Page 16 of Summer, in Between
Around a hundred people litter the Gap in groups.Surfers, campers and locals alike sit sharing eskies, drawn to the ocean in celebration of summer and beach and surf, having drifted down from the camping grounds, the general store or the pub.There are younger kids, Matty’s age, right through to some of the fossil surfers.There’s the obligatory group of surfer groupies who turn up at all these things with the sole purpose of hooking up with a surfer.Sitting to the side of the bonfire are the Neanderthals who hoot when they see Paul.Across the fire from them is Isabel Scuzzbucket Dillon, sitting on an esky, drinking ouzo straight from the bottle.We lock eyes, hers narrowing before she turns her back to talk to a shirtless guy next to her who is leaning back on an elbow, bare feet crossed at the ankles, a modern-day Jesus with his long shaggy hair and matching beard, if Jesus were in his twenties and used the f-word like punctuation.
Paul takes my hand and leads me towards his friends.I discreetly shake free, and it flops hard against my body, as if it were a limb belonging to a stranger.He sinks to the sand surrounding the fire and pats the space beside him.I sit as gracefully as my short skirt and Paul’s giant hoodie allows me.I didn’t think my outfit through at all.Looking across the beach, I see many other girls clearly thinking the same thing, flicking sand off bare legs, doing that telltale short skirt adjustment, trying for subtlety but if they’re anything like me they’re feeling painfully obvious.The heat from the bonfire is intense and so I unzip Paul’s hoodie to my waist.
A Neanderthal stands before me, three bottles in hand.‘Hey, Paulie,’ he says.He tilts the bottles at us.‘Beer?’he asks.They still wear their metal caps.Mum would approve, slightly.
‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling prim.He wrenches off the top before handing it to me.
‘Paulie?Beer?’He tosses the caps into the fire.
‘I’m Ant.’He sits on the sand in front of me.Though we’ve never spoken, I know him as Antonio Scamporelli.His nonni go to the same Italian club as my Nonna.
‘Cat.’I tip my beer in greeting.
‘You here for the summer, Cat?’
I look at him incredulously.‘No, I live here.’
‘Really?You just move here?’
‘Not really.I’ve lived here since I was a kid.’
‘Hang on.Cat Kelty?Mick’s daughter?Signora Maria’s granddaughter?’
‘The one and only,’ I say, lifting my hands in a shrug.
Paul offers no comment, seemingly content to sip on his beer and listen to our awkward greeting.I glance at him, and he offers a quick smile.
Ant looks me up and down, his head tilted in confusion.‘Man, I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you!What have you been up to?How’s JB?You catching up with him over the summer?’
‘I wish,’ I say.‘He’s working with his dad all summer.’
‘Bummer,’ says Ant.‘His old man’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?’
‘Just a bit,’ I say, ‘but he pays well.’
‘I haven’t seen him since the season finished.How’d he go with everything?’
‘Really good,’ I say.‘He works his arse off – he’s going for physio.’
‘He’s a smart one,’ says Ant.‘Too smart for us dumbarses at the footy club, that’s for sure.Say hi to him for me.’
‘I will, but don’t you have preseason coming up?You’ll see him before I do.’
He takes a swig of beer, and his eyes do another sweep of me.He shakes his head.‘I can’t get over how different you look.’
‘Different how?’
‘They’re called tits, Scampo.’A Neanderthal flops on the sand in front of me, the little shitbag who nearly took out my shins with a skateboard at Sadie’s.Steve.A wiry, short, towheaded, barely teenaged kid from an estate in town with the telltale black front tooth.He openly stares at my chest.I try not to squirm under his insulting gaze but wrap Paul’s jumper tighter.Of course, the loud-mouthed tool somehow managed to time that insightful comment right in the break of music between songs.While the logical part of my brain knows that between the roaring of the ocean and the multitude of simultaneous conversations there’s no possible way he was heard by anyone beyond the people in my immediate vicinity, it seems that every person at the party turns their head to chance a glance at my (admittedly spectacular) rack.
‘They’re great tits.Give us a proper look.’He reaches out and I slap his hand away.
‘Touch me, and I’ll break your nose,’ I say.
‘Come on, don’t be a Stuck Up Bitch all your life.’He goes for me again.
Before I even register what’s happening, I punch him right in his face and he falls back against the sand holding his cheekbone.My knuckles throb but I keep the sharpness of the pain from showing on my face.
‘You fucking bitch,’ he yells.He gets to his knees and lunges, his fist clenched.Years ago, at a funeral, one of my cousins accidentally punched me in the eye and I’ve never forgotten the sound of her fist making contact, the pop, and that tear of pain.I brace.
