Head of the River (12 page)

Leni

I'm sneaking in round the side of the house, trying to avoid more parental advice. Our back garden has always been a magical place. There's a weathered cubby Dad built when Cristian and I were preschoolers which still has our chalk marks, a trampoline where Mum taught me how to backflip and a Tarzan rope hanging from the jacaranda tree. When he was ten Cristian could shimmy up it in seconds and fling himself into the air, hooting like a monkey. I used to spend every spare minute here. Now, I barely step foot outside unless to grab my bike from the shed.

I'm slow to notice the light flashing in the tree house. When I do, it's too late.

‘Leni?' Dad calls from his hidey hole in the trees. ‘Come see your father.'

I climb up the ladder, crawling into the small space. He's wearing a miner's light strapped to his forehead and lying on one of Mum's yoga mats with a triangle pillow for his head.

He pats next to him, flicks off the light. ‘Look at moon. Hardly there at all.'

‘Why you up here, Dad?'

‘Jodie told me go to man cave until calm down.'

Mum often sent Dad out to the tree house in frustration. Where she was calm and level, he was irrational and quick-fused.

‘What are you reading?' I ask, picking up the book he has draped in a V-shape over his knees.

It's an English language textbook. Nearby is a pile of my old primary schoolbooks with large print and simple storylines.

‘How else will I get to coach first eight?' Dad asks. ‘If English isn't better?'

I remember that Dad also likes to win. He wants to lead the top crew as much as I do.

‘How come you didn't learn English when you first came to Australia?'

‘Jodie organised literacy courses in city,' says Dad. ‘I thought waste of time. Why study when I can row? The guys in my crew taught me swear words, how to order beer. Enough to get by. I never made effort. Not like you. You good girl, Leni, you work hard. I'm proud of you.'

‘Your speaking isn't too bad,' I say. Trying to make him feel better. ‘You do get by.'

‘What's the saying? Can't teach old dog new things?'

‘You're not an old dog yet,' I say. Although he has more grey hair than black these days.

‘I'm sorry, Dad,' I blurt out. ‘I didn't mean to take over your speech. I was only trying to help.'

‘You saved me from looking fool. Too much I wanted to say. Most of all thank you to my family for putting up with me.'

‘We don't put up with you. We love you.'

Dad holds out an arm and I slide in under it, feeling safe. It's nice to get close again. He smells the same as I remember when I was a kid. Like soap and boat grease.

‘Mum say you and Adam broke up?' he says. ‘Are you broken heart?'

‘No. Just, disappointed. I don't like it when I can't make things work.'

‘Adam good boy. But he have complicated life. Plenty on your plate next year rowing in firsts and final year. You'll be a fine Captain of Boats.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Go inside now. Your mum not relax until all kids back home. I've got reading.'

He opens his book again, turns on the miner's light and squints at the page, sounding out the words.

Cristian

My mouth is talcum-powder dry and there's not a single drop of water in my room. It's the Sahara and I can't bring myself to leave the room to look for an oasis. I'm trying not to move my head, willing someone to arrive with a bucket of drinkable liquid. I've slept in last night's clothes and my room smells like last night. Awful. My eyes hurt. Even the hairs on my body hurt. Some of the night comes back to me. Shards of it piercing my brain. I make a fist and wince. My hands are ripped up. Oh dear, the hedges. Penny. Oh my God. No.

I scramble for my phone in the bed sheets and read the messages on it, all my worst fears confirmed.

Adam:
Gotta learn to hold your piss Poppa! Call me when you've slept it off.

Charley:
You are going to hate yourself tomorrow.

There's a photo attached of me doing something unspeakable with a swimming noodle. I'd laugh, but I feel more like crying. There's a knock at my door.

‘What?'

Leni opens the door a crack, peers in. She looks nervous and I remember how big a dickhead I was to her last night. Another apology to make.

‘It stinks in here.'

Leni holds her sleeve up to her nose.

‘Big night?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Is it true you barfed on Penny Mission?'

‘Affirmative.'

‘That's too bad. Penny's a good chick. She might even have liked you before she was anointed in your leftover lunch.'

‘Have you heard from her?' I ask.

‘It's not good news, bro.'

I groan and pull my pillow over my face.

‘She hates me.'

‘Well, maybe
hate
is too strong a word. But she doesn't want much to do with you after last night. You know she's never been kissed before?'

‘No. That makes me feel so much worse.'

‘I think she was hoping it would be a bit more romantic than some dude chucking up all over her.'

‘I wanted it to be romantic. That's it. I'm never drinking beer again.'

‘Yes, you will.'

‘I'm a loser.'

‘No, you're not. You got drunk and acted like one,' says Leni.

She leaves the room and returns with a big glass of water. She puts it on the table next to me and I grab it and drain it.

‘I'm so sorry about the things I said last night. I'm glad you got Captain of Boats. I'm proud of you. I was just gutted I didn't get captain too. It's bad enough being in the seconds.'

‘You should've gotten boys' captain.'

‘No. Sam will be good. He's a better choice than me.'

‘You think?' Leni asks, looking unsure.

‘Yeah. I personally don't like the guy, but he loves rowing and he wants it so hard. So I heard you and Adam broke up. He's pretty cut up about losing you.'

‘I deserve to be dumped. I was a terrible girlfriend.'

‘Not terrible. Misunderstood.'

‘Feel like a run later?' she asks.

‘Not a snowball's chance.'

‘Might head out on my own then. Get some salt and grease into you.'

I need the world's longest shower and to take last night's clothes to the laundry and disinfect them. But having a shower means leaving the four walls of my bedroom and I won't do it. Instead, I lie in bed with my laptop and try to reach out to Penny via messages on my Facebook wall.

I update my status.

Sunday, 12 December, 10.47 am.

Cristian Popescu
is so sorry.

I'm hoping for an inbox message from Penny and I obsessively refresh the page. I get eighteen replies from guys at school saying what a loser I am. One from Adam telling me to turn my phone on.

I rifle through my playlist trying to find the right words. The right mood. No song is right. They can't possible say what I feel when I see her glide past in her boat, when she kneels down to screw in her oar or ties her hair back in a ponytail. How much I want to hug her, not even do anything X-rated. Well, not yet anyway. Just hold her and feel her chin rest on my chest and smell that girl smell. Have her whisper something, just to me, and to feel that everything might be okay.

Desperate, I make up my own poem.

Cristian Popescu
Beautiful girl/ stupid boy/ A big mistake/ I take it all back/ will you give me another chance?

I regret pressing the update button immediately. I might as well have posted
Cristian Popescu
is hopelessly in love with Penny Misson, who hates his (weak) guts.

My friends, and I use that term loosely, send eleven messages in rapid-fire succession. Most of which go a little like this:

Nick Jamison:
Cristian you sad, sad prick.

Adam Langley:
Awww, babycakes. I think you're beautiful too. Meet me later?

I type ‘Inbox?' hoping Penny will contact me privately.

Adam sends me a private instead.
Forget it Poppa. She's never going there again
.

I sigh, hoping Penny will show up. Nothing. Is she out there, looking?

I get another message on my feed.

Jodie Popescu:
Cristian, I'm coming in.

Thirty seconds later there's a knock at the door and Mum bustles in. She crinkles her nose as she's hit by the rank stench of my BO and stale alcohol. She opens up the blinds and the window, letting light and a fresh, welcome breeze into the room. It's sunny out. I wish it was raining.

‘Mum, can you not spy on me on Facebook?' I ask, pulling my covers up to my chin.

She collects my filthy clothes and dumps them in my hamper and then pushes it out to the hall.

‘I will spy on you for the rest of your life,' she says. ‘What happened last night? You came crashing in at 1 am. Woke the whole house up. I don't know if you remember, but you were very drunk. Very sick. I had to put you to bed.'

That bit of the night floods back to me. Oh God. It'd been a while since Mum had to help me take my shoes off. I brace for a lecture on the evils of alcohol.

‘I'm not crazy about you drinking, Cris. You're underage, for starters. Why did you go overboard?'

‘I dunno. I didn't have enough to eat, I was trying to impress a girl, I guess.'

‘A girl? Which girl?'

‘Penny, you know, she's in Leni's crew. I like her and I chucked up all over her.'

Mum rests her face in her hands and looks at me. She sighs.

‘And?'

‘And now I feel like a complete idiot and I want to die. I can never leave this room. Seriously, don't make me.'

‘First of all, you will leave this room. Because you need a shower. You stink. Second, I didn't raise you to vomit on some poor girl and then not properly apologise. So get up, scrub yourself, go and buy Penny some flowers, take them round to her house and tell her you are very sorry. Got it?'

I want to tell Mum to get the hell out of my room, get out of my life and stop treating me like I'm not about to turn eighteen, but I find myself agreeing. That's the power mothers have over their sons.

‘And next time, don't drink so much. Or better still, don't drink at all. You should see the state of some of the intoxicated teenagers we get at the hospital. Would put you off drinking until you're fifty.'

‘That's already happened,' I say.

After a cleansing cold shower, I put on my best jeans and the lucky T-shirt I usually pick up in. I walk over to Aztec Rose, the florist on the corner. The place Leni and I go to buy flowers for Mum on her birthday. I'm overwhelmed by the explosion of blooms, the stench of their perfume. I stand there, stunned, until a lady asks if I need help.
Yes, I do, in so many ways
, I think.
Help me.

‘I want to, um, buy some flowers, for a girl.'

‘What's the occasion?' the lady asks. She has a nose-ring and is wearing spotty purple gumboots. She looks nice so I blurt it out.

‘To say sorry for being a dickhead last night.'

She laughs. ‘We get that a bit around here. You're on the right track.'

She plucks a bunch of small pink roses from a bucket, water beading on the petals. They're sweet and old fashioned. I sniff at them.

‘They smell pretty good.'

‘These are a winner with the ladies,' she says gently. ‘Shall I wrap them up? Here. Write something.'

She gives me a free card and a biro and I think about what I'm going to write for ages. The lady doesn't seem to mind. Finally, I use my best handwriting to say: ‘I'm sorry. From Cristian.'

‘Off you go,' she says, as I pay her in gold coins. ‘Good luck.'

I stand on the road looking at Penny's house for about twenty minutes. She lives in the most perfect chocolate-box house, in the most perfect tree-lined street in the quietest, most drug-addict-free neighbourhood. It took me over an hour to get here on two trams. Even though I ache to see her, I can't make myself walk up the leaf-free brick path with its abundance of pink roses. Why, why did I pick roses?

As I'm dithering, I miss my window of opportunity. The door to her garage rumbles to life and I hear the voices of her family and the bark of a dog. Panicked, I chuck the flowers as hard as I can towards the verandah, like a morning newspaper, and hope she finds them. I run away like a scared little boy, ducking behind a tree for cover as her family's Subaru four-wheel drive glides past. Roses or no roses, Penny is not about to forgive me. That's fine and understandable. But I think I love her. I do. For real.

Leni

When I don't know how to sit with myself and my skin feels a size too small, I run. I lace up my shoes, strap music to my bicep and close the door behind me. The house is too quiet. I can practically hear it breathing. I need to break out of the silence and let my whole body scream. My plan is to run to the river and do an ergo. I pound the sticky footpath, past beautiful, surreal graffiti walls, Asian nail joints and hipsters eating eggs in cool caf
é
s with industrial lighting and uncomfortable stools. People wasting time. I don't like sitting in caf
é
s.

As I run I imagine a number in my head. Big, bold, black type.

7.20

That's my number. Or it will be in January on rowing camp. I'm writing everywhere. On my inspiration board, above my bed, next to the toilet, on my mirror, the fridge door. Everywhere I turn, there it is staring back at me. Daring me to achieve the impossible. No female student at my school has ever rowed that fast in a 2000-metre ergo time trial. I would be smashing the current record by ten seconds. As I run I imagine what the time will look like on the ergo readout. Flashing up in digital as I pull my final stroke and collapse like a deflated balloon over the handle.