Love and Other Perishable Items (19 page)

I shut the door behind me and take a few deep breaths. I splash water on my face and neck, drying off with what I hope is a cleanish towel. I wet one corner of it and dab at the sticky patch on my T-shirt. Then I sit down on the tiles with my back against the bath. There’s a bang at the door.

“Amelia! Are you all right?”

Before I can answer, the door opens and Chris comes crashing through, clutching the neck of his vodka bottle with one hand. He regards me for a second, then pulls the door shut behind him and slumps down on the tiles beside me.

“Not feeling too good?” he asks.

“I’m all right now. Reckon I’ll go home soon. How’re you feeling?” I gesture to the bottle.

“Me? Fan-fuckin’-tastic. You can’t drown ’em … but you can make ’em swim for it.”

“Drown who?”

“Ah … nothing.”

We sit in silence. There are some cleaning products stashed under the sink adjacent to where we sit. I spy one of a new line of sponges that I had seen an ad for yesterday and been outraged by. I pick it up.

“Have you seen the ad for the new Wonder Sponge?” I ask. “It’s a bloody disgrace. There is some Guy Smiley type interviewing various women—
all
women!—about how fantastic the new sponge is, and how it totally meets their cleaning needs. Goodbye,
bathroom tile grime! The women are all very,
very
excited about their new sponge. They’re standing in their sparkling shower recesses looking wholesome. ‘It just wipes right off!’ Guess what? Not a single man! What are we to learn here—that bathroom grime is a woman’s lot?” I pause for breath, and deflate. “I guess bathroom grime
is
a woman’s lot. It certainly is in my house.” I turn to face him. “Do
you
concern yourself with bathroom grime at your house?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Didn’t think so.” I throw the sponge against the wall in disgust.

“Amelia,” Chris says.

“Yeah.”

“If you were two years older, I’d be going out with you.”

What? What did he just say?
I stare at him.

He looks at me tenderly with unsteady, bloodshot eyes.

“You what?”

“I wish you were older,” he says. “You’d be the Perfect Woman.” And he cups my face with his non-vodka-holding hand.

I’m speechless. I have no speech. All I have is the sound of my own blood thudding through my ears. I don’t think I’m breathing. Then all of a sudden I find my voice.

“
You
are perfect! You are
perfect!
”

“Is that right?” he says, putting his vodka bottle down on the tiles.

“Yesss!”

He cups my face with both hands.

Holy shit
.

“Amelia.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to have to kiss you now.” And he pulls my tequila-and-lime-flavored mouth over to his.

I kiss Chris as if I’ve been kissing boys in bathrooms for years. I think I can feel the particles in our lips merging. The inches of bathroom tile between us disappear in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Chris.” I extricate my mouth for a second.

“Mmm.”

“I love you.”

He opens his eyes. His grip on me seems to loosen. He looks frozen. Not the effect I was hoping for. I press on.

“I’ll be sixteen in a few months.”

He loosens his grip even further. I try to kiss him again, but he moves his head to one side.

“What? What is it?”

There’s a loud banging on the door.

“Shit!” says Chris, backing away. He knocks over the vodka bottle, which hits the tiles with a crash but doesn’t shatter.

“Hurry the fuck up in there!” Bianca yells shrilly. Several more bangs on the door. Amazing. She’ll probably show up to ruin my wedding day.

Things happen pretty fast after that.

Chris opens the bathroom door.

“About time!” bitches Bianca, who is waiting out in the hallway with Alana and Donna behind her, as usual. “I’ve been—” She sees me standing behind Chris and shoots up one eyebrow.

He grabs my wrist and steers me out. “Shut up,” he says to Bianca, who had opened her mouth to say something.

“Chris,” I whisper, following him up the hallway. “What—”

“There you are, Amelia!” It’s Sveta, who lives near me and had offered me a ride home. “My dad’s outside; you still want a lift?”

“Oh—yeah, thanks. I’ll be right out.” It will be hard for me to get home otherwise. Sunday night bus schedule in suburbia and all. We don’t do pickups in my family.

Sveta nods and disappears.

I tug on Chris’s hand. “I’m going now.”

He looks back at me. “I’ll walk you out.”

I find my backpack and together we go out the side door into the dark driveway. Sveta’s dad’s headlights are visible down the end but do not shine on us.

“Youngster,” he says, and hugs me tightly.

“I better go,” I say, breaking the embrace but keeping my arms loosely around him, conscious of keeping Sveta’s dad waiting.

He studies me for a moment. Right up close.

“Your pupils are huge,” he says, with the slightest of staggers.

I kiss him once more on the lips. Just like that. Just because I want to. I am astounded at the liberties it appears I can now take, and walk down the driveway with confident steps.

I don’t study or sleep when I get home to a quiet house at about midnight. I sit on my bed until about one. Then I change into my pj’s and sit on my bed until about four. Then I lie back and doze.

When I wake to the alarm at six-thirty, I fear that I dreamed the whole thing. I’ve had similar dreams before. My eyes arrive at the pile of clothing on the floor. I pick up my blue T-shirt and inspect the stain on the neckline and shoulder. I sniff it—lime juice. I smile so hard that tears come into my eyes.

Bubble Girl

Meandering home from the bus stop after school, my head lolls from one side to the other, my eyelids droop, but my mouth perpetually curves upward. I try to recall the day that just passed. When Jess refused to get up and dressed, I left her there, left her for someone else to deal with. I don’t remember making Mum tea or toast for breakfast. I don’t remember having feelings one way or another about my father’s directive that I—who had to leave for school in a few minutes—vacate the kitchen space until he—who had nowhere to be at any particular time—finished making his tea, as I was “in his way.”

I blurted out the glorious story to Penny before roll call. I don’t remember feeling angry when Scott and company arrived at lunch. I’m pretty sure I did badly on the history test, but I haven’t really thought about it since.

I am completely focused on the phone call from Chris that is surely coming this evening. What will be said? What do couples talk to each other about? I’ll tell him about my day; he’ll tell me about his. I’ll tell him I love him; he’ll tell me the same. I’ll tell him I have longed for this day; he’ll tell me the same.
When am I seeing you?
he’ll say. We’ll arrange to have dinner after work on Wednesday night. We’ll go to Rino’s again, but this time he’ll sit close to me and hold my hand under the table. After dinner he’ll walk me home with his arm around me.

My family sits down to dinner at seven-thirty. He hasn’t rung yet. He’ll ring when he’s had his dinner.

“How was the party last night?” Mum asks.

“Fine. Good.”

We eat in silence.

“Is everything all right, Amelia?” Mum again.

“Yes!”

When the meal is finished, Mum and Dad light up their after-dinner cigarettes. I clear the table, scrape the dishes, rinse them and stack them on the sink edge. Dad is supposed to load the dishwasher when he is home. I take the phone from its cradle and check the dial tone. I retire with it to my room and sit cross-legged on my bed.

It’s nine-thirty and still nothing. Maybe he’s watching
Media Watch
. What time is
Media Watch
on? He might think that it’s too late to call me now.

After much deliberation, and with the beginnings of panic creeping into my throat, I snatch the phone up and dial his number.

“Robyn Harvey speaking,” says a woman who I guess is Chris’s mum.

“Can I speak to Chris, please.”

“Just a moment, love.” She sounds kind. “Chris!” she calls. “Phone for you.”

Muffled footsteps and then Chris’s voice. “Hello.”

My chest tightens.

“It’s Amelia.”

“Hi.”

He sounds … what? Dismayed? Gruff? Surprised? Annoyed?

“How are you?” I venture.

“I have the mother of all hangovers.”

“Oh, that’s no goo—”

“Can I call you back?”

“Huh?”

“Can I call you back, Amelia?” He sounds impatient. “In ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

And he hangs up.

I look at the alarm clock. 9:34 p.m. I wait.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I jump out of my skin.

“Yes!”

Mum opens the door but doesn’t enter.

“I’m going to bed now,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, with a touch of irritation. Why is she telling me this tonight? Usually she just goes without saying anything, making me wonder whether I should take the initiative and go into her room to kiss her good night. But whenever I do, I’m just confronted by her tired face.

Now she stands there, observing me sitting on my bed with the phone in my lap. Her eyes move to my unpacked schoolbag, my desk devoid of books and my desk lamp off.

“Is everything all right?” she asks again.

“Yes!” For one terrifying second I think I might cry. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mum.”

9:45.

9:50.

9:55.

I jump when the phone finally rings, and pick it up quickly.

“It’s me,” he says tonelessly.

“Hi.” I grit my teeth against the havoc taking over my central nervous system.

“I’m not usually a fan of cliché,” he begins, “but I’m going to have to open with ‘About last night.’ ”

I exhale a faint giggle and wait for him to continue.

“As you would be aware, I was drinking heavily last night, which led to me becoming disinhibited and losing control of my actions.” He sounds as if he is reading from a prepared speech. After a few moments I realize he is.

“I apologize for coming on to you the way I did,” he continues.

“You didn’t—”

“But I’m sure you know there is no question of us having an ongoing romantic relationship.”

There it is. My eyes fill with tears. I’m afraid to speak lest my voice betray them.

“Why?” I manage to squeeze out.

“Because you are fifteen and I’m twenty-two, we have nothing in common socially and are at completely different stages in our lives.”

I know he knows I’m crying. He can probably hear my efforts to stifle it.

“You couldn’t participate in my life. I couldn’t participate in yours. It wouldn’t work. I need someone who can come to the pub with me and my mates, who can go away with me for weekends, who I can introduce to my family and, to be frank, someone I can have sex with.”

“I’d have sex with you!”

“Don’t!”
he says sharply. “Don’t even say that.”

Tears roll down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry about all this. You were drinking too. It was just one of those things.” He must realize how lame that sounds. “I’ll see you at work. Bye.”

He hangs up.

I lie down on my pillow and let out all the sobs I’d been keeping in my throat.

Ugly

The next morning I lie in bed after the alarm sounds. My eyes are sore and caked in gunk.
I suppose I’d better go to school
, I think. Mum, Jess and Dad have already left. Mum had to drop Dad at the airport early. He’s teaching a few classes at the University of New England this week. Modern Drama something or other.

I iron my school shirt in the kitchen and manage a few sips of tea. I leave much later than usual and the buses are full and much slower. I slink into roll call late. Mrs. Chambers doesn’t say anything but marks my name off on the roll. I’m never late.

Penny catches up with me at our lockers shortly after recess bell.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Chris.”

“What now?”

“He said it’s all off. He says he was just drunk. He says it’ll never … We’ll never … He never … He read all the reasons why not from a piece of paper.”

“Oh, sweetie. What a gyp.”

I slam my locker door shut. “Yeah.”

We walk outside into the sunshine and head down to join our group on the grass.

“Are we good for Saturday?” I ask. “I’m going to need some serious chocolate therapy. I might even need you to dye my hair for me.” Our usual fallback Saturday ritual is going to the movies, sharing a bucket of popcorn and then sleeping over at either one’s house, watching movies and eating chocolate late into the night.

“I can’t this week.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve got a thing.”

“A family thing?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m going to the end-of-season party,” she says, trying hard to sound casual.

Every year on the Saturday that the First XV rugby team at the boys’ school plays the last game of the season, there’s a huge party at one of the players’ houses. It’s strictly invitation-only and attended by the coolest, sportiest boys and the best-looking, most up-for-it selection of girls. I’m gobsmacked—half wildly curious about how Penny had managed to get invited, half jealous and miffed.

“How?” I stop walking, which forces her to stop too.

“Scott’s sister is a senior. She goes out with one of the guys on the team. She got Scott and some of his friends invited—including me.”

“You’re going with Scott, then.”

“Well, sort of. His sister’s driving and I’m going with them.”

“But they’re a bunch of wankers, remember? The alpha males and the female prizes for their achievements?”

Penny says nothing.

I wait for her to make some reference to me going too. She remains silent.

“What if I wanted to come too?” I ask pointedly.

“There’s … there’s no more room in the car,” she says lamely.

“No more room in the car,” I repeat. “Well, fuck you then!”