Page 9 of Summer, in Between
‘Well, they’re both pretty messed up, aren’t they?’
I spin so fast I probably have whiplash.There, right on my balcony, is Paul GD Lightwood, looking like he’s just stepped off the pages of a surfing magazine.It hurts to look at him, and not just because of the glare.His board shorts are green camouflage and he’s wearing a black t-shirt with a surf logo right in the middle of his chest.He’s passing a pair of sunglasses between his hands.
‘Hey, Cat.’He smiles, just quickly, flashing teeth that look as expensive as mine, then looks down at his hands.
As I squint against the sun, I’m painfully aware that he wouldn’t be mistaking me for a surf model, not by a long shot.While I’ve spent the last half an hour multitasking while circling articles and mentally debating the merit of global issues, I’ve also been squeezing the hell out of a crop of pimples on my chin, including its centrepiece, a flaming, throbbing volcano.It’s so big that even though I know it’s not physically possible I swear I can practically see it in my peripheral vision.My pyjama pants are covered with fluffy kittens and sit below my hips, not from any sense of style, but because they’re hung with age.Last year, when they were rising up my shins, I cut them into shorts, and have since picked at the loose threads, so an uneven, unravelled hemline sits across my upper thighs.I’ve paired them with a singlet top that was Dad’s and has long since lost its shape after spending many an hour stretched over my knees.To top off this ensemble, my hair is a big, tangled knot on top of my head with my pen stuck through the bun.The ultimate horror of horrors?My bra is a world away, abandoned on my bedroom floor.
Paul takes the chair to my left, sitting at the table as if he’s been here a million times.He leans back, surveying the view which, thank the sea gods, isn’t me.
‘I’ve always wondered about what you could see from up here,’ he says.‘This is such an incredible house.Any chance of one of those?’He nods at my chest.
The captain of the Senior Debating Team finds herself speechless.
‘Or a water, whatever’s easier.’
‘What?Yes, coffee’s not a problem.’Thank you sweet baby cheesus.I’ve remembered how to speak.
I rise from my seat and pause, a clammy hand on the kitchen door.‘Um, how do you take it?’
‘Stock standard,’ he says.I look at him with a blank stare.‘White with one.’
‘Ah, okay,’ I say.‘Be right back.’
I fire up the coffee machine and bolt upstairs into my bedroom.I should get dressed.But would that look like I’m trying too hard?I wriggle into my bra and pull on some denim shorts and a singlet that has never belonged to my father.I run my finger over my teeth and rub the sleep out of my eyes.Using my fingertips I go over my eyebrows, smoothing them down.In the kitchen, I hover over the coffee machine.
My stomach reminds me with a deep growl that I haven’t had breakfast.I open the fridge and find a bowl of mashed avocado.My mother is the actual best.
I slice up some ciabatta and take it outside with two plates and the avocado.The second I put it on the table it feels completely over-elaborate, but Paul starts loading up a plate, piling bread with avocado.
‘This is awesome,’ he says.‘I haven’t had breakfast.’
The coffee machine beeps and I go back inside.When I return with two coffees, he’s put two pieces of avocado bread on my plate.I place a mug before him.
‘Thanks, babe.’His eyes widen.‘Sorry, I mean, Cat, I mean thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,babe.’The word on my tongue makes me shrivel with cringe.‘Dad isn’t here, he’s gone for a walk with my mum, but I don’t think he’ll be long.’I peer into my coffee cup like I’m reading a fortune, and the steam fogs my glasses.
‘It’s all good,’ Paul says.‘I don’t mind waiting, not when you’re feeding me like this.’
‘Don’t get used to it.I’m not your waitress while you’re working here.’
‘We’ll see,’ he flashes me that grin again.‘What’s all this then?’He nods his head at my scribbles and takes another bite.
‘It’s for school.’
‘Aren’t you on holidays?’
‘I’m going into Year Twelve next year.Well, this year, now.I can’t believe that in ten months I’ll be all done.’I look into his sunglasses to where his eyes should be.It’s unnerving that I can’t see where he’s looking.
‘Ten months?Is that all?’
‘Yep.Look, I have a countdown.’I hold up my phone, the lockscreen showing the months, weeks, days and hours until the last official day of school.
‘You’re on a countdown?’he says.‘And you have homework, now?Don’t you need some down time?’
‘You sound like my mum,’ I say.‘I’ll worry about work life balance next year when it’s all behind me.’
‘That’s a first.’
