Page 68 of Summer, in Between
‘Yep,’ I say.‘I didn’t look like that for long, though.We pulled an all-nighter at Em’s.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Well, pretty much all of us.There were bodies everywhere.Someone even slept in the bath.’
‘Where’d you sleep?’
‘I didn’t.JB and I were on Em’s balcony until the bakery opened, then we jumped on some bikes and bought croissants which I vomited as we were riding back.’
‘Nice,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘I’m classy like that.JB had to hold my hair and he’s still traumatised.’
‘Who’s JB again?Scampo’s footy mate, yeah?’
‘My best friend.We went to formal together.’I point to the photo of JB and I posing at the foot of the stairs.Mum took a gazillion photos that night before Dad eventually told her enough’s enough and took us to the pre-formal party.
‘You’re just friends?That’s it?’
‘That’s it.We have a pact across our year level: no seeing each other inthatway unless it’s absolutely, positively unavoidable.’
‘Really?’
‘Is that strange to you?’
‘Hell yes,’ he says.‘Has it ever been absolutely, positively unavoidable for you to hook up with this guy?’
‘We’re close, but not that close,’ I say.
He turns back to the collection on the wall.‘I love this photo.’I cringe as he looks at me as a cherubic toddler, crouching naked over a sandcastle that’s thankfully obscuring my bits.
‘Can you believe I actually remember that day?’I say.‘Mum was pregnant with Matty, and I remember Dad held me under the shower at the lookout to get the sand off me.I was throwing a tantrum because I didn’t want to go.’
‘So the temper isn’t a me-thing,’ he says.‘Good to know.’
‘Well, the Paul-thing doesn’t help, that’s for sure.’I slide down in my chair, slumped, and swing it slowly side to side.‘But all we do is talk about me; I’m sick of it.What about you?What’s your earliest memory?’
He rubs the back of his neck and drops into the grey cotton armchair in the corner of my room.He sits on the very edge of it, leaning forward.‘Probably Mum and the old man fighting.’He presses his lips together and looks down at the kaleidoscope in his hands, turning it gently.‘That, or one of my brothers kicking the crap out of me, or each other.’
‘See, this is mortifying!This is exactly what I’m talking about,’ I say.‘You know about how I vomit croissants and I didn’t even know you have brothers.How many?How old?What are their names?’
‘One, Michael.My other brother, Peter, died about five years ago.’
‘What?That’s horrible!’
He shrugs.‘It is what it is, and now it’s one brother, he’s pushing thirty and he’s on the other side of the city.’
‘Do you see him much?’
‘Not if I can help it.’He reaches across to my bedside table.‘This isn’t the water bottle I bought you that day at Sadie’s, is it?’
‘It’s been through the dishwasher once or twice,’ I say.
‘You kept it?’
‘Of course.You’ve seen me picking up rubbish on the beach.Do I look like the type of girl that doesn’t reduce, reuse or recycle?’
‘That the only reason?’
