by Kate Gordon
So we feel important.
When I was little, the parties were your typical kid event - fruit kebabs and fairy bread and koala cakes from the Women’s Weekly cookbook; pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and Twister and duck, duck, goose.
As I grew older (though, sadly, no cooler), I asked for Dungeons and Dragons parties, or Star Wars ones, or we all dressed up as wizards and knights and acted out mediaeval warfare in our backyard. And then every second year I had a Doctor Who party, and dressed as a different doctor each time.
Yep, I was always that awesome.
It was at one of my parties that I first met Jed.
We were in Grade Five. My party that year had a “Pokemon” theme. It was back when Pokemon was enjoying a brief moment of coolness and, even though I was feeling mildly disgruntled about that—after all, I liked it way before everyone else had caught on—I was thrilled that my classmates were excited about my party, and that every one of them had RSVP-ed yes.
One of my classmates, Kyron, asked me the day before the party if he could bring his neighbour along.
“Mum wants us to be friends,” he said wearily. “She’s been trying to get us to hang out for, like, months, because his best friend went off to the jungle or something and he’s gone all emo and Mum reckons he’s sad and I should, like, save him or whatever. I’m meant to be playing with him on Saturday but, you know, you’re doing Pokemon so of course I have to come, but Mum said I can only come if he comes, so—”
“Does he like Pokemon?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
Kyron nodded. “And Doctor Who. And music.”
Everyone at my school knew I loved Doctor Who. And that I was a music nerd. While they were all listening to Beyonce and Rihanna, on my iPod I had Nirvana and Regurgitator. And, of course, Whatever and Ever Amen (still the best Ben Folds album of all time). When they wore surf brand tee-shirts to school, I wore my band ones. While they collected nail stickers, I collected vintage vinyl LPs.
I know it might sound like I was edgy—the sort of kid every other kid at school would want to be friends with—but this was not the case. When you’re ten, anything different is not intriguing or tempting, it’s weird and scary.
The only reason I always had lots of people at my birthday parties (even when I wasn’t doing Pokemon), was because my parties were known for being so awesome the kids could get past their mistrust and wariness of oddball Connie for a couple of hours of party fun.
I knew the other kids didn’t really like me. And I wish I could say it didn’t bother me, but it did. I wanted to be liked. By even one person.
So when Kyron asked if he could bring a friend, one who liked Doctor Who and music and was lonely, just like me, of course I said yes.
And even though he was into Metallica and not Modest Mouse, we knew at first sight we were soul mates. We were both weirdos; both passionate about the nerdy things we loved. I knew within seconds we’d be best friends for life and that he’d be there at every other birthday party I ever had.
By the next year, he was not only attending the parties, he was helping me organise them.
Twenty-Six
Memory 15
It was his idea that my sweet sixteenth should have a “nineties’ bubble-gum pop” theme.
“What? It’s ironic,” he said. “Everyone knows you’re into the serious and worthy nineties’ music, not Aqua and Westlife. They’ll know you’re doing it tongue-in-cheek. Don’t worry. Your cred will remain intact.” He looked at me suspiciously. “You do still like nineties’ music, don’t you, Connie-girl? Or has my Other Best Friend completely Stepford-Wifed you into submission and a penchant for Baroque string quartets?”
I looked down at my fingernails. They were French manicured. Viggo’s sister Catherine had invited me along to her “nail therapy” appointment. Of course, it would have been rude to say no. And Viggo encouraged me to go. He said his sister could use some “girl time”, and, just as an aside, he mentioned that he loves the look of French manicures.
But that wasn’t why I picked the neutral nails instead of the black glitter ones that had looked kind of cool, too.
The black ones were sure to chip within hours and then it would be a waste of money, wouldn’t it? Whereas, if I did mess up the nearly nude polish, it would be less noticeable. It really had nothing to do with Viggo’s preferences and all to do with practicality.
It didn’t make me a Stepford Wife. Neither did my new Ted Baker dress pants. They were an investment. I could wear them to my art tutoring lessons and to school, and because they were expensive (even though I did get them on sale), they were sure to last lots longer than the old black skinny leg jeans I used to wear before.
At least, that’s what Kacey Kuusela told me when she sold them to me.
Yes, I know, I bought clothing from one of the überclones but, actually, she was quite nice to me when Em and I went into the boutique where she worked.
In fact, she’d been quite nice to me ever since Viggo arrived and I started dressing a bit more, well, “basic” and acting a bit less … weird. The wave-and-smile in the mall that day wasn’t a one-off. Kacey Kuusela actually seemed to like me.
She was so nice to me on the day I bought the pants, in fact, that Em said, “See, I told you that you’d get along if you just gave her a chance.”
“She’s still an überclone,” I protested half-heartedly.
“What does that even mean?” asked Em.
“You know, she and her friends: they all talk the same, look the same, dress the same …”
“Hmm …” Em looked thoughtful. “I wonder if they all dress in clothes from that shop.” She looked pointedly at the carrier bags I held in my hands.
But it wasn’t true. I wasn’t turning into an überclone. I wasn’t a replica. I wasn’t a Stepford Wife.
“Of course I still like nineties’ music,” I told Jed defiantly. “Nineties’ bubble-gum pop party it is. It will be awesome.”
Jed looked happier than I’d seen him in months.
Twenty-Seven
Memory 16
Of course, the awesomeness of Jed’s party idea seemed much less when I answered the door to Viggo MacDuff, dressed as Baby Spice.
Jed dared me.
It seemed like a fun idea. And when I was planning my clothes with Em and Jed, the pink babydoll dress, pigtails and sequinned platform sneakers had seemed funny.
Now, seeing myself through Viggo’s eyes, I felt silly and a bit trashy.
I was expecting him to look shocked, disgusted even. But instead, he smiled and opened his black jacket to reveal a lurid blue swirly top, gold neck-chains and, as I looked down, I saw he wore lime green polyester pants and chunky platform sneakers.
“I have no idea who I’m meant to be,” he said, grinning. “But my sister said these were appropriate clothes. And you look … well, odd, but beautiful.”
“Really?” I breathed.
“Really. I’m so glad you invited me, Constance. Because … and I know I haven’t even entered the party yet, so this may seem forward, but I could either ask now or spend all evening anticipating the perfect moment and—you know me—I do prefer to just come out and say these things so: oddly-dressed Constance Chase, I would like very much to ask you to be my girlfriend.”
Twenty-Eight
“That’s how he asked you?”
Jed and I are sitting on the kiosk counter, peering out at the semi-dark skate rink. It looks kind of pretty like this, all dim and shadowy, the light from the Coke fridges illuminating the metal rails so they glitter and shine.
My skates are on the counter on either side of me and I have a hand in each. I’m running them idly backwards and forwards on the Laminex surface. I’m in a sombre mood now, thinking of that night when Viggo and I became “Congo” and how, exactly a year later, I royally screwed it up.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s how he asked me.”
“What an absolute prick,” Jed spits.
I turn to h
im, mouth open. “What? What’s that supposed to mean? It was romantic!”
“It was a business transaction!” Jed cries. “He asked you to be his girlfriend as if he was employing you to be his secretary.”
“That’s not true! It was lovely! And he made a huge effort, dressing like a boy band member. And he bought me a present.”
“What present?” Jed asks. “Oh no, wait. This I remember. He bought you a CD, didn’t he? One hundred greatest classical songs of all time? Something like that?”
I feel my cheeks colour. “Yes,” I say defensively. “And he bought me a book on John Howard. What’s wrong with that?”
“He asks you to be his girlfriend and then gives you a book on John Howard.”
I look down at my toes. I haven’t put my Vans back on. My feet are in mismatched socks—one spotted, the other one with tiny chickens on it.
Viggo would have a cow. He hates things that don’t match.
“Can I tell you the next memory already?” I ask. “This one is more romantic.”
Jed gives me a funny look. “We need to leave,” he says. “It’s six am. Meg is opening at six-thirty, with another guy. We obviously can’t be here when they arrive.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the next adventure? Where are you taking me now?”
“Do you really want to keep doing this?” Jed snaps. “I mean, it’s not even Christmas anymore. I’m tired. I’m sure you’re tired. Maybe we should both just go home.”
I stare at Jed for a moment. “What’s wrong?” I ask finally. I hold up a finger when he opens his mouth. “Don’t tell me nothing’s wrong, Jeremiah. I know something’s wrong. I know you better than I know anybody in the world. I know when you’re not okay.”
“You know me better than you know Viggo?”
I suck in a breath and think how to phrase my answer. “I mean, I’ve known you longer, so—”
“And, point of fact—” Jed hops off the counter and strides over to where he left his boots. He shoves his feet in and begins doing up the metal clips. “You don’t know when I’m not okay. You used to, but for the past year you’ve had no idea.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you want to just go home?” He glances up at me. He does look tired. “I’m actually kind of over this.”
“Jed, please just tell me what’s wrong,” I plead, moving towards him. I hold out my hand to take his. He ignores it. “Come on, Jeremiah. This isn’t like you. Why are you acting all funny?”
“Why am—” Jed shakes his head. “Connie, you’re the one who acted like you were kidnapped by the Shakri and replaced with an überclone for a whole entire year, and you ask me why I’m acting funny?”
He puffs out an angry breath. “Connie, I came over to your house last night so we could have a good old bitch together about Viggo and how he done you wrong and when you said you had all these memories of him, I thought, ‘yeah, let’s share some bad memories of Viggo. Have a really good, solid, ranty, angry—probably quite humorous and entertaining—debrief. But instead, you’re still all starry-eyed, even though Blind Freddie could see Viggo was a total dick to you. Even before you were together. Which is as far as we’ve got so far. We’ve only just got to him ‘formally proposing that you become his girlfriend’, and already I’m torn between hating the guy and being bored witless.”
“He’s meant to be your best friend,” I protest feebly.
“Was meant to be my best friend,” Jed corrects. “We were friends when we were kids. And then we kept in touch and saw each other once in a blue moon and that was kind of fine because I didn’t stay long enough for him to ditch me. Or for him to annoy the Ewok out of me, which is all he’s been doing since he came back. Now I want to punch his lights out.”
“And you’ve felt this way for … a year? Why … why did you keep being friends with him then?”
Jed fixes me with a piercing, withering stare. “Because you loved him, dumb arse. And I didn’t want to lose you.”
He walks past me towards the exit.
“Jed?” I call after him. “Where are you going?”
He turns. He really does look exhausted. “We are going, Connie-girl. We are going to go and get a really greasy, disgusting McDonald’s breakfast and I’m going to stop being such an emo and you’re going to tell me more about the delightful Viggo MacDuff.”
I take his arm and we leave together. “I’ll prove to you he’s not so bad,” I say.
“I’ll let you try,” Jed says.
Twenty-Nine
Memory 17
The day after my birthday party, Viggo turned up on my doorstep.
I didn’t answer the door because I was still in bed. The party had ended at midnight and Mum and Dad and I had kept the bad nineties’ music going and cleaned up the house. I didn’t get to bed until nearly two. And, don’t get me wrong; this wasn’t, like, “the latest I’d ever stayed up” or anything pathetic like that. Jed and I had stayed awake till sunrise heaps of times, binge-watching box sets or listening to music or just talking into the wee hours. I was used to late nights and zombie mornings, but, nonetheless, after a two am bedtime, it’s nice to just stay in bed until you feel human, or until someone brings you doughnuts.
Nobody brought me doughnuts. So in bed I stayed.
Ergo, it was Mum who answered the door to Viggo at nine am.
Yep, you heard that right. At nine on a Sunday morning, Viggo was already showered, dressed and had bicycled the at-least-half-hour trip to my house.
The man is not human.
Of course, it helped that he left the party at nine pm, citing an application deadline for university summer school.
“Poppet, you have a visitor!”
I dragged myself, grumbling, down the stairs, bleary eyed and bed-haired and still dressed in my Dalek pyjamas.
“If this is you, Jeremiah, you better have doughnuts,” I muttered.
It was, of course, not Jed. Because it was nine am on a freaking Sunday morning.
It was, instead and of course, Viggo MacDuff. All shiny and dressed in a suit and tie.
Yes, Viggo MacDuff cycles in a suit.
“Poppet?” My dad was standing at the door, his expression a combination of amused and befuddled.
He was also wearing his Sunday Best: stubbie shorts, Ugg boot slippers, a faded “Come on, Aussie, Come on!” tee-shirt, circa nineteen eighty-five, and a Boags Beer hat.
There was a ridiculous amount of not good happening all at once.
I threw my dad a murderous look, which I hoped said, “Do not embarrass me any more than I already am. And do not call me Poppet again!”
Dad grinned again, his eyes flashing wickedly. “Poppet, this bloke says he’s your new boyfriend. You been keeping something from your old dad?”
“Only since last night,” I mumbled. I took a deep breath. “Dad, Viggo. Viggo, my dad, Steve.”
“We have already done introductions while you continued your beauty sleep,” Viggo said, smiling indulgently. “Fetching outfit, new girlfriend.”
“I swear I don’t usually … I just … it was late and …” I blathered.
“She’s telling the truth.” I turned around to see my little sister standing behind me, also still in her pyjamas. “Constance usually dresses for bed in a trés elegant Egyptian cotton Laura Ashley nightgown.”
Patience’s face was deadpan. She wasn’t trying to make fun of me. She was trying to help.
Did I mention I adore my little sister?
“I’m certain Constance did not intend to look so unappealing,” Viggo said. “Not all of us are out our best at …” He looked at his watch. “Well, I can’t really say it’s first thing in the morning anymore.”
“Constance doesn’t look unappealing!” Patience protested. “She looks phenomenal. She always does!”
“I’ll just go and get changed into something more … less … like this,” I said, trying to smile. I’m sure it looked more like a grimace.
&
nbsp; “No matter,” Viggo said, holding up a hand. “I only came over to drop off the university summer school prospectus. I decided, as I worked on my own application, that it was essential that you accompany me.”
“You’re doing summer school?” my dad asked, raising a curious eyebrow. “I thought you and Jed were going up the coast with his family. Didn’t I hear you and your mum talking about Wineglass Bay?”
“I’m certain those plans can change,” Viggo said, his teeth gleaming. “Constance, I believe it is imperative to the betterment of your education during this coming—final—year of matriculation to undertake some additional tertiary classes at university level. I also believe that associating with those already engaged in these opportunities for educational extension would see you in good stead for your university studies in the coming years, and provide you with a more rounded conception of the courses on offer to you upon enrolment.”
I blinked.
My dad blinked.
I cleared my throat. “Um. Yeah. What he said.”
Patience grinned. “Good one, Connie! I can help you with the work, if you like. I’ve already been doing a few uni subjects in my spare time. It’ll be fun.”
Did I mention my sister is a child prodigy?
Dad looked at me quizzically. “Well, then, ‘Constance’,” he said slowly, his lip twitching. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of your educational betterment. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and … better myself. Out in the garden. With The Age and a strong coffee. Great to meet you, mate,” he said, holding out a hand to Viggo, who shook firmly.
“And you, sir. I look forward to many of these exchanges in the future.”
As my father walked away, I was sure I could see his shoulders shaking with silent giggles. I shook my head.
Accountants. They have seriously screwy senses of humour. There was nothing vaguely funny about Viggo MacDuff. He was perfection.
