Cruisin'

by Brian Caswell

  Still, it doesn't do much for your faith in the 'truth in advertising' principle.

  The thing is, it's not Adrian's brush with fame that's embarrassing – in fact, it's quite cool, when people ask you if your cousin was really on TV. It's more that he's weird, and he doesn't seem to care if people notice.

  He can do the splits from a standing start and is likely, for no apparent reason, to demonstrate the fact to anyone who happens to be nearby at the time. Or – and this is truly disturbing – he's even more likely to suddenly burst out with the chorus from a well-known show tune, when no one's expecting it.

  Andrew Lloyd-Webber's Cats isn't exactly the entertainment of choice at Boundary Park High – especially among members of the First Grade football team, who are just as likely to give you a wedgie for looking up at them without permission.

  Strangely, they never seem to pick on Adrian.

  They roll their eyes, and make smart comments to me about being related to him, but they never actually touch him. It's like they figure Nature played a pretty mean trick on him already, and nothing they could possibly do could really make things any worse, so why waste the effort.

  So there I am, trapped on a floating geriatric ward, with a bookworm mother and two escapees from a prime-time sitcom, wondering how I'm going to keep from going crazy over the next two weeks. I glance down at the gangplank, where the last few stragglers are making their way on-board – a girl about my age, in a wheelchair, being pushed carefully by her father; followed by three twenty-something guys with more bling between them than an MTV rap video, who look like they're beginning to realise that this isn't the sexy-singles pleasure cruise they thought they'd booked on for – and ... well, and ... Jenna Hamilton.

  I didn't know her name at that point, of course. All I knew was that I'd stopped breathing for long enough to produce a sharp pain in my chest and little floating black dots before my eyes.

  But more about that ... her ... Jenna ... later.

  2

  Cruise of the Living Dead

  THE WORLD ACCORDING TO SUZI

  Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with Jules that a few more years and a few less hormones won't fix. It's just that it's really frustrating having to watch him suffering over the bikini goddess of D-deck, when he has about the same chance of getting anywhere with Jenna Hamilton as a three-legged pit bull has of winning a cat show.

  Of course, Jules doesn't see it that way. Firstly, because he's infatuated, and secondly, because he's male – a pretty well unbeatable combination in the stupidity stakes.

  Not that he's stupid. Not really. If you were being perfectly objective, stupid is something you could never honestly accuse Jules of being.

  Naive, definitely.

  Inexperienced, absolutely.

  But not stupid.

  Except when it comes to his entirely irrational belief that anyone as devastatingly gorgeous as Jenna Hamilton could ever be remotely interested in someone thirteen-and-a-half months younger than she is.

  Someone who stammers uncontrollably every time she appears on deck in another incredibly cute bikini from her extensive wardrobe – but then never actually talks to her.

  It's lucky, really, that Jules isn't stupid.

  After all, he's the only person around my age on the entire boat – okay, ship – that I can have a halfway decent conversation with. Partly because his mother is a compulsive reader, and at least some of the habit has rubbed off on her only son – so we actually have something to talk about – and partly because there aren't too many people around my age on the ship. Period.

  To quote Jules, the entire cruise is like a big-budget remake of Cocoon. You know, the movie about a bunch of old pensioners who ...

  Never mind.

  If you never saw it, there's no point explaining, and if you did, there's no point in explaining either.

  Just be warned. Jules is big on movie references, but you sort of get used to it after a while.

  Anyway, to make things even worse, not only are people my age in short supply on Cruise of the Living Dead (sorry, I guess it rubs off!), but of the few teenagers who roam the decks looking for signs of life, most are still in the early stages of Wheelchair Aversion Syndrome.

  You know.

  Stage One. Stare for a moment, then as soon as the 'wheel-chairee' looks in your general direction look away so quickly you risk serious whiplash, just in case you might accidentally make eye contact, and whatever they have is contagious.

  Stage Two. Stare for a moment, then, when your victim looks up at you, smile in embarrassment and try to pretend you were staring into the middle distance, at some seagull (if you're out on deck) or at something on the wall (if you happen to be inside), just in case they might actually try to talk to you – scary thought!

  Stage Three. If you're caught staring, say hello, then look down at your watch – even if you're dressed for the pool, so you're not actually wearing one – and mutter something to yourself, like, 'Is that the time?' or 'Wow, I'm really late ...'

  (Newsflash for anyone thinking of using that last one: you're on a cruise ship ... Nothing that happens on a cruise ship – except maybe dinner – requires anything remotely resembling punctuality. That's sort of the whole point of going on a cruise – to escape, for a few days, from the obsession with being at the exact right place at the exact right time – and to experience what it feels like for once not to be 'really late'.)

  Stage Four – which a lot of people never quite manage – is to realise that nothing drastically bad is going to happen (to you, or to the poor creature in the wheelchair) if you just say hello and have a short conversation.

  So no, considering everything, there's not a whole lot wrong with Jules.

  The first time I met him, my father had just managed to get me to the top of the gangplank without going into cardiac arrest, and he (Jules, not my father) was standing near the security gate – you know, where they screen you for hidden weapons and/or bomb-making equipment, and photograph you for your on-board ID, so that they can let you back on board with reasonable confidence at whatever stopovers you may choose to take advantage of over the next two weeks.

  I was pretty certain Jules wasn't hanging around the security checkpoint because he was somehow fascinated by the subtle interplay of human personalities reacting under the stress of being security-checked.

  Okay, I know that last sentence was a bit over-the-top, but you'll have to forgive the occasional piece of purple prose. I'm writing this journal as practice for my first novel (just like Felicity, the woman at the creative-writing class, said I should) and you don't get published if all your sentences come off like an excerpt from a primary school graded reader – unless, of course, you're writing a primary school graded reader (which I'm not ever likely to do!).

  Besides, you're not supposed to be reading my private journal, anyway. I'm only writing it in conversational form because that's how Felicity told me to write it.

  Actually, Felicity wasn't a very good creative-writing teacher, and from a cursory check of the library shelves, I'm pretty sure that she never actually had anything published herself. Otherwise, why would she be wasting her time teaching creative-writing strategies to bored housewives, deathly serious twenty-somethings and one teenage wheelchair warrior-princess?

  Still, the journal sounded like a promising idea (fun, at least), so here I am, sitting in my cabin at two in the morning, rambling on about unrequited love and Jules Macaffrey.

  3

  Any Number – or All – of

  the Above

  JULES' STORY

  There's a formula they use in most Hollywood 'rom-coms' (which is trade talk for romantic comedies). It goes roughly like this:

  Stage 1. Boy meets Girl – who thinks he's:

  a) a dork

  b) stuck up

  c) a low-life

  d) a major hunk and totally out of her league

  e) any number – or all – of the above.

&
nbsp; Stage 2. Boy and Girl get together, usually because something happens that:

  a) causes him to save her from some terrible fate, and she realises that – what the heck – he might be handy to have around

  b) proves he's not any number – or all – of the above (or if he is, he has some other redeeming qualities)

  c) makes her decide to punish him for being any number – or all – of the above

  d) makes her decide to use him to make someone else (a rival or a potential boyfriend) jealous

  e) gives her amnesia, so she can't remember that she ever thought he was any number – or all – of the above.

  Stage 3. Boy loses Girl. This is the inevitable plot twist, to stop the whole thing becoming too gooey – even for a chick-flick. It should involve:

  a) her discovering that he's a liar (or unfaithful, or a terrorist, or gay) – even if it's not exactly true

  b) him getting unreasonably jealous, just because he sees her kissing another (usually incredibly good-looking) guy, who, unknown to our hero, usually happens to be:

  i) her long-lost brother,

  ii) her aerobics instructor (who is gay) or

  iii) a total stranger, who just happened to mistake her for someone he was once in love with, but who died tragically from a terminal plot cliché.

  c) him finding out about her plan to punish him for being any number – or all – of the above (even though she really does love him now, and she was about to tell him a number of times, only to be stopped by the actions of the annoying 'colourful best friend')

  d) him finding out about her plot to use him to make someone else jealous – even though she actually doesn't care about all that any more and just wants to spend the rest of her life having his babies

  e) her getting her memory back and remembering why she hated him in the first place (see Stage 1).

  Stage 4. Boy gets Girl back again – usually because:

  a) she realises she really does love him, in spite of him being any number – or all – of the above

  b) the annoying 'colourful best friend' talks sense into her, and she realises that spending the rest of her life with him is marginally better than spending the rest of her life having to listen to this insufferable pain telling her what a klutz she was for not spending the rest of her life with him

  c) he saves her from some terrible fate, and she realises that – what the heck – he might be handy to have around. You may have noticed this looks a lot like 2a, which is very observant of you, and only goes to prove that:

  i) this is a particularly flexible plot-device, or

  ii) rom-com screenwriters really don't have a whole lot of imagination

  d) the ninety minutes are almost up, and they have to come up with a cheesy ending, so that people will feel good enough to come back next time and buy more of the over-salted, overpriced popcorn and watered-down Coke – which is, of course, where the movie megaplexes really make their incredible profits

  e) he does something really corny – which was usually set up in a 'cute' scene an hour earlier in Stage 2, and inevitably involves him doing something incredibly stupid and demeaning, like singing 'their' song on the big screen at a major sporting event or interrupting a wedding (while the rest of the other annoying colourful characters get all teary and participate in a group hug).

  So, why am I telling you all this?

  Because, in real life, things don't work out anything like they do in Hollywood movies.

  Because, in real life, kids like me sometimes don't even get to first base.

  Because, in real life, the 'Boy meets Girl' bit actually turns out to be: Boy wants to meet Girl, but he's such a jerk that all he can do is follow her around like a stalker, trying to pluck up the courage to say something – anything – to get her attention, and not sound like any number – or all – of the above.

  Until he loses his nerve completely and goes off to find Suzi and drown his sorrows in a game of chess – or in half an hour of secretly making fun of the overweight joggers who squeeze themselves into their fluoro Spandex bike pants and go thumping around the jogging track overlooking the Lido Deck, sweating and panting like hippos running a marathon.

  'Do you know what I think?' Suzi asked, sliding her knight into a triple-threat position and blocking off the escape-route for my king.

  I didn't, of course. Why would I? I mean, she hadn't actually said anything yet – and even if she had, she's a girl, so anything she might have said would probably have given me absolutely no idea about what she was actually thinking.

  'I think I left my ESP in my other pants,' I replied.

  To which she rolled her eyes, shaking her head the way Mr Matthews, my Maths teacher, does whenever Andy Faatui attempts to answer a problem in class.

  Mr Matthews isn't a very good Maths teacher, so I'm never entirely sure whether he's annoyed at Andy's pathetic attempt to make sense of the mystery of numbers, or at his own dismal inability to get even the simplest of mathematical concepts to make any sort of sense – to Andy, or to anyone else in 9B.

  Of course with Suzi, the rolling eyes and shaking head aren't ambiguous at all. She doesn't have any problem with her confidence – or with letting you know when you're being a complete wally.

  Or with beating you twenty-seven times in a row at chess.

  I moved my rook two spaces to the right, in the vain hope that she wouldn't realise that I was after her bishop, but as usual, my move was far too little, and much too late.

  'What I think,' she went on, choosing to treat my interruption with the disdain it deserved, 'is that you're playing the whole thing too defensively.'

  She slid her queen across from one side of the board to the other, with a triumphant flourish, banging it down at the end of the row with a terrible finality.

  'Check–' she announced, allowing a slight pause for effect, '–mate.'

  I was about to point out that – unlike her – I have to play defensively, because I can only see about half a move ahead most of the time, when I realised that she wasn't actually talking about chess.

  'What am I supposed to do?' I asked, trying not to sound too pathetic – and failing.

  'Do?' she replied, setting up the pieces for another massacre. 'It doesn't matter what you do – just do something. Staring at her like a puppy in a pet-shop window just isn't going to cut it. You have to take the initiative. Make her notice you.

  'She's the original hot babe, Jules. Even I can see it. Which means she's used to guys trying to impress her.

  'The thing is, since she learned to walk and bat her baby blues at the same time, she's never had to try – like actually looking around the room to see who might be fun to talk to. It's like a skill she never learned. So, you have to make the move. Get to know her. Let her know how you feel.

  'This is the best chance you're ever going to have to get close to someone like her. I mean, the ship isn't exactly overflowing with competition.'

  It should have been embarrassing listening to her. I mean, what she was saying, basically, was that under normal circumstances, a girl like Jenna Hamilton wouldn't even look at a loser like me – that the only reason I might stand a chance of even talking to her was because she was probably bored enough to talk to anyone.

  Anyone with the exception of Barry Barnes, of course.

  No one could possibly ever be that bored.

  Barry Barnes, aka 'Bury Bones', not because he's likely to rip your flesh off and bury what's left (though at times, he looks quite capable of it), but because Suzi reckons he has the intelligence of a slightly retarded German shepherd; the type that steals a bone, buries it then can't remember where, so it digs holes all over the garden in frustration, looking for it.

  You may already have noticed that Suzi uses a lot of canine metaphors. That's because her dad, Dr Quintello, is a vet who does half his work at the local dog pound and most of the other half at the greyhound track.

  Originally, I thought he was a real doctor.


  I only found out the truth when I was feeling a bit sick, and I happened to ask him if he had a thermometer to check my temperature.

  He smiled for a moment, then shook his head, like I was five years old and I'd just said something really dumb but funny – I guess that's where Suzi got the habit from.

  'If I did,' he said, 'you wouldn't like where you'd have to stick it.'

  When I looked blank, he went on. 'You don't take an animal's temperature by putting it under its tongue.'

  It took a while for the penny to drop.

  'You mean ...' I began.

  'Most of my patients have four legs and fur,' he explained. 'Except for the ones with feathers or scales. If you're sick, I think you should probably go down to the infirmary.'

  He was still smiling when I turned away.

  I didn't go to the infirmary, but I did go and find Suzi.

  'You should have told me,' I said, still embarrassed.

  'Why?' she asked.

  I didn't have an answer. 'Because,' I managed – which is my response of choice when I don't actually have a response.

  Anyway ... Barry Barnes.

  As most of the passengers on The Polynesian Queen are too old and decrepit to pick on – and as he really isn't any good at anything else – Barry Barnes (who is fifteen, going on eleven) has chosen to make my life hell.

  Maybe, somewhere deep in that Neanderthal brain, he thinks that pushing me around and making smart comments (of course, I use the term 'smart' ironically here) impresses Jenna – which would probably be his master plan if he had enough thinking room left to plan, after unwrapping his chewing gum and putting it in his mouth.

  But I think it's more likely that he just likes making my life hell.

  For the fun of it.

  After all, if you constantly confuse your IQ and your shoe-size because they're an identical number, if you have no personality to speak of, and your only talent is being mean and ugly – not to mention your nose is almost big enough to be mistaken for a second (even uglier) head – I guess your options for having normal fun are a bit limited.