The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  My English clashed with his Business Studies. He had an identical list of excuses on the inside of his textbook cover. If either of us wanted to bail, we’d text. We’d hang in the toilets near our lockers and end up laughing so hard I’m surprised we were never caught.

  I’m smiling. It still feels like an option. I close my eyes and circle my index finger over the page. I plant it down and reopen my eyes.

  I turn in my seat. ‘Sir, I left my Shakespeare in my locker.’ Not one of his funnier ones, I’ll admit.

  We’re twenty minutes into the lesson. Any other day, I’m certain Conrad would have berated me.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  I take the familiar route, down one flight of stairs and then left. There’s a small gathering outside Isaac’s locker. My chest hollows out. Isobel is clearing out the last of his things, flanked by Mrs Evans. Mr Collins is holding a garbage bag.

  Isobel always existed on the edges of our friendship. She answered the door, rolled her eyes when Isaac said something I’d snigger at. She’s older, somewhere after uni but before a job she doesn’t hate – too old to have any time for guys our age.

  She turns something over in her hands, assessing its value. I can’t tell what it is from this far, but she eventually drops it into Mr Collins’s garbage bag. She takes up something else and turns it over. She pauses. Her chest rises. Her chest falls. She stashes it in the sports bag by her feet.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ she says.

  I don’t wait for them to notice me. I dart back up the stairs.

  In the time it takes to buy my lunch, a pack of Year Eights claim the spot that’s ours. Miles would always arrive first, spread out his books and mark the territory till we got here. I guess, without him and Harley, the spot isn’t really ours any more. I wonder where they are, how they spend their lunches, and if they’ll ever come back. Maybe like Isobel, they’ve sorted the treasure from the trash, kept what’s needed and binned the rest.

  I eat my lunch elsewhere.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ Mum says, standing in my bedroom doorway.

  Lying on the bed, I tell her, ‘I’m a ninja.’

  She crosses the room. I expect her to say something about the chlorine smell or the leaning tower of unfolded clothes, like the reality of living with me is surprising. Instead, she asks how swimming was. I tell her it was fine. There isn’t much I can say about Squad, especially after so many years. There was water. It was wet.

  ‘Shove over.’ I roll a little to make room for her on the bed. She sits up against the headboard and massages my scalp with her fingertips. ‘Sorry I missed you this morning.’

  When she asks if I’m okay, I say, ‘Not really.’

  She’s quiet. I wonder if she expected bravado. Her fingers still. ‘We had a staff meeting today. They’ve made the funeral arrangements; it’ll be in the chapel on Thursday during fourth period. Your whole year is going. You can spend the morning beforehand in my office, if you like. And they’ve given me the afternoon off so we’ll come straight back here.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do you have homework?’

  I nod.

  ‘Do you want to watch a movie?’

  I nod.

  Only nine of us take Health, but Richo insists on calling the roll instead of counting. A mountain in a tracksuit, hunched over a tiny laptop, he works through the alphabet. Cooper Adams and Thom Foley answer their names with, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Scott Harley?’ The room is quiet. Richo looks around. ‘Anybody seen Harley?’

  I haven’t, come to think of it. Not since leaving the chapel on Monday.

  When no one answers, Richo peers back down at his screen. ‘Right. Absent.’

  In the front row, Marty Johnson mimes knocking back a schooner.

  At Squad, we’re told to stay present. I try to. When I dive, I’m alert, aware of every movement and its effect. My form is my priority and every stroke has power. I follow the black tiled line to the opposite wall and repeat and repeat and then my brain changes channel. I think of Harley. I think of Miles. I think of myself. What does it say about us if we’re still at school and Harley isn’t? Are we stronger, or did Isaac mean less to us?

  I stop at the wall, pull my goggles up and check the clock in the corner. An hour to go.

  ‘Time’s crawling today.’ Two lanes over, Peanut’s on the rope.

  This is his second year on the Squad. We swim laps. We wake up too early to swim them, and suffer the same diet to swim them better. We have hours of life in common, and I don’t even know his real name. I recognise him from his photo on the allergy wall in the staff common room though. Peanut.

  ‘Part of me wants to bail and get Collins to write me a note,’ he adds.

  It takes me a second to put it together. Peanut’s a boarder, so Mr Collins can get him out of training. That means he must know how Harley is. I ask him.

  He scratches his nose and lowers his goggles. ‘Haven’t seen him. He left on Monday.’

  ‘Left where?’

  He shrugs. ‘TITF.’ He inhales deeply and pushes off the wall.

  I empty my pockets onto the coffee table – wrappers, wallet, coins, phone. Phone. I check it.

  I forgot to text her. Shit.

  Her reply is instant.

  When I lie to her, I always read so deeply into her responses that one-word messages like that feel pregnant with meaning. She doesn’t believe me. She knows I’m hiding something. She’s going to drive to Miles’s and find I’m not there.

  Todd calls from inside.

  ‘What?’ I’m still staring at my mobile.

  Todd emerges from around the corner. He’s holding a bottle of sauce. ‘Barbecue?’

  ‘Tomato, if you’ve got any.’

  He open-mouth smiles. All my texting anxiety melts away in a heart thump. ‘Sure.’ He disappears back into the kitchen. ‘I think these steaks are done,’ he calls.

  My phone vibrates.

  Todd’s folks are in Canberra overnight and Mum thinks I’m at Miles’s. It isn’t much of an opportunity but it is one, and we don’t have many. It’s a night of small rebellions: we eat dinner on the couch; we leave our dirty plates stacked on the floor; Todd leans in and kisses me softly.

  I interrupt it. ‘Down here?’ I ask. He lives in one of those showy houses on the water where the entire wall is window. Anyone doing the coastal walk can peer straight in.

  Todd stays close. ‘My parents won’t be back tonight.’

  He smirks and leans in again, and all I can think about is the window. It isn’t enough of a partition between out there and in here, and I pull away.

  ‘It’s fine, seriously,’ Todd says. ‘They know anyway.’

  I tense up and Todd feels it.

  ‘About me,’ he adds. ‘Don’t worry, no one knows about you. And if they did, my parents are cool. Like, they want to meet someone I’m dating.’ He walks it back a bit. ‘Not saying you have to do it now, but whenever you’re ready. It’d be nice not to have to wait for Dad to have a conference. And we could go clubbing.’

  ‘Clubbing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘With your parents?’

  ‘I meant, also,’ he says. ‘When it’s less secret, we can go out.’

  ‘You can. You’re eighteen.’

  ‘I know a place that doesn’t card.’

  I picture it. Dancing up against Todd to a song that’s probably about dancing in a club. Green strobe lights slicing the air around us like a music video. Having to shout in each other’s ears. Laughing. His hands sliding around my waist. People noticing.

  ‘Me and you and a room filled with randoms is probably the one thing scarier than meeting your parents,’ I say.

  He brushes it off. ‘When you’re out, you don’t care about anyone but yourself . . . and the handsome guy you’re with.’ He presses into me and I go with it, surrendering into the couch.

  ‘Wait, are you calling yourself handsome?’ I ask.

 
‘I was speaking generally.’ He pecks me quickly. ‘Wait, are you saying I’m not handsome?’

  I’m smiling. ‘Not at all.’

  The couch is made of two separate halves. One half starts to shift away. It’s like hooking up on continental drift.

  ‘Some guys I met at O-Week are taking me out on Friday, like a pre-Mardi Gras thing. Come. You can crash here, on the couch. Mum won’t mind.’

  ‘I have a swim meet after school.’

  ‘We won’t go in till later.’

  ‘And I’ve got training on Saturday morning.’

  ‘Skip it and swim later.’

  ‘I dunno . . .’

  ‘Think about it.’

  He kisses me again and I worry about the window.

  I toss my bags in the corner of Mum’s office and recline back into her seat. I run my thumb against my fingers; they feel like someone else’s. There’s an email open on her computer detailing funeral arrangements. I look everywhere else. Conrad plays Tchaikovsky in the other room. He bumps into Hank on his way out to second period. Hank asks about the marking criteria for the Year Eight assessment. Conrad says he’ll forward it when he gets to class. Hank raids the freezer when he’s gone. He works in silence. I miss the Tchaikovsky. Eventually, there’s the xylophone. Recess brings with it rumours of homemade chocolate muffins in the staff common room. Mum brings two.

  ‘Eat these,’ she says. She places two chocolate mini muffins on the desk. One topples over.

  ‘I can’t.’ Empty calories. Not allowed.

  ‘Mr Watkins isn’t your mother. Eat. And get dressed.’

  I didn’t bother with my tie after swimming. Or shoes.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You seem . . .’

  The xylophone, again.

  ‘I swear, recess feels shorter every day,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll be back at the end of third, be ready.’

  I watch the staffroom clear out. Every teacher takes pastoral care and I’m left alone. With every second that passes, Isaac’s funeral gets that little bit closer. I eat both muffins.

  Hank and Elise are the first ones back. They retreat to their stations, absorbed in their work. When Amy returns, it’s with a duffel bag in hand and a new outfit. She’s changed into a three-quarter black dress. She has Isaac’s English class fourth, which means she’s escorting them to the funeral.

  ‘You look great,’ Elise says, pre-empting Amy’s doubt.

  ‘Really?’

  Elise nods. ‘I don’t own anything that pretty.’

  ‘Neither do I. It’s my sister’s.’ Amy scratches at the fabric over her abdomen. ‘You know, sometimes I wish I was a lesbian. My wardrobe would seriously double.’

  I can’t imagine ever sharing clothes with Todd. We have distinct styles. He dresses like a skinny lumberjack, and I roll out of bed ready for the beach. What works on him definitely wouldn’t on me. And besides, guy couples who dress the same freak me out. It’s like watching brothers kiss.

  ‘You’d have more clothes, sure, but at what cost?’ Elise asks.

  ‘My soul, probably.’

  Elise laughs but not in the way someone laughs at a joke. She and Amy take their faith very seriously, and while most Barton teachers check their phones during the prayers at assembly, they close their eyes and mouth the words. Their strain of Christianity has a distinct, ‘No, you can’t sit with us,’ vibe. When Amy says loving a woman will tarnish her soul, she means it. And when Elise laughs, she’s laughing at the people who don’t have a seat at their table.

  I can’t bear to hear what’s coming next. I reach for my tie and make a beeline for the exit.

  ‘Are you going to get ready?’ Amy asks.

  She isn’t uncomfortable I heard. She doesn’t think she said anything wrong.

  I nod.

  I open the bathroom door with my shoulder. Miles is standing at the sink, combing his hair back. Weird how Barton can be so large and feel so small sometimes. I’ve never been all that interested in Miles. Sounds harsh, but nobody is ever interested in their Miles. But something’s different now. Since Monday, I’ve become interested. Since the money, I’ve been curious. What were he and Isaac up to? Where does he go at lunch? Are those two questions related? I can’t ask though, not now. We’re not actually friends. But I ought to say something. I approach the tap beside his. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hello.’

  Neither of us asks how the other is. We already know.

  His hair is neat, but he runs his comb through it again anyway. I look down at the unmade tie hanging around my neck.

  True fact: I can’t tie a Windsor when someone’s watching. I work through the steps as always, only it comes out too long, with a knot that’s too small and tight.

  I undo it and try again.

  Miles speaks. ‘Do you ever worry about getting depression?’ He asks it plainly, like it isn’t heavy or personal. ‘I mean, we are sad now, but are you worried you might get stuck?’ He places down his comb. ‘I am.’

  If I keep perfectly still, will the conversation keep going without my intervention?

  ‘And how long are we supposed to be sad for?’ he continues. ‘What is normal? What is expected of us?’

  ‘There’s no marking criteria for grief.’ I can’t help myself.

  ‘No.’ He swallows hard. ‘There is not, is there?’

  Miles and I started out in the same Year Seven class, but I lacked initiative. I was dropped to the B class after the half-yearlies, and when I didn’t find initiative there, I was dropped again the next year. I never did find initiative, but fingers crossed, any day now . . .

  I pull apart my knot again.

  ‘Do you need help with that?’ He’s watching me in the mirror.

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ That was too proud, too blunt. ‘Thanks, though.’

  ‘From here, it looks like –’

  I pivot. ‘Do you have a free?’

  ‘Chemistry.’

  ‘I have French.’

  He cocks an eyebrow. ‘You can speak French?’

  ‘Je cannot, no.’ I snort a laugh. He smiles a bit.

  It reminds me of the conversations we used to have at the bench, filling time when Isaac wasn’t around. The only person missing is Harley.

  ‘Hey, question. Have you heard anything from Harley?’

  Miles shakes his head. ‘He has not even posted on Isaac’s profile.’

  I haven’t either. I don’t do social media, it’s too much of a minefield. I had a profile. I put up a photo once with Mum in it, and it was this whole thing. Because she’s a teacher, she can’t have a visible private life so blah, blah. Whatever, it’s just easier to live offline.

  ‘Are people doing that?’ I ask.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to write. For this to happen to Isaac of all people . . . It’s so unlucky.’

  Miles turns from the mirror to look at me for real. ‘Unlucky? You cannot chalk it up to the randomness of the universe, Ryan. He had a problem.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I really don’t.’ Plenty of guys do what Isaac did, they’re still here.

  ‘I have never been to a gathering, not one,’ Miles says, more softly. ‘I hear parts of stories and I have seen enough movies to fill in the gaps, and I know I should feel like I am missing out. As if, to be a teenager is to get legless, wrecked, blazed – whatever the right words are. But that just scares me. Isaac would tell me I was boring.’ His chest swells. ‘I was the only one who spoke up, Ryan. The only one.’

  I try get a word in. ‘Look, I rarely did any of that stuff.’

  ‘Because of swimming. But you were still there. And do not get me started on Harley.’

  He looks back at his reflection and all I can hear is my heart beating a cappella. He’s blaming us.

  ‘Hey, wait, you can’t –’

  ‘You two never stopped him. It was harmless; it was fun. You
all hung out in backyards and free houses, and did whatever you did, tricking each other into thinking you were invincible.’

  My heart’s on fire, slamming hard against my chest.

  Miles slips his comb into the breast pocket of his blazer. ‘I should get back to class.’

  He crosses the room, and I feel I need to say something to defend Isaac. He wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t have a problem. He was unlucky, plain and simple.

  ‘They must’ve sold him junk,’ I blurt out. ‘He didn’t know what he was getting.’

  Miles stops in the doorway. He deflates. ‘He did not need what they were giving.’

  The door closes softly behind him.

  Mum grabs a programme by the door and I follow her inside. When I’m in the chapel, I always feel like I’m wading through a presence. I haven’t believed in God since I was old enough to pray for something and not get it, so I don’t think it’s Him. It’s probably the million prayers with nowhere else to go.

  The librarians are minding us a spot. When we pass Mr Butler, Mum stops to embrace him. She coos something supportive in his ear. It’s funny how a coffin can change what people think of each other.

  I try not to stare at it, but it’s magnetic. It’s a profound loose end, every unresolved conversation, unfulfilled plan. The Roberts sit close to it. Isobel and her dad are dressed in black, looking down at their laps. Between them, Mrs Roberts looks over her shoulder. She’s wearing a psychedelic tie-dyed shirt. I immediately recognise it as Isaac’s. Her face is hollow and her eyes are wide. Her pupils sweep the room, which is close to full now. She takes a staggered breath and her gaze lands on me. She holds it.

  Our shared history replays. All at once, she’s driving us from school for my first stay-over at Isaac’s, casually probing for details about my life; she’s standing behind him, running her fingers through his hair while he eats his breakfast until he nags her to stop; she’s fanning the smoke away from the beeping detector with a tea towel after our failed attempt to cook dinner . . . Isobel whispers something in her ear and she turns back to the front of the chapel.