by Paul Collins
‘And I meant it.’
Yes, I had meant it at the time. But AJ was different this year, older, more sure of himself. He'd caught up with me somehow. I even had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. Last summer it was the other way around. ‘Be good to Kel, AJ. She's fragile.’
I dived under the next wave and swam for as long as my breath held, my breasts scraping the sandy bottom. When I surfaced, AJ was riding the wave back to the beach where Kelly waited, his body a human bullet gliding through the frothing water. Well, that was an alternative. Instead of going under or over, you could always ride the wave to its conclusion. But AJ was my friend and Kelly was my best friend. I wanted it to stay that way.
‘Hey, Mish!’ Toby called from the veranda. ‘Is that Kelly down by the barbecues kissing some boy?’
‘What?’ I raced out onto the deck and snatched the binoculars.
‘I thought we weren't supposed to be spying!’ said Toby.
‘I'm not spying, I'm just checking,’ I said, zooming in on the picnic area. There was Kelly, her arms around somebody's neck, but that somebody was hidden by a tree. ‘I can't see who it is.’
‘Who else could it be?’ said Toby, just as I caught a glimpse of red floral board shorts.
‘Who else, indeed?’ Casting the binoculars in Toby's direction I rushed into my room, grabbed a pen and paper and flung myself onto the bed. I would get this stupid idea out of my head if it was the last thing I did.
It was a long shallow walk out past the breakers that night. The surf was flat and the waves hissed onto the sand as I waded out up to my chin, bobbing over each small crest. The sea was so calm there was no need to dive under, just walk right on through. My hand was still cramping as I swung my arm in a smooth arc and hurled the bottle as far out to sea as I could. Then I turned and swam back towards the beach. That should do the trick.
Kelly was still in bed when I left for the beach the next morning. She'd been sending text messages late into the night while she thought I was asleep. Down by the sea, rows of surfers floated like seals out where the first line of breakers swelled. A lace of seaweed trimmed the beach at the high tide mark as I set off towards the point at a fast stride. There was a man out walking his dog and two old ladies paddling through the shallows with their trousers rolled up to their knees but no one else was about until I heard the soft squeak of someone running behind me.
‘Mish! Wait!’
AJ fell into step beside me without saying another word. For once I didn't have an opinion to offer, either.
‘I was down on the beach early this morning,’ he said finally. ‘I found something.’
‘A shell?’
‘No. A bottle.’
‘What kind of bottle?’
‘The full kind.’ He pulled a crumple of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on his palm. I suddenly knew that if I looked over his shoulder I would see lines and lines of straggly writing all saying the same thing. He paused to look at me but I was deliberately staring out to sea. ‘Mish, the tide was turning last night. The bottle came back.’
‘I don't know what you're talking about.’
‘How about “I will not love AJ” written a thousand times?’
‘So? The operative word is not.’
‘Will not, not do not.’
‘I was getting rid of ghosts.’
‘What ghosts?’
‘The ghosts of what-might-have-been.’
AJ stepped in front of me so that I had to stop or walk straight into his chest. He grasped me by the upper arms to hold me still. ‘Last year you said we were just friends.’
‘We weren't ready to be more than friends last year. And now it's too late. Now you have Kelly. And Kelly is my friend.’
‘What makes you think I want Kelly?’
‘You were kissing her for a start.’
‘I never did!’
‘I saw you. Well, actually, I saw your board shorts kissing her.’
‘I lent my boardies to Macka because he ripped his on the rocks.’
‘Then it wasn't you kissing Kel?’
‘No! The only person I want to kiss is you.’
When we finally came up for air, AJ had a few more than ten words to say. After he told me how sexy he thought I was and how he'd wanted to kiss me since we were twelve, he gave me a lecture. I hate lectures.
‘Being loyal is cool, Mish, but you can't always be in control. Sometimes you've just got to go with the flow. Let the wave take you where it will.’
That's okay, I suppose, so long as the wave is going where I want it to go.
‘Can I sit with you?’ he said, leaning over the cinema seat. She turned her head and looked back into the dark. It was the leather jacket that made her certain that it was him.
‘There's a free seat,’ she said, shrugging. She turned back to the screen.
‘I'll behave, promise,’ he said. He had to go past a group of kids watching the movie with their grandmother to get out. ‘’Scuse me. Sorry. Sorry. Thanks.’
He sat down next to her and put his black boots up on the seat in front. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a packet of Jaffas. He offered them to her. She shook her head.
‘You don't like Jaffas?’ he said, tossing one into his mouth. ‘I'll remember that.’
‘Why are you following me?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Following you?’ He crunched the Jaffa. ‘What makes you think I'm following you?’
‘You were at Maccas when I was having lunch. Then, when I was looking at shoes, who should turn up a minute later but you.’
‘I didn't buy in the end.’
‘It was a woman's shoe shop.’
‘I'm a modern guy.’
‘Then I went to Sanity,’ she said. ‘It turns out that you like sixties music as well.’
‘Always have. Fab stuff. Groovy.’
‘You followed me to Dymocks.’
‘We'll have to talk about our favourite books some time.’
She ignored the offer. ‘And now you're at the movies,’ she said.
‘Coincidence,’ he said.
‘I want you to stop bothering me,’ she said, collecting up her things to leave.
‘You're beautiful,’ he said, tossing another Jaffa into his mouth, crunching down on it again.
‘You're crazy.’ She stood up.
‘Only for you. Sit down again. Please,’ he begged. For some reason, she did. ‘I followed you from the bus mall,’ he continued. ‘I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were special.’
‘Ssh!’ hissed the kids in the row behind, annoyed.
He ignored them. ‘We're made for each other …’
He stopped, waiting for her to provide her name.
‘Angela,’ she said after a moment.
‘Angela, my angel,’ he said.
‘Can't you do better than that?’
‘I'll try to do better. I promise. By the way, I'm Andrew,’ he said. ‘Andrew Carruthers. Our names go well together, don't you think: Angela and Andrew.’
‘Our names are never going to go together.’
‘We'll see. Do you want to get a coffee or something?’ he suggested.
‘In case you've forgotten, I came in here to escape you.’
‘I didn't think Battling Bunnies would really be your sort of movie,’ he said, not at all put off.
‘Sssh!’ the kids behind chorused again, louder this time. An usher came in. He shone his torch in the direction of the hiss. Andrew stood. He took her arm and led her out into the cinema foyer. Sitting on the orange couch, she looked at him properly. He was fifteen or sixteen; quite tall, brown hair and matching brown eyes. A good haircut. He was wearing black jeans, boots and the leather jacket. Maybe he really was a sixties fan.
He smiled at her. He had a killer smile.
‘We were made for each other,’ he said. ‘We both like the movies, music, books, food.’
‘And shoes,’ she said.
He
laughed. He had a nice laugh to go with his looks and his killer smile.
‘You work hard at these pick-ups, don't you, Andrew.’
‘A hunter needs to be patient.’
‘So, you're a hunter?’
‘Not normally. You're special.’
‘Is your name really Andrew?’
He pulled out his wallet and showed her his student bus pass. He went to Hurley Street High and even managed to look quite good in the head shot on the pass.
‘Aren't you going to ask if my name is really Angela?’ she said.
‘I trust you, Angela,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go back and see the rest of the movie? To find out if the bunnies defeat their enemies, the foxes?’
‘I think I can guess the outcome.’
‘How about that coffee then?’
‘Okay.’
They got up and walked out of the cinema. She didn't take his offered arm.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’
‘What's it to you?’
‘It could be everything, Angela.’
He sipped his coffee, studying her over the rim of his cup. She liked him for some reason, despite his cockiness.
‘No, no boyfriend.’ She shook her head.
‘Everyone must be blind, deaf and dumb,’ he said.
‘There have been some boys I've been out with,’ she admitted, ‘but no one I'm really interested in. I've got mates but they're friends, not boyfriends.’
‘I'm glad there isn't a boyfriend,’ Andrew said.
‘Why?’
‘Because then I'd have had to fight a duel with him for you and I hate bloodshed,’ he said. ‘Particularly when it's my own blood.’
She laughed.
‘It's one thing you should know about me, I'm a complete coward,’ he said. ‘And I hate sports of every kind.’
‘Interesting.’
‘But,’ he said, ‘if I need to be a star for you, just point me in the right direction and I'll do whatever needs doing.’
‘I've never met anyone like you before,’ Angela said, laughing again.
‘Yep, I'm one of a kind,’ he said.
‘You think a fair bit of yourself, don't you?’
‘If I didn't think a fair bit of myself, I wouldn't be nearly good enough for you, Angela.’
‘Why do I suspect that you've used that line before,’ she said, but she leaned forward and touched his leather-clad arm. The leather was soft, obviously expensive. ‘I like leather. Well, Andrew Carruthers, where do you suggest we go from here?’
‘That's up to you, Angela. I'll follow you anywhere. I'll slay dragons for you, if you have any dragons in need of slaying. Anything, anything at all, ask it of me. No task is too difficult; no danger is too great; no fire is too hot.’
‘Okay,’ Angela said. ‘Just be quiet for a minute.’
‘That's asking the near impossible. To be silent in the presence of such beauty …’
‘Hush,’ she said, thinking for a moment while he drank some more of his coffee, patiently waiting.
Eventually she said, ‘All right, Andrew, I do have something you can do for me.’
‘Lead on.’
‘That's Mick, he's my dad.’ Angela pointed out a man of about forty. He was dressed in a pair of white pants and a red jumper. He was practising his golf swing while waiting for his turn at the tee.
‘Terrible dress sense.’
‘He's a golfer!’
They were watching from behind some trees, after catching the bus out to the golf course from town. She'd refused to tell him what she wanted him to do. Somehow she had known that he would be at the 16th hole at this precise moment.
‘He's got your height,’ Andrew said, watching as Angela's dad dug some soil out with a wild practice swing.
‘He's got my pocket money. He wouldn't give it to me because I didn't pass a maths test.’
‘Mean!’
‘What I want you to do …’
‘Anything.’
‘What I want you to do is wait until they're playing the last hole.’
‘Then … ?’
‘Then, when it's Dad's turn …’
‘Yes?’
‘I want you to run across in front of him. So he'll blow the shot and lose the game. I want revenge.’
‘Simple,’ Andrew said.
‘Naked,’ Angela added.
‘Naked?’ Andrew turned and stared at her, trying to see if she was being serious. ‘You want me to do this without clothes?’
‘That's what naked usually means.’
‘Why?’
‘To shock him. You said you'd do anything for me.’
‘I will. But this …!’
‘Are you going to chicken out, Andrew? Are you scared?’ Angela taunted.
‘No … yeah, well, yeah!’ he said. ‘I told you I'm a coward.’
‘I like your honesty, Andrew. And I like you.’ She kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘So, do it. Just think of this little thing as a test of your worthiness,’ she said.
‘My worthiness?’ he said, dry-mouthed.
She nodded and he, after a moment or two, nodded back. ‘Okay, I'll do it. For you,’ he said.
‘For us.’ Angela smiled and squeezed his hand.
It was cold in the shadow of the tree. The group of players approached the final hole, laughing and talking.
Mick, Angela's dad, was talking the loudest. His ball had landed just a few short centimetres from the flag and the hole.
Andrew had stripped down to his jocks. He buzzed with adrenaline. Angela had the rest of his clothes.
‘If he sinks this, he'll win,’ said Angela in a whisper. ‘He's so good he plays with his victims. He's just sooo cocky.’
Andrew nodded. He didn't say anything.
‘Ready?’
He nodded again.
‘Okay, underpants,’ Angela ordered.
He dragged them down. She slapped him on the bottom and he was off, racing towards the golfers.
Mick was bending over his golf ball, concentrating so hard that a bomb blast wouldn't have distracted him. Andrew hoped he was the sort of bloke who'd forgive his game of golf being spoiled.
He pushed himself harder, powering forward. He was breathing hard.
Now one of the players noticed him. He tried to grab Andrew but Andrew swerved past him, yelling. Mick, about to make his shot, looked up at the sound. His grip on his putter slipped and the ball dribbled away from the hole.
Mick swore loudly. His face turned thunderous.
Andrew leapt in the air. He laughed like crazy as he circled around and then he was away. The golfers stood there. They didn't come after him. He ran into the bushes. Angela was gone. His clothes were in a pile on the ground. Not having time to think why she hadn't waited, Andrew scooped up his things and headed quickly towards the road that ran along one side of the golf course.
Still no one was coming after him. They must have decided that it wasn't worth it. Being done for streaking on the golf course wouldn't go down well with his mum and dad. He flung his clothes over the fence and carefully climbed through. He had to duck down as an old station wagon with surfboards on the rack rushed towards the beach at the end of the road.
Heart still pounding he pulled on his clothes, wondering where Angela had gone. After putting on his shirt, he suddenly realised that something was missing. The leather jacket.
And it wasn't even his. He hadn't told Angela that but the jacket was his brother's. Danny was home on leave from the Australian Navy. He'd promised Andrew that he'd kill him if he ever even thought about touching the jacket. Eight hundred bucks worth of Italian leather.
And Danny would kill him. Or close to kill him.
There was something in his shirt pocket. A note. Feeling a bit sick, he unfolded it to read:
My name's not Angela.
Mick's not my father.
Maths is my best subject.
Nice bum.
Thanks for the jacket.
/> She had signed off with four kisses, written in red lipstick.
Angry, Andrew picked up his boot and threw it across the road. He swore. Then he suddenly started to laugh. It had been a fun afternoon. She had left him with most of his clothes. He didn't have to try and get home across town completely naked. ‘Okay,’ he said aloud, ‘tonight I'll be dead but enjoy the jacket, Angela. I reckon that you were worth it.’
He finished dressing. After kissing the note, he folded it and put it back in his shirt pocket. After getting his boot, he began the walk back to town.
Andrew Carruthers whistled as he walked.
How? How can the battery be flat? This stupid thing is supposed to go at least a hundred and twenty songs on a single charge. And the last thing I do before bed each night – no matter what time it is – is charge, so don't tell me I forgot because I never forget.
But the screen is dead, and shaking it isn't doing any good. What if I bang it against the ticket machine? No, that'll invalidate the warranty. How much did Mum pay for this dopey thing? Some birthday present. I just hope she kept the receipt.
Brilliant. I haven't even downloaded any music into my phone, so now I'm stuck on this stinking tram with nothing to listen to. Should I call someone? Forget it. I've done enough yapping for today. School debates really take it out of you. Note to self: never volunteer for anything like that again, even if the teacher does think you're a hotshot. But at least it got me the afternoon off.
So what now? It's twenty minutes before I get home. Anything in my bag to read? Nothing but a lousy maths book. Quick scan of the seats for a newspaper or magazine. Scan. I'll take anything. Scan. Scan. Nothing, not even a stocktake-sale catalogue. Great. Nothing to read but people.
Is that woman over there speaking to her kids in German? God that man's ugly. Same with the woman at the front exit. I think the tram driver's smoking. Look at how old that couple is. How sweet. Holding hands and all. Now that's love.
What's that girl writing? It's not about me, is it? Better not be or I'll get Dad to sue her into the middle of next week. So long as she's rich, of course. No point otherwise.
She doesn't look it, though. Those clothes need a good wash. And they've got to be the shabbiest sneakers ever. But she's pretty, so she gets credit for that.
