Posse (5 page)

I brush my jaw.

‘It's amazing how skin and bones heal, isn't it?' says Bevan, resting his guitar on the bench. ‘God takes care of that by Himself. It's the hurt on the inside that takes some effort on our part. The inner wounds are more difficult, don't you agree?'

‘I don't know.'

‘How are you going with yours?'

‘What? I don't know.'

‘You're troubled, aren't you?'

I shrug. I'd be prepared to be troubled if it meant spending a little more time on the bench here with Bevan. All this attention's making me giddy. But I can't think of anything more to say. We sit for a while in silence.

‘Well, I'd better go back in there,' he says, rising abruptly. ‘Come and talk to me whenever you feel like it. That's what John and I and the other instructors are here for.'

‘Okay.'

‘And sorry about your face.'

‘Ha!'

‘You know what I mean …'

He goes back into the hall with his guitar and his big, evangelical grin. I put my fingers on the bench where he was sitting. It's still warm.

W
HAT
I
NEED RIGHT NOW
is Marina. Marina, my woman; wrapped around me, warm against me. I need to breathe her breath.

On the bench in the twilight, I think about the secret session we had at her place three days ago. It was in the middle of the night. We'd never had a night-time session before and I hadn't counted on the trains on our line stopping at eleven. There was no option but to hoof it over there. We
had
to see each other. We'd be separated for a week while
I was at camp. It took an hour and a half on foot, but it was worth the effort.

I went through the side gate to the back. Marina was waiting for me downstairs, poking her head around the sliding door.

‘I don't know about this tonight, Amy.'

I opened the sliding door wider and squeezed past her.

‘Is the parental unit awake?' I whispered, pointing upstairs.

‘Asleep. But I just don't know.'

‘It's 2 am.' I ran my fingers over her orange hair. She usually wears it in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, but that night she had it out, floating around her shoulders.

‘Amy …'

‘What's up? Should I go?'

She took each of my hands in hers. She has big, rough hands.

‘Come up for a while, but can we just … talk?'

‘Isn't that what we always do?'

‘I just don't want to do anything too … full-on.'

‘We don't have to do anything.'

‘You always want to do
everything
.'

‘Do I? Sorry.' I looked down at her body, prodding her nightie in inviting lumps. ‘It's your fault, for looking so bloody gorgeous all the time.'

She led me up the stairs and into her room. We lay alongside each other, talking lightly in the dark. One thing, however, led to another as it inevitably does, and it wasn't long before our lips were glued together and my hands were smoothing out the creases in her nightie.

Later, when Marina's head was lying in the little nook between my shoulder and my neck, I lay awake wondering whether she was cooling off. I wanted to know why, after insisting that we kiss so soon, she was now acting as though I was the driving force. I almost asked her, but I was afraid of the answer. She was unconscious anyway,
snoring through that perfect little turned-up nose of hers. She looked so young and innocent that I drew away from her and rolled over.

It was the first time she'd ever seemed reluctant to be with me. And this was the first time I'd ever seen her as younger than me. As a kid.

Walking back to Nanna's house that night, I was sure she'd dump me the next day. I had a hell of a night trying to sleep, and I rang her first thing in the morning.

‘If I ever lost you I'd kill myself,' I said.

‘Same here,' she said.

We both know that I need her more than she needs me. Sure, she's got her own problems with her poor lost brother and her cold parents, but my life at Nanna's house is so much crazier. I don't know how I'd bear it without Marina.

I get such a bang out of our relationship, and the scandal we cause doesn't bother me. To be honest, the scandal's a thrill. I'd always thought Marina handled it the same way. She's so clever
and wise, and she
looks
so mature that I assumed she could cope with what we were doing and how it made people think of us.

Will a week without me be enough to let her doubts take over?

God, what would I do? Would I go back to feeling big and ugly when I've felt strong and sexy for so long? Would I find someone else? Who on earth could replace her? It hardly bears thinking about.

I want to talk to her about my fears, but there's no way of contacting her. And I can't talk to my friends about it. Apart from a few gory details I disclosed to Clare at a weak moment, the posse knows hardly anything about the way Marina and I are when we're alone. It's not that I'm trying to hide anything. They know I'm a dyke – they've known for years, well before Marina. They probably knew before I did. But I've never been comfortable discussing Marina. In a way, she's my weakness – I'm a fool for her. I don't want to admit that to the posse.

As dusk turns to dark and girls begin to stream out of the mess hall, I sit on the bench outside with a fat lip and a worried mind.

To add insult to injury, Clare comes bounding out of the hall, doing her soprano vibrato at the top of her lungs. She's singing the tune of an old Queen song, but she's changed the words so that ‘bicycle' has become ‘dyke-cycle'. How original. I want to strangle her.

It's a far cry from the words Bevan was singing not fifteen minutes ago.

I don't laugh or shush her. I just sit there imagining what I'll be when Marina gives me the flick. A desperate, overgrown lesbian who disgusts people almost as much as she cracks them up. That's how I used to feel, and that's how Clare's making me feel right now.

Clare can see I'm upset, but she can't stop giggling.

‘Aw, come on, Amy. You've got to admit, it's good. I just thought of it. Just then!'

I feel like telling her about Bevan and how he was sitting here serenading me while she was playing kiddie camp games in the mess hall. That'd burst her smug little bubble. But I save it for later. With Marina on the brain and Clare laying into me again, I'm feeling reckless enough for something bigger than that.

I stay where I am, letting the mosquitoes feast on me as I watch the other girls being herded to the showers and huts. I see Clare flouncing around Bevan and John, gesturing wildly with her long, thin arms, throwing her head back to let out her shrill, silly laugh. She's one of the last to cross the paddock to the huts. She's forgotten all about me, sitting wretchedly on the verandah in the dark. I watch her as she disappears, and then the instructors as they turn the lights out and lock up the shed.

It's interesting to see how they act without students around. John's obviously got a thing for flat-chested Donna, whom Clare – as if
she
can talk
– calls ‘the Titless Wonder'. He tries to help her with a piece of equipment she's carrying, and she won't let him. They laugh lightly. He ‘accidentally' brushes her shoulder a lot and swears twice when he drops something. That's probably his idea of hardcore behaviour. I could teach them a thing or two.

Bevan hangs back longest of all and makes several trips to and from the equipment shed before heading up the gravel road, past the car park to where the instructors' huts are nestled in the bush.

I follow him.

God only knows what I'm doing. I should be getting ready for bed. The posse will miss me soon, and if I stay out here too long, they'll probably come looking. Whatever I'm going to do, it'd better be quick.

As I pass the car park, I look across to the paddock to see whether I've been spotted. No one's looking for me. No one says a word. I trot up the gravel road to where it turns into a narrow
track and head into the bush towards the lights.

Bevan and John are standing outside one of the huts, talking in low voices. Bevan slaps John on the back and John leaves. Bevan looks out into the bush. Is he waiting for me? Can he see me?

He retreats into the hut and lets the screen door slam behind him. I wait until everyone's tucked away before letting myself in.

Bevan's standing by a fold-out bed, naked from the waist up, side-on to the door. He jumps about a metre when he sees me come in.

Maybe he wasn't expecting me.

‘Jeeeez! What are you doing here?'

‘You said I could come and talk to you …'

‘During daylight hours, honey, not at night. Did anyone see you walk up here?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Well. Did they or didn't they? You must know.'

‘No.'

He reaches past me with a long, tanned arm and shuts the door behind me.

I look around the room. Next to the bed there's a suitcase spilling shorts and socks and underpants. Men's underwear is slightly obscene to me. I haven't seen it since Dad was around.

On the bed there's a Bible and a book called
Climbing Mount Improbable
, and the concrete floor is strewn with football magazines. I'm glad to see the instructors aren't living in the Ritz.

Bevan picks up a can of deodorant from his pile of clothes and squirts a bit under each arm. He doesn't put his shirt back on.

‘You shouldn't be in here, you know. We could both get into a lot of trouble. What's bothering you, anyway?'

He sits on his bed, slapping his hands on his knees.

‘Do you like Clare?'

He furrows his brow.

‘Clare? Who's Clare?'

‘My friend, Clare. The tall, skinny one. Short brown hair.'

‘Oh, yeah. She needs to put on some weight. And grow her hair. Otherwise people are going to think she looks like a boy.'

I get a guilty little kick hearing him talk about Clare that way.

‘Do you like her?'

‘Your teachers think she's a spoilt brat.'

‘She likes you.'

Bevan looks at me quizzically, his eyes narrowing. He's wondering what the hell I'm doing here. He's not the only one.

‘Did you really come here to ask about Clare?'

I stand there feeling like a complete sap, wondering how to redeem myself. I either have to get out or make a move.

My instinct is to run squealing to the hut, back to the safety of my friends. But then I think of Clare prancing out of the mess hall, all willowy limbs and smart mouth, and it strikes me that I might be in a position to get back at her. If I could
get something out of Bevan, something that embarrasses him or Clare or both of them, that'd put a spoke in her wheel. She's been asking for it all week.

I look to Bevan, hoping that he'll take control of the situation. Isn't that what men are supposed to do? Let him kick me out if he wants to. My feet remain planted, my eyes fixed on his face.

‘Well?' he says, chuckling and shrugging coolly, tilting his head to one side. My discomfort seems to amuse him. He leans back onto his elbows. For just an instant he looks unsure. ‘Do you want to sit down?'

A quick glance around the room reveals that there is only one place to sit, and that is next to Bevan. I walk over and sit beside him on his bed, head bowed, hands clasped in my lap. Except that this hut is no chapel, and Bevan, as it transpires, is no reverend.

As soon as our bodies are close, Bevan's coolness evaporates in a puff of steam. I'm surprised
to hear a loud gulp and quick inhalation. He reaches out and strokes my bare arm with the back of his hand.

‘Amy …'

‘Oh, I didn't mean … I just wanted to …'

‘I promised myself I wouldn't do this.' With a click of his tongue he covers his face with both hands. ‘I promised God.'

He's actually trembling beside me, biting his lip, swallowing hard.

‘Oh, Amy …'

I'm so shocked and delighted by the effect I'm having on him that I can't move. All I can do is stare. I'm not afraid of this man.

He lets his hands drop to his legs with a lazy slap. I look him in the eye and he looks squarely at my body, eyelids drooping, lips slightly parted. His breath races in and out heavily. Good God, he wants me. A
man
wants
me
. Something's going to happen. My heart starts to pound in my neck.

Suddenly Bevan's arms are wrapped around me and I'm squashed against his bare chest. Then his mouth is moving on mine like a hot, steamy muffin. Thinking about the expression on Clare's face when I tell her I've pashed Bevan, I kiss him back, gasping and lapping it up. My lip's bleeding again, but I don't even care.

Enveloped in each other's arms, tongues entwined, we fall back onto the bed. Bevan pulls me on top of him, pulls my legs around him, and I sit up, riding him. He runs his hands firmly over my waist and breasts as our eyes meet. His eyes are wide and starry now. They've lost that lazy, friendly glaze. I love the effect I'm having on him. I'm thrilled. If only Clare could see us now.

He starts fiddling clumsily between my legs and I become conscious of the large swelling between his. I start rubbing against it and he moans. Then he pushes me onto the bed next to him and keeps pushing me down the bed until my legs hang over the bottom edge. He holds me down roughly, as
though dunking me underwater, so that my face is at his crotch-level. His hands are so heavy and strong, I start to wonder whether I could get away from him if I wanted to. What's he expecting me to do? Will anyone hear me scream if things go too far?

Before I have a chance to think about whether I even want to see it, Bevan's yanked his wang out of his shorts. It bobs like a buoy inches from my face. I've never seen an erect penis before and it's not what I imagined. It's a huge purple troll, crossed with ridges and veins, standing up so hard and high it nearly reaches his belly button. It seems to rise and quiver as though it's an independent being.

‘Do you want to put it in your mouth?'

I don't. It's ugly and I'm beginning to feel sick.

He moves it closer to my face, cocking it at me like a pistol.

‘You have to be careful with your teeth,' he says. ‘Cover them with your lips like this.'

He pulls his lips into his mouth so that he looks like an old man who forgot to put his dentures in.

A girly little giggle escapes my mouth. I'm shocked and a little scared, but I can't help smiling. He looks ridiculous.

‘You're so beautiful, Amy,' he says, stroking my hair, apparently oblivious to his comic qualities. ‘Look at what you've done to me. You can't leave me like this.'

I'm about to tell Bevan how sad and corny he sounds when he grabs my ponytail and forces my head down sharply. His light-globe knob glances off my lips and goes straight into my eye.

‘Ouch,' we say in unison.