“Yeah, of course,” he replied, and lowered his eyes.
A cold gust of wind blew in through the open window. It sent the curtains ballooning into the room and rattled the bathroom door at the end of the hall. He tried to disguise a shiver, but Tom noticed.
“Cold, eh?”
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Lean forward, then.” Tom reached behind him for the merino blanket that was draped over the back of the sofa. His face came to within centimetres of Tom’s chest. He could feel the heat radiating from Tom’s body.
Tom sat back down and spread the blanket over both their legs. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks.”
He was smiling like a buffoon but he couldn’t help it. Thankfully, Tom had his eyes closed.
He laid his head back and took a deep breath.
Before the end of the next track, they were both fast asleep.
chapter six
It took Sam a moment to remember exactly where he was. Sunshine was streaming in through a gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he had to squint against the glare. Slowly, he raised his head and looked around the room.
Tom was still sitting beside him, dead to the world, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle; no doubt, he would have a sore neck later. For a second, he contemplated waking him up, but then he decided against it. What would he say to him if he did?
As soon as he moved, the contents of his stomach sloshed against the sides and he retched. Clutching a hand to his mouth, he forced himself to swallow. The acidic vomit burnt his throat on the way back down. With a shudder of disgust, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and clambered to his feet. Tom made a groaning sound and shifted position, but he didn’t wake.
He kept one eye on the sofa as he retrieved his coat and shoes from the corner of the room and crept barefoot towards the door.
Before he had taken half a dozen steps, another wave of nausea washed over him and he had to stop. He closed his eyes, bit down on his bottom lip, and waited for the feeling to pass.
The air outside was fresh and clean compared with the closeness of the apartment. He took a deep breath and waited for his head to clear sufficiently to descend the steps safely. The wooden treads felt wet and slimy underfoot, and he gripped the banisters for support. The path at the bottom was covered with gravel, and it hurt the soles of his feet.
His right shoe slipped on with ease, but the back of his left shoe got wedged beneath the heel. “For fuck’s sake,” he cursed, bending down and freeing it with his finger.
Two girls were waiting at the bus stop opposite. One of the girls whispered something into the other’s ear. They both giggled and glanced in his direction. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was clearly the butt of their joke. He looked away and hoped that neither of them knew his sister.
Instead of heading for home, he made for the beach, taking the backstreets just in case he ran into anybody he knew. It was almost seven o’clock now, and his mother usually walked Patch early on a Sunday.
When he reached the bay, he climbed over the low wall that separated the beach from the road and sat down on the damp sand. His head was still swimming, and although he could feel the water seeping through his pants, he made no effort to move.
Looking south across the bay, he had a perfect view of planes coming in to land at Wellington airport. The wind was gusting from the northwest, and as the next aircraft started its final approach over Cook Strait, its wings seesawed violently in the crosswind. He felt sorry for the passengers, who were probably feeling just as nauseous as he did right now.
He wrapped his arms round his shins and rested his forehead on his knees. Eyes closed, he concentrated as hard as he could on not being sick—not in public—but within minutes his stomach went into spasm. He staggered to his feet and walked down to the water’s edge, away from the puddle of sick. The seagulls that had been circling overhead swooped down and pecked furiously at the sand where he had just been sitting.
“Ugh,” he groaned, and turned away in disgust.
It felt as if he had only just closed his eyes when the doorbell rang. Still half asleep, he pulled the pillow over his head and rolled onto his side. The last thing he felt like doing was engaging with the world.
A minute passed before the doorbell rang again. Only this time, it was followed by the sound of footsteps in the hall.
“Sam, it’s for you!” his sister shouted at the top of her lungs, and then, more quietly, “Go on through,” to whomever was at the door.
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was lunchtime already.
“You look like shit,” Holly said, appearing in the doorway. She was holding a brown paper bag again. “Jet plane?”
There was a globule of red gelatine between her two front teeth, but he didn’t say anything.
“No, thanks,” he answered. “What are you doing here?”
She popped another lolly into her mouth and, without waiting to be invited in, walked over to the bed and sat down. She leaned back on her elbows. “So did you want to go see that movie today?”
The way her eyes kept flicking back to his bare chest made him feel more than a little uncomfortable, and he pulled the duvet up under his chin. “Nah, I’ve got to work this arvo.”
She finished off the last of the sweets and tossed the scrunched up paper bag across the room, straight into the waste paper basket. The decision to make her captain of the school netball team had clearly been a good one.
“You sick?” she asked. She let her head hang back on her shoulders. With every intake of breath, her breasts seemed to increase in size.
“No,” he replied, his brow furrowing.
“You have mean-as bags under your eyes.”
“I went to a party last night,” he said, and instantly regretted it.
She sat up and glared at him. “You went to a party and you didn’t tell me.”
She looked genuinely hurt, and he felt a twinge of guilt. “It was a last-minute decision,” he tried to explain, “and anyway, you wouldn’t have known anyone there.”
She pouted and reclined on her elbows again.
It didn’t look as if Holly was planning on leaving any time soon. If he wanted to be rid of her, clearly he would need to be more forceful.
For a moment, he contemplated biting the bullet. Get it over with and lose your virginity, why don’t you? Holly was offering it to him on a plate. This really was an opportunity most guys his age would kill for. But instead of feeling grateful, excited, turned on, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He shook his head to dislodge the idea.
“Sam, are you home?”
The sound of his mother’s voice made him jump. He hadn’t heard her arrive home, and before he was able to respond, she was standing in the doorway of his room. Her eyes went straight to Holly, where they stayed.
“Hi, Mrs Wilson,” Holly said. She smiled, but the gesture wasn’t returned.
“I think you should leave, young lady,” his mother said instead.
Holly glanced at him. She had a look of confusion on her face, as if his mother had just told her a joke that she didn’t understand.
He threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He was wearing a pair of tracksuit pants, but in that moment neither his mother nor Holly would have noticed if he had been standing there completely naked. He positioned himself between them. “We weren’t doing anything, Mum.”
His mother continued as if he wasn’t even there.
“I don’t know what you thought you were playing at,” she hissed. Her voice was ice cold. “But I won’t have you exposing my children to that kind of filth, do you hear?”
The room seemed to fade in and out of focus. He took a step backwards and sank down onto the chair next to his desk. It was game over.
He leaned forward on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother turn on her heels and leave the room. But she was back within seconds, the offending ma
gazine clutched in her right hand. She waved it a couple of times—he was unable to hear what she said over the pounding in his ears—and then threw it down on the mattress next to Holly.
For a long while, he stayed exactly where he was; had he wanted to move, his legs probably wouldn’t have cooperated. It was a good ten minutes before they stopped shaking. When he did finally summon up the courage to leave his room, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, alone, his great-grandmother’s silver cutlery set laid out in front of her.
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said, holding an Edwardian fish knife up to the light to check for smudges before returning it to the velvet-lined case that was open on the chair next to her. She dipped the corner of a grimy cloth into the cutting solution and set to work on a soup spoon. “I’m sorry I thought you might have been one of them.” She exhaled on the back of the spoon and rubbed some more. “I should have known better.”
“What did Holly say?” he asked. He knew he would have to tread carefully. The cutlery came out only in a crisis.
She put down the spoon and, sighing deeply, looked him in the eye. “She admitted everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, everything,” she repeated. “I should—”
He was out the door before she had finished the sentence. She called after him—something about his not needing those types of people in his life—but he didn’t stop to listen.
He ran most of the way to Holly’s house, and by the time he turned into her street, he was gasping for breath. Wheezing, he wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt and climbed the steps to the front door. The sun was almost directly overhead. He could feel its prickly touch on the back of his neck.
Holly lived with her mother and only brother in a large house that had a view of the sailing boats moored in the marina at Evans Bay. Her father lived someplace else. She had told him where, but he didn’t remember.
“Sam, how lovely to see you.” Holly’s mother beamed as she opened the front door. She stood to one side to let him in. “You’re right on time. I’ve just made a tray of ginger crunch.”
Clearly, she had no idea what had just happened to her daughter. Any relief he felt was instantaneously subsumed by guilt and shame.
The cream carpet in the hall looked as if it had never been stepped on, so he removed his sneakers and left them on the doorstep.
“Are you looking forward to varsity, Sam?” Holly’s mother asked.
“Yes, thanks,” he replied. He could barely look her in the eye.
“Holly is in her room. Go on through, and I’ll bring you both something to eat.”
The last thing he felt like doing was eating, especially something as sickly sweet as ginger crunch, but he smiled and said, “Thanks.”
The door to Holly’s room was ajar but he knocked anyway.
She was sitting on the bed, her back to the headboard and her knees pulled up under her chin. Although she wasn’t crying, it was obvious that she had been, and recently.
He picked nervously at the skin beneath his nails and stared at the sheepskin rug on the floor. Everything he had rehearsed on the way over had gone straight out of his head as he stepped into the room. “I’m so, so sorry,” he mumbled after a long, awkward pause.
Holly didn’t respond.
“I shouldn’t have lied,” he continued, “but you know what my mum is like.”
The deathly silence was broken only by the clatter of dishes in the hall. A few seconds later, Holly’s mother backed into the room. She was carrying a tray of iced tea and ginger crunch, which she set down on the end of the bed. “Here you go, kids. Enjoy.”
He looked up to find that Holly was glaring at him. Her lips were pressed together so tight that they had almost disappeared completely.
“Thanks to you, your mum thinks I’m some sort of sexual deviant,” she hissed once her own mother had left the room, her voice barely above a whisper.
Instinctively, he looked over his shoulder to check that nobody had heard.
“So are you or aren’t you?” she continued, getting straight down to business. And to his horror, she reached under the pillow and withdrew the accursed magazine. She flung it at his feet. “So?”
He closed his eyes and willed the ground beneath his feet to open up and swallow him whole, but when he opened his eyes a few seconds later the magazine was still there, the two naked men on the cover grinning up at him. They seemed to be finding his humiliation quite entertaining.
There was no longer any use in denying what was, quite literally, staring him in the face, but still he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words. Instead, he mumbled, “Thanks for not saying anything. I owe you one.”
“I’d say,” Holly laughed. Her face softened.
Dealing with Holly’s anger was one thing; accepting her pity was more than he could bear right now. He didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
“Are you crying?”
His cheeks were already glowing.
Holly got up off the bed and walked over to where he was standing. Gently she pulled his hands away from his face and lifted his chin. “We’re friends, right?” Her eyebrows went up: she was waiting for an answer.
He sniffed and nodded his head.
With one swift kick, she booted the magazine under the bed. “There you go.”
He wiped his eyes with the tissue she handed him and smiled.
“To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. I mean, I was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with me.”
A laugh escaped his lips.
“But I’m still pissed that you didn’t tell me you’re gay!”
“Ahem.”
They both spun round to find Holly’s mother standing in the doorway. This time, she was holding a plate of Anzac biscuits. She put the plate down on the desk, just inside the door, and backed away without saying a word.
For the second time in as many minutes, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
He had reached the traffic lights at the bottom of Wellington Road before Holly caught up with him. Her jandals slip-slapped against the asphalt as she half-walked, half-ran. “Not so fast, eh,” she panted, coming to a stop by his side.
“Sorry,” he started to say, but she waved the apology away.
“Don’t stress about it. Mum’s pretty open-minded. I’ll sort her out later.” She reached past him and pushed the button on the pedestrian crossing. They waited for the green man in silence.
When they reached Bay Road, Holly ducked into the dairy on the corner. He waited outside, under the shade of the awning. In the distance, he could hear the whirr of the planes at the airport. A small turbo prop seemed to shoot out of the rooftops opposite. He watched as it climbed slowly over the harbour and banked right, towards the south. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the atmosphere hung thick and lifeless.
A bead of sweat broke free of his shoulder blades and ran down the length of his spine, between his buttocks. What the hell is she doing in there? he thought. Five minutes had passed and still Holly hadn’t emerged. How long does it take to buy a couple of ice blocks?
With the glare of the sun at his back, it was impossible to see into the gloomy interior of the dairy. He took a step towards the door. And promptly collided with somebody coming, head down, in the opposite direction.
“Sorry,” he apologised, by reflex more than out of sincerity. He moved aside to let whomever it was pass. Only then did he realise that that somebody was Tom.
“Hi, Sam,” Tom said.
For the first time, he noticed the way that Tom’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled. All he could manage in reply, though, was, “Hey.”
“How were you feeling this morning?” Tom asked.
“Not bad,” he lied. “You?”
“Ask me again in ten minutes.” Tom waggled the energy drink that he had just purchased. “I’m off to meet the g
uys for a game of touch and thought I could do with a little help.”
For the rest of his life, he would cringe whenever he thought back on what happened next.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Holly came bounding out of the dairy, shrieking with laughter.
“I got you a Golden Gaytime!” she roared, “I couldn’t help—”
Perhaps it was the mortified expression on his face that cut her off at the pass, or maybe it was the sight of an attractive guy in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt that did it. Whatever it was, she stopped giggling instantly. She pulled a face and mouthed, “Sorry.”
“Hi, I’m Tom.” Tom turned and held out his hand.
“Holly,” she mumbled.
Tom turned back to face him. “I guess I’d better be going.”
He could see Holly out of the corner of his eye. She was staring unashamedly at Tom, her eyes as wide as saucers. Blood was already flooding into his cheeks, but he tried to ignore it.
“See you round, eh?” Tom said as he turned to leave. “Nice to meet you, Holly.”
Tom took several steps and then stopped. “Oh,” he said, turning round. He looked nervous. “Me and the boys were thinking of heading into town for a few drinks tonight.” He paused. “If you fancy it?”
Before he could get a word out, Holly had replied on his behalf. “We’ll be there.”
Tom nodded and smiled. “I’ll text you later, then.”
“Fuck, he’s hot,” Holly squealed as soon as Tom had crossed the road and was out of earshot. “Come on,” she said, tugging at his arm, “let’s get home. We’ve got a night out to get ready for!”
It was close to ten by the time they reached the bus stop.
“Earthquake weather, eh?” Holly said, rubbing at the goose bumps on her arms. He grunted in reply. His insides had been twisted in knots all day, and he still felt too nauseous to speak.
Evans Bay was as calm as a millpond and the water shone like polished silver in the moonlight. She was right; the stillness was eerie. He peered down the road again. There was still no sign of the bus.
Despite the cold, his palms felt warm and clammy. “I told you to bring a coat,” he growled when Holly shivered for the third or fourth time in as many minutes. Why did nobody ever listen to him?
Sam Page 7
