The Boy/Friend

by R. M. Corbet

  ‘It’s Andy.’

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘You rowed with me, remember!’

  ‘Is Simon okay? Is he hurt?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You’re not calling for Simon?’

  ‘I’m calling you, Maude, to see what’s up.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What’s up, dance-wise.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You and me, Maude. I thought we might hook up?’

  ‘Hook up?’

  ‘For the dance?’ said Andy. ‘I figured I’d ask.’

  ‘I can’t talk now, Andy. I’m expecting a call.’

  I hung up and stared out the window, till my gaze strayed to Lou’s precious found objects on the ledge. I leaned across, picked up the fishhook and twirled it between my fingers.

  Hook up with Andy?

  I burst into tears.

  It was dark and late when my phone rang again. In my feverish sleep-daze, I fell out of bed trying to get it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey Maudie-Maude,’ said a singsong voice.

  It was Shauna.

  I desperately tried to unscramble my head. I asked Shauna if she was feeling any better since her shots. She told me she was. Thanks for asking, she said. She asked me how I was feeling after mine. I lied and said I was fine, too. Thanks for asking, I said.

  So far, so good, but my head was a mess.

  Shauna said something about needing to talk. We’d been fighting too much. We should make a fresh start. She said she hoped that we could be friends. I said I hoped we could, too. I told Shauna she was sweet and I thanked her for calling. I put down the phone, confused and uncertain. Maybe the vaccinations had scrambled her brain, too.

  I was lying there puzzled when the phone rang again.

  This time, thank goodness, it was Simon.

  Simon apologised for not ringing sooner. He’d been rowing and had only just got home.

  ‘Can you guess why I called?’

  ‘I figured it might be about the midwinter ball. Your friends rang my mates here at training.’

  ‘Alison, Bianca and Shauna? You’ve spoken to them?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Did Shauna offer you another night to remember?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Some girls don’t know how to take no for an answer.’

  ‘Some boys don’t know how to, either.’

  ‘You said yes to Shauna?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maude.’

  It must have been the fever. The truth was, I was shattered.

  ‘I guess you wish you’d asked her in the first place, and not me.’

  ‘My mates made me do it, Maude. Why would I be interested in Shauna?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Simon.’ I hung up in a sad blur of fever and tears.

  Maude McNaughton: old maid.

  I picked up Lou’s fishhook and twirled it between my fingers. I twirled and twirled, trying to work it all out, until I was completely twirled out.

  Then I picked up my phone and redialled.

  ‘Andy? It’s Maude, ringing back about the ball. Do you have a date yet? Well, neither do I! Sure I would. Why not? Let’s hook ourselves up.’

  tangled

  IT WAS BAD, BUT IT wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Sure, I’d made Andy an offer and he had accepted. But that didn’t mean it was permanent. It wasn’t set in stone. There was no contract or binding legal document. It was an expression of interest, that’s all. I had optioned Andy, but I was keeping my options open. I was buying time. Making plans. Putting out feelers. When I’d found a suitable alternative, I would un-invite Andy. Un-invite? Dis-invite? De-invite?

  It sounded bad, but it wasn’t.

  It occurred to me that I might be being mean. Was it wrong to invite someone and then change your mind? I considered the ethical and moral dimensions. I had invited Andy under duress. It had been a long day. I was emotionally exhausted. I had a fever. A delirium. I could hardly be held responsible for my actions.

  Andy would live. He would get asked out again. There was bound to be some yokel do coming up: a pig-shoot, a clambake, a tractor-pull. He’d have dozens of cousins who would jump at the chance. Besides, this wasn’t about morals. It was about surviving the midwinter ball without being mocked and ridiculed.

  Andy was my fallback, my backup, my Plan B.

  All I needed now was a Plan A.

  Lou was out in the studio, setting up mike stands. The Funky Junk Orkestra was planning to record its demo that weekend, but he needed to do a sound check first.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘You could help me . . .’

  ‘. . . untangle the mike leads?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  We sat down and got to work sorting the leads, weaving the cables in and out of the knots, taking care not to get caught in each other’s work. The trick to untangling is not to be in a hurry. Rushing it just tends to make the knots tighter.

  Lou was my Plan A. My number one option. We could start with the ball. Then who knew what would happen? I wanted to ask Lou. I wanted Lou to say yes. But I didn’t want him to feel that he had to say yes. I couldn’t stand the thought of him agreeing to go without really wanting to go. If Lou didn’t want to go, that was his business. It didn’t mean he didn’t care about me. On the other hand, what would it hurt him to go, if it meant helping me out of a tight spot?

  My tangle was just getting worse.

  Lou showed me how to undo a tight knot, by switching leads with me then switching back again.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You look worried.’

  ‘I’ve got a problem. I might need your help.’

  ‘Anything. The answer is yes.’

  ‘You don’t even know what it is yet.’

  ‘So go ahead and ask me.’

  ‘I’m scared you might think it’s . . .’

  ‘. . . unbearable?’

  ‘Unbearably dull, maybe.’

  ‘Come on, Maude. You’re not at school now.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We’re old friends. There’s no need to be so . . .’

  ‘. . . polite and ladylike?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘What’s so wrong with being polite?’ I snapped. ‘I am so sick of hearing you put down my school. Why are you so narrow-minded? There are snobs at your school. You don’t need to be rich to be stupid.’

  ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I take it all back. What was it you wanted? I promise to say yes . . . unless it’s really dull.’ He grinned.

  ‘Some other time, maybe,’ I sulked.

  Some other time, if we were lucky.

  Before we were finished untangling, Miles came to tell us that Ivy was here. Together we went out to give her a hand with the beaten-up roadcase she’d borrowed from her brother the DJ. Inside were mikes and leads, a laptop and a strange black box.

  ‘An analogue–digital converter,’ Ivy explained.

  She plugged one end of the black box in to the PA’s mixer and the other end in to her laptop. The screen showed a mixing console, with sliding volumes and knobs for effects. I watched Ivy’s long fingers skip across the mousepad. Clearly she knew what she was doing.

  With the mikes plugged into the mixer, they got started. I stood looking on helplessly as Ivy explained how to EQ each input, how to pan left and right, how to reduce noise and how to add different effects like chorus, delay and reverb.

  ‘It’s easy,’ she said. ‘Any idiot could do it.’

  Lou looked at me, presumably because it was like Front of House. Either that, or because I was an idiot.

  ‘I should get going,’ I told him.

  ‘Actually, we need you to stay for a bit.’

  He and Ivy both put on headphones while Miles and I took up our positions. To help them test the volume levels, our job was to hit, pluck, blow and shake every piece of junk in the room. A sim
ple enough business, I would have thought, except that it seemed to go on forever. For every object I picked up to play, Ivy and Lou were insistent:

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘Now softer.’

  ‘Now close to the mike.’

  ‘Now step back.’

  ‘Further.’

  ‘Now play it loud.’

  ‘Louder!’

  After an hour of whacking and puffing and twanging and rattling, I’d had it. My ears were ringing. My arms were sore. My back hurt. My fingers had blisters. More than that, though, I was sick and tired of being told what to do. I wondered what all the fuss was about. Junk was still junk, surely? Chaos was chaos. Pandemonium was still pandemonium. Would anyone notice how clear the sound was? Wasn’t noise meant to be noisy?

  I would have quit sooner, I wouldn’t have stayed, if I hadn’t been spying on Ivy. Whatever sounds or settings she changed, Lou always agreed it was better that way. Whenever she liked something, he liked it, too. Whenever she didn’t, he didn’t. There were no disagreements. They both saw eye to eye on everything. Except it was always on her terms, not his.

  It didn’t make sense to see Lou so complacent. It was his band. He knew how it was meant to sound. But Ivy was always so quick to decide. So outspoken, certain and pushy. How could he not see what I saw so clearly – that Ivy was out to hijack his band?

  ‘Maudie. Can we do a vocal check now?’

  I hated her calling me Maudie.

  I glanced at Lou. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Ivy. ‘Use your imagination.’

  I stepped up to the mike.

  The time-honoured sound check was simply: ‘One, two!’ It was the roadie’s creed: ‘One, two . . . check one, tsoo!’ Traditional, familiar and very non-threatening. But hardly imaginative.

  ‘HIJACKER,’ I said into the mike.

  ‘Again,’ said Ivy.

  ‘HIJACKER!’

  Miles was smiling now. Lou looked concerned. But Ivy was too busy twiddling to notice.

  ‘That’s the way, Maudie. Keep going.’

  ‘HIJACKER . . . HIJACKER . . . HIJACKER!’

  mixed message

  I SAT AT MY DESK staring at the precious possessions lined up on my window ledge: the fishhook, the hand-carved elephant, the letter M and the barometer. Like the movie ticket, they all had their stories.

  Where had they come from originally? How had they made their way down to the creek, for Lou to find and give to me? What had his reason for choosing them been? Was he sending me some hidden message? I had to admit the Scrabble letter M most likely stood for Me, Maude McNaughton, but those other things – what were they saying?

  I was contemplating this when I got a message from Shauna:

  Just checking to see if you’re okay.

  Magnificent! I texted back. Marvellous!

  Don’t give up. There are plenty of fish in the sea.

  The last thing I needed was Shauna’s smug pity. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Andy.

  That would be simply unbearable.

  Ever since I’d dialled Andy’s number and asked him out, I’d known in my heart that I’d made a mistake. Ever since I’d hung up and he’d called back to check that I hadn’t been joking. (What was I thinking? I should have said yes.) Ever since Andy had called back again to say goodnight, and that he was too excited to sleep, and I’d told him to quit it and leave me alone.

  From that fateful night, the guy would not let up.

  ‘Hi, Maude. It’s Andy.’

  ‘Why are you calling?’

  ‘Just to say hi, and to see how you’re doing.’

  ‘Can’t you just text me? I’m meant to be studying.’

  ‘Me too. But this is school-related, right?’

  Andy liked talking. He talked about things that he’d read on the net; about people I’d never heard of and movies I hadn’t seen. He told me what YouTube videos he’d seen and what videos he was planning to see. He tried telling jokes that weren’t funny. He talked with his mouth full and told me what food he was eating. He told me what computer games he had played and what he was currently playing; what level he was on and what level he had previously got to. He told me about the phone card he’d bought that entitled him to make unlimited calls.

  Unlimited. That was a lot of calls.

  ‘Can’t you just text me?’

  ‘Why bother?’ he said.

  I listened to Andy, and then I stopped listening. I told him I was busy. I said I was tired. I yawned and I hinted, and then I was rude. I hung up, but he just kept ringing me back. I told him to quit it, but what could I do? He was my date for the ball, after all.

  What about Plan A?

  Where were all the other fish in the sea?

  Andy wanted to plan for the big night. He asked whether I liked drinking and I told him I didn’t. He told me all the different types of beer he liked and how many times he’d been drunk. He asked me what music I liked, and I said the Wiggles. He told me what music videos he owned and which were the best ones for stealing dance moves.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I know how to dance.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Maude. Do you know how to waltz?’

  ‘If you know how to lead, I can follow.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Maude. We’ll make a great couple.’

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend, Andy.’

  ‘All good, Maude. It’s going to be fun.’

  I spelled it out clearly in case he was deaf: ‘You . . . are . . . not . . . my . . . boyfriend.’

  ‘Wait and see, Maude. It’s all good.’

  If Andy had been my boyfriend, I would have dropped him. If I had anyone else to invite. But there were no boys left. All the good ones were taken. All I had was Andy – the backup guy.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it, Maude.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘All good, Maude. Who knows what will happen?’

  ‘I know what won’t happen, Andy.’

  ‘Should we get together some time after school?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘We could go see a movie, whatever you like?’

  ‘That’s a bad idea, Andy. A very bad idea.’

  It was strangely addictive, this bluntness of ours. Andy enjoyed being pushy. I found I enjoyed being rude. But no matter how honest or callous I was, no matter how many times I yawned loudly or interrupted him or just plain hung up on him, he never seemed truly offended. If anything, quite the reverse. It was like we’d invented our own little game. Like two boxers sparring without landing punches. Like World Series wrestlers with choreographed moves.

  It was strange, I admit, and a little bit sick.

  ‘Do you ever dream about me, Maude?’

  ‘I have nightmares, Andy.’

  It was something I did not understand, I confess. If there really were plenty of fish in the sea, why had I hooked up with Andy? Was it because all the big fish had been caught? There I was, acting like I had something on my line, when in fact it was just an old boot.

  Plan A had failed. There was only Plan B.

  Plan B, where B was for Boot.

  The Funky Junk Orkestra was out in the barn, recording their radio demo. This time, instead of spying through the window, I marched in and stood by the side wall. Lou was too busy talking to the Hijacker to pay me much attention, so I hovered there, roadie-like, nodding with appreciation and pretending to be important. The mikes were set up in different positions from the last time. Clearly, he and Ivy were experimenting.

  Jealousy is like a submarine. It goes under the radar most of the time, until it starts firing torpedoes. I was jealous of Shauna for stealing Simon. I was jealous of Alison and Bianca for both finding dates to the midwinter ball. I was jealous of Jill and her innocence. I was even jealous of Phoebe for not caring if she had a date or not.

  Most of all, though, I was jealous of Ivy – with her wild ha
ir, her long legs and red pouting mouth, her cool laugh and her husky low voice. I watched Ivy bossing the others around, telling them where to stand and which direction to face. I was jealous of her for hijacking Lou’s band. How could he not see what was happening?

  ‘Places, everyone. No talking. Remember – this is a take.’

  Lou made his way to the centre of the room. All eyes were on him now, all instruments raised. All except for Ivy, who was back at the mixing desk, making some last-minute changes.

  ‘Ivy? I need you to take up your place.’

  ‘As soon as I start the tape rolling.’

  Lou glanced at me. ‘Get in position. Let Maude do it.’

  Ivy looked uncertain. ‘Are you sure?’

  Lou beckoned me over. ‘It’s easy. Just click the red button.’

  ‘Got it.’

  I demonstrated what he’d said. It was easy. But Ivy insisted on showing me again. ‘The red button starts the recording,’ she explained. ‘To pause it, you click it again. If it’s flashing, it’s paused. That means it’s not recording. Click on it once and don’t click it again. Understand?’

  I glanced at Lou, and he smiled.

  ‘Maude knows what to do. Okay. Everyone ready?’

  Everyone nodded as Ivy scrambled back to her position.

  ‘Ready, Maude?’

  I gave him a thumbs-up and clicked the red button.

  Maude McNaughton: sound engineer.

  Lou counted them in and the band started playing: metallic and mangled, a junk-pile avalanche, gaining momentum. They were hammering paint cans and clanging bin lids. Smashing soup tins full of old nails. Rattling a ratty cutlery drawer. As Lou raised his arms, they all slowed to a stop. There was a brief silence, then as he pointed, they all played:

  Crash!

  Crash!

  Crash crash crash!

  With a sweep of Lou’s arms, they were off again, rolling and tumbling. He singled out individual players to play, then combined them in odd pairs and trios. It bounced and it jangled and mangled along until, once again, Lou raised his arms and everyone slowed to a stop.

  Crash!

  Crash!

  Then my mobile phone rang.

  Noise is noise. Junk is junk. Accidents happen. In among that cacophony of crashing and clanking, you wouldn’t think one little ringtone would matter.