Miles is flustered. ‘What? I –’
‘Address. Write it on the bottom of that page and tear it off coz I’m not gonna remember it.’
He does as I say. I wave the piece of paper at Higgins on my way out.
Thommo lives on a street of giant, fuck-off mansions with stone columns and seven-foot fences. His place is more of a modest, get-nicked mansion. It’s seriously lacking in the column department. But it’s got the fence. Gold star for fencing. He’d be shit out of luck trying to sneak out of here on a Saturday night, that’s for sure.
I watch the house through the bars of the gate as I press the intercom a second time. Thommo answers, ‘Yeah?’
‘Open up.’
‘Who is it?’
I turn to the intercom and stare into the small black camera lens.
‘Harley?’ he asks. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Shouldn’t you?’
There’s a pause. And then the gate unlocks.
Thommo’s taken the day off to work on a Modern assignment. Doubt he’s done much. He’s been playing video games. He walks me into the lounge room and there’s a mission paused on the TV. He sits on the lounge. I sit on the floor.
I ask about his weekend.
‘You’re being weird,’ he says.
‘How?’
‘This. You coming over randomly. It’s weird.’
I wanna say he’s wrong, but he’s not. The whole way here, I was certain I was doing what I had to. I was pulled. But now, I feel like a phoney, like I’m doing Zac’s job, only worse. He would of been in Pill’s class too, he would of come straight over, coz he’d know Thommo’s address. There’d be no weirdness. It would of been as regular as me bumping into Jacs at the fountain.
But Zac isn’t here, and I’m better than no one.
‘You know, when I was younger,’ I say, trying to recreate Jacs’s story as well as I can, ‘my granddad told me we wrap elastic bands around people. We’re connected. Sometimes, an elastic band is loose, then something happens and it, um . . .’ I’ve lost it. Shit. ‘Look, Zac died. I reckon you and I are closer. Coz he died for you too. Not for you, that makes him sound like Jesus.’
‘I get what you meant.’
‘Right.’ My throat’s dry. ‘I wanted to say that, before –’
‘I feel closer to you too,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ I exhale. ‘You’re gay, yeah?’
He coughs a laugh. ‘What?’
I’m direct with him. ‘You like dudes.’
‘No, I . . .’ Thommo trails off. ‘How did you find out?’
I tell him about Toby, Hughes, his mum. That freaks him out. He springs to his feet and starts pacing. His breaths are short and shallow. He stops and doubles over, gasping for air. I can hear each breath scratch the back of his throat like sandpaper. I don’t know how to comfort him, but I know I have to. I rest a hand on his back. It rises and falls with his body.
When I pull it off, he says it’s helping, so I put it back.
I feel his lungs fill with air.
‘Your mum was badass,’ I say. ‘She tore shreds off Hughes. He’ll be shitting bricks for a week.’
Doubled over, Thommo laughs into the next wheeze.
When he’s calmed down, I go grab him some water. I almost get lost, but I find the kitchen eventually and retrace my steps. He drinks the water slowly and explains a lot of random stuff. It isn’t a full history, but there’s enough to understand. He sounds different when he speaks, like he’s not acting any more.
After all that, he tells me I can stay. ‘If you want,’ he adds. He points at the TV. ‘It’s got multiplayer.’
Tempting as it is, he needs to have a serious chat with Mama Thommo when she gets home. He walks me out, and two steps up the driveway, I turn back.
‘Look, you’re not alone,’ I say. He raises an eyebrow. I add, ‘You know where I live.’
‘Oh. For a sec, I thought you were gonna say something lame about Isaac being here to watch over me.’
‘As if I’d say that and as if he is.’
‘Ooo, I’m a ghost, I’ve returned to the land of the living to eavesdrop on intimate conversations about your sexuality, ooo!’
I laugh, right from the belly. Thommo smirks.
‘He knew, didn’t he?’ I ask.
Thommo nods. ‘He did.’
‘He was a good guy, wasn’t he?’
Thommo laughs. ‘No. But he did this stuff well.’
‘True.’ Something hits me. ‘This, today . . . Did I do all right?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, you did all right. Not amazing.’
I flick him the middle finger. He lobs two back.
Hughes is lying on his bed when I walk in. ‘Houdini!’ he says. ‘Where’d you go during English?’
‘Nowhere.’ I plug my phone in to charge and look over at him. ‘Did you think she knew about Thommo?’
‘No chance,’ he says.
I deserve a peace prize for not knocking his teeth out. He has Fuzz to thank for that.
‘Oi, Harley.’ Fuzz is leaning into the room. ‘Collins wants you downstairs.’
I find Collins in the study. He has my bag. I loop one arm through both straps and he asks where I was today in the deep voice he reserves for confiscating contraband. I tell him I was in the library. His face hardens. He knows I’m lying, but the truth means outing Thommo even more.
‘I went to the movies, okay?’
I make a point of not sitting with the Year Elevens at dinner. I set myself up in Siberia, the table furthest from the kitchen, and eat alone. Soon enough, though, I have my own harem of Twelvies, chewing with their mouths open and shrilly talking over each other in italics, like everything is the most important thing ever.
My phone vibrates. It’s a wall of text from Sue:
My phone vibrates again and a pic drops in underneath. It’s Zac on Christmas morning, kneeling underneath the tree. He’s wearing a paper crown and holding a champagne flute.
Not gonna lie, major feels.
Another pic drops in. In it, Zac poses cross-eyed behind his sister as she blows out her birthday candles.
A third one. Halloween, the year I met Zac. He’s in a baseball uniform, Thommo’s in a toga and I’m a zombie. We look funny as.
My phone vibrates.
And there’s the final pic. It’s Zac and Miles, younger than I remember them. Their teeth are too big for their faces. They’re taking a selfie in the back of class.
‘You’re not in Year Seven,’ the kid opposite me says. His teeth are also too big for his face.
I blink at him. ‘You’re a prodigy.’
Collins wants me to see Ford before school to chat about skipping yesterday, but I figure, if I’m already up shit creek with Barton, I might as well grab a paddle and start exploring.
The cashier scribbles my order on two lids and leaves them for the barista. I wait near the coffee machine with the others. This one guy moves closer to the wall to make room for me and I swear I’ve seen him before. He’s got these thick-rimmed glasses and . . . Holy flaming bag of shit from the sky.
I close my convo with Jacs and open the Herald Daily’s ‘Meet the Team’ page. I scroll halfway down. It’s him. Calvin Briggs, the political editor.
I play it chill. ‘Your name’s Calvin, yeah?’
He jerks his head back and tries to place me. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No, I . . .’ I glance down at my phone. The screen goes dark. ‘I read your site.’
‘Oh!’ That makes him smile. ‘Are you into politics?’
‘Sure.’
I’m really unprepared for this.
He’s still smiling. ‘This is surreal, I’ve never been spotted before.’
‘Skim chai latte for Calvin?’ the barista calls.
He grabs the drink and tells me how nice it was to meet a reader. He’s leaving.
‘Actually,’ I step into his way, ‘I’ve always wanted to know something. When you write a sto
ry and put it online, how long before you delete it . . . usually?’
‘Oh, we never delete our content.’
Damn. ‘Never?’
‘Politicians and their handlers are always asking us to pull down stories,’ he continues, ‘but it’s our policy not to. I mean, if we deleted everything we were asked to, there’d be no political stories.’
‘Oh.’
He points his cup behind me. ‘Speaking of, those yarns won’t write themselves.’
I’m still blocking him. ‘I only ask coz my best mate died in March.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘There was a Herald Daily story about him. He fell and hit his head on a boat. You guys said he jumped or fell. Which made it sound like he meant to . . .’ He meant to dive. He didn’t mean to die. ‘If articles were deleted after a while, we wouldn’t be fussed, but it’s still there. I tried to get it changed, and there’s this . . . Here, I’ll show you.’ I bring up the article and tilt my phone so he can see. ‘If I go to the bottom . . .’ He’s watching when I click on the embedded video, Motorboat Bikini Babes.
‘Is that . . .?’
‘Girls dancing on a boat? Yeah.’
Calvin squints at the screen. He has no idea why someone would put that . . . ‘Oh. It must be pulling it in because they’ve tagged the article with motorboat. The producer should’ve caught that before it went live,’ he says.
‘Order for Harley?’ the barista calls.
I ignore her. ‘Is there someone I can talk to about getting rid of it?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I can do that.’
‘Seriously?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, we use the same back-end.’
‘Harley?’ the barista asks.
‘So you can get rid of the video and say he fell?’ I confirm.
He hesitates. ‘Well, I can deactivate the video. As for changing the text, I’d have to speak to the news editors about it.’
‘There wouldn’t be much to fix. I mean . . .’ I scroll up through the article, searching for instances of jumped or fell. I catch a mention of the young filmmakers programme. The elastic band pulls.
Even if Calvin removes the video, and changes jumped or fell, the article will still ignore Miles.
‘How hard is it to add things?’ I ask. ‘Coz I’ve got this photo . . .’
Jacs and I sit on the fountain’s edge, hunched over our phones.
She swipes her screen and gasps. ‘It’s happened.’
‘What?’ I refresh my browser.
He fell. I sink back and breathe out. ‘He fell.’
I scroll to the bottom. The video’s gone, replaced by the pic of Zac and Miles. They’re smiling. Their teeth are too big for their faces.
‘The photo is pretty adorable,’ Jacs says.
It is.
‘You’re pretty adorable,’ she adds.
‘What are you on about?’ I look up and our lips collide. Jacs is kissing me. I go with it. She puts her hand on my chest and breaks away.
‘Huh?’ It’s all I’ve got. Where did that come from?
‘Don’t act surprised. It isn’t hot.’
‘But you’re keen on Thommo?’
‘He’s gay. Mark texted Cate.’
’Course.
‘So wait – I’m your back-up?’
She tilts her head forwards. ‘Seriously?’
I blink at her.
‘Dude, I sat here every fucking day for weeks.’
‘You said you didn’t.’
‘I lied!’
Right. ‘Right.’
‘You’re aloof and you can be a bit of a dropkick, but I’ve tied a band around you, Scott. And I didn’t realise how tight it was till you weren’t here. I’d text you, and it was like I couldn’t even –’
I lean over and kiss her this time. It’s showy. I put my hand on one cheek. Hella romantic shit. I peel off her. Her eyes are still shut.
‘I couldn’t even breathe,’ she finishes.
I get to campus and it’s almost recess. I don’t bother going to second period. I’m stuffed no matter what. I might as well enjoy recess before Evans and Co crack the shits.
Thommo’s sitting on the bench.
‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask.
‘I’ve got a free,’ he says. ‘You?’
I hop up beside him and he assumes the worst.
‘Mrs Evans is gonna crack the shits at you,’ he says.
‘Let her. How’d last night go?’
‘Perfect. Mum was . . . perfect.’
They were up till one. He gives me the play by play. I smile, but it wrecks me knowing he gets something I don’t. I take out my phone. After aimlessly cycling through my apps, I end up in my chat convo with Mom. I measure it against what he tells me Mama Thommo said. There’s no contest. I mean, I haven’t heard anything since Gerringong.
Do you think about me? I type.
My finger flexes to tap Send, but I hesitate. There’s more to say.
Did I mess this up? Did you?
Thommo laughs and I nod along.
Was Australia ever real?
‘When we were walking up to bed, Mum was like, “I’ve missed you.” And I realised how long I’ve been hiding from everyone,’ Thommo says.
I blink at the questions. What good is all that mess, really? Whatever we haven’t said . . . It’s been so long, it’s on us both.
I delete them and start over.
I breathe out hard and lock the screen before Thommo sees.
‘I guess I’ve gotta start telling people,’ he says.
‘Probably.’
‘I wonder what Miles will say.’
And I wonder if Miles has seen the article yet. Probably too soon, but I watch the doors across the yard for any sign of him.
EXT. ISAAC’S HOUSE – MORNING
I stand on the driveway, in the dress shirt I have not worn since Christmas, and the skinny jeans that have fit me since, well, it is too embarrassing to say. A bag of groceries hangs from each hand. My grip is wet.
I take a breath.
I can leave, I know that. I can say I feel under the weather. I have done that before.
But I worry my next excuse might be one too many.
I walk. The front door is not completely shut. I push it open.
INT. ISAAC’S HOUSE – MORNING
The corridor is dark. ‘Isaac?’ I call.
The reply comes from upstairs. ‘I’ll be a sec,’ he says.
I step in and lean back into the door until it closes.
‘Are you excited?’
The walls are closing in on me. I swallow hard. ‘Very.’
‘So you should be.’ Isaac clears the final steps with a leap. He lands in a squat, sits deeper into it, and then launches up. He claps. ‘Today will be fantastic.’
Isaac is wearing an orange safety vest and board shorts. I am overdressed.
‘You will get burnt if we sit outside,’ I tell him.
‘Ah!’ He produces a stick of zinc from a pouch sewn into the vest.
‘You will get burnt if we sit outside,’ I reiterate.
He streaks it across his face anyway. ‘Are you excited?’
‘You already asked me that.’
Isaac loops an arm around my neck. He knees a grocery bag. ‘Oh, watch it,’ he says. He leads me deeper into the house. ‘I can’t believe I’ve done it. I’m getting Miles Cooper shit-faced.’
‘Miles Cooper promised one drink.’
‘Shit-faced.’
‘One.’
‘Don’t be such a wet blanket.’
It cuts through me. I wear a smile though.
He adds, ‘I don’t get why you’re so adverse to drinking.’ He means averse, but I do not correct him.
I begin to unload the shopping on the kitchen counter.
‘What’s all that then?’ he asks.
‘Deli meats, a loaf of bread. I thought I would make us sandwiches.’
‘That won’t be enough,�
�� Isaac says.
I run my eyes over the purchases. There is definitely enough for the two of us.
‘Now, don’t get mad . . .’
‘Isaac.’
Isaac grins. There are dimples. ‘I may have texted some of the guys.’
‘How many?’
He explains. With a handful of texts, our one-on-one has exploded into one of his famous gatherings.
I say, ‘Great.’ It is not nearly believable enough. I continue unpacking.
‘You brought a book to a gathering?’ Isaac asks.
One, there was never any mention of this being a gathering. Two, I do not trust anyone who leaves home without a book. It is just not right.
I change the subject. ‘I also brought organic kale chips, so Ryan can eat something if he comes.’
Isaac says it slowly. ‘Organic.’ He mouths it twice more, stretching the O.
I laugh. ‘You all right?’
Isaac’s mouth hangs open, suspended in animation. He shakes it off and blinks at me. ‘Hm?’
My chest hollows out. I tear my eyes away. ‘Nothing.’ I feign an interest in the kale chips’ nutritional information. My forehead throbs. ‘Actually . . .’ I look up at him. His eyes are vacant. ‘Are you high?’
‘No.’ He loses a fight with a smirk. He laughs. ‘Okay, I might be a little.’
‘Isaac.’
‘What?’
‘It is ten-thirty.’
‘It’s a gathering. What did you think we were going to do? Eat deli meats and read books?’
I smile. ‘You are right.’
‘Thank you.’
The doorbell rings.
Isaac bounces on the spot. ‘Betcha that’s Harley,’ he says.
‘Are you going to get it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t feel like he wants it enough,’ Isaac says.
I should laugh. All the pieces point to funny, but I can never get past him being . . . not himself. He chews on his bottom lip and cocks an eyebrow, and it just feels off. I look past him at the back door.
The doorbell rings a second time. ‘Oi! Zac!’
‘You know, I think he’s almost there,’ Isaac whispers. ‘Do you?’
‘It is hard to say.’
The Sidekicks Page 13
