Page 31 of Summer, in Between
‘Honestly?Be glad someone gives a shit,’ says Paul.He’s holding the steering wheel in both hands and I see his jaw clenching.
‘There’s giving a shit and there’s driving me crazy,’ I mutter.‘Bring on next year when I don’t have to hear this again and again and again times infinity.’
As the road turns towards Batter’s Cove late afternoon sun fills the car.I adjust the visor, blinded.
‘So, you’re really going for medicine?’
‘Or law, I haven’t decided.’
‘Isn’t being a doctor or a lawyer completely opposite?’
‘I haven’t figured that part out yet; I just need to get good enough marks for both.’I shrug.‘I don’t have a choice, really.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have a choice?Sounds like you have all the choices.’
‘No, I meant I have to get good marks, so I have a choice.It’s a bit complicated, but basically the better my marks, the more options I’ll have when it comes down to working out what course I’ll do.’
‘I might be a tradie, but I know how uni selections work,’ he says.‘But why law or medicine?Is that what you even want?’
‘I want the marks,’ I say.‘I’m smart, I might not be one of those super-intelligent robots at school that could easily get into medicine without even trying, but I know how to work hard.Law’s been on my radar forever, but then my careers teacher said I could probably go for medicine.I don’t know.It’s full on.Be glad you’re a tradie; you don’t have to think about all this stuff, there’s no pressure on you.’
‘Sorry, what?You don’t know anything about me or my life.You’re a kid, you don’t even know a hint of pressure.’
‘I’m a kid?’I turn to glare at him.‘You’re what, three years older than me?Good one, Grandpa.’
We pull into the driveway and Paul yanks on the handbrake.
‘Your castle,principessa.Tell your old man I’ll see him tomorrow and thank your mum for lunch for me.’He stares straight ahead through the windscreen.
‘It’sprin-ci-pessa,’I say as I leave his car, even though he absolutely nailed the pronunciation.
14
‘I’M about to have oneof those vapid teenage angsty existential crises,’ I yell up the stairs to Mum.
‘If you’re going to have a crisis I’m going to need some bolstering.’She moves from languid-slow-lunch-mode to full Olympic-gymnast-mode.She leaps from the lounge, cartwheels to the kitchen, snatches up a new bottle of red, backflips to the sofa while removing the lid with her bare teeth.Okay, so I might be slightly exaggerating, but it’s time for an existential crisis.I take a wine glass from the cupboard and sit down opposite her on the sofa.
