Love-shy (24 page)

‘I don't want to wear a dress,' Nick muttered, looking sullen.

‘Well,
I
don't want to be treated like a doll or an object,' I said. ‘And I'm sure Amy Butler doesn't either.'

Nick swallowed and gazed at his shoes for a long moment. ‘You're right,' he said at last, with considerable effort. ‘You're right. I shouldn't talk like that.'

‘Damn right you shouldn't,' I said with a frown. I was pretty sure this conversation wasn't over.

14

‘H
EY,
'
I SAID, SITTING ON
the bench beside Nick at recess the next day.

Nick jumped, then nodded without looking at me and took off his headphones.

‘What are you listening to?' I asked.

‘Stuff,' he said. ‘You know.' He floundered. ‘Er. Rock and roll?'

I raised my eyebrows. ‘What are you
really
listening to?'

‘I am the very model of a majorly mental basket-case,' he said with a wry smile.

I laughed. ‘Gilbert and Sullivan still working for you, I see. How are you?' I asked. ‘Anything to report?'

‘We were supposed to do fitness testing in Biology,' said Nick. ‘Run around the racetrack and then measure resting heart rate. I wagged.'

‘You really don't like physical exercise,' I observed.

‘I hate it. And I hate touching the equipment.' Nick shuddered. ‘All those sweaty germs. I failed PE in Years Seven, Eight and Nine. When I came to this school, I forged a note from my doctor saying I had a heart condition and had to be excused.'

‘You should be a girl,' I said. ‘We can always say we have our period.'

Nick blushed bright red at
period
. Then he sighed. ‘I wish I
were
a girl. You have it so easy.'

I narrowed my eyes. It seemed we were going to continue the previous day's conversation. Still, Nick was making good progress. He'd have probably thrown up on me again if I'd mentioned the word
period
a week ago.

‘The grass is always greener,' I told him. ‘The downside to being able to say you can't do PE because your period pain is so bad, is that sometimes it's true.'

‘Girls still have it easier,' said Nick. ‘Girls don't have to play sport in order to be popular. You don't have to get a job, you can just stay at home and raise children and spend your husband's money. You—'

My mouth hung open. ‘I'm sorry?' I said. ‘
You don't have
to get a job, you can just stay at home and raise children and
spend your husband's money
?'

‘It's true,' said Nick. ‘My mother doesn't work.'

‘Well, mine does,' I said. ‘And you know what else? She does the same job as a man, but gets paid, on average, 30 per cent less, because she's a woman. She's also statistically more likely to get overlooked for a promotion.'

‘Women can't get the draft.'

Was he insane? ‘Neither can men! Conscription was abolished in the '70s. The same decade, by the way, that gave women the vote in Switzerland.'

‘Women get to sing the good bits in choirs. Bach, Handel, Beethoven, Mozart. All the most beautiful parts are for the sopranos.'

‘All of those choral works were written by men,' I said. ‘And the soprano parts were mostly written for
boy
sopranos.'

Nick seriously knew nothing about the world, or women.

‘And girls don't bully,' he said. ‘They don't fight. They're not violent.'

I stared at him until he blushed.

‘What?' he said.

‘Are you serious? You think girls don't bully, or fight, or be violent?'

‘Well, they don't. Girls are calm and play quiet games and are nice to each other.'

I felt genuinely angry. ‘You're nuts. Do you hear yourself?'

‘I
am
nuts,' said Nick, suddenly cold. ‘We've established that already. I'm nuts. I'm mental. Deal with it.'

‘No,' I said. ‘You're not going to blame this ridiculous misogyny on your condition.'

‘I'm not a misogynist,' Nick said, his brow knitting. ‘I
love
women. That's part of my whole problem.'

‘Your problem,' I snapped, ‘is that you see girls as these perfect, pretty objects for you to worship, instead of seeing us as
people
. Come on.' I stood up.

‘Where?'

‘I need to show you something. I think you need to understand a little more about girls.'

Nick seemed alarmed.

‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘I'm not going to make you talk to any of them.'

I crossed my arms and looked impatient until finally he climbed to his feet and followed me across the courtyard. We skirted the edge of the cricket field, Nick hunched over defensively, his eyes on the hurtling balls.

‘What?' he muttered, when he saw my amused look. ‘I don't want to get hit in the head. I could get a concussion.'

Between the cricket oval and the pool were two basketball courts. We wandered over to the closest one.

‘Observe,' I said. ‘Boys playing basketball.'

Nick looked disgusted.

‘They're aggressive, sure,' I said. ‘See how Rory Singh is trying to block James O'Keefe's access to the ball. But that's his role in the game, he's supposed to block James and stop him from scoring. And he's willing to put his body on the line to do it. Look.'

‘I don't want to look,' said Nick. ‘I hate it here. Can we go?'

‘Just pay attention,' I said. ‘This is important. Now, James is pretty pissed off, right? He looks like he wants to punch Rory in the face. And Rory looks like he wants to tackle James to the ground.'

Nick nodded.

‘Do you think he will?'

‘I don't know. Probably.'

‘Let's see, shall we?'

We watched the game. Despite Rory's valiant attempts, James's team was better, and just as the whistle blew, one of the other boys sunk a final three-pointer, and it was over. I made a mental note to have a word to the coach, because it was clear none of those boys had been introduced to the concept of strategy.

‘A pretty humiliating loss,' I said to Nick. ‘But what do the losers do? They shake hands with each member of the winning team. Now watch James and Rory.'

After the handshake, Rory gave James a playful shove, and then they walked together to the side of the court, where they grabbed towels and water and slumped onto the bench.

‘They don't seem so angry now, do they?'

Nick shook his head. ‘But that's my point,' he said. ‘They're all normal and friendly now, but put a ball between them and they want to kill each other.'

I put my hand on his shoulder and he flinched. I pulled away. ‘Let's go look at the other court now.'

The girls' game was still going. Nick flushed to see all the singlet tops and bare thighs.

‘Watch these girls,' I said. ‘Specifically, that one over there with the blonde ponytail.'

I pointed to Olivia Fischer, who was standing so close to Kayla Morgan that a less erudite person than myself would have described Olivia as being ‘all up in Kayla's grill'.

‘What about her?'

‘Look at her hands.'

Nick frowned. ‘What do you mean? Her hands are . . . hands. She doesn't seem to be doing anything inappropriate with them.'

‘Look closer. Look at her fingernails.'

‘Is that . . . elastoplast?'

I nodded. ‘Why do you think Olivia is wearing elastoplast over her fingernails?'

‘I don't know. So she doesn't damage them? I know girls don't like to break their nails.'

I snorted. ‘No,' I said. ‘It's not so she doesn't damage them. Officially it's to stop her from accidentally scratching Kayla when she grabs for the ball. Girls' basketball is physical and rough – just like boys' basketball. Girls are not calm, quiet and nice on a basketball court. And untaped fingernails are weapons.'

Nick was taken aback.

‘And if you ask me, unofficially it's to stop Olivia from scratching Kayla's eyes out after Kayla takes a three-pointer.'

Olivia slammed into Kayla. Kayla fell to the ground, and Olivia ‘accidentally' trod on her hand. Nick flinched. The referee's whistle blew and Oliva was fouled off the court.

‘Now look at her mouthguard. Can you read the words on it?'

‘It says . . .
bite me
?'

‘Right. Not so nice.'

Without Olivia in the game, Kayla owned the court, shooting two- and three-pointers at will to take her team to an easy victory. I turned to Nick. ‘Remember what happened after the last game?' I said. ‘The boys all shook hands and were friends again. Do you think Olivia will do that?'

He turned wide eyes on me, hopeful. ‘The girls are shaking hands too,' he pointed out.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Olivia's probably going to lay into Kayla in the changing rooms, because Kayla got her fouled out of the game.'

‘I think I need to sit down.'

We walked away from the court, over to a bench in the shade of a large gum tree.

‘Not all girls are like Olivia,' I said. ‘And not all girls are . . . what did you say?
Calm and play quiet games and are
nice to each other
. Girls are people, just like boys. Everyone is different.'

Nick stared at me as if I'd thrown a puppy in front of a train. ‘But
most
girls aren't violent.'

‘When I was five,' I told him, ‘there was a girl called Holly Hamilton who didn't like me. She used to pull my hair and grab my sandwiches off me and throw them into the dirt and stamp on them. And she told me that if I told a teacher about what she was doing, she'd cut off all my hair.'

Nick looked rather green. ‘What did you do?'

‘I went home after school one day and cut off my own hair.'

‘And then you told a teacher?'

I grinned. ‘And then I pushed Holly Hamilton over in the playground and kicked tanbark into her eyes.'

Nick was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You know, Penny, I'm quite frightened of you.'

I laughed. ‘But do you see my point? Girls don't have it easier. We don't get bullied less, we're not less violent. Girls are just as horrible, mean and selfish as boys. More so, because we bully psychologically as well, and it doesn't stop in primary school. Girls are always needling each other about their clothes, their hair, whether they're having too much sex, or not enough. You can never win, if you're a girl. You're either frigid or a slut. Square or a loser. Slacker or try-hard.'

‘But if you're popular everyone likes you.'

I watched students drift through the school grounds. You could spot the popular ones from a mile away, all golden and shining.

‘You know how people call popular girls “It Girls”?' I said. ‘Well, being popular is more like being It. Like in chasey. You get all the attention – everyone's focused on you. But you're always running around on your own apart from everyone else. It's much more fun being part of the crowd, running away from whoever's It.'

‘I've never played chasey.'

I wasn't surprised. ‘Just remember that popularity isn't something easy. It's something you have to maintain. It's hard. It can suck your whole life away.'

‘But you're not like that. And you're popular.'

I shrugged. ‘Not really,' I said. ‘People respect me because they know I'm smart, but that's not the same thing as being popular. Not
A-list
popular.'

‘But couldn't you be A-list popular? If you wanted to be?'

‘I suppose so. But I have no designs on popularity. I don't really care for the competition of high school.'

‘So not all girls are mean and violent. You're not.'

‘No. There are plenty of lovely, caring, emotionally genuine girls. There are plenty of shy girls. There are plenty of girls who don't want to date a jock or a stoner. My point is, you can't go around saying boys are like this and girls are like that, because it doesn't work that way.'

Nick looked confused.

‘Men aren't from Mars,' I told him. ‘And women aren't from Venus. When you get down to it, there are some people who are nice, some people who aren't, and a whole lot of fuzzy grey in between.'

Nick wove his fingers into his hair and scratched thoughtfully. ‘I'm sorry,' he said at last. ‘You're right, of course. I know that. It's just . . . easier to think of girls as this great unattainable Nirvana that I'll never be able to reach. Because that way . . . '

‘That way you can just put it all in the too-hard basket without even trying?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘That's okay.'

‘No,' said Nick. ‘It's not okay. I'm acting like a dick, and I'm really sorry. I just— It's hard, but I'm going to change. I was being a silly sausage, and I'm sorry.'

I blinked. ‘A what?'

He smiled faintly. ‘It's what my therapist says I'm allowed to call myself. Because calling myself an idiot and a terrible person and an emotional cripple is just making me more like those things. So when I do something that I'm not supposed to, or react in an unhealthy way, I'm allowed to call myself a silly sausage. But nothing worse.'

‘Fair enough,' I said.

Nick looked at me for a moment, a little frown between his eyebrows. ‘Can . . . Can I ask
you
a personal question?'

‘Sure.'

‘What are you afraid of?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What frightens you? What makes you anxious?'

‘Wait,' I said. ‘Are you asking me what makes me feel
fear
, or what makes me feel
anxiety
? They're different. Fear makes you want to be with others, but anxiety makes you want to be alone.' Or so I'd read in the love-shy book.