One True Thing (5 page)

I brush her off and return my attention to the canapés. ‘Why did I bring you?' I say. The dizziness strikes again, and I lean against a tent pole to steady myself.

‘For my winning personality and excellent taste in hook-ups for my straight best friend.' Kessie bows theatrically.

I press my lips together, trying not to smile. ‘I'm not his type, either, Kess. Let it go.'

She straightens and laughs. ‘That's never gonna happen, Frank. See, I know stuff.'

My heart is doing little flips in my chest, even as I try to keep my tone flat. ‘Whatever you know, you might as well tell me.'

Kessie grabs two sticks of barbecued prawns from a passing platter and hands me one. She takes a large, messy bite. ‘It's no big deal,' she says. ‘I just had a chat with our friend, and he seems to find it hard to talk about anything else.'

The prawns look delicious. I'm so hungry my stomach is almost groaning out loud, so this fat, juicy-looking prawn should be liquid gold in my mouth, but it's like suddenly my tastebuds have keeled over, comatose. All I'm aware of is the aching thump of my heart at the thought of Jake talking about me and the fogginess that's shrouding my brain. I clear my throat and force down the tasteless morsel, trying not to hurry or seem too interested. The dizziness has passed, but my head feels all floaty and weird. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You, my sweet.
You
.' Kessie takes another bite, and I have to wait what seems like ages before she continues. ‘He asked how well I knew you. I said you were like a sister to me, except I actually like you.' Kessie barely talks to her older sister, Annabelle. I won't say she
hates
her, but in the last two years they've probably exchanged fewer than twenty-five words. And most of them I wouldn't repeat in respectable company.

I don't care
, I tell myself.
Jake can say whatever he likes. I just don't care.
I'm about to tell Kessie to find me a glass of water and some Panadol if she really wants to help, when my gaze settles on a mop of dark curls and a set of broad, strong shoulders that could belong to a footballer or a surfer or …

‘Oh yeah,' Kessie says airily. ‘I forgot to say I told him to come.'

The broad shoulders turn around and I'm staring directly into the emerald-green eyes of Jake D'Angelo.

I stand stock-still, my feet cemented in place, with only the rapid pounding of my heart evidence that I'm not, in fact, the living dead.

So much for not caring.

‘Jesus, girl.' Kessie's voice is all echoey, and I have to force myself to look at her to be absolutely sure she's spoken.

‘What?' I say.

She touches her hand to my forehead like my mother does when I'm sick. ‘You feel hot,' she says, then pulls her hand away, disgusted. ‘And sweaty.'

‘Thanks a lot,' I snap, embarrassed. I really do feel ill. ‘Something's not right,' I say. The headache is dull and persistent, my skin feels cold to touch, and there are goosebumps along my arm even though I'm burning up inside and, yes, I'm sweaty.

‘Are you okay?'

I look up to see Jake standing beside me, concern etched into his features. I lick my lips but my mouth has gone dry. I can feel it in my gut now, that swirly icky heaviness, and I know that this is not some feverish response to a good-looking guy.

‘Not sure,' I choke out.

‘Can I get you some water?' His hand is on my shoulder, and he's already looking around.

‘I … No.' I shake my head, then face him. The world starts to spin, and I struggle to focus. ‘Um, maybe. Yeah. Thanks.'

Jake disappears into the crowd and Kessie tucks her arm in mine. ‘Seriously, Frank. You look like crap.'

And I feel it. I'm suddenly aware of every muscle I own, every droplet of blood in my veins. Everything is throbbing and beating faster than it should, and somehow louder, too.

‘Sit down.' Kessie tugs me towards the row of chairs we only recently vacated. This time the plastic seems to mould itself to me rather than dig into my back and thighs.

Jake returns with a glass of chilled water. Cubes of ice tinkle as I take a long drink. Then I press the glass to my forehead, the cool against my skin a huge relief.

I tilt my head up, determined to settle the roiling of my stomach. I try to stand, but small black dots dance in front of me, and before I know it the Northwoods Primary School's ‘Sport in the Suburbs' catering is making an unwelcome reappearance on their brand-new running track – and all over Jake D'Angelo's shoes.

I don't have to look up to know that someone somewhere is capturing every second of it in glorious, high-res detail.

It takes a full twenty-four hours before I run out of food to throw up, and another twenty-four hours before I have the energy to get out of bed, but I'm determined to go to school because No Politics will never be ready for Battle of the Bands if we don't dig in.

I check my phone and there's a text from Harry warning me that there's a meme circulating of me throwing up sweet-chilli prawns on the brand-new running track but, he says, I shouldn't worry because at least they got my good side. Ha. Ha. He also sends me a link to a YouTube guitar tutorial on how to play ‘Just Breathe'. I save the link for later, my head too fuzzy to even think about guitar. I sip the cold water Mum keeps
setting beside me every time I sit down but ignore the Vegemite toast.

First things first.

I open my laptop, take a deep breath and search for ‘Premier Mulvaney daughter'. Several links pop up, the first three almost certainly the offending vision. I hesitate, then I bite my lower lip and click. There I am in all my vomitous glory, in profile as Harry said, though what constitutes a ‘best side' when in barf mode is a little hard to judge. I watch myself spew canapés for a few seconds before it fades to a clip of Mum addressing Parliament. It cuts back and forth between us to the subtle strains of ‘The Vomit Song' just in case we didn't get the main theme from the visuals alone.

I sigh. It's going to be a long day.

Rehearsal goes surprisingly well. We spend a good chunk of the studio time on the new song, and although the lyrics are sketchy we don't sound too terrible by the end of the session. When we're done, we all promise to make every rehearsal – on time (Tyler and Van), without any surprises or unauthorised rewrites (Kessie), and without wigging out (I suspect that's for me) – between now and our performance.

I walk out of the studio on a high, convinced that we can pull it together. Tyler falls in step beside me, her short legs working twice as hard as mine to keep up.

‘Hey, you right to get the Pearl Jam tickets?' she asks as we head towards the science lab. As a Fan Club member I'm eligible for two pre-sale tickets before it's open to the public. They'll sell out fast, and I have no idea what seats I'll get, which kind of sucks, but there's no one else I'd rather take to see Eddie and the boys. Kessie doesn't love them like Tyler and I do.

‘I've set my alarm and I've checked out the ideal spots – C to J, the first eight rows – and a couple of alternatives if I can't get them,' I say, reaching the lab with a few minutes to spare.

‘Two tickets, right?'

‘Yep. You and me.' Mum predictably said she couldn't help score extra tickets when I asked. Having a Premier for a mother is consistently annoying. Having a Premier for a mother who's always worried about doing ‘the right thing'? That's a total waste.

‘I hope we get them,' I add. ‘They'll sell out fast.' Even Harry's mate came up empty.

‘Thanks for organising it.'

‘Are you kidding?' I laugh. ‘As if I'd trust anyone else to do it!'

‘Good to know you're a well-rounded control freak.'

‘Always,' I reply, just as Mr De Masson arrives for physics. I say goodbye to Tyler, take the last remaining seat – beside Travis Matthews, alas – and spend the rest of the class ignoring his spectacularly unsuccessful attempts
to light his own farts, which he only interrupts with puking noises and references to carrot-filled yawns.

After school I check my phone and see a message from Jake. There's a tiny flutter in my chest, which I put down to the last remnants of having thrown up my body weight of hors d'oeuvres so recently, and open the message:
Ok 4 this arvo?

My mind is blank, then I remember – Kessie rescheduled the interview for me. I consider all the reasons to say no. One by one I tick them off: overtired due to illness, have rehearsal, too much homework. They all sound soft and will only delay the inevitable.

My phone pings and there's another message:
Plus, u owe me new shoes.

I laugh, then cringe. There's really nowhere to go, dignity-wise, when someone's witnessed you puke your guts up.
Ok. Carfe Diem opp school – 3.45.
I send the message, then tuck away my phone and head into the toilets, careful to do no more than glance randomly in the mirror and roughly –
carelessly
– brush my hair.

Carfe Diem is packed. We're in the front courtyard, watching the university crowd wander in and out, their full backpacks as tired and worn as their clothes. I wonder briefly if Dad's finished work yet, or if he's got late classes today.

Jake's school shirt is untucked and his tie is flung over his shoulder, and we've wolfed down an apple-and-cinnamon muffin each. Jake is on to his second.

‘Seriously, I know she looks tiny,' I say, ‘but Tyler's got biology-defying power when she knocks out “Moby Dick”. It's like there are two of her.'

Jake grins and bites into his muffin. ‘You're all pretty amazing,' he says quietly.

I stare at my feet, red-faced. I'm almost relieved when my phone bleeps a message from Dad. He wants me to pick up Luke. I do a mental calculation. Even allowing for Luke to take the ridiculously long time it takes to dry that small, skinny body, lose his goggles, find them, then lose them again, I only have maybe forty-five minutes max.

‘You have somewhere to go?' Jake has a Spirax notebook on his knee, a pen in his hand, and his phone recording on the table between us.

‘I have to pick up my brother.'

‘I only have a few more questions.'

‘Okay,' I say slowly. ‘Seems reasonable in exchange for the shoes.'

‘Oh, no,' he says, ‘I still want the shoes.'

I laugh. ‘Fair enough.'

‘Or the shopping trip, at least. Maybe some fashion advice?'

I shake my head, grinning. ‘Wrong girl for that.'

He sips his coffee. ‘I doubt it.'

I relax into my seat and watch him jot down notes. Finally, he looks up. ‘So you've got a brother,' he says. ‘Other family?'

‘They haven't taught you how to research?' I'm joking, but we both hear the edge in my voice.

‘Of course. You're right.' He glances at his notes and rocks back on his chair.

Is he nervous?
I wonder.

When he looks up, his jaw is set and any trace of uncertainty gone. ‘Tell me about your brother, Luke.' He clears his throat.

‘I thought this was meant to be about No Politics?' I cross my legs, determined not to give him anything more than we agreed.

‘It is,' he says. ‘The band. The school. How all of it comes together, how you got your first gigs …' He's flicking his pen nib, up and down, up and down, the rhythmic clicking not missing a beat.

‘Right, and we've covered that.'

‘Exactly.'

‘So …?'

‘This is for me,' he says.

‘That's not what we agreed.'

He laughs lightly, the warm tones liquid and smooth. Small concentration marks dent his forehead as he writes something down. It's difficult not to be drawn in by his focus. I've since learnt he's not a footballer earning extra
credit. He's smart and tuned in. And funny. It's hard not to like him.

Except he's a journalist. Harry's always saying that journalists are never off-duty, that anything we say can be used against us – and Mum. ‘
Everything –
no matter how innocent – can make her look bad if it falls into the wrong hands.'

I remember watching Luke's stricken face at Harry's words back when Mum first became the Premier. I'd tucked Luke's hand in mine and reassured him that we just wouldn't say anything at all. He'd nodded obediently, unconvinced. And they've mostly left Luke and me alone. The real journalists, anyway.

Unfortunately, anyone with a smartphone is their own little publishing site, so a lot of those rules went out the window some time ago. Hence my very own YouTube moment featuring the technicoloured yawn.

Jake is waiting politely. I wonder if this interview was a mistake. ‘I've given you enough,' I say, mentally sifting through my answers to be sure I haven't said anything I shouldn't have. ‘What about you? How did you get into journalism?'

A smile creeps across his face. ‘Nicely done,' he says.

‘What? I want to know.'

He chuckles softly and rocks back in his chair, his camera resting on his lap. ‘The usual – family, friends. It's hard to escape where I come from.'

‘Right. Canberra. So, why did you move to Melbourne?'

‘Who's doing the interview now?'

‘Why do you get to ask all the questions?'

He sets down his pen and crosses one leg over the other. ‘Quid pro quo,' he says. ‘Sounds fair.'

‘So … Melbourne in the middle of Year 11? What happened?'

He clasps his hands in his lap and his knee starts jiggling, I guess to make up for the missing pen. He pulls a face and says, ‘Ugly divorce.'

‘More information.'

‘I needed to get away. Dad suggested I go with him. New job for him. New school for me.'

‘Just like that?'

‘It's never
just like that
.' He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. ‘We'd talked about it a while – Mum and me. When I say talked, I mean argued. Kind of came to a head one particularly colourful night.'

‘Colourful?'

He grimaces. ‘Yeah. Not my finest hour.'

‘Is she okay now? With you being here?'

He examines his hands, looks up. ‘Honestly? I think she's relieved.' I watch a slow blush colour his cheeks, and he shifts back further into his seat, as though to retreat from what he's just said. ‘It's a good school. Great opportunity for me to build a portfolio.'

I decide not to force the parent issue. I reach for his camera. ‘May I?' I ask, although I've already taken it. The long lens is heavier than I expected and awkward to hold.
I whistle low and long. ‘Looks expensive. You'd be crazy to let just anyone get a hold of it,' I say, smirking. I switch it on and point the lens at him.

He holds up a hand to block the view. ‘No, thank you.'

‘What? You don't like the camera unless you're behind it?'

‘Basically,' he says, smiling.

I squint at the various dials and buttons, work out which is the shutter, and line him up in the viewfinder.

He twists his mouth into a demented grimace, making his eyes bug out at the same time.

Click!
I take the photo, surprising us both. I'd only meant to pretend. ‘Sorry,' I say, holding it out to him.

He takes the camera, presses some buttons and shows me the screen. The photo is all blurry and dark. It could be anyone.

‘Yeah. Not my strong point,' I say.

‘Anyone can learn,' he says.

‘I doubt it.' I shuffle closer to look at the screen. ‘Are you any good?'

He hesitates, then says simply, ‘Yes.' He laughs, a bit sheepish.

‘Show me.'

He flicks through his gallery and stops, then holds the camera so I can see. There's a series of shots from No Politics's rehearsal. Most of them are of the band in action, rocking out, despite what seemed like a stilted performance
at the time. There are also some individual ones – Van with his bass hanging low where he likes it, his face in profile, his lips pursed as though to hold in all those thoughts; Tyler pounding away like the superhero she is, her short hair a blur, her face often turned away or up, lost in the power of the rhythm; Kessie laughing and messing around, her face obscured by her hair, but still radiant, still beautiful; then there's me, in profile, full-length and from the shoulder up, but it's the first close-up that stops me cold. Just one shot, tight and sharp, and so confronting that I gasp.

‘That one's my favourite,' Jake says.

I look at him, too shocked to answer. In the picture, my face is slightly turned away and my eyes are cast down towards my guitar, completely lost in the moment. It's so private, my expression so intimate, I feel exposed. My hands tremble and a part of me wants to delete the image. I could, too. Right now. A couple of clicks and it would be gone. But I don't because, well, it's … beautiful.