Slice

by Steven Herrick

  She has hair the colour of ripe wheat. Her lips seem too big for her face. They could suck all the oxygen out of the kitchen if she inhaled deeply.

  I should answer, ‘Yes, Mrs Scott. At our age, Stacey and I need all the exploring we can get.’

  Or...

  ‘That’s an enlightened response. Would you care to have a word with my parents sometime?’

  Instead...

  ‘Did ... did ... did you paint those fingernails yourself?’

  Mrs Scott holds up both hands, slowly blows on each of the nails, causing a mini-tornado to sweep around the room. ‘They’re still wet and,’ she steps closer –

  ‘I did my toes as well.’

  To look down would be fatal. I call over her shoulder to Marcus Guyotus, who is imitating a statue on the verandah.

  Marcus, my saviour! Tonight, you have a friend.

  Marcus and I talk about the pyramids of Egypt and how the Pharaohs took their slaves to the grave with them. Thirty years being a servant for some born-to-rule dude and when he finally carks it, your reward is to sit beside his dead body in a vault.

  I’d be indulging in serious corpse mutilation while waiting for the hereafter, the word ‘Dickhead’ scrawled across my ruler’s forehead.

  When I’m sure Mrs Scott has left, I go back to the kitchen, leaving Marcus to ancient history and the cruel death of Agamemnon.

  The rugger types like Tim Harris and Braith Miller are hogging the lounge room, where they can control the music and dance with as many girls as possible. They’ll end up drinking far too much, singing really ugly beer-sculling songs and slamming into each other in a poor imitation of a mosh pit.

  It’s like a replay of the afternoon footy game.

  I prefer the kitchen, the source of food and drink.

  All first dibs to me.

  Miranda is pouring a large amount of vodka into the blender while Stacey is cutting up a watermelon. Vodka and watermelon? What is it with Stacey and pink liquid?

  She’s wearing a black leather mini-skirt coupled with white stockings. Up top, she’s wearing a black bra with silver tassels attached. They bounce as she dances, threatening to take out the eye of anyone who ventures too close. Her hair is peroxide fresh.

  Miranda has gone goth. Too much black is never enough, particularly around the eyes. She looks like a startled panda. Her boots are black and shiny and have clunky soles that make dancing a high-wire balancing act.

  Stacey and Miranda pour two glasses and drink it down quickly. Their faces go red. Stacey lets out a loud ‘whoa’ before they both bend over double, giggling and holding each other up. When they straighten, Stacey looks at Panda-girl and says, ‘Too much watermelon!’

  Remembering my history with pink liquid, I pass on the offer of a cocktail glass and walk outside where Marcus is talking to a girl.

  I’ll repeat that.

  Marcus is talking to a girl.

  They both lean over the railing as far as possible. Marcus points to the sky.

  ‘You can see his belt. Just there. Four stars left of the moon.’

  If I had such amusing interests, the opposite sex might talk to me at parties.

  The girl doesn’t go to our school. She’s wearing a tight, short dress with blood-red stockings and knee-high boots. She’s dyed the front locks of her fringe to match the stockings.

  Marcus giggles excitedly. ‘It’s mega bright this time of the year.’

  The girl grips tightly to the railing. ‘It’s called Ryan?’

  ‘Orion, the hunter. He fought Scorpio.’

  All of a sudden, the girl turns around and stumbles into my arms.

  I know Marcus can be boring, but to knock them out with facts about the planets is some achievement.

  The girl grips both my shoulders and pulls herself upright.

  I mumble, ‘Sorry,’ for no particular reason.

  She looks from me to Marcus, back to me, then closes her eyes and starts kissing me. I mean really kissing me. Open-mouth, tongue-dancing, arms-around-my-waist, bodies-touching kissing.

  What can I do?

  I kiss back.

  The chaotic aroma of vodka and perfume tickles my nostrils.

  As we kiss, her fingernails dig into my ribcage. I risk opening my eyes.

  Marcus is standing close behind her, waving his arms and saying, ‘But ... but ... what about Orion?’

  The girl doesn’t seem interested in Orion, the moon, or Scorpio. She’s attached to me like a vacuum to a rug.

  I’m not complaining, just confused.

  Is my animal magnetism that strong?

  Has she been spying on me for ages, like I’ve been watching Audrey?

  Or is she trying to escape the monumental boredom of a Guyotus astronomy lecture?

  And then she burps.

  While we’re kissing.

  Probably a lack of air. Just a timid stomach movement? A reflex?

  She reels back from me, pushes Marcus out of the way and vomits over the verandah. The sound is bone-shakingly loud.

  Everyone in the lounge room stops dancing and braces themselves, fearing an earthquake rumbling underneath.

  Stacey and Miranda are already under the table, finishing off the contents of the blender, so they’re safe from falling lampshades and broken glass.

  A technicolour hailstorm gushes over the railing.

  I move tentatively beside her and put my hand on her shoulder.

  Marcus gets up, dusts himself down and points a finger accusingly at me. ‘A girl kisses you, Walker, and then throws up.’

  He marches inside with an insanely conceited grin on his face.

  When Marcus Guyotus feels superior to me at a party, it’s time to leave.

  I offer to call the girl a taxi.

  Shakespeare would say her eyes are great pools of sadness. Truth is they’re bloodshot, smudged with eyeliner and out of focus. She vomits forcefully again.

  I take that as a no.

  It’s a long, agonising walk home. Marcus is right about one thing. Orion is very clear in the eastern sky.

  My favourite school subject

  Our school has eighty-four students in Year Eleven. Twelve are studying Advanced English, the rest are doing Standard and struggling. Tim and Braith almost got into a fight with the careers advisor at the end of last year when he told them they had to choose one English subject or the other. They couldn’t drop English altogether. Braith’s response was prophetic.

  ‘We don’t need English!’

  No-one giggled, not even the girls.

  The advisor spoke carefully. ‘Sorry, Braith. Government policy, I’m afraid.’

  Braith leant back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and sneered, ‘Well, don’t expect anything from me in class!’

  The advisor suggested Braith do his best and looked mighty relieved when the bell rang.

  Tim sulked. ‘We’re gunna go on strike all next year.’

  The advisor packed his brochures into his bag and quickly left the room.

  Braith and Tim stood at their desks as the rest of us filed out. They were shouting, ‘Strike! Strike! Strike!’

  It took them a few minutes to realise no-one was listening and it was lunchtime.

  The Year Eight boy at the head of the canteen line let them in first.

  Braith slid his money across the counter and pointed to a pie in the front rack of the oven to prove he didn’t need English.

  Or language of any kind.

  English with Ms Hopkins is simply wonderful.

  She has short, cropped hair, wears jeans and riding boots and has an endless supply of T-shirts with slogans and images. Today’s shirt has a Soviet cosmonaut sailing above a hammer and sickle, with a slogan in Russian.

  There are piles of books with funky covers on her desk, in the bookshelf, stacked haphazardly on the floor.

  Anytime we want to take one home, it’s fine by her.

  She’s a library service without the cards and date stamps and p
rying questions.

  None of the books are set texts. All look well read and lived-in.

  She encourages us to read whatever we want. You could bring a comic into class and within fifteen minutes she’d have us all discussing the homosexual subtext of Batman and Robin. Or looking at the semiotic relationship between the bat car and the bat cave and all those leather outfits.

  It sounds like a wank, I know.

  But she actually values our opinion on books. And not just what teachers expect you to say – you know, about images and metaphors-per-square-centimetre.

  This week we’re studying Heart of Darkness.

  Ms Hopkins sits on her desk, holding the book in her hands, fingernails painted black. I can’t resist. ‘Did you paint your nails in theme, Ms?’

  She studies her hands and smiles. ‘Into the heart of darkness through nail polish, the horror. Did you finish it last night, Darcy?’

  Everyone looks at me.

  They expect me to rave about how deep and bleak and tragic it all is, to use words like ominous and brooding, to quote Shakespeare.

  Ms Hopkins smiles, encouragingly.

  I sigh. ‘It’s the longest one hundred and twenty-seven pages I’ve ever read, Ms. Doctors should prescribe it for insomniac patients. They’d be snoring in minutes.’

  Miranda Fry giggles.

  ‘Sorry, Ms. I know it’s a classic, but I’d rather clean my room or mow the lawn or cut my toenails than read it again.’

  Ms Hopkins laughs. ‘It’s okay, Darcy. By the end of class, I hope you’ll change your mind.’

  For the next forty-five minutes we talk about man’s dark soul, the terrorism of 9/11, original sin, vanity and desire ... and do you know what? I still hate Heart of Darkness – and love Ms Hopkins for trying.

  But what really focuses my attention all class is Audrey Benitez. In a group of twelve students, it’s pretty obvious if one person doesn’t say a word.

  Just before the bell, not even Ms Hopkins can stand it any longer.

  ‘Audrey, what do you think of Conrad’s masterpiece?’

  Audrey brushes her hair from her eyes, looks around at all the students, smiles at me and says, ‘I agree with Darcy.’

  I almost fall off my chair.

  Ms Hopkins asks, ‘And?’

  Audrey says, ‘I think Heart of Darkness sucks shit big time, Ms.’

  I am in love.

  As Audrey would say – big time!

  The perfect lunchtime ... almost

  Normally at lunch, I sit in the senior common room and talk to whoever is there. Sometimes I play chess with Noah Hennessy (aka ‘Noah No-one’) because no-one else will.

  But not today.

  I sit against the school fence, looking down at the oval where Tim and Braith stand forty metres apart, Tim holding a football.

  Braith calls to him, ‘Kick it as high as you can. Two bucks says I can catch it.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I ain’t giving you two dollars.’

  ‘Okay. A dollar then.’

  ‘I ain’t...’

  ‘Just kick the ball, will ya!’

  Tim gives Braith the finger, then boots it as hard as he can, straight up in the air. Braith stands his ground, hands on hips. They both watch as the ball sails, end over end, and lands behind Tim.

  When it stops rolling, Tim calls, ‘You owe me two dollars’.

  ‘We didn’t bet, dipstick. And you’re supposed to kick it to me. Not backwards.’

  Tim walks back to collect the ball. Braith calls, ‘Two bucks says I can catch it.’

  I close my eyes and think of Audrey in English class.

  Never has bad language sounded so sweet.

  ‘Hi.’

  Wow! I must really have it bad. I can hear her voice, even in my head.

  ‘Hi.’

  There it is again. If only I could picture her as well.

  Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I concentrate with all I’ve got, picturing Audrey.

  A tap on my shoulder and I open my eyes.

  It’s Audrey.

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘Me. No, I was ... I was daydreaming.’

  Her body is a silhouette against the sun.

  Please, no jokes about the sun shines out of Audrey.

  She sits beside me, near enough for me to go dizzy with her scent.

  Fresh soap and apple-fragrance shampoo.

  ‘After everyone left, Ms Hopkins told me not to swear in class.’

  Audrey smiles. In her left eye, deep in the iris where it’s dark and brown, there’s one little speck of green.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Then she laughed and said it was the most succinct answer she’d heard all week.’

  ‘She’s cool.’

  Audrey pushes herself back against the fence, statue straight.

  ‘She’s one reason I took Advanced.’

  ‘What’s the other?’

  She nods towards the oval.

  ‘A desperate need to escape the attentions of Braith bloody Miller.’

  ‘No!’

  She pulls a long slither of grass from the ground and tickles herself under the chin.

  ‘Talk about sucking shit big time. I’ve even stopped going to Stacey’s parties. He kept coming up and leaning all over me. Beer and sweat and aftershave.’

  She wrinkles her nose.

  I remember Dad offering me his aftershave. ‘Brut 33?’

  Audrey grimaces. ‘Uurrrgghhh.’

  ‘I don’t wear aftershave. It rips into your skin and leaves a rash.’

  Audrey reaches across and touches my chin, just lightly, feeling for prickles.

  ‘What is it with men and facial hair? My cousin keeps checking himself in the mirror, stroking his chin. He’s twelve years old! Is it boy-to-man stuff?’

  ‘How else can we tell?’

  Audrey turns quickly to face me, staring with those brown eyes, and the one speck of green.

  ‘Really? You don’t know when you’re a man?’

  ‘Well ... it’s pretty complicated, don’t you think?

  ‘Not that you’re a man, Audrey.

  ‘It’s just, who do we measure ourselves against? Our fathers?’

  ‘Why compare yourself with anyone. Isn’t being a man about standing alone?’

  I’ve no idea what a man is. But it’s a bit hard to admit that to the girl of my dreams.

  Maybe I’d be better off with Noah in the common room, waiting for his next chess move. Noah rubs his right ear whenever he’s about to make a seriously devious move.

  ‘I don’t know, Audrey. Bugger it. I don’t want to be a man!’

  Audrey grins, slowly. ‘What do you want to be then?’

  Say, ‘Your boyfriend, Audrey.’

  Stop shaking. She’ll think you have a nervous twitch or you’re one of those top-button nerds who loiter outside libraries, doing complicated maths equations in their head to pass the time.

  Come on, say, ‘Your boyfriend, Audrey.’ It’s three simple words.

  ‘Happy.’

  Phew. That was close.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Sure. Why not? If I’m happy, then whether I’m a man or an amoeba doesn’t matter. Does it?’

  ‘What’s an amoeba?’

  ‘No idea. Something small and insignificant.’

  Audrey releases the scrunchy from her hair and shakes it loose.

  I almost faint.

  No, not because I go weak with her beauty. Although...

  Because, Tim ‘Thick-neck’ Harris miskicks the ball and it lands slap-bang on top of my head and bounces over the fence onto the footpath.

  Audrey leans close, touching my scalp to check for damage.

  It’s all internal, Audrey.

  Braith lumbers up the hill. ‘Where’s me ball?’

  Audrey stands up and points at me, ‘You could have hurt him!’

  Braith looks at me, then at Audrey.

 
‘So?’

  ‘So you should try apologising, ya boofhead.’

  I love that word boofhead. Especially when spoken by Audrey.

  Braith sneers, ‘To him?’

  Does this prove my point about being a man?

  Shouldn’t I jump up and make Braith apologise? Isn’t Audrey being more of a man than me? If I confront Braith, it’ll end in another broken nose for me.

  Humiliation.

  Blood.

  Torn shirt.

  Bruises.

  Followed by a visit to the principal’s office with a letter home to the parents.

  I got lucky last time with Tim. Braith is a much more dangerous creature. He stands looking from Audrey to me to the ball on the footpath.

  I jump over the fence and run to the ball.

  Tim has scrawled his name and address on it. So he’ll remember where he lives?

  I pick it up and walk back to the fence.

  ‘Here, Braith.’

  It’s good to feel the smooth leather in my hands. It stops them shaking too much.

  Audrey looks at me, pity and disappointment in her eyes.

  My voice is pure nerd. ‘Sorry my head got in the way of your ball, Braith. I’ll try not to let it happen again.’

  He grabs the ball and mutters, ‘Yeah, well ... watch it!’

  He holds the ball high to show Tim he’s found it, then trundles down the hill like a truck without a handbrake.

  Audrey stares at me.

  For good measure, I call to Braith, ‘Let me know if I can fetch it again.’

  I climb back over the fence and sit on the hard ground, waving to Braith even though he’s turned away, holding the ball delicately in his hands, lining up another shot at the imaginary goal in his mind.

  Audrey stands with her hands on her hips.

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘I took your advice, Audrey.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said a man should stand alone, know what he is, what he wants.’

  Audrey looks at me as if the knock has tumbled my brain around a little too much.

  I hold up one finger.

  ‘Firstly, I’m not capable of fighting Braith. He’d kill me. There, I admit it.’

  Two fingers.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of avoiding a fight by jumping over the fence to get his ball. No skin off my nose.’

  Three fingers.

  ‘It was more fun to mess with his mind by agreeing with him then doing the obvious.’