I am sitting in the kitchen, staring at the blinking microwave clock. Dad made a giant lasagne before he and Mum headed to the movies with Auntie Rema and Uncle Wes, but my stomach is tumbling and there’s no way I can eat. I’m wondering if it’s too late to run to Elsie and beg for her advice. I’m also really wishing I’d managed to absorb even the rudiments of Method acting theory – maybe I could have developed a completely new personality between now and 8 p.m.
I don’t do parties. Generally, yes, because I can’t deal with crowds, but also because I just know I’m not fun. I’m not loud or enthusiastic, and I don’t get small talk, and never, not even when Ms Heller has threatened me with detention, have I been able to master a breezy, carefree laugh. How am I supposed to keep this boy entertained? Is that even what’s supposed to happen? And what if –
Toby wanders into the kitchen, his glasses tucked into the collar of his pyjama shirt. His hair is standing up like a lopsided black mohawk, as if he’s been running his hands continuously through it. He recoils in the doorway when he sees me.
‘What are you doing?’
I glance at the clock again. Less than two minutes have passed since I last checked. ‘I’m going out. To a party. With a friend,’ I say, testing the words. They feel foreign in my mouth. It’s cold in here, but beads of sweat are forming on my forehead.
Toby frowns. ‘A party? You? With who?’ He crosses his arms.
My fingers curl where I have clasped them on the table. I stare at my brother, at his stupid pinched face and his ridiculous Kmart pyjamas, and all the anger and annoyance and anxiety I’ve been fighting seems to coalesce into a tight, focused ball. ‘What is it, Toby?’ I snap. ‘Am I stealing your air molecules? Ruining your view of the fridge? Or is it just my face that makes you mad?’
Toby takes a step backwards. For a moment I think he will just back out of the room in a huff, but he runs his hands through his fauxhawk, and his laugh is sharp and short. It sounds like he’s been sucking on a lemon, the laugh forced out through vocal cords shrunk tight with acid.
I think the bitterness in Toby’s laugh surprises even him. His face collapses in on itself. It’s almost fascinating, like witnessing a Tetris game of tumbling, mystifying emotions. My words have dried up, but clearly, Toby has found his.
‘Yeah, your face makes me mad. You and your helpless life-is-so-tough act. You … you know, the rest of us have to actually work for stuff? That doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? You’re selfish. And the shitty thing is, you’re not even capable of recognising it. You don’t feel anything.’
Toby takes a deep breath. For a moment I think he has something else to say; for the briefest second, I almost imagine that he hesitates. But then he squares his shoulders and marches out of the kitchen without another word.
I stare at the microwave clock. Four minutes have now passed. Distantly, I’m aware that was probably the longest sentence Toby has directed at me since his voice broke. I’m also aware, in this odd, detached way, that at least I can now confirm my hypothesis. My brother hates me.
I get up and carefully smooth down my dress. I suppose it should be comforting, in a way, to know where I stand. Mystery solved. Elsie will be delighted.
I try to rouse some righteous indignation, but all I feel is tired, and unaccountably empty.
I feel things. I do. I just don’t share myself with the world in the way I’m supposed to. But maybe none of that matters. Maybe all the work that my teachers and my parents have put into making me a whole, functioning human is not for me at all, but so the rest of the world can feel comfortable with who I am. And clearly, I am sucking zebra balls at it.
I understand that spontaneous human combustion is a myth, but I fear I might take out the kitchen with a nuclear blast of frustration if I don’t get out of the house right this second.
Twenty minutes and a taxi ride later, and I am standing on a corner block surrounded by tall hedges, wondering what part of my cerebral cortex is responsible for this ridiculous mission. A small iron gate springs midway along the hedge border. I pause and peer through the bars. Joshua’s house lies beyond.
Though, really, I’m not sure that ‘house’ is the correct moniker. It’s not exactly a mansion, but I am guessing there is probably a mansion-adjacent descriptor for it. His front yard could comfortably hold my entire house.
Perpendicular rosebushes line a path that leads from the side gate to the porch. The yard is pristine, all clean edges and giant trees. But my eyes are drawn to the inconsistencies; a kid’s bike dumped on the driveway, a pile of shoes on the wide porch. It’s like real people have been dropped into the middle of a fantasy landscape.
The gate closes behind me with a snick as I walk down the bluestone path. My body is doing its water-kneed, fight-or-flight shuffle, reminiscent of every trip across the lawn to the Arts building. I shouldn’t be here. I should have stayed home with George Boole and Tom Baker. But whatever has drawn me here doggedly refuses to march my feet backwards.
The porch lights brighten as I approach the house. My eyes drift upwards, taking in the second storey, and the gabled windows of the rooms above it. A warm glow emanates from the window of what looks to be a turret.
Fact: Joshua Bailey is loaded.
I stop at the bottom of the porch stairs, my phone clutched in my sweaty palm. I’m not sure what to do, so I send an impulsive text.
Hey. I’m out the front of your place.
I peer nervously up at the house again. It remains silent; and yet I can practically feel his energy barrelling towards me.
He throws open the door, eyes darting. When they land on me, his face morphs into a big, shy smile.
I try to return it, but all I manage is a grimace. ‘Um, I know I’m early but I needed to … I mean, I wanted to …’
Joshua trips lightly to the edge of the porch and looks at me over the railing. ‘No, no, it’s fine. You just surprised me, is all. Hey!’ he says, grinning wildly. ‘You’re at my house!’
I don’t bother commenting on the obviousness. He’s wearing a black-and-grey checked shirt, his hair curling over the collar, and jeans but no shoes, his bare feet poking out of frayed cuffs. The warmth radiating from inside the house battles with the arctic bluster of the wind through the yard. Joshua wraps his arms around his body and tucks his hands into his armpits.
I wait for a few heartbeats, but none of Joshua’s usual verbal calisthenics are forthcoming. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses?’
He adjusts the black frames. ‘Ah, yeah. Busted. You didn’t give me time to put my contacts in.’
‘Oh. Sorry. They don’t look bad or anything. The glasses. They look good,’ I say, before my brain finally slams on the brakes.
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘My sister says I look like, and I quote, “an anaemic Clark Kent if he were the nerd one in a hipster boy band”. I don’t think it’s meant to be flattering.’