‘And speaking of manners, are you going to introduce me to your “friend”?’ she demands, fingers forming air quotes and all.
He turns around and clasps her lightly across the back of the neck. ‘Gillian, this is Sophia. Sophia, my sister, who may or may not be the love child of Robert Smith and Nosferatu, Gillian.’
I suspect it’s a bad idea to point out that I have no idea who those people are. I’m crap with kids, and worse with sarcasm. ‘Hi. Um, nice to meet you, Gillian.’
Gillian wriggles out from Joshua’s grip. She looks me up and down again. I force my eyes to remain on hers. ‘Cute T-shirt,’ I say, which is something I’ve heard girls say to each other on TV. Gillian merely raises an eyebrow. ‘I mean,’ I babble, ‘Le Tigre. My friend’s brother used to be obsessed with them. I wouldn’t think someone your age would be into them?’
‘Yeah, I’m a paradox,’ she snaps.
‘Okay, that’ll do,’ Joshua says, straightening to his full height. He’s giving his sister a look that makes her steely gaze drop.
‘Sorry …’
Joshua raises an eyebrow. ‘And …?’
‘Nice to meet you too,’ she says sullenly.
Joshua wraps her in a one-armed hug. ‘Okay, we’re leaving. Don’t conjure any demons from the netherworld. And, you know – maybe you could make a start on that homework, or whatever? Love you.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, whatever. Love you too,’ she mumbles.
We don’t speak as we walk outside. I’m still reeling from my encounter with his sister; especially after Joshua’s brief detour to find his contact lenses left Gillian and me alone in their foyer, somehow discussing Monique Keraudren and the flora of Madagascar.
I’m filled with an odd sensation of melancholy as we walk down the giant driveway. It seems so easy for them, so normal. Even Elsie’s brothers, who once trekked en masse to our primary school to confront a kid who’d stolen Elsie’s lunchbox, don’t use the ‘L’ word. I have about as much chance of hearing those words in my house as I do of proving the existence of dark matter.
‘So, I’m sorry about Gillian,’ Joshua says, snapping me from my thoughts. ‘She’s a tiny rage-monster, true, but if you scrape away the attitude, she’s actually a really decent person.’ We reach the main road, huddling beneath the lights of the tram stop. ‘Gilly is just a hell of a lot smarter than most people, and it’s kinda like this weapon she doesn’t know how to wield –’ He pauses, looking at me strangely.
‘What?’
He shakes his head as the lights of an approaching tram crest the hill. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The mechanics of being joined at the face
The tram is so packed that Joshua and I don’t even bother trying to speak over the noise. I avoid public transport whenever I can; this giant cylinder, reminiscent of the stomach of a steel whale, is exactly the reason why. Up the front is a big group of drunk girls decked out in pink bridal gear, whose voices carry octaves above the crowd. There are a few guys sitting on the floor blasting music through a phone, their hair in various unnatural hues, clothes covered in bolts and spiky metal things. A man across the aisle is yelling loudly into his mobile; he seems to be having an urgent conversation about a garden hose he just purchased. There are five giant older guys in football jumpers, voices fierce and booming. I can’t tell if they’re angry, excited or about to start a riot, and I’m more than a little relieved when they jump off after a few stops.
In front of us are a couple who have gone four stops without breaking their kiss; the activity on the tram seems irrelevant to them. Partly I find it remarkable that two people can be so absorbed in each other that they’re able to ignore the chaos surrounding them, but I’m also concerned that someone is going to lose a chunk of tongue as the tram jolts in fits and starts.
I huddle in a back corner near the door that doesn’t open. Joshua stands in front of me, one hand braced on the overhead rail. He doesn’t seem put out by the fact that he is being bombarded by bodies, sweaty arms and hands brushing against him. He plants his feet shoulder-width apart, and though he keeps getting jostled, he moves neither closer to me nor further away; it takes me six stops to realise that he has installed himself as an immovable wall, keeping marauding tram-people away from my corner.
He stares out the window into the dark, looking lost in thought, and it leaves me free to examine him up close. He has a small cluster of freckles on the right side of his neck, the only features on his otherwise unmarked skin. His hair is longer than I noticed when we first met, curling in tendrils around the collar of his jacket. His contacts seem to make his irises ever so slightly darker; behind his glasses his eyes had a lighter, bronzy tone. Intriguing. So many features that make up a normal face, no more or less extraordinary than any other face in the world. Yet it draws my focus, strangely beguiling.
Joshua turns his attention back to me when the tram makes a left down a busy street in Fitzroy. We push our way off at the next stop, and I take a second to catch my breath.
He watches me as I steady my breathing. He looks torn. ‘Sophia, we don’t have to go. We can turn around or do something else even –’
‘No.’ I straighten my shoulders. If I have learned anything from Ms Heller, it’s the way sham confidence can be suggested by the right posture. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. Lead the way.’
I follow him down a laneway, the walls on either side covered with graffiti. It looks like someone has tried to cover up a sketch of a rodent with a giant willy, using a poster of the Channel Seven weatherman; only someone has ripped off half the poster and drawn a penis on his head. I don’t understand why graffiti seems to be so predominately penis-themed. I think it is a question to ponder another day.
Joshua keeps shooting looks at me. I’m starting to feel a little light-headed, slightly disconnected from my body. Though maybe this is a good thing? Perhaps if I can’t invoke a new personality in the next thirty seconds, I can leave my old one out on the street, like a gecko shedding a useless skin.
In front of a peeling blue door is a small group of people sitting on milk crates. The place looks like the back end of a dilapidated bar.
A scruffy guy in a beanie, about our age, is sitting on a deck chair, holding a guitar. He’s playing a song that everyone else seems to know. Another guy, clean-shaven and wearing glasses and a matching beanie, is leaning lazily against his legs. Guitar-guy finishes playing to a smattering of applause. Glasses guy gazes up at him all moo-eyed. Someone else grabs the guitar, and the two guys mash their lips together.
Joshua waves at the people lingering near the door, and then he leads us inside.
‘Um. Oh,’ is all I’m capable of saying.