by Melissa Keil
‘Dude, you’ve gone almost five minutes without mentioning the girl. I think this might be some kind of record.’
I laugh. ‘I’m not that bad.’
He snorts. ‘Ah ha. And Adrian is not a candidate for the remake of Willow.’
‘Hey!’ Adrian yelps. ‘I like that movie.’
Sam grins. ‘Well?’
‘Well, so, I guess – progress? I think. Maybe?’
Sam turns around. He’s trying to hide his astonishment, but doing a piss poor job of it. ‘Seriously?’
I fail miserably at masking a smile. ‘Yeah, it wasn’t exactly part of my plan –’
‘The plan, the plan,’ he mutters. ‘Dude, have you thought about just, I dunno – being direct? Or even vaguely normal?’ ‘Sam, Sophia isn’t that kind of girl! She is not normal. I can’t just tell her that I’m … that she …’ The words tumble out in a rush. ‘That she’s the only person I’ve ever wanted, the only person I’ve thought about since I was thirteen –’
Sam grimaces. ‘Jesus. You’re right, you can’t tell her that. You might actually want to keep that completely to yourself. Cos Josh, objectively, it makes you sound a bit … irrational.’
I shrug. ‘It’s how I feel. And Sophia deserves something better, something bigger than some rando guy asking her out for coffee or whatever.’
Adrian nods. ‘One does not simply walk in to Mordor,’ he says gravely.
‘Exactly! That is – well, sort of – exactly it.’
Sam shakes his head. ‘If you’re taking tips on girls from Adrian via Lord of the Rings, you’re in more trouble than I can help with.’
Camilla pushes her way through the crowd, catching the tail end of our conversation. She drops a paper bag on the ground. Adrian pounces on it eagerly.
‘Seriously, Josh, do not tell me you’re accepting romantic advice from this guy?’ she says, pointing at Sam with her thumb.
Sam squints up at her. ‘What’s wrong with accepting romantic advice from me?’
Adrian spits out a mouthful of cupcake as Camilla dissolves into laughter. ‘Sammy? You giving romance advice is like … Freddy Krueger sharing insomnia tips.’ She drops into his lap. ‘Maybe Joshua would like progress sometime this century?’
Sam kisses her forehead. ‘Yeah, okay. Point taken,’ he says with a grin.
Camilla huddles into him as the wind whips around us. ‘I, on the other hand, am possibly competent. News, please?’
I fill the guys in on my morning, trying for my most unbiased, facts-only manner. I leave out the bit where the unexpected sight of her almost sent me tumbling right back into prepubescent voicelessness. I also leave out the bit about my lucky coin. I’m not even sure why. Though I realise, after I’ve accidentally relayed my entire conversation with Sophia word-for-word, that I am smiling again like a massive tool-face.
Camilla chews the inside of her cheek. ‘Josh, I’m glad you’ve made contact. That’s progress, you’re right. But – and I’ve said this to you before, and I know it’s none of my business – but don’t you think that your idolising, as cute as it is, might be, well, a little bit unfair?’
I glance at the stage, where Jasper is either hastily rewiring an amp or attempting to garrotte his drummer. ‘I don’t idolise her, Camilla. I know her. And I think, if she just got to know me –’
‘Look,’ she says gently. ‘I’m sure Sophia’s great, but have you ever thought that maybe it’s, like, the idea of her that you’re infatuated with? She’s a real person, Josh. Not a … theory.’
I bristle. ‘That’s not true. I know her. I mean, okay, so, I don’t know her know her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s special. I see her, Camilla.’
Sam’s chin is resting on Camilla’s beanie-covered head, his eyes studiously focused on the stage, the giant coward. Camilla untangles herself from him and drops onto the ground. ‘You do?’ she asks sharply. ‘You know her favourite milkshake, and, I dunno, the first cartoon character she had a crush on?’
‘Those things don’t matter. They’re just details. You can’t tell me you know all that stuff.’
‘Lime spider, and Raphael, the red ninja turtle,’ Sam says lightly. ‘A fact that I still find disturbing, by the way.’
She leans backwards. ‘Right. Cos your Princess Leia thing is not at all nerdy?’
Sam shrugs, grinning. ‘She wasn’t animated. Or reptilian.’ Camilla rolls her eyes at me. ‘Look, Josh, my point is – Sophia is a person. She’ll either like you, or she won’t. You can either ask her, or you can continue to sit in your room, pining and listening to Air Supply.’
I dig up a damp handful of grass. ‘Who’s Air Supply?’
Sam groans. ‘Dude, don’t ask. I’m pretty sure knowledge of hair-metal bands has pushed some actually useful stuff out of my head.’
Camilla punches his thigh. ‘Samuel, don’t even pretend you haven’t got a file of power ballads on your computer.’ She giggles. ‘Lucky I find your off-tune Whitesnake weirdly sexy.’
I doubt there is any part of that sentence that could be considered sexy. But then Sam pulls her backwards and kisses her, and I’m pretty sure they’ve forgotten about the existence of other humans.
Adrian nudges me, his chin covered in cupcake icing. ‘Think you’ve got about as much useful advice from Samilla as you’re gonna get. Unless the advice you’re after is related to the mechanics of being joined at the face. Cos I think Camuel might be, like, working towards a PhD in that.’
‘Shut up, Radley,’ Sam murmurs.
Adrian snorts. ‘Next time I’m bringing the spray bottle we use on the cat.’
I can’t help but laugh. It’s not like I’m the sort of guy who cries over Disney movies or anything. I mean, not anymore. But I like being around people who are happy. It gives me hope. Meeting these guys, seeing how Sam and Camilla are together – hell, it’s given me enough hope to get off my cowardly arse and do something.
The Annabel Lees finish their sound check and Jasper grunts something into the mic. It could be a hello, or could be a curse on the crowd and their firstborns. It’s hard to say.
The drums thunder through the ground. I lean backwards and let my gaze float to the sky, thinking about Camilla’s questions. I know she’s wrong. It’s not like I’ve spent the last five years obsessing over Sophia. It’s just that, in the background, I’ve always known she was there; this steady, fascinating presence in my peripheral vision. But it’s more than the idea of Sophia.
It’s – well, I can’t describe it in words. That’s the whole point. It’s intangible, indefinable. Like the best sort of magic.
My phone buzzes with yet another message. Crap on a stick. I yank it out of my pocket, but I don’t even need to look at the screen.
‘Problem?’ Adrian calls over the music.
‘Nah, man. Just my dad. I think he’s a bit excited. I should probably go.’
Adrian gives me another fist-bump as I stand and dust off my butt. Sam manages to extract his lips from Camilla’s long enough to shoot me a distracted ‘good luck’ before supergluing their faces together again.
I wave at Amy, who’s at the back of the crowd, staring at the stage with one of her eighteen variations of scowl. I head to the tram, pushing aside the jumbled thoughts jostling for room inside my skull. I ignore Dad’s texts, and the image of his expectant face, waiting with questions I have bugger-all answers for.
I focus on the task at hand.
I have a plan. For now, anyway. The rest – it’ll take care of itself. I have faith in my good karmic juju.
The future will be fine.
I’m fairly confident of this.
CHAPTER FIVE
The laws of thermodynamics
School. Another Monday. The same people dragging themselves to the same classes, the same background noise about weekend parties and hook-ups and break-ups. Like being stuck in a perpetual time loop, an infinite bootstrap paradox, all events fixed and predictable.
Mon
day morning’s double period is Drama with Ms Heller, in the building on the edge of the East Lawn. Which is why I’m somewhat perturbed to find myself walking through the blue year-twelve corridor, scanning the mental map of locker inhabitants that seems to have been inadvertently stored in my brain.
He has a top locker, but he still needs to bend down to rifle inside. It’s the locker that used to belong to Stephen Shilling, and it’s still covered with the remnants of his brief but memorable blaze of glory through St Augustine’s – multiple Sharpie sketches of penises with smiley faces, and the lingering smell of weed.
I hover, clutching my Drama books to my chest.
‘So I found something. Saturday,’ I blurt.
He startles, smacking his head on the locker as he straightens and spins around. Someone has drawn an elaborate sign with the words ‘depressed vampire support group’ above his door. An arrow points into his locker; just in case the depressed vampires find themselves lost, I suppose.
Joshua’s eyes widen. He straightens to his full height, school tie in one hand.
‘Good morning,’ he says eventually, his nimble fingers looping the tie carefully around his neck. ‘How was your weekend, Sophia?’
‘Huh? Fine. It was whatever,’ I say impatiently. I fish through my blazer pockets. I’ve been obsessing about this since Saturday, but now, staring at Joshua’s face, I’m starting to feel somewhat foolish.
He smooths down his tie and tucks his hair behind one ear, then reaches back into his locker, emerging with a dogeared novel and a Further Maths textbook, the spine smooth and uncracked. I can see that he’s attempted to cover some of the more pornographic graffiti inside his locker with printouts of old posters. A sepia-tinted Harry Houdini ad is stuck to one side. I frown at it.
‘So what did you find?’ he says.
I thrust out the two-headed Lincoln. ‘Do you know anything about this?’
He places his books at his feet and takes the coin. He runs a thumbnail over the surface, then flicks it into the air and catches it between long fingers.
‘Well, I know these aren’t actually minted this way. They’re made by hollowing out a coin and then shaving down a second one so it fits inside. But, see, you can’t even tell where they’re stuck together. It takes awesome metalwork skills to do that.’
‘Well that’s pointless.’ I grimace. ‘I mean – why would anyone do that?’
He shrugs. ‘Cheating at coin tosses? Annoying the Maths teacher when they’re demonstrating Bayes’ theorem?’ He glances at me. ‘Some people consider them lucky,’ he adds lightly. ‘A talisman or something.’
‘Like a rabbit’s foot or some other piece of nothing that’s supposed to have mysterious power? You know that’s nonsense, right?’
He shrugs. ‘But it’s not the thing itself, is it? I mean, I’ve worn the same pair of socks into every exam for the past two years, and they’ve served me pretty well. Well, okay, the socks aren’t doing all that well. But it hasn’t hurt, right? Isn’t it just about belief? Like, I dunno, psychological reinforcement when you need it, or a corporeal something to focus on?’
Some guy jostles past with a snort as the word corporeal floats between us. I’m busy fending off a too-thick feeling in my brain, like the time Elsie’s brother Ryan accidentally shot an eight ball off their pool table and gave me a mild concussion.
I cast another glance at Joshua. He is resting his hip against the edge of the locker bank; his posture indicates that he is relaxed. The top third of a palm-sized notebook peeks from his blazer pocket, the Moleskine cover scattered with scribbles in a tiny and strangely ornate script that seems far too flamboyant for this nondescript boy. I run an exploratory eye over him, all milk-pale skin and shoulder-length hair. I can’t put my finger on why, but something about his long-limbed frame in the Augustine’s uniform just seems, somehow … discordant. On closer inspection, he isn’t even all that pale; his skin has adopted a slightly uneven pinkish hue, which deepens the longer I stare at him, like he’s just been for a run.
‘Numismatists,’ he says quickly. ‘Numismatists would be totally into this coin. People who collect –’
‘Coins. Currency. Yes, I know that.’ I blink at him. ‘So, then … you’re into coins?’
He tilts his head, like he’s thinking extra hard. ‘Define “into”,’ he says with a faint grin. ‘Cos it sounds like you’re asking if I have some sort of coin fetish. Like I sleep with a fresh pile of twenty-cent pieces under my pillow or something.’
Balls. Why the hell am I having this conversation? And, more to the point, why am I not walking away?
‘You just seem to know a lot about coins,’ I say weakly.
He walks the bronze coin between his knuckles, right down to his pinkie and back again. ‘I know a bit. For instance, did you know that archaeologists have found ancient Greek statues with coins hidden in their hands? I mean, think about it – there were Greek dudes who were awesome enough to be immortalised, and in mid classic-palm no less –’
‘Mid classic what?’
‘– and yet,’ he continues, switching the coin from his right hand to his left, ‘guys like Aristotle and Archimedes get to be glorified and remembered, while the illusionists are mostly forgotten.’
He flicks his hand over, the coin now sitting snugly in his palm.
I meet his eyes again– well, as best I can, considering my eyeline is somewhere around the middle of his tie. Trying to decipher his too-fast words is only intensifying that woolly sensation in my brain; less mild concussion and more like what I imagine my Uncle Roshan experienced after he was kicked in the head by a horse.
I stare instead at the coin, inert in his waiting hand. ‘So it’s yours?’
His eyes flicker between mine. The first-period bell chimes. The tempo of footfalls around us swells.
‘No,’ he says, holding the coin out to me. ‘It’s yours.’
I think there was a time, once, when I was capable of acting without weighing up a thousand alternate scenarios of disaster and doom. I’d wave my hand in the flame of a Bunsen burner, and sneak a taste of phenylthiourea in Chem lab, just to know what it felt like on my tongue. When I think back, I can barely recognise the me who was so reckless.
I reach out and take the coin from his hand.
‘There’s a penis under your Houdini,’ I blurt.
He wrinkles his nose as he looks at his locker, where an oversized willy is peeking out from under the edge of the poster. ‘Yeah. Whoever’s locker this was had some pretty unhealthy fixations.’
We stare, silently, at a sketch of a willy with a top hat and a moustache, until the warning bell dings, and Joshua clears his throat. ‘Don’t you need to get to class?’
‘Yes. Class. I have Drama,’ I say. I also wave my monologue book, just in case he has forgotten the English language in the last thirty seconds.
He gathers his things. ‘That’s not going well?’ He seems to be examining me extra closely, like I’m a particularly puzzling bacillus under a microscope.
‘It’s not really in my wheelhouse,’ I manage to say. He’s still giving me that considering look, apparently in no rush to fill in the gaps. ‘It’s not great,’ I continue, my mouth moving of its own accord. ‘Knowing no matter how hard you try you’re going to end up being … disappointing.’ I look up at him, but his face is trained on his locker door now. ‘I hate Mondays,’ I mumble.
He slips his books into his satchel. His fingers are tapping out a loose rhythm, and his eyes are focused somewhere far away. I don’t think he looks weirded out by me. More like … contemplative?
I shuffle backwards, the coin still tight in my palm. ‘I should go.’
‘Hey, um, Sophia?’ Joshua fiddles with his satchel straps. ‘Do you like milkshakes?’
My brain pokes at the question. It flips it over, and examines it again. My brain is capable of calculating falling factorials and multiplying huge numbers without a calculator, which, as Elsie points out, is really only u
seful as a party trick for a very sad party. Yet it can’t seem to parse this sentence.
‘No. I’m lactose intolerant.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Okay then.’ I don’t know why, but I have the strangest suspicion that he is disappointed.
Behind him, Mr Finkler, our year-twelve coordinator, is waddling down the corridor, shooing stragglers to class. My feet seem to be cemented to the floor.
‘I like banana smoothies,’ I say, my voice projecting as if from a great distance. ‘With soy milk. And honey. Sometimes nuts.’
The shadowy lines on Joshua’s forehead disappear. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile. ‘Cool. Don’t worry about Drama. I’ll see you round.’ He turns and disappears, leaving me with a head full of data that I suspect would take more brainpower than I possess to unravel.
The walk to the Arts building, at an average human speed, takes about nine minutes. Considering that I, typically, drag my feet towards it like I’m heading into a nuclear accident sans HAZMAT suit, I almost always arrive late. Today, I creep into the theatre long after the bell, damp from the drizzle and even more frazzled than usual. No-one notices, or seems to care.
Built in the 1930s, our Arts building is a double-storey brick monstrosity that smells permanently of wet dog, with a peeling facade that Elsie likes to say would make the Bates Motel look welcoming. It’s tucked on the edge of the empty East Lawn, a row of identical pine trees behind it. It’s far enough from the rest of the school that the screeches from the year-eleven production of Rent are mercifully out of earshot. It was once the home of a contingent of Carmelite nuns, and used to be known simply as ‘The Convent’ until someone had the bright idea to rename it the ‘St Augustine’s Visual and Performing Arts Centre’. Strangely, installing a sign stencilled in ye olde lettering above the doors failed to make the isolated nightmare-house more hospitable.
