Fireball (20 page)

I heard about all this the next morning.

‘Did you use a condom?'

‘No. It was pretty casual.'

I was in the shower when he called me. I had to run to get the phone. Normally I wouldn't have bothered, but I had this feeling it would be him. And I was glad I did. If I hadn't he might have forgotten to tell me entirely. It wasn't like he was dying to get it off his chest. I think he only phoned because he knew how excited I'd be to hear about it.

‘Were you nervous?'

He was. Actually, he was terrified. I mean, he didn't hesitate when it came to fighting or cliff jumping or assaulting a talk show host, but sex was something else entirely. Karen didn't mind, though. She liked teaching him. To start with, she pulled up her skirt and got him to finger her. I'm pretty sure they'd done that before, but this was the first time I'd heard about it. He said it was sort of slippery and clinging at the same time. Like damp silk.

‘But it's awesome, right?'

‘Pretty awesome. It smells a bit weird.'

‘I heard it smells like tuna.'

‘No. That's bullshit. It's not bad or anything. Just weird.'

‘Oh. Then what happened?'

‘She told me to take off my pants.'

By that point, he was pretty turned on. He said his dick was so hard it hurt. She had to guide him into place and line him up. Then he slipped right in there.

‘And how did it go?'

‘Okay, I guess.'

There was a big puddle of water at my feet. I hadn't even bothered to get a towel when I jumped out of the shower. I was just standing there starkers, holding the phone.

‘If you didn't use a condom, she might be pregnant.'

‘That's true.'

After he died, for a while I kept hoping Karen would be. You know – so at least there'd be a little Chris coming back into the world. But that didn't happen. I guess it's harder than you think to get a chick pregnant.

A few days later I found out more. She told me some of it, actually. Like how, the first time, he came in about three seconds – so quick it didn't even really count as having sex, except in a purely technical sense. Karen said he got a little angry after that, mostly at himself, but she knew how to handle him. She calmed him down and after a bit they went at it again.

‘So how many times did you guys do it?'

‘Twice. He did better the second time.'

I'd gone over to her house, just to check up on her. I did that occasionally, if Chris was busy. I was sort of like his stand-in. Karen and I would head up to her room and talk about him. He was the one thing we had in common. Her room was mostly pink. Pink bed, pink carpet, pink wallpaper. Pink everything. The only part that wasn't pink was her poster – this black and white poster of a bird soaring way up in the clouds. It said:
Spread your wings. Believe you can fly.
I guess it was supposed to be inspirational or something.

I asked, ‘Where does this pair go?'

‘Right at the back. Beside my sandals.'

That afternoon her mom had told her to clean her closet, and she got me to help her. We started by organising all her shoes. She had tons of shoes – like at least twenty or twenty-five pairs. Maybe more. So it took a while.

As we worked, she filled me in on the details. Some of them, anyway.

‘I'd say he lasted for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The second time.'

I nodded, trying to keep it casual. Karen didn't mind talking about it, but for me it wasn't exactly easy. ‘That's pretty decent, right?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And was it, like, good and everything?'

‘Well, he made me come if that's what you mean.'

I picked up a pair of runners – these pink runners – and carefully dusted them off. Then I placed them back with the other sets. I took a long time lining them up. Not because I cared about the shoes, but because I didn't want her to see how badly I was blushing.

I was too chicken to ask her anything else.

I got the rest of it out of him eventually. We were down in the Cove, waiting for a pizza. They make awesome pizza in the Cove – ten times better than the soggy crap they sell on Lonsdale. We'd sat on top of the picnic table out front, with our feet on the bench.

That's when I asked him about her orgasm.

‘It was pretty harsh.'

‘Harsh like how?'

He told me that she opened her mouth in a silent scream and bucked up off the seat. Her entire body went completely rigid, as if she was being electrocuted. Then she shuddered and closed her eyes and collapsed. For a second Chris thought she'd had some kind of fit.

‘Shit. That must have been freaky.'

‘It was kind of freaky, and kind of hot at the same time.'

Afterwards they just lay there, all tangled up and slippery with sweat. He said he probably would have fallen asleep except it was way, way too hot in the Jeep.

‘And we talked for a bit.'

‘I get you. Like pillow talk.'

‘Sure. Except there weren't any pillows.'

I don't know exactly what they talked about, but I know she asked him what it had been like for him. You know – his first time and everything. But he couldn't explain it. He couldn't even really explain it to me.

‘Was it like jerking off with shampoo in the shower?'

‘No.'

‘Better or worse?'

‘Better. Way better.'

I glanced around, then lowered my voice a little. ‘Was it like sticking your dick in a cantaloupe?'

I don't know why I asked him that. It's not like either of us had tried it.

‘No.'

‘Was it like a wet dream?'

‘No, man.'

‘What was it like, then?'

He stood up. The guy in the shop was signalling that our pizza was ready.

‘I don't know. It wasn't like anything.'

‘How can it be like nothing?'

‘It just was, okay? I put it in her and we fucked and then my whole body sort of exploded and for a second I wasn't even me any more. I was nothing. I was gone.'

‘Oh.'

That wasn't really what I expected – but it still sounded awesome.

33

‘Well, you caught me in the act. You might as well have one, too.'

I went back to see my shrink about a week later. It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe a Wednesday. I can't really remember. But basically, since she didn't have a secretary or anything, I walked right in without knocking. And there she was, sitting at her desk, pouring rum into a highball glass. I was embarassed, for obvious reasons. We both were. But she played it pretty cool. She just got out another glass and offered some to me. Normally I don't even like dark rum, but this tasted nice and smooth. It was Havana Club – a special reserve or something. She drank the good stuff, all right. My psychiatrist was pure class.

‘What happened to your face?' she asked.

I was still sporting a shiner and split lip from our brawl at the Avalon.

‘Chris and I got in a fight.'

‘With each other?'

‘With six guys.'

I was glad she'd asked. Everybody asked. It felt good to say it, especially to her. I had these wounds on my face and this rum in my hand and now she knew how tough I was.

‘Did you win?'

‘It was sort of a draw.'

‘Your father must have been pleased about that.'

I laughed. My dad was convinced I'd stepped on a rollercoaster ride to hell. First I'd broken a bottle on my head and now I'd gotten in a brawl. He blamed himself. He thought he was failing me as a father. There was no convincing him otherwise.

‘He's decided you're my last chance,' I told her.

She smiled. ‘We better get started then.'

I sat in the same chair. She came around the desk, bringing her glass with her. I listened to the swish of her skirt and watched her feet moving across the carpet. When she sat still, her ankles were gorgeous. But when she walked they were almost mesmerising.

As she passed the window she paused to gaze out.

‘When was the last time it rained?' she asked.

‘I don't remember.'

The summer seemed to have gone on forever: hot and dry and merciless.

‘God it's like a wasteland out there.'

She took another sip of rum. She had her back to me and all I could see was her silhouette against the window – which was so bright it didn't even look like a window. It looked more like a square of white-hot metal somebody had hung on her wall. Just staring at it made me sweat.

‘There's supposed to be a water shortage,' I said.

‘I don't doubt it.' She raised her glass and swirled the liquor around. I was surprised to see it was almost empty. ‘Luckily there's enough of this to get by on.'

She went back to top herself up. I put my glass down on the desk and slid it towards her – nice and casual. She glanced at me, surprised, then sort of smirked.

‘All right,' she said, pouring me another, ‘but let's keep this between us, shall we?'

As far as I could tell, she was the greatest psychiatrist in history. First it had been the cigarettes and now it was this rum. It didn't kick me in the head like the cheap rum we usually drank. It made me all friendly and feisty and warm. The first thing I did was tell her about our scrap. I don't remember everything I said but I remember talking loudly and making huge gestures with my hands. I even hopped up to show her my flying sidekick. I really got into it.

‘Would you mind doing that again?'

‘The kick?'

‘Please.'

I ran across the room and, leaping into the air, snapped out my foot. She jotted something in her notebook. She was unravelling the mysteries of my flying sidekick.

‘Do you like fighting?' she asked.

I sunk back into my chair, a little breathless. I had to think about that. I remembered the whirlwind of violence and the hitting and being hit and the sharp fear in my gut, like shrapnel.

‘No. But it felt good afterwards, knowing I'd done it.'

‘Knowing you weren't scared?'

‘I was scared. I did it anyway.'

She found that interesting. I could tell because she wrote a couple more notes down. She had one leg crossed over the other, and her shoe had come half off. It had fallen away from the heel and just sort of dangled from her toe. Super sexy. I wanted to get down on my knees and kiss it. Not the shoe. The foot. And the ankle, of course. The ankle was the best.

‘Does Chris like fighting?'

‘I don't think he cares. He just does it.'

‘To impress Karen?'

‘No. He doesn't care about that, either.'

She put aside her notebook and sighed. You know – totally exasperated.

‘Is there anything Chris does care about?'

It was a good question. We both sat there in the dark safety of her office, trying to think of an answer. Meanwhile, outside, the sun hammered the city into submission. I imagined it as an apocalypse. Car tyres melted and trees burst into flame and people boiled in their skins. It felt as if we were the only ones left. When we finished our drinks she stood up and reached for the bottle. This time she filled mine right to the top, just like hers. We'd drunk half the twixer without chasing and I was feeling pretty loose.

‘Listen,' she said.

Under the hum of her air conditioner I heard this soft rattling noise.

‘Do you hear it?'

‘I think so.'

‘My air conditioner's breaking down.'

It was the most depressing sound I'd ever heard. It was only a matter of time before all that heat found its way in here. Then we'd be finished, and we both knew it.

‘How about some music?' she asked.

She had a Discman and some portable speakers in her desk. All her CDs were in the wrong cases. She had to open every single one before she found what she was looking for.

‘You like John Lennon?'

‘Yeah. My dad plays all that old hippy stuff.'

‘Lennon was more than a hippy. He was a martyr – the only Christ we deserve.'

I had no idea what she meant by that. I just nodded and drank as she fiddled with her Discman. The speakers were the kind that make CDs sound tinny and faint, like music on an old transistor radio. She turned them up all the way, which wasn't very loud. It was Lennon, all right. He was singing: They hurt you at home and they hit you at school… She sang along with him. She knew all the words and everything.

‘God I love this tune.'