of dirty version of The Parent Trap. Technically, your dad went to fourth base with Joel.’
I stop and stare at her.
‘I don’t know what the hell you think the bases are on dates, but let me assure you that a quick poke up the bum isn’t one of them.’
I shouldn’t be too hard on Emma. After all, when I confessed to her during morning tea yesterday about the ‘Laurel situation’ she took it quite well. Said that she would’ve done the same if the positions were reversed. Would have told me immediately if she thought a guy was cheating. And then she admitted that actually she’d always found Luke rather cute.
I laughed so hard that I nearly choked on my sandwich. Then I realised that she wasn’t laughing. She was entirely serious.
‘He came over a few weeks ago to fix our pump,’ she said.
I put my lunch down and looked at her.
‘On the pool. The pump on the pool. He’s actually really funny. And he totally likes Paris Hilton, like me. He’s even got her videos. Isn’t that great?’
And that’s where we left it, since Joel happened to be walking past and I immediately leapt up and tried to get his attention. But he rebuffed me. For the third time that day. He turned his back on me and started walking in the opposite direction. I just wanted to tell him about Mum coming back. Let him know that he didn’t have to keep working at trying to split up our parents. But he doesn’t want anything to do with me. And, to top it off, he’s written some stupid new character called Kat Perfect into our tandem story. She’s obviously meant to be me.
Is that how he sees me? I wonder, as I make my way through the school gates and Emma starts talking about Luke’s prowess with a pool scoop. Does Joel see me as some ditzy, bitchy airheaded schoolgirl? And what the hell is the bit about being a bubblegum pop star? What does that even mean? Plus he doesn’t seem at all worried that Max Eislander used to be the name of a character in the film and now he’s real.
I write my paragraph at lunch. I don’t write anything in the email. I just attach the latest section since it’s my last and it seems pointless to even try talking to him. God knows how we’re going to manage tomorrow night, getting up in front of a crowd and reading our story together.
Kat Perfect sat in the make-up chair and closed her eyes as her foundation and lippy were quickly ‘touched up’ before she was required for her scene. Charmaine, the make-up artist, talked nonstop as she always did about her kids, her arthritic dog, her lazy husband, the cost of petrol, her ongoing frustration at Revlon for discontinuing ‘Midnight Rose’ and how laughable it was for the company to even suggest that the new ‘Sugar Berry’ was similar. But Kat just sat there, said ‘Mmm’ at the appropriate times and contemplated her own loneliness. From the outside her life looked perfect – she was the new ‘It girl’ who had gone from high-school senior to chart-topping singer and now award-winning actress. She was inundated with thousands of fan letters every day. Girls envied her. Boys adored her. She had already made enough money to retire. And yet she was more miserable now than she’d ever been before. With the death of her grandmother last month, Kat had lost the last person who truly understood her. The only person who knew the deep-seated pain she had felt since she was a child. ‘There you go, love.’ Kat opened her eyes, thanked Charmaine and lingered by the doorway of the make-up trailer. She took a deep breath, and then forced a big smile onto her face and walked towards the set, signing autographs for fans along the way.
– Wednesday
Pathos, dammit. That’s not what I was after with Kat Perfect. I can’t do a damn thing with pathos. But, whatever I do, I have to do it now, this Extension English lesson.
I can hear Ashtoe’s voice in the room next door, talking to the other half of the class. They’re going to start rehearsing for tonight while we write our final paragraphs. I can hear voices as people read. I can’t hear Cat’s, but I know she’s in there.
Luke sits next to me, and that’s too close right now. He’s laughing and, from the sound of the frenzied keystrokes, he’s writing pages, not a paragraph. One by one, the others finish and print and go back to the classroom.
‘I so want to read,’ Luke says, leaning way back in his chair and checking the end of his story one last time. ‘I so want to read this tonight.’
I’ve got nothing. Nothing. ‘You don’t have to want to read, dickhead. Ashtoe’s making us read. Just go away, will you? I have Cat Davis issues.’
He laughs. I kick at his chair leg and his arms flail as he overbalances. ‘And don’t you just?’ he says, once he’s grabbed the desk and rocked safely forward again. ‘Aaron Bligh… he’s no excitement machine as a tandem-story partner, but he’s no Cat Davis. He came to the party, eventually, and his dad never once slipped me the love glove. Tragic lack of sexual tension in our partnership, though.’ He’s rocking in his seat again.
‘I’m not falling for that. I’m not biting today.’ I’m staring at the screen, at Cat’s paragraph. ‘Say what you like about Cat and me.’
‘Oh, I will, my friend. I will.’ He gives a smug laugh, clunks the front legs of his chair back onto the ground and gets up and goes to the printer.
He lifts his pages and taps them on the table so that they line up neatly, and he smirks as he leaves. There’s just me in here now. I’m the last to finish.
‘So, your mum says it’s a complicated situation with the story chick,’ Enzo says, shelling another pistachio. ‘The whole like/ not-like thing.’
‘Yeah, well, I think we’ve settled on “not like”.’ What’s my mother doing, bringing that up, speculating? ‘After tonight, I can pretty much guarantee “not like”.’
He takes a mouthful of beer. ‘Yeah, they can be infuriating, can’t they, sometimes? Still, we probably can be too, some of us. Ay caramba.’
He gives an uneven grin and the wind flicks his hair around as he looks down the river at the school rowing eights. Inside, my mother takes her usual excessive amount of time to get ready, working on making her hair spike in just the right way.
‘We’ve got to look out for each other tonight, mate,’ he says. ‘It’s a funny old table we’ll be sitting at – you, me, the story chick, the story chick’s dad. I don’t think I’ve run into him before.’
‘I have. And, trust me, you don’t want to go there.’
‘So, do we get a preview? Do we get to take a look at the story?’
He seems interested, genuinely interested. Through the glass doors I can see my mother striding into the kitchen, then back to her room.
‘My mother doesn’t. Okay?’
I take the story out of my bag and hand it over. I crack a pistachio. He glances inside, but my mother’s not in sight. He reads.
‘Jeez, what’s she on about early on?’ he says, when he’s maybe halfway down page two. ‘Every time you load a gun she makes a bloody cup of tea. What about some action, baby?’
‘My thoughts precisely.’
He reads until he gets to the end, and then he laughs, a big wide laugh. ‘All sorted then,’ he says, with the pages of the story curled over in his large ha
nds. ‘Kick-arse finish. Of course, it’s the more subtle aspects that a lot of the audience might miss, but that’s the price you pay when you go for something dramatic.’
My mother knocks on the glass door, points at her watch insistently.
‘It’s been you and me holding things up, right?’ Enzo says quietly, just to me, his lips hardly moving. ‘We’ve obviously taken up far too much time sitting here completely ready, waiting for her.’
She scowls, knowing something’s been said. Then she sees the story in his hands, and points, openmouthed, at the injustice of it.
‘I’ve been wanting to see that for weeks,’ she says, loud enough for us to hear her through the glass. ‘Ever since you started it.’
Enzo and I both shake our heads. He shrugs and pushes the story back into my bag.
She pulls the door open and he says, ‘Talk to the man. It’s not my story.’
‘Well, we’re late anyway,’ she says, and she turns and walks to the front door.
I can see Enzo watching her as she strides away, her colourful scarf loose around her neck and her bag swinging in her hand.
‘Hey,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘I heard you spoke up for me on Monday night. You’re a champion, mate.’
At the dinner I fight with Cat Davis, first chance I get.
‘I want you to know I did everything I could to get us out of reading tonight,’ she says to me when I’m barely in the door. ‘Our story’s just too stupid. And I haven’t even seen the ending, but I bet it’s stupid too.’
‘Oh no, we’re reading.’ Said back to her dismissively, close to rudely. ‘We’re definitely reading. I didn’t go through all this crap not to read. I have the story in my bag, I have the ending, I’m saving it up for the big moment and I think you’re going to like it. Trust me, it delivers.’
‘You…’ All kinds of shitty nouns are obviously fighting for attention in her head. She stops herself, takes a breath. ‘Hello, Mrs Hedges,’ she says to my mother, who isn’t Mrs Hedges, and never used the name when she had the chance to.
‘Sandra,’ my mother says, keeping the Hind part of her name to herself. ‘Sandra would be fine, Cat. And this is my friend Enzo, and our neighbour, Betty.’
‘Cool,’ Enzo says, reaching out to shake Cat’s hand. ‘Good to meet you. I’m looking forward to hearing the story.’
‘Thank you,’ Cat says, with an edge of suspicion, sizing up my posse – my mother with her scarf at a rakish angle, Betty whose take on the evening is mauve and whose make-up looks as if it’s been touched up by a drag queen, Enzo the mystery escort who’s come out of nowhere.
And with every Enzo you get a free box of glamour mangoes, I want to tell her, and then I remember I don’t like her enough for that.
She says we’re all sitting over on the other side of the room and she leads the way, between the rows of refectory tables, with their thin, white special-occasion tablecloths and their mustard-coloured plastic chairs. Each table has a carafe of water, a carafe of weak-looking orange cordial and a bud vase with a small flower that turns out to be fake. ‘We’ll create a salon,’ Ashtoe said in Extension English, in one of his more ambitious moments. Once you let the refec staff at an idea like that, they’re even more determined to roll out exactly what they always do just to put you in your place.
Ashtoe’s over in the corner fiddling with the lights, setting them low, fighting for atmosphere. I bet he fought for the tables not to be in rigid rows. This might be the school theatre, but they only know how to set the refec furniture up refec-style.
Cat’s parents stand as we approach the table, and Ashtoe might have cranked the lights right down, but it’s clear enough to us all that they’re orange. Both of them.
Enzo, with Sleazy Pete’s colour accident never explained to him, slows down and his mouth starts to open. He corrects it into a wry smile, then leans over and says, ‘Is it just me, or are they made for each other?’
My mother takes the initiative. She strides ahead of Cat, reaches out her hand and says, ‘You must be Cat’s parents,’ as if the Sizzler dinner never was.
She introduces her ‘friend Enzo’ and Pete says, ‘Great, great,’ as they size each other up and Enzo tries not to laugh.
‘Jesus, mate, that’s what I drove her to?’ he says to me as soon as the orange people have moved on.
‘We’ll handle it like adults,’ my mother told me in the car when I was getting anxious about how the meeting would go. ‘Trust me. I’ve been around the block a few times.’
So, we fake and pretend and lay on a first meeting that erases a strange week of history. That’s how adults do this, from the look of it. Cat’s parents paw each other like two desperate singles who have hooked up at support group – I know that look, I’ve seen it before. We pretend this is normal. We pretend it’s not orange. We forget that there was a time, just a few days ago, when Sleazy Pete’s wardrobe seemed to be all Hawaiian shirts.
Luke arrives with his father, and I notice they both wipe their hands on their pants after shaking Sleazy Pete’s. Then they each give me a sly grin. Thanks very much, Lukey.
I assume our last empty chair is for Luke’s mother, but she’s working a nursing shift at the Wesley. It turns out it’s for Emma.
She waves to Cat from the door, and walks over our way.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ my mother says, in the middle of saying hello to Luke’s father.
‘I need to talk to you privately about our story,’ I tell Cat, in the coldest, hardest tone I can manage.
‘Sure,’ she says, and there’s a shake in her voice.
I pull my notes out of my bag, and walk her to the back of the room, to the empty sound-desk.
‘The story…?’ she says, still with the shake.
‘Forget the story. What is she doing here?’ I’m angry, but trying to control it. ‘She doesn’t do Extension English. She doesn’t do Extension anything.’
‘I know, I know,’ Cat says. She puts her hand up to calm me. ‘I know.’ She sighs. ‘You’re always so angry with me now. I’m just trying to do a bit of matchmaking.’
‘What? Are you insane?’ My voice is getting louder. That plan about coming down the back and keeping it between us? Not working so well now. My turn to take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing. You wrecked it with Emma and me, totally wrecked it, and you can’t pretend you didn’t by trying to fix it now. It’s long gone, okay?’ Her mouth opens, but right now I’d say anything just to talk over her. ‘You are the most annoying person in my life, okay? I’m normally really calm, but…’ She frowns. Her mouth’s shut tight. Ashtoe’s low room-lighting catches in her blonde hair. ‘And then…’ I can’t believe we’re fighting like this, and I’m making it happen. ‘And then you shit me by introducing some kind of pathos to Kat Perfect. Well, let me tell you, she’s going to get it anyway.’
She glares at me. ‘What is Kat Perfect for? She’s your stupid idea. I didn’t really understand her, apart from the mean aspect that she’s something to do with me. Like, what’s that bubblegum pop-star reference?’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t get that. It’s kind of disparaging.’ What are we doing, talking about Kat Perfect? ‘She’s like the new Britney Spears in Crossroads, the new Mariah Carey in Glitter.’
‘Oh, kind of like Mandy Moore –’
‘Hey, don’t diss Mandy Moore.’ It’s out of me before I can put the brakes on. ‘She’s –’
‘Go on, have a crush on Mandy Moore. See if I care.’
‘She’s good. That’s all.’
The room is filling. People are taking their seats. We’re about to start. Cat folds her arms, sizes me up.
‘Listen, you big baby,’ she says. ‘I made a mistake. People do that. And I’m sorry. I really am. If that’s not enough for you, well, fine. But Emma’s not right for you anyway. She knows that. You’re funny in ways she doesn’t get. You’re…’ She stops, looks over towards our table and then back at me
. ‘The matchmaking is Emma and Luke, dickhead.’ She gives another big sigh, and looks down, at my chest. ‘God, before you started hating me…’
‘I don’t hate you. I just… I just said you were the most annoying person in my life. That’s not hate.’
She smiles, but it’s a sad kind of smile. ‘Thanks for the distinction. I feel so much better now.’
The rest of our table is seated. They’ve made sure the two empty chairs are on opposite sides. Luke is looking this way.
I turn back towards Cat. We’re face to face back here in the half-darkness. She’s still got the sad smile on.
‘I don’t hate you,’ is all I can say to her, but differently now. ‘Not even slightly.’
‘And I don’t hate you,’ she says, softly, privately. ‘Not even slightly. Though you are also the most annoying person in my life.’
There’s a crackle over the sound system, and Ashtoe announces that dinner is served.
‘Right,’ Cat says. She unfolds her arms, watches the first plates of refec food being marched into the room. ‘I guess we’d better go.’
We walk back to the table, and take our seats. To my left, Betty is deep in conversation with Cat’s mother. At the far end, my mother is sitting next to Mr Pickett and laughing at something he’s said. Luke and Emma are next to each other, and I look at them for a second. I’m still not sure how I feel about it.
Enzo nudges me and says, ‘This parmigiana is rubbish. I’ll make you the real thing. My nonna’s recipe kicks arse.’
Directly opposite me, Cat gives half a smile and then looks away, like a person harbouring a secret. Maybe a good secret for once.
And here’s my half of it: I think I want Cat Davis. In my bag is a steaming, beastly piece of writing that could hardly be meaner about her, and I think I want Cat Davis. Who is looking everywhere but forwards, and trying not to blush.
I need to talk to her. I need to talk to her now, and properly. And I need us to get out of reading our story.
