Head of the River (5 page)

‘I dunno about that. Sam beat me by a mile this morning. Even if I didn't fall in, I wouldn't have won.'

‘Everyone's taken a swim in the Yarra. It's a rite of passage.'

‘You haven't.'

‘There's still time.'

Dad storms down the hall and comes in without knocking.

‘Have you been dropped to seconds?' he shouts.

‘Dad, calm down!' I say.

‘This crazy! Cristian, one day you row for Romania …
Australia. Whichever country you choose. You're out because why?'

‘Because too fat and too unfit,' I say, feeling overwhelmed. ‘They want me to drop 15 kilos. How am I going to lose 15 kay-gees?' I ask him, deadly serious. The coach's scare tactic has worked. I'm terrified I can't do it.

Dad calms down and sits on my bed.

‘When I was a young man, like you, I would eat, eat, eat. Eating all the time. My mother was always feeding me. Stews, cakes, bread. So I got fat.'

He puffs out his cheeks to illustrate. ‘I not make youth team for European Cup if I don't lose weight. I liked watermelon, so I ate watermelon. For three months. I get skinny. Made crew. Won championship. I never eat watermelon again.'

‘You ate only watermelon, every day, for months?' I ask. Some of Dad's stories have to be made up.

‘Yes. That's what I say.'

‘No offence, but nutrition has changed a bit since the olden days,' says Leni. ‘We have a sports dietitian Cristian can go and see.'

‘Close your mouth. What's so complicated about that?' Dad says.

Leni and I exchange a glance. Dad means well, but he's out of touch.

Dad pulls over my paper bin. I've tried to hide chocolate wrappers and chip bags in there, but he pulls them out one by one.

‘Mars Bars, Pringles, M&Ms. Garbage! Let's show coach what a Popescu man can do. Fifteen kilos. Pffft! Is nothing!' He claps me on the back with more force than I expect. I cough.

‘Yeah, okay. I'll try.'

‘Good! Is done. Back in the firsts. Stay on scholarship. Win Head of River. We tell your mother only cook skinny food.'

‘You could lose a few kilos too, Vasile,' I say.

He laughs and pats his tummy. ‘Everyone eat skinny food. Is easier together!'

We have dinner together and, for a change, Dad cooks. The menu? Skinless chicken fillets, steamed broccoli and potato with no butter. It smells and tastes revolting.

‘It's nice, Vas,' says Mum, trying to sound enthusiastic about the bland meal.

‘What's for dessert?' I ask, winking at Leni.

‘Watermelon pie?' Leni says.

‘Watermelon ice-cream?' I continue.

‘No respect,' Dad grumps.

Leni and I crack up and he leaves us to clean up the unholy mess in the kitchen.

After I do my homework I lie on my bed, listening to the protests of my empty stomach. Can I get away with creeping into the kitchen to get something from the fridge? A bowl of cereal, a hunk of cheese? Something to keep me going until morning. I grab my rowing bag from the floor and search for a stray muesli bar or apple. Nothing. It would probably be easier to sneak out of my room and down to Smith Street to get a kebab from the twenty-four-hour place. Maybe a baklava, too. Food is literally the only thing I can think about. I'm not sure I can do this. Can I do this?

I chat to Penny on messenger. Most of the rowing squad are on it. We've been flirting lately. Both of us are shy and it helps to have a keyboard between us.

CrisP:
Still up?

HennyPenny:
Yup. Geog test tomorrow.

Cris:
So tired tonite.

HennyPenny:
Me 2. RU OK after today?

CrisP:
Scared I won't get my seat back.

HennyPenny:
Don't be scared. Be ready.

CrisP:
I will be. Night.

HennyPenny:
Night Cris

I smile and think about our hypothetical first date. She's wearing a sundress and thongs, her hair pulled out of the hard ponytail she usually wears. We share fish and chips on the beach at St Kilda and then walk along the edge, our toes in the water. My arm rests on her shoulders and she hooks a thumb in the back pocket of my jeans. Afterwards we go to see a band and she sways in front of me, her hips loose.

I snap back to reality. Penny would never go out with a guy like me. A hopeless seconds fatty with love handles. I sneak out of my room and down to Smith Street called by the siren song of barbecued meats.

Leni

My bedroom is never completely dark. Fluorescent light leaches under my blind from the street lamp outside. It's never completely quiet either. Drunk people are always steaming out of the pub down the road, shouting things like, ‘Heeeeey! Brutha! Yo! Where ya going?' The guy who lives next door is coughing, so I listen to that for a while. He can go all night long. Coughing so much it sounds like he might throw up from the effort. I see him sometimes lighting up a ciggie on the lumpy yellow chair on their front porch. He looks half dead, but he won't quit. People are so stupid.

I'm getting out of bed for a glass of water when I hear a soft knock at my window and a guy's voice saying my name. Scared, I open the blind and peer out.

Adam's in our front garden, holding the side of his head. Something's wrong.
First
– we hadn't agreed to meet, and Adam, like me, is into planning stuff.
Second
– he looks a mess and there's blood on his T-shirt. I've never seen Adam without product in his hair and matching clothes, even on the riverbank. Even when we are alone together.

‘I'll let you in,' I whisper.

I turn the front door latch gently and push him into my bedroom, closing the door behind us.

‘What's wrong?'

Adam sits down on the bed. He puts his arms around his body and silently howls, like that painting we studied in school,
The Scream
. I hug him awkwardly. He's cold and shaking.

‘Adam, are you okay?' I ask. It seems inadequate.

‘Yes … no. I don't know.'

I peel his palm away from his forehead. He has a small gash above his eyebrow and a shiny lump.

I know a bit about head injuries from the time Cristian blacked out during a rugby tackle, got concussion and had to sit out for three weeks.

‘Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick? Maybe we should go to emergency.'

‘No. I'm not going to the hospital,' says Adam.

‘Just to get it looked at, make sure it's not serious.'

‘It was my fault. I got kicked out of the firsts. Westie's doing a cull. First Cristian, now me. I'm not strong enough. Not tough enough.'

‘There's no one tougher than you,' I say. Adam will row until he vomits. In the rain, cold, rough water, forty-degree heat. He never complains.

‘Can I have a better look?' I say.

I turn my bedside lamp onto his wound. It's not too bad but it might need stitches.

‘What happened?'

‘My brothers rowed in the firsts, Dad, Granddad. I can't row in the seconds. Not this year. Do you know how many boats my father has bought the school? Do you know what they
cost
?'

I feel sick to my stomach.

‘Who did this to you?' I ask, thinking the worst.

‘I did,' Adam whispers.

‘Why?' I feel confused and upset. Why would anyone do this to themselves? Especially not Adam. He always seems so together. So dependable.

‘I was fighting with Dad and he was calling me a pathetic loser and making me feel like nothing. Like I didn't matter. I got so angry I banged my head against the table. He made me feel so bad about myself; it actually felt better to do this instead. I ran away and came here. I didn't know what else to do.'

‘The glass table? In the living room?' I picture the designer table with its thick, square edges, magazines stacked artfully on the surface.

‘Yep.'

‘Adam. You could have knocked yourself out.'

‘That was the idea, Leni. At least it shut him up. I couldn't stand it anymore. He is always, always down on me. Something snapped. Haven't you ever snapped?'

I think about it. He wants something from me that I can't give. I've never felt out of control.

‘Not like this. You don't want to give yourself brain damage because you're not in the firsts.'

‘It's okay for you, you're never going to get chucked out of your crew.'

‘How do you know that? Promise me you won't do anything like this again.' I grab his hands and squeeze them.

‘I don't think I will,' says Adam.

‘Let's wake Mum up. She can take a look.'

‘Don't worry about it, Leni. I shouldn't have come here. I'll go home.'

He gets up to leave and I pull him back. He won't look me in the eye.

‘Adam. Stay.'

Adam looks pale. ‘I have a headache.'

‘I gotta wake Mum,' I say. Her home medical kit should sort out a cut like this.

‘Don't tell them it was me. Make something up. Tell them my dad's away. Overseas.'

‘Okay,' I agree. He lets my fingers slip away.

I wait at the door of my parents' room for a moment, thinking how with one knock, everything would change. I'd be lying to my parents and I always said I wouldn't do that.

Then I knock.

Cristian

I'm sneaking back into the house after a trip to Hasir Kebabs. They know my order now. Doner kebab, extra garlic sauce. I think for sure I've been sprung when I see the kitchen lights are on. We Popescus are early to bed and early to rise and nobody is usually up past 9 pm. It's almost 11 but as I walk towards the light I can see that everyone's up. Even Banjo. Bizarrely, Adam is sitting in our kitchen and Mum is applying Steri-Strips to a cut above his eyebrow.

Dad turns around when he hears my trainers squeak on the wooden floor. He gives me a very sad, disappointed look.

‘Where have you been?'

‘To Smith Street to get something to eat. Sorry.'

Dad shakes his head at me. He doesn't have to say,
you are a useless prick
. That's what he's thinking. What I'm thinking. Who breaks a diet after five hours? My hand goes to the 7-Eleven chocolate bar in my pocket. It's burning a hole in my leg.

‘Don't ever leave the house without letting us know where you are going. This isn't a safe neighbourhood at night.'

Dad turns away from me to the delicate operation in progress on the kitchen table. Mum has surgical gloves on, while Leni holds the light up so she can see.

‘Hey Adam,' I say.

‘Shhhhh!' says Leni, looking irritated.

‘What happened?' I ask the surgical team.

Mum doesn't answer, she's too busy focusing on her patient.

‘It was an accident. I walked into a door,' says Adam.

‘All done,' Mum says to him in her nurse voice. ‘You seem fine, Adam, but I need to observe you for at least a few hours before you can go home. You might as well get comfortable. I'll make tea.'

Walking into a door? Sounds dodgy to me.

Adam says he's fine to drive himself home, even though he shouldn't have been driving in the first place, because he's only just got his Ps and he's whacked his head.

‘Absolutely not,' says Mum. ‘Can you take him, Vas?'

‘Yes, of course,' says Dad.

‘I'll go too,' says Leni.

‘No, you go back to bed,' says Dad. ‘Cristian can keep me company.'

Inwardly I groan. Dad will use the confined space to give me a lecture about willpower and watermelon.

‘Thanks, Mrs Popescu,' says Adam.

Mum gives him a hug I know is the top-shelf variety –
strong, committed and reassuring. His face looks small and scared over her shoulder. ‘Call me if you feel any worse. Right away and I'll take you up to the Royal.'

‘I will.'

He closes his eyes briefly and I wonder if he's thinking about his own mum. Wishing she was closer than Sydney.

Adam has driven over in his new Mini, but we all pile into our car.

‘You pick up toy car tomorrow,' says Dad, as the engine whines to life. ‘Where you live?'

‘Toorak,' says Adam. ‘Lansell Road.'

Adam's house is famous. One of the most expensive slices of real estate in the entire city, on the most exclusive tree-lined street.

Dad looks blank. ‘I not know this place.'

Adam turns on his mobile phone GPS and says ‘home'.

A woman speaking in an American accent joins us in the car, telling Dad to drive straight. Two hundred metres. Then turn left. Vasile doesn't like technology and he frowns deeply.

‘I have enough women telling me how to drive with my wife and daughter,' he says. ‘Tell me direction.'

Leni

‘Are you tired?' Mum asks.

‘Not really,' I admit. I'm shaken, alert. The sun will be up in a few hours. It's almost not worth going back to sleep.

‘Another cuppa?'

‘Yeah.'

Mum packs up her kit and makes us both a cup of tea. She always has tea on. A fresh brew clears her head when she is emptied from nursing sick kids.

She hands me a chipped mug and a slice of marbled
cozonac
sweet bread. I'm walloped by memories as I take a bite. I love hanging around the kitchen watching her make it for special occasions. When I was little I'd help her roll the dough and wait impatiently for it to cook in the oven. Wrapped in a sweet cloud of rum, orange peel and cocoa.

‘What was tonight all about, Leni?' Mum asks as I blow across the steaming tea in my mug.

‘I dunno,' I say, feeling terrible for not being honest.

‘I see this sort of injury quite often,' Mum says. ‘It's usually caused by someone being pushed into a wall or a table.'