The Best Thing (8 page)

Pug’s first pro match is in two weeks up at the Youth Club. ‘You gotta come,’ he says. ‘I want you to be there. You gotta see what it’s all about.’

‘You do? I do?’ I suppose I do. See what all this training is for. I couldn’t expect to watch rehearsals for ever, could I? I
did
expect it, though, when I consider.

Pug watches me hesitate. ‘Come on, mate. It’d really make a difference if you came.’

So I say I will. Christ, I don’t know how I’ll get out on a week-night. Or whether I want to. I don’t want to see Pug getting smacked in the head. If he could
guarantee
me a win, I’d go, no worries, but he won’t say, won’t talk about his chances. What if he’s
creamed
in the first round, knocked flat? I can
see
it so easily! I can see him flat out on the canvas like a starfish. He’d look just like he does when he’s asleep, only bloodier, only not private, not in the half-darkness under the frangipani, but out there under lights with the crowd howling and some bloody great
gorilla
standing over him. Everything in me says
Don’t do it
, but Pug’s committed now. In this part of his life I don’t have a say. To accept, to watch, to support him whatever happens; my role’s astonishingly clear. To keep my mouth shut on my own fears and
tremblings, my own hysteria, to tell him he’s the best, with conviction, even when we both know I’m lying.

God, how am I going to get away on that Thursday night? Like he says, I gotta. Whatever happens, I’ve got to be there to see.

Yes, there is a God. Dad’s birthday, of course, the Sunday after the fight. Let’s take dear Father down the coast for the weekend, Mum!
Brilliant
idea! We can muck around on the beach all weekend, and have a nice little family
party
on Sunday night.
Also
, it’ll mean the school week finishes Thursday instead of Friday, so that according to House Rules I’ll be allowed out that night. It means missing out on the weekend with Pug, but at least I’ll see him fight, like I promised. I’ll suggest it to Mum tomorrow morning while Dad’s in the shower.

Done. All I’ve got to do is make up a date with Lisa and I’m out of here!

PS: Mum thought it was a great idea. I nearly laughed out loud as we schemed the whole thing out so that
Dad
would get maximum enjoyment from it all—when the whole idea is to get
me
a night out!

Mum gives the thumbs up as she comes into the kitchen in her nightshirt.

‘It’s on?’ I say.

‘Cat’s Head Point, here we come. I’ll ring up Maggie this morning and get her to give the house a once-over.’

‘Oh, fab-oh!’ I nearly tell her right then and there that I’m going out Thursday night (I’m so happy I’d like to tell her where, too, and who with!), but I keep control of myself.

‘It was like pulling teeth, though.’ Mum’s back’s to me as she starts making coffee.

‘Yeah?’ I pretend to care. Then I really do begin to wonder.
‘What’s wrong with that guy these days? He’s off with the fairies half the time.’

‘He is a bit … dreamy.’ She stares at the coffee-maker, the scoop in her hand. At the back her hair is a little bit scrunched up from sleep, where she hasn’t yet combed it. If you couldn’t see those bony elbows you’d think it was a little kid standing there.

‘He needs a holiday. Get him into the surf and he’ll wake up a bit.’

‘Yes.’ The scoop dips into the coffee tin. ‘It’s always worked before. Coffee?’

Boy, will I be glad to get away from school early, next week. Brenner, every chance he can,
bumps
past me and hisses, ‘Slut!’ Sometimes he’ll even call it out if he’s with a bunch of friends. Ambra Lewis never meets my eyes, or if she does quickly glances away again. Josh sends me glances that say,
You? You are dirt. You are scum
. Lisa and Donna—well, there haven’t been any condoms lately, but there are notes, regular notes, stuck on the back of my jumper for Mum to point out when I get home, turning up in my bag, scribbled on the first page in my folder, thrown from nowhere behind the teacher’s back. I don’t bother reading them any more.

I don’t understand how they can think I’m any worse than them. I
know
I’m not. I used to be one of them. They’re all having it off with each other, they’re all getting as much sex as they can. I’ve been with them to those parties, bodies in every corner, everyone off their faces, the music like a screen over it all, so loud you can’t talk, just
do
.

And I never did with anyone but Brenner—I never swapped and changed like some of them. If we’re looking for sluts, the guys are the worst sluts, if half the stories they tell are true, of their endurance, repeat performances, girls and women they’ve ‘had’ (as if it were a con as well as a conquest). I was never quite sure what to do when those stories were doing the rounds—smile,
laugh? I’m sitting here with my boyfriend’s arm around me while he says, of someone else, ‘Yep. Had her. Up against a wall behind the fish shop,’ and I’m supposed to
laugh
? I’m supposed to say, ‘
Fish
shop, that’s a good one,’ to show what a good sport I am? I’m supposed to ignore
hating
him, ignore wondering,
When was this? Did he catch anything from her that I should watch out for?
, ignore being incensed on this girl’s behalf, for her being made into a piece of flesh that a guy
has
so that he can tell
these
guys he’s had it? These people he’s dying to impress, these fantastic role models? Beside these guys, and some of the girls, I’m a saint—faithful, loyal, tame.

I give up. This is just the lightning-strike of someone’s boredom, someone’s whim. (Donna’s, probably; Lisa hasn’t got enough imagination, and she wouldn’t keep up the pressure for so long. She’ll enjoy it while it lasts, but she hasn’t got Donna’s ill will towards everything, Donna’s hatred and complete lack of a sense of humour.) I only have to wait, and react as little as possible, and eventually the boredom will seek another target. That, or the group will come up with some kind of grand finale to break me down, some way of signing off. I see myself lying in the schoolyard, hunks of hair ripped from my head, the marks of rocks and half-bricks on my legs and arms, my eyes closed, my stillness. Melanie Dow, martyr, Patron Saint of Defection from the Group. Well … I wonder how far they
would
go, though?

That acne-splattered geek Bruce Denman sits near me at lunch-time. A bunch of people are watching from under the camphor laurel on the far side of the yard, though not when I look up. I keep on eating. He eats, too, but keeps
staring
over at me. I’m supposed to be intimidated, I guess.

Finally he chucks his lunchbag and can in the bin and stands over me. He’s a stupid guy, a real blockhead, but also very, very big. ‘Wesley says you’ll do it for $20.’ Brenner Wesley, that is.

I look up and up and up, and then I say in this really mild voice, ‘Well, he’d know, wouldn’t he?’

‘Guess he would,’ Bruce says uncertainly. ‘So, will you?’

‘With you, you mean?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, with a real
nonchalant
little
swagger
.

‘Oh,
sure
, Bruce,’ I exclaim. ‘You’d better show me your money first, though.’

Can you believe it, he tugs the corner of a $20 note up out of his jeans pocket so I can see it?

I’m so cool. ‘Okay. Good. Now show me what you’ve got,’ I say.

‘Huh?’

‘Show me the goods, buster. I’ve got to check you over for diseases, haven’t I? I’m not going to ruin my professional life just because of your herpes, or crabs, or whatever you might have.’

‘Well, I will show you. In private, but.’

‘No way. Right here, mate, or the deal’s off.’

He stares, backs off. ‘You’re crackers,’ he says. ‘You’re raving mad.’

‘Oh no.
Brenner Wesley’s
mad, and
you’re
mad, and all the other
shitheads
in this school are mad, but not me. And you can take your $20—’ Here’s where I see Mr Toohey standing at the corner of the building ‘—and stick it in your fat hairy
ear
hole!’

Some Year 7 kids are staring. I throw my rubbish in the bin, then head inside. I don’t know why until I get to the locker room and realise I’m getting out of that school.

But uh-oh, Mr Toohey’s there at the door, watching me get my bag out, and the few books I keep pushed right to the back. I get ready to stand up to him the way I just did to Bruce.

But he says, ‘You’re having a hard time this year, aren’t you, Melanie?’

Oh God, don’t be understanding. Tell me off, give me an excuse to shout at you
. ‘I’m okay,’ I say, my voice stiff, not looking at him.

‘School counsellor?’ he says tentatively.

‘Oh, no.’ I’m able to smile. ‘Telling people things is what started it all off.’

‘Counsellors have codes of practice. They have to keep things
private, not like normal, free, individuals.’
Curse them
, he seems to be implying. It’s funny, the way he isn’t bothering to chat, to soften any of this. It’s like an emergency bulletin, as if he hasn’t got much time to get through to me. He’s being nice, really. I glance at him as I shut my locker door and for the second before the tears arrive he looks like someone I might have talked to, if it wasn’t already too late.

‘Thanks. No.’ Head down, I go past him. I bash the tears away before I get outside, and then I go across the yard with my head up. No-one calls out anything. I know Mr Toohey has come out after me and is watching. I also know he won’t stop me.

I walk home. Dad’s car is outside.
Here we go. He’s finally cracked up from overwork and been sent home to recuperate
.

He’s left the gate open, even though he always goes on at me to close it.

I put my key in the door.

From inside, Dad yells out, ‘Don’t come in!’

I come in.

There he is,
at it
on the couch with Ricky Lewis. Her little white shorts tossed aside on the carpet. One bare foot hooked on the couch back. That couch really isn’t quite long enough; Dad’s legs slew off to the floor. His white bum parked between Ricky’s bent knees, his trousers halfway down. Beyond the shadow of his balls, parts of Ricky
glisten
, glistening down onto
our
couch. And the expression on her face (she’s gaping at me over Dad’s shoulder)—well, you wouldn’t want to meet a person again after seeing them look like that. Mega-doses of guilt and fear! She hardly looks human.

All this I take in in half a second, closing the door behind me.

‘Is she gone?’ says Dad in a little peeping voice, muffled in a cushion.

‘No,’ gasps Ricky, still staring at me over the foot she’s got in the middle of Dad’s back. She’s panting, and so’s he,
from their exertions
. I’m breathing hard too; the room sounds like an aerobics class with the music turned off.

‘Melanie, get out,
darling
,’ says Ricky.

I should stay. I should sit down on the other couch and watch them pull apart, get their clothes together, cover up the horrible old
bits
they’ve been using, all in a big hurry, babbling explanations, or possibly in an awful silence. I
should
.

I run upstairs instead and sit in my room, my blood thundering. After a minute, Ricky knocks. ‘Melanie?’ She’s still got that edge of threat in her voice, as if
I’m
the one in trouble. I say in a very
icy
voice, ‘Get out of this house.’

I feel a fantastic explosion of virtue inside myself as I say it.
Nothing
I’ve
ever
done can be as bad, half as bad, as what Dad has done. No humiliation I’ve ever felt can be as devastating, as un-get-overable as what those two must be feeling. Beside these grown people and their gigantic mistake, I’m a mere apprentice, just
toying
with the edges of silliness, of harmfulness. So there’s this joy that falls with the hammerblows of harm that cancel it out—a joyless joy, a hard, cold relief.

‘You have to under
stand
, Melanie—’

‘Come on, Rick,’ Dad says at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll drop you off home.’ He must know it’ll be hopeless talking to me.

You have to understand!
Boy, do I understand! All of a sudden quite a few things are a whole lot clearer. I go over and over Dad’s behaviour, and Ricky’s for the last few months, watching it all fall into place—her dropping by, Dad staying out late, Mum wondering what the fuck’s going on with him. Mum! God! How can I tell her? How can I not? When I think of Mum, that’s when I have to get up and leave, get out of that house, that ‘family home’. I’m running down the stair carpet I helped them choose; past the couch we got last year (we all sat in a row on it when it arrived, smiling self-satisfaction); past the phone table Mum sanded back and rubbed endless layers of shellac onto (I remember her serious face as she stood there looking at it, not wanting to admit it was finished, restored).

I’m nearly frantic by the time I get to Pug’s. I knock and knock, but no-one answers, and I’m just about to sit down and
start crying when I realise it’s training time. I fly across Erskineville Road to the Club, hurry upstairs. It’s like stepping inside someone’s body—all the blows thudding around me like a pulse, and the wet, wet heat on my face.

Pug, oh Pug. You’re there, a shining body fitting the gap in front of my eyes. You don’t see me—I’m a fly on the wall. You look so serious I cross the room in my mind, dodging Justin at the bag and two other guys skipping rope. I swear I feel my arms slither right around you from over by the wall—I’m loving everything of you right down to the way you sniff, showing your top teeth in a dog-snarl. I needed to see you so
badly
, and now I sit just inside the door, and let myself fill right up with you. You push the day and the afternoon, that whole other life, right out of my head.

. I don’t tell Pug anything. I’m just with him, silent, recovering.