What I’m feeling, I think, is joy. And it’s been some time since I’ve felt that blinkered rush of happiness. This might be one of those rare events that lasts, one that’ll be remembered and recalled as months and years wind and ravel. One of those sweet, significant moments that leaves a footprint in your mind. A photograph couldn’t ever tell its story. It’s something you have to live to understand. One of those freak collisions of fizzing meteors and looming celestial bodies and floating debris and one single beautiful red ball that bursts into your life and through your body like an enormous firework. Where things shift into focus for a moment, and everything makes sense. And it becomes one of those things inside you, a pearl among the sludge, one of those big exaggerated memories you can invoke at any moment to peel away a little layer of how you felt, like a lick of an ice cream. The flavor of grace. An inadvertent gift of myth from Jeffrey Lu. And as if to seal it in a chest of treasure, I see him seek me out as he walks off the oval as a match-winner, and he tilts and points his bat at me in triumph. My arm shoots up in a celebratory salute. I’m grinning like an idiot.
Jeffrey has his hand shaken and his hair ruffled by players and spectators. Even Warwick Trent gives a nod and a slap. I realize I’m still holding Eliza’s hand. I shiver.
“That was amazing!” Eliza says. “I’m shaking!”
“I can’t believe it,” I say, still watching Jeffrey. “I just can’t believe it.”
The group disperses; the team heads toward the pavilion and into the changerooms. Somebody is carrying Jeffrey’s kitbag for him. The Blackburn team sulk and shuffle, hands on hips. The oval slowly clears. The day is slowly winding toward twilight.
Eliza and I sit down. We’re no longer holding hands, but I’m acutely aware of our shoulders touching. We sit silently for a time. I begin to feel awkward again.
But then Eliza leans forward slightly as the sun melts away.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks.
I try to read her face. Is it something about Laura? It has to be. Surely. What does she know? What pages of this story has she been pressing to her chest? What does she know about that night? I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Not today. Not right now.
“Okay,” I say carefully, nodding once.
“Well.” Eliza blushes and tugs at her hair. “It’s stupid. But … I’ve been waiting outside the bookstore for the past two weeks, pretending to browse at paperbacks, but really I was just hoping I might see you pass by.”
My stomach is a hive. My head whirs like a pinwheel. There’s dust in my throat. Again, I don’t know what to say. I never have the right words in me. I swallow heavily. Blink hard.
“Oh well. I got … I was grounded. I couldn’t go anywhere. That’s probably why …”
“I know,” she says, “which is why it was so stupid, because I knew you’d been grounded and that you weren’t going to suddenly appear, but I still kept going there.”
“Wait, you knew? How did you know I’d been grounded?”
“Sarge told my mum all about it the day after, and then she told me. You know, about how you snuck out to come see me.”
“Oh,” I say, stunned.
We sit in a bubble of quiet. It’s Eliza who bursts it.
“I think you’re very sweet, Charlie. And I wish you’d made it to my house that night.”
She smiles and shifts her body, turning toward me. I am afraid. And exhilarated.
“You have very nice dimples,” I offer. “You know, on your cheeks there.” And I point, sharply, at her jaw, as though she requires me to chart exactly where her dimples reside. I am an idiot. My wit, which flowed briefly, has ebbed. The tide has dried. My mouth is parched and unwieldy and useless.
But.
Then.
Mark Twain might well have had an opinion on everything. He might have been bestowed with the wit I don’t have and blessed with phrases I can’t summon. He might write with the air of knowledge earned; he might invoke laughter or sadness or anger with his herds of words. He might beguile and illuminate, frustrate and affect. He might gift you whole worlds to walk in, wide eyes to see through. But not even Mark Twain could describe just how soft a girl’s lips are when they’re pressed against your own.
Eliza Wishart has kissed me. Is kissing me. Right here, beneath this tree. And it is lovely and thrilling and terrifying. There is nothing else like it. Not even close. My skin is tight and itching, my neck hot and ticklish.
We pull away, and I feel both relieved and regretful to be doing so. She smiles, bashful. I guess I do the same. “That was nice,” she says. “It was,” I say.
We look at each other. Tremulous and uncertain. Her lips are red and wet. They look a little swollen. She smells incredible, I can’t tell you. Neither could Mark Twain.
“Should we do it again?” she asks, biting her lip.
I hold a shrug, because I’m an idiot.
“I guess. I mean, well, yes. But only if you want. Which isn’t to say I don’t, of course, which I do.”
She shuts me up. Thankfully. She tilts first, and I follow. And it’s so much easier the second time, when you know it’s coming. Our bodies don’t move. Everything is concentrated on that soft part where we touch.
I feel a little embarrassed, of course. We’re out in the open, and this feels very private.
We kiss like we’re glued together. Like statues. And I worry that Eliza thinks I’m rubbish, that I’m not doing it properly. And so, when I’m slightly less stunned and more comfortable, I try to execute some maneuvers that I’ve taken note of previously on television and in books. I open my mouth slightly, and she does too, which leads me to believe it was a risk worth taking. It’s weird and nice. A little more confident, I decide to place my hand on her cheek. Unfortunately, all manner of grass and sand has adhered itself to the sweat on my palm, which I duly plaster over her face.
“Sassytime!”
Abruptly, we pull apart. Jeffrey Lu is making his way up the slope, beaming.
“Enough of that! Save your love for me! I earned it!”
“Hello, Jeffrey!” says Eliza, unruffled. “Congratulations! You were amazing!”
“You’re right,” he says, nodding, with his hands on his hips. “I was amazing. Eh, Chuck? You, er, saw me out there? Uh? You may have noticed my match-winning performance? Probably saw me score forty-three runs on debut with consummate ease, like a young Douglas Walters? Just smashing a four to win on the last ball of the game? You watched all that, did you?”
“No, I missed it actually. I turned away after your off stump flew out of the ground on your first ball.”
Jeffrey laughs.
“He’s lying!” Eliza says. “He watched every ball like a hawk.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jeffrey replies, and sniffs. “He’s got taste. He appreciates fine stroke play. When you see perfection right in front of you, you can’t help but take notice.”
I screw my face up in mock pain.
“Jeffrey, it actually physically hurts me to say this, but that really was incredible. You were really good. I can’t believe it. I didn’t even think you would get a bat. And that last shot was just crazy.”
“You mean the shot I played over the keeper’s head to win the game on the last ball?”
I puff my cheeks out. “Yes, dickhead.”
“I humbly accept your devotion, Charles. You know, I envy you, in a way.”
“Why?”
“Well, because, as the hero in question, I didn’t actually get to see the shot being played. It’s my one regret. It must have looked sensational from up here.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Jeffrey Lu, on debut!” He smiles and starts shadowboxing, short little uppercut jabs that go nowhere. Eliza laughs. He looks ready to go back out there and do it all again.
“It’s a fairy tale, Chuck! I’m practically a legend of the game. It’ll probably be on the telly. Definitely in the paper.”
“You should retire now,�
�� I say. “Go out with a legacy.”
“Couldn’t do it, Chuck. I mean, what about my fans?” He points at Eliza.
“I’m sure the both of you will be okay.”
“Both? Chuck, you’re an idiot. The whole world is in love with me at the moment. It’s fact. I’m more famous than Bradman.”
Eliza laughs and leans her head on my shoulder. I tense up. I wonder how she can be so carefree about it. I don’t know. Perhaps she’s really not as shy as I’ve always thought. Maybe she’s changed this summer. Her clothes, her hair, her voice. Or maybe I never really knew her that well. She seems different, though. She’s been bubblier and livelier and more vivacious than I can ever remember. And that accent, that curious aristocratic flourish. I’ve never noticed that.
Jeffrey, no doubt sensing my discomfort, makes a show of pointing, straight-armed, from Eliza to me, then back to Eliza.
“Ease up. That’s a sin, that. What about Cheeses?”
“Doesn’t apply to us,” says Eliza, holding up her hand. “We don’t count. We’re banished anyway. Because we have penises for fingers.”
Jeffrey rears back in shock.
“No! You chose the penises too?”
“Fraid so,” Eliza says, smirking.
“But you’re a girl! And you have penises now! Ten of them!”
“It’s okay. Charlie doesn’t mind.”
“Of course he doesn’t! He loves penises!”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to kill you,” I announce, meaning it.
“Bloody hell. Pansies! Both of you! It’s just a hat!”
“It’s not just a hat!” Eliza protests. “It’s a spider hat!”
“The prosecution rests, Wisharrrrrt. Anyway. Chuck. Come on. You can fiddle with each other later. Howsabout giving a hero a lift home?”
“Well, okay. But my dad isn’t here yet.”
“You’re an idiot,” says Jeffrey, turning and pointing. “He’s just over there in your car. Look. He’s been there for ages.”
I follow Jeffrey’s arm. There he is. On the other side of the oval. I had no idea. A cold fish slinks and bucks in my gut. I shift my weight away from Eliza. What has he seen? Am I in trouble? Is this an offense? I don’t even know.
“How long has he been there?”
Jeffrey shrugs. “How would I know? I’m not God. Though it’s an easy mistake to make. But I’ve been a little busy staging incredible comebacks and rewriting history books.”
“He’s waiting. We better go.”
Eliza squeezes my arm, clutching it secretly from behind. I wonder if this means she doesn’t want me to leave. I turn to her.
“Do you want a ride home?”
“No, no. It’s okay,” she says. I want to kiss her again.
The awkwardness resumes. It’s hard to know what to do. I feel as though I should say something profound, or enact some rite, or trade something to make it official. I want to transfer some trinket which would allow me to say that she’s my girl, some kind of currency that proves to people that she likes me back. Something that would permit me to think about her all the time without feeling guilty or helpless or hopelessly far away. I guess I’m just so excited, I want to cage this thing like a tiny red bird so it can’t fly away, so it stays the same, so it’s still there the next time. For keeps, like a coin in your pocket. Like a peach pit from Mad Jack Lionel’s tree. Like scribbled words in a locked suitcase. A bright balloon to tie to your bedpost. And you want to hug it close, hold it, but not so tight it bursts.
I wish Jeffrey would piss off. But he’s lingering, grinning, waiting to leave. I shift around slightly.
“Okay. Well.”
“I’ll see you, Charlie.”
“Soon. I mean, I hope. Yes.”
Eliza moves in to kiss me on the cheek. Of course, I misread this entirely and aim for her lips, and I manage to peck her in the eye with my nose. I murmur something, then get to my feet.
“Bye, Jeffrey! Well done!” she says and waves. She opens her book with her thumb. I feel sad to be leaving.
Jeffrey bids her a Jew and we shift off. I catch Eliza’s eye and hold it just for a moment as we leave, and it seems as good as any traded trinket, as firm as any gem in my hand.
I turn. As soon as we’re out of earshot and walking across the oval, Jeffrey executes some kind of strange cakewalk dance, his kitbag banging against his back.
“Sassytime! Sassytime!”
“Jeffrey, I will kill you. With my hands. I’m not lying. You’re perilously close to a tragic end to your perfect day.”
He laughs.
“You love her! Chucktin Bucktin! You loooove her! Wait. Who am I? Who am I?” Jeffrey raises one eyebrow and pushes his lips out like a crooner. “Do you, er, want a ride home?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot! I saw you! Kissing! With your mouth! Disgusting!”
I have to smile.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous? Chuck, you’re approximately twelve times stupider than you look. I’m the town hero! I’ve just created history! Jealous? Pffft! No, say I. Why would I be? Superman doesn’t lay around smooching Lois, he’s got shit to do! Just like me: I’ve got games to save!”
“I’m sure if Superman had the choice, he’d take some sassytime with Lois over a child trapped in a burning building.” I grin to myself.
“Chuck!” Jeffrey groans with outrage. “Cheeses Christ! You’re not functioning as a human. I don’t even know where to start. I’m offended. You’ve actually offended me. You could hand me a turd in a jar and it would be less offensive than what you just said. It’s technically blasphemous. Cheeses hates you, Charles. I want you to know that.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Sorry? Come again? You really are a communist? Comrade, you’ve had your brain sucked out through your lips. You’re not thinking straight. The Man of Tomorrow doesn’t care about girls. It’s fact. Unless they’re in mortal danger. And even then they’re just a pointless decoy while Luthor prepares to take over the Free World. And that’s barely even a distraction for Superman. He always chooses to save the world before Lois. And that’s the way it should be. Personally, I wouldn’t even bother going back for her.”
“But you’re a maniac.”
“True. But I’m a pragmatic maniac. Listen, Charles, and you might just learn something. Lois Lane is more trouble than she’s worth. How many times has she imperiled the world just by needing to be saved? Take one for the team, I say. Let her go. Call Luthor’s bluff. Actually, Superman should kill her himself. Give her a solid burst of heat vision. Bang. No more stupid moral dilemmas.”
“You’re insane. This is why you’re not a superhero.”
“Perhaps, Chuck,” Jeffrey agrees. “But I’m still the People’s Champion.”
We laugh and bumble along. I take an opportunity to turn and steal a glance at Eliza. She’s still there. The girl with a book under a tree. I feel the strangest, queasiest sensation. I’m full of energy. I want to run toward her and away from her at the same time.
Every instance in my life, I’ve felt like the exact opposite of Superman. Except this time, this moment right now. I don’t care. I don’t feel like a weak, insipid sissy. Because right now I know I would save the girl. I know that I would rather risk the planet than let harm befall Eliza Wishart. I would save her in a second. Because I can imagine her and me huddled safe together while the earth falls under evil designs, but I can’t imagine the world without her in it.
I smirk to myself. I don’t give a shit if I’m not Superman. I kissed Eliza Wishart.
***
Jeffrey flings himself into the backseat, scooting into the middle. I sit in the front.
“Congratulations, Jeffrey,” my dad says, watching him in the rearview.
“Did you see the game?” Jeffrey demands.
“No, sorry, mate.” My dad dips his head with mock regret.
“Foolish!” Jeffrey announces. “You mis
sed the event of your life! It was like David and Goliath, but this time, David was Asian and unbelievably good-looking. And there was no cheating. Turn on the radio, they’re probably talking about me!”
We crackle out of the car park, kicking up blue-gray dust from behind. I take a last look at Eliza, still under the tree. I think I see her wave, so I turn and show my hand as discreetly as I can. I hear Jeffrey whisper “Sassytime!” from the backseat. I want to hurl him from the car. But then I spin my head toward my father.
“Wait. How did you know Jeffrey won the game if you didn’t see it?”
“Chuck, it’s practically impossible not to hear about it,” says Jeffrey, leaning in.
“I am starting to get that feeling, yes,” I say to him.
My dad laughs to himself.
“Actually, I caught up with Pete Wishart on his way home. He was very impressed with you, Jeffrey. He watched the second innings from the pavilion, though I don’t know how much he saw. I don’t think he moved too far from the bar. He had a few under his belt. But he was full of superlatives.”
I am horrified.
“Wait, Eliza’s dad was here? I mean, he watched? Jeffrey?”
“That’s right,” he says. “And it’s okay, Charlie, he wasn’t watching anything else.”
Jeffrey starts giggling from behind me.
“The People’s Champion can still be pushed out of a moving vehicle, you know,” I announce over my shoulder. But it just makes him laugh harder. I turn to my dad, and he winks and smiles at me in a way he hasn’t for some time. And as the wind spills in cool through the windows of our battered Holden, buffeting my dad’s comb-over ridiculously and tweaking my lips into a smile, I tell myself to relax a little. Calm down. Shrug. Because it’s summer. Because my dad still loves me. Because Jeffrey Lu finally got one back on this town. And because Eliza Wishart leaned in and gave me what I always dreamed of.
***
I can’t eat. I’m buzzing and roiling. I push my food around my plate listlessly and recount Jeffrey’s heroic tale without the drama and tension it deserves. Either way, my mother’s not listening.
Jasper Jones Page 21
