Girl Next Door

by Alyssa Brugman

  I shrug.

  'You're the maths whiz,' he says. 'What's seventeen per cent on forty-five thousand compared to seven per cent on a million and whatever?'

  I've reached the bottom of my glass, so I tip the ice into my mouth and wonder why he thinks I'm a maths whiz.

  Today is the first day we've actually talked about anything and Bryce Cole seems kind of shitty. I won't ask him anything again.

  I wonder if it's because I've mentioned my dad. Usually Bryce Cole watches the screens and places his bets, and we don't talk about anything at all. I like that. Most adults think they need to fill any silences by giving you advice.

  I stopped going to my dad for advice when I was about three, because he has a scientific brain and he does this thing where he tries to find a solution even before you've finished telling him what the problem is. It drives me mental. Most of the time you just want someone to listen to the whole thing, because after you have said it out loud, you usually know what the solution is. Plus my dad wants me to have made decisions about stuff like my career already so that he can tell me to do something different. Annie from the granny flat is an advice champ too – even better than Dad. She lives in the granny flat to save money so that she can go to Cambodia once a year and build huts for people. That sounds generous and worthy, but really she just likes telling people what to do and the Cambodians have to be polite about it, or they don't get their hut.

  Annie's place wasn't always a granny flat. It used to be a cabana next to the pool. It had a sink and a bench around the barbecue, so it really wasn't that difficult to turn it into a proper kitchen. And there was a little bathroom as well. Mum was worried about someone coming in and running up the bills, so it has its own power and phone lines. I think it's probably illegal, but it makes quite a nice granny flat.

  When she first arrived I thought Annie and Mum were going to be good friends, but it only took a week of Annie telling Mum how to run her life for Mum to get sick of it, and about the same time for Annie to get tired of feeding us. They don't really like each other, but they cooperate to get things done – kind of like people who've been married for thirty years.

  There must be some point in a marriage when you decide that it's just too hard to change. I wonder what the magic number is? I guess it didn't work like that for my mum and dad, though. They've been married for sixteen years. Willem is sixteen.

  I wish someone would tell me what's going on. If they're breaking up for good then I could start getting used to that idea, but this limbo-land really sucks. And also I'm getting pretty mad at my dad, because he should be missing me, shouldn't he? He might be breaking up with Mum, but that doesn't mean he's leaving us too, does it? What did Will and I do wrong?

  Bryce Cole teaches me how to place a quinella. I put twenty dollars on Waylayer and Play Nice in a maiden race. He said it was a good one to try because there are only six horses in it.

  Soon the other regulars saunter in and take their tables. Jughandles heard me call him Jughandles and now he doesn't like me. He grumbled something about me not being at school and I told him I had chickenpox. He asked me where my spots were, and then we had this moment where he panicked while he waited for me to react as though he'd said something dirty to me. He's one of those jigsaw body-part, eye-flit men.

  I can't have chickenpox forever, though. I'll have to ask Declan for a cool disease I could have. Meanwhile I have umbrage up my sleeve if Jughandles gives me grief.

  'Set to go. Dedicated started well, but not as well as Waylayer. Roll'em is three away, they turn at the four-fifty. Dedicated has moved up quickly. Waylayer being tackled by Play Nice out wide.'

  'Go, you bastards!' I yell.

  'Gospel still at the back of the field and La L'Amour before him, Play Nice won't pick it up and Waylayer is money. It's Waylayer and Play Nice, Dedicated and Roll'em. La L'Amour and then Gospel finished at the tail of the field.'

  'I won! I won! How much did I win?'

  Bryce Cole shrugs. 'Hmm, let me see. Close to four hundred dollars.'

  'Wow!' I'm jumping up and down.

  He looks around nervously. It occurs to me that none of the others ever give away whether they won or lost. They shout during the race, but never afterwards. Also, the lady in the betting booth is staring at us and frowning.

  'Sorry,' I whisper.

  'I know it's exciting. Just keep it down, okay?' He walks away to collect our winnings. The betting booth lady has words with him. She's looking over at me. Bryce Cole nods.

  When he comes back he's looking at the floor. 'She says I'm not allowed to place any more bets for you.'

  'Just one more,' I say. 'Please? Not straight away. I'll wait till I see one that really wants to race.'

  'Okay,' he says. 'Just look sad.'

  I hang my head and Bryce Cole sends a thumbs-up to the lady in the booth. She scowls.

  I wait until race six. I fill in the time trying to teach Bryce Cole a game that my family used to play called Joke Jeopardy, which is where you say the punch line and everyone else has to guess what the joke was. He's hopeless. He just says, 'I give up.' Even with the why-did-the-chicken-cross-the-road ones, which are easy.

  I wait almost all afternoon and then, when the betting booth lady is not looking, I scour the book. In race six there's a gelding that has won five out of six races and placed in the other race. A great jockey is riding. He's won over thirty thousand dollars, and he favours the conditions.

  Instead of slouching on my stool with my head on the table I head out to watch the parade. My horse looks calm, but alert. He's shiny and fit. All the others look mad, slight, sweaty, or like old nags.

  'Bee Shore. That's the one,' I tell Bryce Cole.

  'The money's not good,' he murmurs. 'I don't like it, JB.'

  'I want to put the whole four hundred on the nose. I have a feeling.' I'm grinning at him, with my best trust me grin.

  I take the best spot, where I can see the television and the winning post. If I win I'll get over a thousand dollars. I don't even know where to begin spending it. Actually I do know. I'll get a new mobile phone, because, I mean, seriously! Who doesn't have a mobile phone? It's ridiculous.

  'Bee Shore runs the favourite. They're away and racing. Milken Honey began well, but Pair A Dice retains the lead, and then Miss Dependable. Further back is I'm Willing and Boogi Woogi has dropped out. Pair A Dice leads by a head, Bee Shore's a little over a length away, Miss Dependable around third spot, followed by Milken Honey. They're running out to the bend.'

  Jughandles roars in my ear. 'Run, you bastard!'

  I'm stifling a roar myself. I glance over at the betting booth where the lady watches me. I yawn, but she looks away. Bryce Cole's lips are pursed.

  'The leader is Bee Shore, followed by Pair A Dice, then Miss Dependable, and Milken Honey. Bee Shore still a narrow leader, Pair A Dice three wide. Miss Dependable looking for a way out. She's slipped through, but it's going to be Pair A Dice. Pair A Dice then Miss Dependable. Bee Shore runs in third.'

  I'm staring at the television. I can't believe it! All the numbers were right. He should have won it easily. I don't understand how he could have not won, when he gave all the signs.

  The blokes shuffle away from the magic spot and back to their seats. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Bryce Cole. 'Come on, kiddo.'

  'Pair A Dice looked like a donkey,' I say. 'I had a feeling.'

  Bryce Cole offers to buy me another soft drink.

  'How could you let me put all that money on? Now I have nothing! It's not fair. You always win. Why didn't you stop me?'

  'I don't always win,' he says.

  On the way home we listen to the radio. Bryce Cole is rubbing the stubble on his chin and it's making a scratchy sound.

  'That's how I lost my house,' he says. 'I was sure. I had a feeling. You can't be sure of anything, ever. The best you can hope for is really short odds.'

  I think about my father and how he bet the whole lot on his empire.

&nb
sp; 7

  NOTICE

  Declan and I are in the alleyway between our houses.

  'Can I feel your boob?' he asks, scooting closer.

  'Why would you want to do that?'

  'All the guys at school were talking about boobs today. I said I had felt yours, so now I need to do it so it will be true. I don't think it's properly a lie if I do it within twenty-four hours.' He hooks his arms around his knees.

  'You want to feel my boob so you can tell your mates? Correction – they're not even your mates – just some guys. You want to feel my boob for people you don't even like! This is peer pressure. You're pressuring me into letting you exploit me sexually.'

  He frowns. 'I'm not exploiting you sexually! I just want to have one little squeeze!' He puts his hands up in defeat. 'Fine! Forget it! I don't even want to any more. Make me a liar. It's not like it would hurt you. I thought we were better friends than this.'

  'Declan! That's not fair!'

  'Pllleeease? I'm just going to put my hand on it for two seconds.'

  I squirm for a moment. 'Okay.'

  Declan reaches for the hem of my shirt.

  'Over clothes,' I say quickly.

  He inches closer and then puts his hand on my breast – cups it. I'm looking in the other direction. Chairman Meow is washing himself on the back step. He's giving me a disapproving look. He thinks I'm a skank. Chairman Meow has never got over being given a joke name. He's an angry young cat.

  It's been more than two seconds. 'How much longer?' I ask.

  'Does it feel good?' Declan wants to know. 'Because one of the guys at school said that girls moan in ecstasy when you feel their boobs, and I've seen it on the internet.'

  I shrug. 'It feels okay. I'm not in ecstasy though.'

  'Why not?' he asks. He reaches out with the other hand.

  I move away. 'You said one boob.'

  'How come you didn't moan in ecstasy? Doesn't it turn you on?'

  I sigh. 'Declan, you don't get it. If a girl really likes a boy then it doesn't matter what he does – whether it's feeling your boob, or when he says "pass the tomato sauce", you moan in ecstasy. When you say "pass the tomato sauce", it's all about the sauce.'

  'Oh.'

  'And as for those girls you've been looking at on the internet, you do understand they get paid to do that stuff, don't you? It's not real.'

  We sit silently for a moment.

  'How's the cancer going?'

  'How's the gambling addiction?' he snaps back. He gets up and stalks down the alley.

  'Declan,' I call after him.

  'Shut up, Jenna-Belle. This could be the last time we see each other. Do you know that? I could die tonight and then think how sorry you'll be.'

  'Why would I be sorry?' I call after him. 'I just granted your dying wish!'

  The screen door slams behind him.

  I go inside and stare into the empty fridge for a few minutes.

  Bryce Cole wanders down the hallway. 'Fight with your boyfriend?' He grins at me.

  I'm supposed to squeal and object, but instead I just curl my lip.

  Declan has a crush on me, but it might just be because I'm convenient. He's not very experienced with girls. I tease him about that, but the truth is I don't know much either. I've always gone to girls' schools. It's like the beer thing. We're practising on each other, except I haven't told him, or he would dare me into doing stuff more often. Everybody pretends that girls aren't interested, but I'm probably as curious as Declan is – almost.

  There was this boy who had a piano lesson after mine when I first started high school, and I would stand on the doorstep of the piano lady's house and we would flirt with each other. When I climbed in the car my mum would sigh and huff, all How come it took so long? Didn't you see me waiting here? because she's so passive-aggressive, but she was the one who wanted me to play the piano. So I gave piano boy the eye, and waited for him to ask me out, but he never did.

  I do wonder about how far I should go with Declan, because I know I'm supposed to wait for that really special guy, but in all the movies there is always the hot, dangerous guy, and then the guy who's loved the girl all along, and he always ends up being the right one. So I could just skip the hot, dangerous guy part and be with Declan, who is literally the boy next door.

  But then maybe it's a conspiracy, and all the chick flicks are written by a syndicate of guys like Declan on a mission to get chicks to be with them. Or alternatively, there's a secret syndicate of girls-next-door who want to keep all the hot, dangerous guys to themselves. Who knows?

  Mum comes in and puts her house keys on the kitchen bench. She's flicking through the mail. She drops the unopened letters on the table one by one. I recognise the logos in the corners – Telstra, Energy Australia, David Jones, American Express, Sydney Water. She finds one that interests her and runs her thumb under the lip. She tosses it on the counter. It's her driver's licence renewal reminder. Her licence is out of date. She opens the last letter. While she's reading, she presses the button on the answering machine.

  Beep. Hi Sue, this is Melanie from accounts receivable . . .

  Mum presses fast-forward.

  Beep. This is Jason calling about your Visa card statement . . .

  Beep. It's Melanie again . . .

  The phone cord is all tangled up beside the answering machine. Mum tries to untangle it, but it just gets more knotted, so she slams the handset back down and picks up the last letter.

  'Beep. This is Mr Morris from The Finsbury School . . .

  Mum's finger hovers over the fast-forward button.

  I'd like to talk to you about a complaint we've received from the Australian Jockey Club. While Jenna-Belle is temporarily not a student of this school we would certainly appreciate her not attending gambling venues or bars in The Finsbury School uniform.

  Jughandles! You bastard!

  The Principal and I consider this a matter of great concern and urgency. My number is . . .

  Mum presses fast-forward again and the machine emits a long beep – end of messages. She stares at me.

  'They must have the wrong student,' I blurt.

  She holds out the piece of paper. I'm not taking it – not this time.

  'We've been sent a section fifty-seven two B of the Real Property Act. It says we have to repay our loan in full or vacate the property within thirty days. It's just a piece of paper that came through the post.' She stares at the page. 'I would have thought something like that would be on bright red paper, or that you'd have to sign for it. Something. You can't be ambushed like this in the normal mail.'

  'They can't kick us out!' I tell her. 'What are they going to do? Flush us out with a SWAT team?'

  'They send the sheriff,' Bryce Cole says.

  I have a vision of Clint Eastwood on our lawn, eyes all squinty, picking his teeth with a paspalum stem. Behind him is the bearded posse with shotguns and spotty horses.

  Are you ready to vacate? Well, are ya?

  All I can think about is the beer in the roof space. Now the sheriff is coming. They're going to sell our house with a ceiling full of half-drunk beers. They'll wonder why we did that. How embarrassing.