Good Oil (14 page)

Lizey’s bedroom is so cold that I almost can’t bear to remove my body-warmed clothing and put on my icy pyjamas. I’m tired and very fuzzy from the wine. I pull off my clothing as quickly as possible, suck in my breath, yank on my PJs, snap off the light and dive under the doona.

Lying alone in the big bed and looking at the dark ceiling, a pang of hunger for Chris twists my insides.

‘Chris!’ I say loudly, as if he could hear me. And I cry again, allowing myself a much freer rein this time as there is no one about and no one can hear me. A wet patch collects on my pillow. I swap it for the other pillow. I think I sleep.

My train gets in to Central at about 6 p.m. on Sunday. I am stiff, dirty and fantasising about a hot shower. Mum and Jess wait for me on the platform, holding hands. Mum wears her big dark overcoat, Jess her little blue parka with the fake-fur edging. Jess jumps up and down and then runs towards me. I scoop her up into my arms.

‘Nanna sent a special scarf for Teddy, because it’s winter,’ she says.

‘Excellent!’ I kiss both of her spongy little cheeks and plonk her back down.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hi, darling,’ says Mum. And, uncharacteristically, we hug. It feels damn good.

F
RAYING ROPES

When I walk in to the Land of Dreams on Tuesday afternoon, Chris is standing at the service desk, studying the roster and fastening his bow tie. My body immediately alters course, and I am at his side.

‘Hello there,’ I say. And I smile at him, not unlike how Maria smiles at Captain von Trapp in the gazebo.

‘Miss Hayes,’ he says, emphasising each word without varying his intonation. The Land of Dreams seems to quieten behind us. ‘It’s good to see you.’

Chris is king of winning smiles and witty banter, but thus far there have been neither. There is a smile from him though – less brilliant than usual but more genuine. It nourishes me.

A voice breaks through from somewhere above.

‘Are we going to our registers or are we standing around chatting?’

Bianca. Always there to spoil a moment. I notice on the roster she has put Chris on register two, near her at the service desk, and me way up the other end on register sixteen.

The shift drags without Chris on a nearby register to chat to. Between customers I gaze down the other end and watch Chris talking to Bianca and Ed.

Four till nine is a five-hour shift. A school day is six-and-a-half hours. So the shifts are like another school day, minus lunch or recess, after an actual school day. At ten to nine, I see Ed and Chris conferring and looking at me. Then Ed walks up to register sixteen.

‘Hello, Amelia,’ he says, quite formally.

‘Hello, Ed,’ I say, following suit.

‘I’m, uh, having a birthday party on Sunday week.’ He fishes a slip of paper out of his pocket and gives it to me. ‘My parents are away. The plan is to head on back to my place straight from work on Sunday.’

Chris can be seen holding up both his thumbs at me from register two.

‘Excellent. Thank you. I’ll be there. How old?’

‘Nineteen,’ he says. ‘I better go cash up.’ And he’s gone.

‘Sunday week,’ I tell Penny in maths the next day.

‘Isn’t that the night before the history assessment?’ she says.

‘Yeah, I think so. Hey, what do you think I should wear?’

‘Amelia, we both know what you are going to wear.’

Earlier in the year, Lizey had lent me a skirt and top to wear to a friend’s sixteenth birthday party. Penny and I had gotten ready together at my place. At the last minute I changed back into my jeans and T-shirt and could not be dissuaded.

The next bell will signal lunchtime. Lunch used to mean forty minutes of chatting with Penny. It now means thirty minutes of the Scott show, which plays a daily matinee to a willing audience. I decide to bring it up with Penny. Gently, though, ’cos she doesn’t respond well to out-and-out confrontation.

‘Why do you talk to that jerk Scott every day?’

Whoops. Couldn’t help myself.

She raises an eyebrow. That’s never a good sign.

‘He’s a tool,’ I continue. ‘He sits there day after day thinking,
I am so The Man
. And instead of telling him to piss off, you encourage him! Then he just loves himself even more.’

‘You’ve given this a lot of thought,’ observes Penny, looking away.

‘Well, yeah. And he’s so rude. Every day he comes to sit with you, and he has never, not once, said hello to me. None of them have.’

‘Well, gee, Amelia.’ She looks at me now. ‘Do you think that could have anything to do with the death stares you sit there and give out? They could kill a man at ten paces.’

‘They’re not
men
.’

‘You make it obvious that you think they’re totally beneath you; you sit there on your high horse sending filthy looks, or you bury your head in a book. Why would they say anything to you?’

‘They’re
jerks.

’ ‘For God’s sake, they’re not that bad! And in case you haven’t noticed, for some of us they’re all that’s going. We don’t
all
measure boys against the Chris benchmark. No one else has a Chris. And I guarantee that if you weren’t so bent on comparing every boy in the world to your idol, you might relax about Scott and his friends.’

I sulk. ‘You don’t
like
him, do you?’

But Penny declines to answer, making a show of continuing with her algebra. I glare down at mine and then out the window.

‘I’ll be late home from work on Sunday,’ I say to Mum. It’s about 5 p.m. and I am just home from Friday netball practice. Mum sits at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea and listening to ABC Classic FM. Two large, dirty frying pans are sitting on the sink. They are from last night’s dinner and Dad was supposed to wash them up. I glance at them nervously.

‘Oh?’ she says.

‘Bit of a birthday party for a guy from work.’

‘The one who gave you the flowers?’

‘What? No, someone else.’

‘Right.’ She sips her tea.

‘Don’t you want to know where it is and what time I’ll be back?’

‘Well—’

‘You don’t care, do you? Where I go and what I do. I could be out doing drugs and having unprotected sex. I could be
dealing
drugs. I could be getting tattoos. I could be failing school. And you wouldn’t even know.’ I’m not quite sure where this is coming from or why. I never go off at Mum. I’m too scared of upsetting her. Further. But I seem to have her attention now.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘you could be doing all those things.

But I don’t think you are.’

‘Why? Why don’t you think that? I could
so
be doing them!’

‘Because I know you are a sensible girl.’

No
, I think,
because you know I’m a loser with no social skills and no life, what possible trouble could I get into?
I stomp upstairs to my room.

My crankiness hasn’t abated an hour later. I sit in my room glowering at the ceiling.
I know what this is about
, I think. I’m cranky ’cause I’m uncomfortably thirsty for Chris all the bloody time. The heart-twingeing excitement of yester-month is gone. Now it just grates. There is no relief. There is nothing to be done. There is no sign of a parachute. I think of Penny’s comment from maths: ‘Not everyone has a Chris.’

I don’t have a Chris!
I think savagely.

‘Amelia!’ I hear my mother calling from the kitchen below.

‘What?’ I snap back, louder than necessary, but raising my voice feels good.

‘Can you run Jess’s bath?’

O
PENING NIGHT

On Friday night I’ve been lined up to babysit Jess. Mum and Dad are going to the opening night of Dad’s play at Brooke Street Theatre. Mum arrives home from work at the usual time, clutching shopping bags, Jess and Jess’s little backpack, and looking very tired. She bangs various pots and pans as she puts away the shopping.

‘Here, I’ll do that,’ I say lamely. ‘You sit down.’

She ignores me. I wonder whether to offer to make her a cup of tea, but in this kind of mood she’ll probably say no. When she’s finished putting away the shopping, she fills the kettle and gets down a mug and tea bag.

‘You go and sit down,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring it to you.’

I give her some gentle shoves and finally succeed in getting her to flop down on the couch in the next room, where Jess is watching TV.

‘I mightn’t be able to get back up again,’ she mutters.

I bring her the tea. She takes a few sips then places the mug on the coffee table. Within a minute she’s dozed off.

I make some toast and honey for Jess and me. Mum wakes half an hour later, groggy and disoriented. She looks at her watch, hauls herself up and staggers upstairs. The shower is running a minute later, followed by the muffled sounds of the hair dryer.

‘I wish Mummy didn’t have to go out,’ says Jess, not looking away from the TV. ‘Mummy’s tired.’

I climb the stairs to the bathroom. The door is ajar and Mum is in there putting on make-up. I enter and sit on the side of the bath.

‘Why do you have to go out tonight?’ I say mutinously.

‘You need to rest.You’ve been working all week.’

‘Hmmmm,’ says Mum, concentrating on applying eyeliner.

‘Why don’t you just tell him you’re not going? Tell him you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’

‘Not go? What do you mean?’

‘You shouldn’t have to go out at the end of the week. You’re so tired.’

‘I don’t
have
to go. But it’s Dad’s opening night. Of course I’m going.’

‘But you’re tired—’ ‘Don’t worry about it; I’m
all right.

’ She bangs the cabinet door shut.

Dad appears at the bathroom door. He’s wearing the Ralph Lauren navy shirt and aftershave we gave him for his birthday.

‘Everything under control in here?’

I look down at the tiles, wondering how much of the conversation he heard.

‘Mm-hmm,’ says Mum.

‘Ready to leave in fifteen minutes, darling?’

‘Yep.’

‘Bye girls!’

Mum is wearing a brown crushed-satinskirt and matching top. Her necklace is the one made from metallic triangles that fan out across her collarbone. Liza has been trying to lift that necklace for years, but Mum won’t part with it. She’s a looker, my mother. No doubt about it.

The front door closes behind them. Jess is tearful for a minute but is easily cheered up by the prospect of a bubble bath and a ham-and-cheese mini-pizza that happens to be her older sister’s specialty. I let her stay up way past her bedtime because I am lonely.

S
LAMMER

On the morning of Ed’s party I study half-heartedly for the history test, telling myself that I will also study when I get home. At midday, I shower and get into my work uniform. I pack clothes for the party. My darker jeans, battered old Blundstone boots that Mum bought for me in the winter of Year Eight, my grey long-sleeved T-shirt and light-blue short-sleeved T-shirt to go over it. I also pack one of my only necklaces: a largish jade carving on a black velvet ribbon. I sneak into Mum’s room and pocket her bottle of Coco.

The quiet, genuine Chris of the last few shifts is gone today. In fact there is an almost manic quality to him.

‘Youngster!’ he yells when I walk past, giving a curt salute. He packs groceries more vigorously than usual. When Bianca takes him off register to collect trolleys, he crashes them into each other and bangs them into the impulse confectionery stands the whole way down to the trolley bay.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask him.

‘All right? All right? I’m fucking fantastic!’ he blusters.

Righto then.

We close up shop at 6 p.m. Street-cred Donna heads straight outside for a smoke. The way she wears her work uniform it easily translates into a going-out outfit – rolled-up sleeves, silver pendants dangling on leather straps, three earrings in each ear, dyed blonde hair in a high ponytail with strands coming down on either side, short black skirt, laddered stockings, and boots that come up to just below her knees.

I get changed in the women’s toilets and spray a minute amount of Coco on my neck. I brush my hair in the mirror next to the loud and jostling Alana and Kelly. Bianca leans against the wall behind us, surveying her minions.

‘Nice necklace,’ she says, pointing at my jade carving.

I am so surprised that I don’t say anything right away. Alana and Kelly fall silent.

‘Thanks,’ I manage.

‘Yeah, it’s great,’ Alana rushes to concur.

‘Heaps original,’ agrees Kelly.

I nod, and brush my hair furiously.

Bianca approaches the mirror and puts a hand out to touch the necklace where it sits just below my throat.

‘It looks old,’ she says. ‘Where did you get it?’

She’s standing so close to me that her body almost touches mine.

‘We found it in my grandmother’s things when she died. She did a lot of travelling in Asia. I’m not exactly sure where she got it.’

‘Hmm.’ She lifts her eyes to meet mine. ‘Beautiful.’

I have never had a conversation with Bianca that has lasted this long. I have never had a compliment from her. It feels good. Too good. And then it’s over.

‘Well, we’ll see you there,’ she says, stepping back. ‘Alana? Kelly?’

She marches out flanked by the other two.

Most people who are coming straight from work fit into Bianca’s and Kathy’s cars, but Chris decrees that he, Ed and I will take the bus.

‘But then we’ll all get there before Ed,’ Kathy points out.

Chris turns to Ed. ‘Give her your keys.’

Ed digs in his pants pocket. He comes out with a set of keys on a bottle-opener key ring.

‘18 Keith Street,’ he says, giving them to Kathy.

We all pour out of the staff exit. Ed, Chris and I walk up to the bus stop, which happens to be outside a bottle shop. Chris checks the timetable before he and Ed disappear inside. Five minutes later, Ed emerges carrying a case of VB on his shoulder, and Chris carries several bottles in paper bags.

‘Ready to party, youngster?’

Ed looks at me out of glassy eyes, with something that could pass for sympathy. I rummage in my bag for bus fare.

Ed’s family live in a little bungalow on a quiet street. It’s very different from Bianca’s parents’ harbour view, which possibly accounts for how badly behaved everyone at this party is from the get-go. Because it’s a small house, everyone congregates in the living room and the small adjoining kitchen.

All signs of Bianca’s earlier friendliness have vanished and she sits close to Alana, Kelly, Street-cred Donna and Jeremy. A little later on she sits on Jeremy’s knee. Jeremy looks smug. I think Bianca and Andy have broken up – he’s not at the party. Kathy seems to be hovering close to Chris.

There is plenty of alcohol and not much food. I nibble at some chips and sip a beer. I talk a bit to Sveta, who is in the same year as me. Bianca drinks bourbon and Coke, while Kathy has brought her own supply of Bacardi Breezers. Several bottles of spirits and various bottles of soft drink are lined up on the kitchen table.

Chris, however, is steadily swigging straight from his own personal bottle of vodka. Full-sized. I’m no expert, but I know from my parents’ example that spirits are generally consumed in small quantities from a glass and more often than not are mixed with something else. Chris catches me staring.

‘Want to try, youngster?’ he asks.

‘Sure.’

I put my beer down and bravely grasp the vodka bottle with one hand on the neck and one on the base. I tilt it back into my mouth. The only thing worse than the explosion of foul taste is the harsh burning sensation all the way down my esophagus. I cough and splutter. Chris pounds my back.

‘It burns,’ I gasp.

‘Not after a while,’ he assures me, reclaiming the bottle and taking a generous slug for himself.

After a couple of hours there is talk of playing Twister. Unfamiliar music is blaring. Ed, Lincoln and Vic return from the garage with red eyes. Chris is about halfway down his bottle. Alana and Kelly start working the room with a bottle of tequila and a bottle of lime cordial, dispensing something called laybacks.

Observation reveals that this involves a person lying down on their back so Alana and Kelly can pour tequila and cordial straight into their mouths. It’s Chris’s turn.

We are sitting on the couch and he obediently stretches out along its length, his legs across mine. He swallows his huge mouthful without flinching and returns to a sitting position. Cries of ‘Amelia!’ go up, and I realise it’s my turn.

‘Yeah, maybe not for me . . .’ I wheedle, the taste of Chris’s vodka still fouling my mouth. But the cries become louder and I find my shoulders being pushed back by Ed and Lincoln. I open my mouth as the giggling faces of Alana and Kelly loom over me.
Pour! Are they emptying the bottles into my mouth?
Undiluted lime cordial and brutal tequila fill my mouth to capacity and I wonder how I will manage to swallow it all. I jackknife away from the stream before they finish pouring, splashes of both ending up on my neck and T-shirt. I swallow the whole lot, battling my gag reflex. Fearing I’m going to lose the battle, I struggle to my feet and find my way out to the only bathroom.

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 of cordial 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 bloke! 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 lime-cordial flavoured 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 lift 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 timetable in suburbia and all. We don’t do pick-ups 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 1 a.m. Then I change into my PJs and sit on my bed until about 4 a.m. 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 cordial. I smile so hard that tears come into my eyes.