by Harry Cook
“– should come over more. I’d . . . I’d like to get to know him.”
That was definitely not what she had planned, but I nod slowly. I guess she’s trying to show that she is willing to give Eric a chance.
“Sure,” I say. “It’s a deal.” I grab another slice of bread and head to my room, Thelma plodding along behind after me.
I hang my backpack on the back of my door, get undressed down to my underwear and a tee, then head to my prized possession: my vinyl record player. I got it for Christmas two years ago from Mum, who found it at a flea market in town and, surprisingly, it works perfectly. I’ve slowly been building up my vinyl collection ever since Mum first introduced me to Cyndi Lauper when I was four. So far, I have Dire Straits – Love Over Gold, Fleetwood Mac – Greatest Hits, Led Zeppelin – Led Zeppelin II, Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On, David Bowie – Ziggy Stardust, Bob Marley – Legend, The Strokes – Is This It, and Cher – Believe. Mum calls me an “old soul” because of my music taste.
I put on some Fleetwood Mac, sprawl out on my bed and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets on the ceiling that I’ve left there from when I was little. Thelma comes and cuddles up next to me and I rub her belly.
“You Make Loving Fun” finishes and “As Long As You Follow” scratches to life as I start sifting through my wardrobe for something to wear tonight. Before long I’m singing along with Stevie and Christine; the fairy lights I’ve strung up around my window make me feel like I’m on a stage at Glastonbury music festival in front of a sea of adoring fans.
I eventually settle on black skinny jeans, an oversize flannelette shirt, my white Converse and a bunch of urban jewellery I picked up at the Gimme Zen festival last year with Mum.
I’m definitely feeling my look and I get that funny feeling in my stomach. I’ve worked out it’s a mix between anticipation, giddiness and straight up horniness. Well, horniness or not, Eric and I haven’t gone past second base and I’m in no rush to either – much to Eric’s annoyance.
I spray coconut spray in my hair and rub my neck and wrists with some cologne from a sample packet I pulled out of a magazine, then give myself a once over in the mirror.
Nice. Hot, in fact.
11
Rye
I’m flyin’ high with Marvin’s lush vocals as Thelma waddles around the room with me in an easy kind of dance.
“You’re the best, bub,” I tell her, bending down to scratch her chin.
She looks up at me expectantly, as if in agreement.
My phone buzzes. It’s Eric.
“Hey,” I say, putting him on speaker.
There’s a pause and I think I hear a stifled laugh, but I can’t be sure. Then, “Hey, how are you?”
I catch a slur in his words. “I’m good. I – Are you on your way? Or . . .?”
“Oh, that. I, um. Well, I was wondering if we could rain check?”
I sit on my bed and take him off speaker. “Uh. Yeah, no that’s . . . Yeah. Of course. Is everything okay?” All of a sudden, that giddy feeling in my stomach switches itself off and I feel stupid for even thinking tonight would be anything. It’s only a dumb two-month anniversary anyway. It’s not like we’re married or mean anything special to each other. I’m surprised he wants to date me at all to be honest.
This time, I definitely hear a giggle in the background.
“Is . . . Are you with someone?” I ask.
“It’s Kell,” he says, although the giggle didn’t sound like his sister at all. Not remotely Kelly-ish, unless he is referring to Kelly Slater, pro-surfer and mega babe, who I highly doubt has the time to be hanging out with Eric right now.
“Um. Okay. Guess I’ll talk to you later then,” I say, trying not to sound as defeated as I feel.
“Yep. For sure. Cool,” Eric says, then cuts the call.
I throw my phone down next to my bed which makes Thelma jump and fart simultaneously.
“Didn’t mean to freak you out, hun,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the head.
Nearly as bad as being stood up is the fact that I now need to somehow avoid telling Mum that Eric has ditched me. I’m really not in the mood for an “I told you so” conversation right now, but I’m all out of excuses for him.
This is my own fault. This is what I get for coming on too strong and expecting Eric to feel the same. I’m too full on. I know I am. All or nothing Rye, as usual. Wanting the big romantic happy-ever-after when all Eric’s interested in some sexy time. I realise I push people away because I’m a hot mess of neediness like that. I guess I just want to make sure that Eric is definitely the guy I want to lose my virginity to. I really don’t want to be forgotten about the moment I finally build up the courage to go all the way.
I get changed into some sweatpants and a singlet, stretch out on my bed and scroll through Instagram. Of course, I eventually land on Eric’s profile. There he is. Gym selfie, flexing gym selfie, a photo of an egg-white drink that makes me want to throw up a bit in my mouth, another gym selfie, a “Hustle For That Muscle” quote. I cringe. Eric is good-looking, sure, but a little bit in love with himself. Okay, massively. Our second date was to his gym so he could show me “how it’s done”. Sweet, but a little misguided.
I close Instagram and open up a new message to him. I start typing and then deleting over and over because I have no clue what I’m even trying to say.
“Rye!” Mum calls from down the hall. “What time are you leaving?”
Ugh.
“I’m . . .” I put my face in my hands and take a really deep breath. “I’m not going anymore. He . . . It’s . . . We’re going to go another time because the restaurant was overbooked or something and, you know, it’s . . .”
Mum pokes her head around the door with a look that says, It’s all good.
“You okay, hun?” she asks me quietly.
I feel a lump form in my throat. Mum sits at the end of my bed and Thelma waddles over to greet her with a sniff.
“You wanna talk about it?” Mum asks.
“Not really.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
We sit in silence for a minute, while Mum rubs Thelma’s tummy. That dog is needier than me, and that’s saying something.
“I just finished making brownies. You wanna lick the bowl then play Guess Who?” Mum says, her eyes lighting up.
“If it’s those weird avocado brownies you made last time, then not really.”
“Nope. Store bought, in a box. Full of artificial colours, flavours and unnaturally, teeth-destroyingly sweet.” She winks.
I grin.
We head to the kitchen and I go to town on the bowl of sugary goodness while Mum makes us cups of hot chocolate. I can hear the wind pick up outside. I grab a blanket from the cupboard next to the fireplace and wrap Thelma up in it, which makes her look like a Russian babushka doll. Mum hands me my hot chocolate and then sets up Guess Who. And nope. Not Heads Up on our phones. Guess Who. The original. Well, the new version considering the original original was literally just white characters and nobody wants to see that.
“You can start,” I say.
“Are you male?” Mum asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you white?”
“Nope.”
“Do you wear glasses?”
“Yes.”
I take a sip of my hot chocolate. It’s amazing. Mum always puts in two layers of mini marshmallows, one at the bottom before the pour and then another layer on top. They all eventually glob together into one giant radioactive marshmallow and it’s like sex in a cup. (Not that I’d know, but yeah. Second base in a cup I guess?)
“Do you have long hair?”
“Yes.”
Mum flicks down a few more of her characters.
“Are you Ava?”
I smile. “You’re good, Mum. That was a record time I think.”
Mum tips her character board upside down and they all flip back to standing upright. “They don’t ca
ll me ‘Karen, Queen of Guess Who’, for nothing,” she says.
“Who calls you that?”
“You do.”
“Umm. No, I would never say that,” I say, breaking into a grin.
“Ah ha! A smile. There he is.” Mum taps my nose with her finger. Her smile fades a little. “You okay, honey?” she sings like a lyric from RENT.
I hesitate. “Actually no,” I admit. I’ve decided I’m not going to pretend I’m cool with how things are tonight. “Eric decided to tell me fifteen minutes before I thought we were going out that he can’t make it and I wasted a sample pack of Bleu de Chanel from a beauty magazine for nothing.”
Mum stares at me while I talk, and really listens. Like every word I say is extremely important and she doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“Well, I for one think you smell fabulous. And I also think you are brave for talking to me about it. We both know I’m not his biggest fan.”
“It’s just . . . Lochport is hard enough to grow up in as it is, but I figured when I finally met someone it wouldn’t feel like so much effort.”
Mum smiles at me with this sad smile that I can’t figure out.
“Hun, ‘effort’ should not be in your relationship vocabulary when you’re sixteen. Twenty-six, maybe. But not sixteen. Especially two months in.”
She has a point. Maybe it’s not that I’m needy. Maybe I just hanker after that great big love story you see in old movies. And why shouldn’t I?
“Look, I think it’s a good idea if you just forget about it for the rest of the night. Start afresh tomorrow. Maybe even go over to his place and just nut it out with him.”
I sit stunned and feel the moisture leave my eyes as I stare with my mouth open.
“I mean . . .” Mum scrambles for words like someone catching confetti in the wind. “Oh my GOD, Rye. I meant, like, talk it through. Isn’t that what people say? I . . . Oh my GOD. I really . . . It was a turn of phrase. Sort of . . . Ugh.”
I can’t help it. I burst into fits of laughter and, before we know it, we are both rolling around on the floor, clutching our stomachs and cry-laughing. Thelma crawls her way out of the blanket and stands near us, wondering what all the fuss is about.
“Want another round of this?” Mum says, wiping a tear from her eye. “Or Battleships?”
“Nah, it’s all good. I’ll make myself a snack and then head to bed.”
Mum stretches her arms above her head as she stands up.
“Do we have any peaNUT butter, Mum?” I ask, looking in the pantry cupboard. I turn and see her drop her head and start giggling to herself again.
“Second shelf,” she says. “Night, Rye-bread.”
“Night, Mum.”
I make myself some PB&J on toast and then head to my room. Thelma follows and gets herself comfy on her plush cushion at the foot of my bed and I scroll through Twitter like a zombie for a while until I see a Sea Shepherd post about whales and their fins and my mind weirdly responds and wakes up like I’ve been hit on the head. Fin. I wonder how he’s liking Lochport so far. I wonder if he’s ever had a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s ever “done the deed”. I wonder if he even says weird stuff like that.
I open a message box, type in his name and write:
Hey :)
12
Fin
“Fin, don’t make me ask again.” Dad looks at me with tired eyes and I feel like he just wants to cry and throw the breadbasket across the table at me.
“For the tenth time, I’m not lying to you,” I say, exhausted from the interrogation and desperate to be anywhere but here.
“Charles, come on. Enough,” Mum says, pushing chunks of sweet potato around her plate. “Fin’s not six any more. He has his own life.”
I feel bad for making her have to deal with this. She puts in really long hours from home doing the marketing for a start-up tech company and she hasn’t stopped for months. The last thing she needs is more drama.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it.
“No, it’s not enough. I want our son to be honest for a change.” The implication hurts. It’s not like I’ve lied about anything – including my sexuality – to my parents, until now.
“I told you, I was late getting home because I stayed back to ask my teacher about some homework.” I’m lying through my teeth to avoid revealing my attendance at the QSA meeting, which ended up dragging on later than I expected. Everyone was really welcoming, but I would’ve felt super awkward leaving early. Even so, anything would be better than this.
Dad sits and stares at me, barely blinking. Mum doesn’t say a word. The air weighs down on us, thick and heavy.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, standing to take my plate to the sink.
Dad bashes the table with his fist and everyone flinches. “SIT!” he bellows.
I lower my eyes and do as I’m asked. I don’t understand what he wants, but I’m not willing to challenge any of this.
I sit there in silence until Dad’s finally finished his food. He looks up at me and waves his hands at the plates. “Clear up,” he barks, then stands, grabs his keys and storms out. Mum offers to help, but I tell her not to worry and, seething, do it myself. I hate how miserable his drama makes us both feel, but seriously, I just wish she’d sometimes stand up to him.
Once I’ve tidied everything away and wiped the table clean, I head up to my room and lie on my bed. A blustery wind is battering the tree opposite the window seat.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and unlock it. Next thing, I feel my heart go into overdrive, like one of those surround sound speaker systems they use at concerts.
Rye: Hey :)
One simple word and an even simpler emoji. I smile as I open the text box and begin typing. I’m guessing he’s just got home from his anniversary date.
Me: Hi :)
Rye: How’s your night?
Me: Meh . . . Yours? How was your date?
Rye: Meh is accurate.
I smile. I’m not happy that his date sucked but . . . Okay, maybe I am slightly happy about it. I start typing again when another message comes through.
Rye: How are you liking Lochport?
Me: About a 4 out of 10.
Rye: Oooh, only 4?
Me: Maybe 4.5 during classes without Paisley or Bronwyn.
Rye: Fair call.
I’m desperate for him to keep talking, so my next message is a bit lame.
Me: Have you always lived here?
Rye: Yep. Born and raised.
Me: Nice.
I’m racking my brain for something else to ask when his next message appears.
Rye: Have you got a boyfriend back home?
Me: Nope. Solo. Single. All alone.
Rye: ;)
A wink emoji!? My stomach does a backflip.
Me: One day.
Rye: Yeah. :)
I’m about to give up with my increasingly pitiful attempts at conversation when the typing bubble appears in the message window.
Rye: Hey, can I call you? Easier than texting.
I feel giddy as I run my hand through my hair and then check my breath like an idiot who has forgotten how a phone works.
Me: For sure.
Thirty seconds later my phone is buzzing. I let it ring a few times so as not to seem like a desperate fool and then answer.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Sorry, I’m weird and old school. Easier to talk on the phone that’s all.”
“No, totally cool. I like old school.”
“Nice.”
I feel like he’s smiling on the other end of the line.
“So, um. Where’d you go for your date?” I ask.
“We uh . . . It – Well, it didn’t end up happening.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but it’s . . . I mean, it’s all good.”
“Totally.”
“Yeah.”
His voice sounds a bit reserved, like he wants to say something but isn’t sur
e how.
“So, what’s there to do around –” I start, when he cuts in.
“My mum isn’t a fan of Eric.”
I pause, unsure what to say back. “Oh. That’s. Um. That’s a shame,” I try.
“Yeah. It’s . . . I think she’s worried he doesn’t care about me much, ya know? Overprotective parent stuff.”
“Mmm,” I say. I have absolutely no idea what it would be like to confide in my parents about a guy I’m seeing.
“I guess it didn’t help that he blew me off tonight, but still . . . I dunno. What are your folks like?”
I tense up. “They’re . . . I guess we’re not that close.”
“Fair enough. That doesn’t sound all bad. My mum practically threw me a pride parade when I came out.” He laughs. “But I love her for it.”
I smile. I wonder what it would be like to not be terrified of being open about who you are. “That’s pretty amazing,” I say.
“Yeah. She’s currently catching up on RuPaul’s Drag Race and screaming ‘Shangela was robbed’ every thirty seconds.”
I laugh. “She sounds epic,” I say, smiling some more.
A crack of thunder outside makes the lights flicker and I hear Rye’s dog bark a few times.
“Thelma, come here, it’s okay.”
I can hear Thelma panting through the phone and the sound of Rye kissing her head.
“Cute,” I say out loud without realising, then slap my hand to my mouth like it’s not connected to me.
Rye doesn’t say anything.
“Not . . . I didn’t mean you’re cute. I meant, the dog. Not that you’re not cute. I didn’t mean that either. I meant . . . like, it was a cute thing to – I’m . . . Fuck. I’m going to just shut up now because it’s –”
“Fin, it’s cool,” Rye says, and I can tell he’s grinning.
I take a deep breath. “Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.”
I hear footsteps on the landing below my room. The ladder doesn’t creak so I know I’m good for now, but I feel my ears click into supersonic mode and everything sounds amplified.
“I need to apologise,” Rye says sheepishly.
“What for?”
“For Eric the other day.”
