He looks right at me. ‘Thank you.’
I feel like we’ve connected, like he gets it, gets how I’m feeling, and I didn’t even gush or anything. He slides the envelope into the bag under his seat and opens the book to the title page. I watch him writing in the book that means so much to me. It has been a lifeline, a buoy in the sea of crap I’ve been feeling since all that mess went down. A crutch, maybe, but a comfort, too. I don’t allow myself to concentrate on what he’s writing because I’m afraid I’ll cry if I read it. He closes the cover and holds the book a little longer.
‘Thank you for coming out to meet me today, Cooper.’
I’m about to speak when Brodie is at my shoulder. ‘Give us your phone,’ he says to me, before asking Matthias, ‘Can Cooper get a picture with you?’
‘Of course!’
I’m in a daze and Brodie ushers me around the signing table. I find myself next to Matthias and he stands up and puts his arm across my shoulders. I must be smiling like a kid in a bookshop because my face is aching. Hopefully I don’t look too manic. Hopefully Brodie will take more than one. But he’s a pro, I’m sure he’s used to taking more than one.
When Brodie lowers his arms, Matthias shakes my hand. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
I nod my head. ‘You too. I love your book.’
He laughs once. ‘I can tell. It makes me happy to hear it.’
He hands me my book and I step aside to let Brodie get his signed.
I realise, as I’m standing there, that there’s no tangible reason for me to wait for Brodie. We didn’t come here together, we don’t really know each other, other than a few online exchanges.
But I want to.
I want to share with him how it felt to meet the author of my favourite book. I want to hear more from him about the books he loves—beyond the few words that go with his beautiful photos. I want his smile to be directed at me, to hear him laugh again.
So, I wait.
He comes towards me and I say, ‘Crap! I didn’t offer to take a photo for you.’
He waves his hand. ‘Don’t worry about it, I hate being in front of the camera.’
I’m about to protest further when he bumps me with his shoulder. ‘I’m starving! Let’s get something to eat.’ I stare at him, not moving. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘You probably have somewhere you need to be.’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
I’ve got the biggest urge to say, ‘But why do you want to hang out with me?’ Or, ‘Don’t you have other friends?’ Or, ‘Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?’
This time, however, I’m able to stop the stupid questions before they’re out of my mouth.
‘Nothing,’ I say, following him, turning my head to hide my grin.
We cross Flinders Street opposite the station, heading up Swanston Street, past the stretch that smells like fast food and horse manure. It’s cruel to make those poor horses trot circles around the city all day, but to make them wait outside a Macca’s and a Hungry Jack’s adds insult to injury.
A little farther up, Brodie says, ‘Sushi?’
I nod. He gets a box of the thumb-sized clumps of rice with little strips of raw fish on them, so pink you’d think they were artificial. I feel like I’m cheating when I get the crispy chicken and avocado. Sushi is supposed to be seafood, right? But I find seafood hard enough to stomach when it’s cooked—something about them swimming where they poop.
While we’re queuing to pay, I scroll through the photos of me and Matthias. Some are so embarrassing I delete them immediately. There are a few good ones.
‘Did I get anything worth keeping?’ Brodie asks.
For a second, I can’t work out what he’s asking me. But he’s looking at my phone.
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
‘Do you want to walk while we eat?’ he asks when we’ve both paid.
I’m still riding a wave of blissful nervous energy after meeting Matthias—the guy who wrote my book—and now randomly hanging out with Brodie, so I nod, and we set off up Swanston Street. There’re so many people in the city today that I keep having to sidestep to avoid bumping into them, meaning I bump into Brodie. I don’t mind so much, but I don’t want him thinking I’m clumsy or handsy.
‘Why didn’t you come with anyone today?’ I feel reckless and nosy. But he shrugs and finishes his mouthful.
‘My only friends who would have come had stuff on today. What about you? You’re here by yourself too.’
Oh, that’s right. Conversations go back and forth, don’t they?
‘Yeah, same, I guess. Most of my friends don’t read. My best friend, Imogen, would have come, but it’s her grandad’s birthday.’ It totally sucks Imm couldn’t come. She knows how much Things means to me. No way I’d miss out, though. I touch my satchel to make sure the book is still there, still signed.
‘Well, that worked out for me, didn’t it?’ Brodie says.
I gauge his face to see what he means, my mouth full of rice and chicken. My expression must be ridiculous.
‘I mean, I hate eating alone.’ There’s a wink in his voice that makes me feel a bit weak. Maybe we should have sat down to eat.
I ask the safest question I can think of. ‘What are you reading at the moment?’
He puts the last of his little pink and white bundles in his mouth, throws the container in a bin we’re passing and, while he chews, pulls a book out of his bag in answer. It’s a thick fantasy book called Each Season, the Same Changes. I’ve seen it online a lot. It’s pretty new and I haven’t read it. But I haven’t read anything much except Things I Forgot to Say for months.
‘Is it good?’ I ask.
He swallows. ‘I’m only this far.’ He holds the book open to his bookmark, maybe a quarter of the way in. ‘But I’m enjoying it. It’s warring kingdoms, but none of the main characters are royal family, so the stakes are a bit different.’
‘Cool. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to have a typical daily life type story, you know, school and friendships, or whatever, but set somewhere like Middle Earth.’
He laughs, and I make a note to try and make him do it more often. ‘It’s not like that,’ he says. ‘It’s still battles and subterfuge. But without the obligations of royal family ties, I guess. I don’t think I’m doing it justice.’
‘No, I get it.’
We’re at Bourke Street Mall and a tram crosses our path. People head in every direction, some with shopping bags, others backpacks or cameras. All kinds of people. I’ve always liked the city for that reason. Like, anyone can come here, doesn’t matter who you are or if you’re even planning on buying anything. Personally, I’m very used to not buying anything.
‘Where do you want to go?’ I ask him. I want him to make the decisions because I don’t want the responsibility. I could too easily lead us somewhere embarrassing. ‘And if you need to head off, that’s cool.’
He’s got a disbelieving half-smile on his face as he shakes his head slightly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time. Let’s go this way.’ He points farther up Swanston Street. ‘I’ll take you to one of my favourite places in the city.’
After half a block, he says, ‘So tell me why Things I Forgot to Say means so much to you.’
It’s almost a minute before I get any words out. He’s basically asked me to show him the pattern of a tree’s roots—I’d have to dig it all up. He’ll have to appreciate the leaves and branches instead. ‘Well, Cooper’s family situation is similar to mine—’
He cuts in. ‘Your mum’s in prison?’
‘No, but she left.’
‘Shit, sorry. I’ll shut up now. Tell it how you want.’
I choose my words carefully. ‘There’s a lot about Cooper that feels like me. And the whole romance with Scott, it played out exactly the same as it did with my best friend. A big mess with his parents finding out about us. He moved away at the beginning of this year and as tight as we were before, it was over.’ I can
feel that welling in my chest again, like every time I reread the book. Like every time I think about the past two years. Like when I squeeze the juice out of an orange and find myself identifying with the discarded skins.
‘That sucks.’
‘You’re telling me.’
I can tell he wants to say more but is respecting my feelings. He barely knows me—some things are too raw to share, even with close friends.
We’re at the lights across from the State Library. He points over the road and says, ‘It’s this way.’
If he takes me to the State Library, I’m going to be so disappointed. Not because it’s not an amazing place, but because any book nerd worth their weight in books has been there and marvelled at the domed reading room and the galleries and things. If he thinks I don’t know about it, he must think I’m pretty basic.
I’m relieved when we pass the steps and he takes me up the little street next to it. About halfway down is a bookshop. It’s got a long window with an amazing display in it. Hundreds of flowers the size of grapefruits made from pages of books, with knee-high, chicken-wire people standing or sitting among them reading their own little books. It stretches all the way along the shop, for about twenty or thirty metres.
‘In here,’ is all he says.
We step inside and it’s beautiful. There are dark wooden shelves filled with interesting leather-bound hardbacks, and an art section just begging to be browsed. We pass a coffee cart wheeled straight out of a steampunk novel and the store opens up. Everywhere your eyeballs land are antique knickknacks and displays in cabinets. Everything feels busy and curated, like we’re in a museum that has been converted into a bookshop over time.
I can’t believe I’ve never found this place. It feels like the destination of a journeying poet.
I move closer to Brodie, keeping my voice down when I speak, as if we’re in a library. ‘This place is amazing.’
‘I know, right? I love the feeling like nearly every book here is a discovery waiting to be made.’
I’ve made so many discoveries today. But I still know so little about Brodie. ‘What’s your favourite book? Seeing you know mine.’
We’re standing in the kids’ section, flicking through picture books. I’m too distracted to read them properly.
‘That’s a tough one.’
‘Not for me.’
He grins. It’s wonderful. ‘I know, but I’ve never had a book hit so close to home, I guess. It’s tough because I love so many books.’
‘Well, which ones have you reread?’
‘I don’t reread, there’s too much out there.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t imagine not revisiting characters I’ve loved. It’s an entirely different experience to reread. Don’t you want to spend more time with people you meet and like?’
He looks at me and I feel an enormous flush blooming up my neck, a wave of heat washing over my face. I can’t believe I said something like that. I wasn’t aware of the double meaning until the words came out of my mouth.
‘Of course I do.’ He pauses. My insecurity flares. ‘But it’s a little different with books.’
I exhale.
We browse the shelves, pointing out books we’ve read and recommending them, or warning against them. There’s one I point to and say how much I loved it. A gritty dystopian with a kickass pansexual girl as the lead. He takes it from the shelf and reads the back. I just recommended a pretty queer book to him and the thought that goes through my head is: What if he’s not out to his parents? I can’t do that again.
I keep waiting for him to put it back, but he holds onto it and starts talking about another book. Then we’re at the front of the shop and he’s handing the book over to the guy behind the counter. He’s buying it on my recommendation. I’m thrilled he listened to me, but scared he won’t like it. A little bit because he might think less of my recommendations in the future and a little bit because I might think less of him.
When we’re back on the street I say, ‘I hope you enjoy it and didn’t waste your money.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘I wish I could buy more books. But our school library is pretty good.’
‘The only reason I can is because I help our neighbour with her gardening and house work every week.’
‘Nice set-up.’
We wander back through the city. Our conversation is easy. I tell him about Imogen, how she’s as obsessed with music as I am with books. How she’s always making me playlists and trying to get me into new bands or singers she’s discovered. She’s good, though, because she’ll always give books I recommend a go.
We’re being jostled down Degraves Street when it starts to rain in that instant way of Melbourne weather. We duck for cover and huddle under the eaves outside one of the cafés. We’re grinning at each other in a stupid, giddy sort of way.
‘Hey, let’s go in here,’ Brodie says as he touches my arm to lead me up the stairway entrance to a café. His touch is gentle, and I follow, wanting it to last. I can’t work out if he’s just being friendly or if there’s more to this. Confusion can lead to getting hurt, and I’d like to think I’m done with that. What if he’s straight? Thanks for nothing, universe.
The place upstairs is dimly lit and cosy. The tables are small and have tea-light candles in little coloured glass cups. The room curves around the corner, which makes me think it has heard many warm secrets. There’s no one else up here and, for a moment, I wonder if it’s even open.
‘How’s it going?’ comes a voice louder than suits the little space. A woman has emerged from the back room and is smiling her welcome like a floodlight. ‘What can I get you?’
I look to Brodie, as if he’s going to make the decision for me but say, ‘I’ll have a hot chocolate.’
‘Same,’ he says.
‘Great!’ The woman’s enthusiasm is overflowing. ‘Take a seat and I’ll bring them over.’
We take a table around the corner, out of sight from the counter. It’d be different if there were more people, but it kind of feels like we’re on show, being the only ones here.
Brodie must be thinking the same thing, because he says quietly, ‘She’s so happy some customers came in.’
‘Don’t tell her we’re only getting drinks.’
Even though there’s a table between us, I feel like we’re super close. And we’re staring at each other now. It’s a little bit intimidating, but I don’t break away.
We don’t have time to say anything else before the woman arrives with our drinks.
‘Here you are, loves. Anything else?’
‘No,’ I say, wondering if I’ve got enough coins left to cover this drink.
‘Can we have a plate of chips?’ Brodie asks.
‘Sure thing.’ She disappears again.
I’m feeling a bit panicked. ‘I don’t have enough for chips.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got enough.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
Brodie takes a sip of his drink while I eat the froth off mine with a teaspoon—the conversation lulls. There’s space for maybe twenty people in the room. But there’re only two and they’re not saying much right now. Face-to-face, the conversation isn’t as free-flowing as it was when we were walking.
I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘only because it’s important to me, I need to ask you something.’
His eyes lock onto mine and I wonder if I’ll have the courage to get it out.
‘Ask away.’
I can’t decide if his smile makes it easier, or harder.
‘Are you into boys?’
He laughs. Loud. As loud as the woman’s greeting was when we arrived. It’s not the reaction I was expecting.
‘Forget it,’ I say, looking down into my drink and wishing I could leave.
‘No, no,’ his words still jump with laughter. ‘I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just, that question took me by surprise. Clearly, I need to up m
y flirting game. I’ve been flirting with you so hard since the signing queue.’
I glance at him again. ‘Really?’
‘Yes! So, yes, I’m into boys.’
I feel relief fill me up. Then I feel myself blushing again.
I somehow manage to speak. ‘Cool.’
‘And you are too, right?’
‘My favourite book ever is Things I Forgot to Say. You’ve read it. So, you should know. But… yes.’
‘You said it was important to ask. Why?’
The curtained windows dull the sound of rain outside while I try and find the right words. ‘It’s also from the book, I guess. Like, the rest of the title should be Because You Didn’t Think to Ask.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Brodie says. ‘Like between Cooper and Scott.’
‘And between Cooper and his dad.’
He nods. I can tell he gets what I’m trying to say.
‘And I know everyone has their reasons one way or another,’ I say, ‘but, are you out to your parents?’
He’s got a thoughtful expression. ‘Yeah.’ He pauses for a while. ‘Was it as bad as it was in the book? With “Scott’s” parents?’
I shrug, trying not to let the wave of sadness come crashing back down on me. ‘His parents moved away with him because they found out about us.’ I’ve read Things so many times because it’s like pushing on a bruise to remind you that you can feel something. ‘I like to know where I stand with people. And I like people to know who they are to me.’
‘Who am I to you?’
‘Here you are!’ The woman’s loud voice cuts through and she puts a large plate of hot chips on the table between us. ‘Enjoy.’ And she’s gone again.
She sliced right through our conversation and I don’t know how to answer his question. It’s probably a good thing we were interrupted—time to think.
Brodie takes a chip and bites it in half. He pushes the plate towards me, indicating I help myself.
I take one and bite into it before I realise it’s too hot and have to breathe in and out a few times, juggling it inside my mouth with my tongue. When it’s cool enough, I swallow and take a sip from my drink, which is only a little bit cooler, and a strange flavour mix.
Brodie has watched the whole display with an amused look on his face. I’m determined to hold his gaze.
Underdog Page 2
