One True Thing (6 page)

I can't look at Jake, so instead I click on, moving backwards, safely beyond the band's shoot. I click through a series of street shots of people rushing to work or school, their faces rigid and determined, their heads already having arrived at their destination. All these people caught up in their world, oblivious to the camera. It's a little horrifying but also compelling. I stop at a shot of a homeless man, suntanned to within an inch of his life, wearing nothing but banana-yellow jocks
and standing under a bayside showerhead in a fine mist of water.

‘Wow,' I say. The colour of the underwear is so sharp and vibrant against his dark skin, with the blue, blue sky and the lush green lawn of the picnic area behind him filling out the image in such summery cheer. Beside him, a Woolies shopping basket piled with everything he owns stands stark and unsettling against the brilliant backdrop. ‘Wow,' I say again.

‘Do you like it?' Jake asks, his voice low.

I look up. ‘That's really powerful.'

He doesn't quite blush but there's a shyness in his smile. Finally, I've found something that he isn't sure of. And I like him more because of this. ‘There's a flaw, though, that bugs me,' he says after a moment, taking the camera from me and zooming in on the picture.

‘What? I can't see anything.' My mind flips back to the photo he took of me, my cheeks warming at the memory. I shake it off.

‘There,' he says, pointing to the finest hairline fracture across one corner of the image. It's only visible because it's set against the smooth blue of the sky. I examine it more closely. It's a faint but distinct lightning bolt that you wouldn't see if you didn't know to look.

‘Huh,' I say. ‘How'd that get in there?'

Jake takes the camera back from me. ‘It's in the lens. I'm saving up for a new one. I can generally fix it in
Photoshop, so it's no big deal, but eventually I'll get a new lens.' He sets the camera on the table between us. ‘In the meantime, it's like a fingerprint – unique.' He scratches his chin. ‘Means no one can rip me off.' Then he laughs. ‘You know, when they make their millions off my art.'

‘Is it expensive to replace?'

Jake grins. ‘No. Unless you consider three and a half grand a lot to pay for a camera lens – without an actual camera. That's separate.'

‘Wow. I'd live with the fingerprint.'

‘I've got a job at a restaurant in the city. I'm almost there. Be nice to get some stuff published, not that they pay much. But Dad's big on earning money. Says it's not real work without it.' Jake's mouth twists when he says it, as though he's tasted something unpleasant. He takes the camera in his hands, almost caressing it.

‘Good luck with that.'

He smiles. ‘At least I can still shoot things I care about.'

‘Like homeless men.'

‘And beautiful guitarists.'

Heat. Heart. Head. I feel these things in this order. ‘Van is pretty special,' I manage to say, pushing the image of my expression in that photo away. The feeling of being naked for all to see, even though I'm dressed in a T-shirt and those wrecked jeans and there's not a millimetre of visible skin below my neck.

Jake laughs. ‘Yeah. He sure is.'

I sip my coffee, glad for the distraction.

Jake studies me, the camera now resting on his lap. ‘Your turn.'

‘What?'

‘Quid pro quo.'

‘Not sure I agreed to that.'

‘Ah, but you didn't disagree.' He smiles openly and I see that one of his incisors is slightly crooked. It's oddly endearing and kind of reassuring that maybe there's more of him that's not perfect.

I fold my arms across my chest. ‘Go on.'

‘Tell me about your family?'

‘We've been through this,' I say, feeling emboldened by that crooked tooth. ‘You'll have to do better than that.'

He laughs quietly, and his leg slides forward to rest against mine. Does he know we're touching? I try not to look at the point of contact for fear he'll notice.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘I have a brother – who I've already mentioned. He's ten …' I glimpse the clock above the counter and stop mid-sentence. ‘I'm sorry, Jake. I have to go.' I get up, grab my bag, then reach for my guitar just as Jake does the same. Our hands clash and I jolt back. ‘I've got it.'

‘Is something wrong?' he asks, concerned, his hand still on my guitar case, warm beside mine, long fingers grazing my skin, messing with my head.

I pull back and manage a grim smile. ‘Luke freaks when I'm late,' I say, heading for the exit. I thrust a
ten-dollar note onto the counter to pay for my coffee and muffin on the way past.

‘Hey.' Jake's beside me, tugging the guitar out of my hands, successfully this time. ‘Let me help you.' For a second I consider objecting but I let it go, worried about the time we're wasting. He places twenty dollars on the counter, then sweeps up my tenner and hands it back. ‘It's common courtesy in interviews. Promise it's not a bloke thing.'

I indicate the guitar he's carrying for me. ‘Really,' I say dryly.

‘Point taken. Just this once?' He takes the change from the waiter.

I scan his face. I'm not worried about the bill – I know that's how it works – but his interest in my family and his being so …
nice
. I hear Harry's voice in my head reminding me that journalists are never off-duty, and I know it's true.

But still.

‘I really have to go. I'm not kidding about my brother. He hates it when I'm late.'

‘I'll come then.'

I hesitate. What if he's trying to get an angle or some dirt? What if this is a set-up? I check my phone. I have ten minutes to get there and it's easily a fifteen-minute walk to the pool.

‘We'll have to run,' I say.

Jake shoves his camera in his backpack and tucks my guitar under one arm. ‘So let's run.'

And even though my whole body feels off balance without my guitar, I don't argue. We start off down the street at a steady jog, increasing speed as we go. When we hit the main intersection I have to yank him back so he doesn't go down the wrong street.

‘This way!' I say, letting go of his hand, feeling more certain of myself when I'm not holding it.

We turn around and head across the road, dodging pedestrians and cyclists. But I've started laughing in that halting out-of-breath way, and Jake has too. Whenever I try to slow down, even for a second, he cries out, ‘Make way!' to the terrified pedestrians and runs faster, so by the time the pool is in sight, we're sprinting, my guitar flying on Jake's left side and me on his right, our cheeks flushed from the cool air and racing hearts.

We turn into the pool centre's gates, both of us panting, Jake with my guitar pressed against his chest like some kind of shield. I bend over, half-laughing, half-suffocating, coughing between gulps of air.

I straighten, look at my watch and punch the air. ‘Yes! And a minute to spare!'

Jake bows low, a deep sweeping thing that somehow includes my guitar without looking awkward, and then we crack up laughing and try to catch our breath as we head towards the steamy glass doors.

‘Who's he?' Luke frowns up at Jake, his ten-year-old face looking more like a wizened old man's than a boy's. His scruffy, wet hair, blond and wispy at the best of times, looks like it's thinning in the fading twilight.

‘Manners!' I say, mimicking Mum's scolding voice – high-pitched, fake plummy accent with a touch of her fading Irish brogue. She spent one year in Ireland when she was a teenager – barely a year – and yet she still lets slip with those soft vowel sounds, and an occasional dropping of the ‘h' in ‘th' – usually when she's angry. We tease her mercilessly about it too, Dad leading the way.

Luke sticks his tongue out at me.

‘Classy,' I say, rubbing his head. He hates it when I do that, but I can't resist. Maybe it's those old eyes, or the pale, almost translucent skin and the chronically rattly chest. He seems so frail sometimes, even though the kid can swim the two hundred like a miniature Thorpedo – with the help of his puffer, anyway.

‘I'm Jake. You must be Luke.' Jake stretches out his hand and Luke shakes it.

‘You're tall,' Luke says.

Jake laughs. ‘You're not.'

Luke looks shocked, then smiles. He squints at me and then Jake, back and forth, his hand shading his eyes. ‘Are you Frankie's boyfriend?'

‘Luke!' I scold, too fast and too loud to sound innocent.

Jake finds this hilarious, that crooked tooth mocking me.

‘He's a friend of Kessie's,' I add, frowning at my brother.

‘Well, I know he's not
her
boyfriend,' Luke counters matter-of-factly.

Even I smile at this. Luke adores Kessie, but not the way others do – not because she's beautiful or cool, popular or smart; Luke loves Kessie because she has never lied to him.

When he was five, maybe six, he confessed to her that he wanted to marry her, and she had explained so carefully, so gently, that if she could ever love boys like that he would be at the top of her list. That she loved girls instead. She
told him it was a secret only he and I knew, that it was her job to tell people when she was ready. Then she told Luke that he would always have a special place in her heart because she could trust him more than anyone else.

And he never told a soul until he knew it wasn't a secret anymore. I think Luke loved that Kessie treated him like a grown-up, and Kessie knew, somehow, that he was the right kid to trust with this new and complicated thing.

He might be annoying and whiny, and – at moments like this – really embarrassing, but you have to be impressed with that. I know some adults who couldn't keep a secret that long. Mum's colleagues, on both sides of the House, can't seem to keep a secret at all.

‘Kessie's cool,' Jake says to Luke, ‘but she's not my type.' He looks at me then, that steady, unblinking gaze that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the room.

I glance away, counting the ridges in the bricks – anything to avoid revealing how his words make me feel. Even the sight of Travis Matthews striding purposefully poolside, his yellow lifeguard uniform making him look like the Hulk with jaundice, isn't enough to distract me.

‘Are you coming to our house?' Luke asks Jake, successfully yanking my attention away from the fascinating glass brickwork.

‘No, Luke. We have to go,' I say, tugging on his tracksuit top in case he doesn't take the hint. ‘Mum's expecting us.' I reach for my guitar before Jake has a chance to object.

Jake lets go, watching me with that cocky smile in place.

‘See you round,' I say to him, offering a half-wave that suggests I don't care either way. I turn Luke on his heels and head home.

Behind me, Jake shouts goodbye, but I pretend I don't hear him and keep walking. It's not my smoothest exit, and the fact that Luke waves cheerfully at Jake on our behalf only makes it more obvious.

I scowl at my brother when he turns around again.

‘What?' he says. ‘He's nice.'

‘He's just a guy from school, Luke,' I say, and walk faster, even though there's no longer a reason to rush. I don't know how or why but Jake D'Angelo's got inside my head. And that can't be good.

The website is so slow I could scream. I watch the seating plan refresh on-screen, my hand clutching the mouse, the cursor hovering over the ‘Buy Ticket' button.

‘Give me another one,' Luke begs. He's sprawled out on my bed, his wispy hair tousled. He looks like he's had a rough night, except he always looks like that and the kid sleeps like the dead, anywhere, anytime. ‘Hard one this time.'

I look at the computer clock – 8.54 am – there's still time. ‘Every song from
Ten
. In order.'

‘Parachutes' is playing on my iPod dock, the bouncy up and down of its uneven melody a needed distraction from the frustrating website.

‘Have you got them yet?'

‘You're stalling.
Ten
, in order, starting now.'

‘“Release”, “Deep”, “Alive” –'

‘Backwards,' I cut in.

A microsecond of a pause. Then, ‘“Once”, “Even Flow” …'

I look at the clock, tuning Luke out. 8.57. Almost time.

‘“Alive” …'

I shake my head. ‘Hang on. What about “Just a Girl” and “Brother”?'

‘You didn't say you meant the reissue.'

‘I'm saying it now.' My fingers itch, my elbow aches – 8.59.
Tick. Tick.

‘“State of Love and Trust” …' Luke dutifully recites the entire song list, then says, ‘Give me another one.'

I grin. I can't help myself. He's my little brother and all kinds of annoying, but he knows his grunge rock, and you've got to love that. ‘That's my boy.'

Luke smiles proudly.

Twelve seconds to go. Almost there. My hand grips the mouse. 9 am.

Click!
I scan the site, waiting for the offer. Section M, Row 5. I sigh. Further around from my ideal section but pretty close to the front. ‘I got M5.'

Luke is standing behind me now. ‘Take them.'

‘Really?' I have two minutes to decide before this lot goes back into the pool. In the meantime I'm imagining
other obsessed fans around the city stealing those front-row seats with a single click. ‘No,' I say, clicking on the ‘try again' button to see what I get next. I'm not a natural gambler, but sometimes – when the stakes are high – you have to put yourself out there. That's what Mum says.

The egg-timer icon swirls teasingly, and I wait the endless seconds to see if I've won.

Ting.
Section D. Row 3.

Wait, is that right? I click again, checking the seating arrangement in another window to make sure I'm seeing it right.

Whoa. Holy mother of …

‘I got D! I got D!'

‘Is that good?' Luke is jumping about before I can answer.

‘It's brilliant! Third row!' I shout, fumbling blindly for Dad's credit card.

‘Come
on
,' Luke urges, clutching my shoulder in solidarity.

I can barely breathe … 3, 2, 1 …
Ting!
The message comes up declaring that my payment has gone through, and Luke and I leap about the room like lunatics until I drag him into a bear hug. He escapes, gagging theatrically as if the very idea of me touching him will induce vomit. He falls back on my bed, out of breath, and I plonk back down at my desk to stare at the email confirming my purchase.

I text Tyler to tell her, my thumbs sprinting across the keypad so that all that comes out is a string of incoherent letters. I stop, clear the screen and try again.

‘I can come, right?' Luke asks after catching his breath, a hint of a wheeze escaping his chest.

I ignore his question. ‘Do you need your puffer?'

He shakes his head, frowning at me for even asking, but then the wheeze builds to a cough and, before I know it, he's red in the face and panting. I reach for the spare puffer I keep on my bookshelf. We have multiple inhalers planted at key locations around the house because it means Luke can never use the excuse of having lost his puffer – again – as a way to avoid using it. I don't know why he hates it so much but he does. Half of his class has asthma. Not as bad as him, but still, it's not like it's some exotic illness no one's heard of. Hell, it seems
not
having asthma or some kind of allergy is weird now. But it's his thing and
everyone
has a thing.

I stick the puffer in his mouth. ‘Go.'

He inhales, shooting me evil looks the whole time.

‘I know. What a mean sister, wanting you to breathe.'

He twists out of my grip, still holding his breath, then lets it out and pushes me away.

‘Just one?'

He won't even look at me.

‘I'll give you a minute, but if that wheeze is still there …'

There's a knock on the door, and Mum's muffled voice cuts through. ‘Frankie? Is Luke in there?'

Luke freezes, then stares at me, shaking his head.

‘Hang on,' I say. I shoot him my ‘one false move' look and he nods, a single gesture promising me the world if I just play along.

I tuck the puffer back on the shelf. ‘Ready?' I whisper.

Another nod, his breathing smoother now.

‘Yeah. He's here.'

Luke's sprawled out on my bed again, faking cool in that uncool way only a ten-year-old can.

Mum comes in and heads straight for Luke. ‘Did I hear coughing?'

‘Morning, Mum,' I say too brightly.

She smiles at me knowingly. ‘Yes, my darling teenager, what a good morning it is. Great to hear my
favourite
band so early too. Perfect music to get me in a winning mood.'

‘Finally, she comes around,' I say, ignoring her sarcasm.

‘Honestly, why couldn't you like someone nicer?' she says. ‘Like Robbie Williams or Michael Bublé.'

As one, Luke and I make choking sounds, hands to our throats, eyes bulging.

But maybe Luke's performance is a little off, or maybe she can hear him rasping, because she abruptly trains that laser-like gaze on my brother, who is doing a pretty decent job of looking completely innocent. ‘Your colour's
not right,' she says to him, undoing his performance in one single blow.

He looks like he might cry. He has the regionals this afternoon, and he knows Mum will pull the plug if she's worried about his breathing.

‘He's fine,' I say in his defence. It wasn't a bad one. He's had worse and been perfectly fine by the afternoon. ‘He promised he'd do his spacer after breakfast to make sure.'

Luke shoots me a filthy – he'd promised no such thing. ‘It was nothing,' he sniffs.

‘Fair enough,' Mum says, trusting me to get this right. I can't remember a time when I couldn't pick a wheeze from a rattle, or a wet cough from a dry one. ‘One puff and we'll see,' she says, her hand automatically feeling his forehead for clamminess or fever.

Luke roughly pulls away, but it's half-hearted. I feel a small tug in my chest on his behalf. He's missed out on some things healthy kids take for granted, and the fact that I don't have any allergies or even a hint of asthma just rubs it in. Still, there's much worse. Mum's starving children in East Timor, for a start.

Despite Mum's brisk concern for Luke, this is probably not how she thought today would go. She sealed off the morning for us – no Harry or Christie or Sarah, no photo-ops or media. There'll be plenty of that at the campaign launch, where we'll stand beside her as she accepts her party's nomination and a million cameras will go off like
it's the most important thing on the planet. I guess for Mum it kind of is.

I grin. ‘You look appropriately terrified.'

Mum's face is flushed and her lips are pursed. She's wearing her favourite scarf thrown loosely over her shoulder and her wavy hair is neatly clasped back. She looks lovely but also incredibly tense. She keeps tugging at her clothes to find the perfect arrangement. ‘I can't imagine why,' she says, the lines around her mouth easing, the creases around her eyes crinkling.

‘How hard can it be?' I say. ‘Making history?'

‘Piece of cake.' She laughs, finally relaxing enough to stop fiddling. ‘How do I look?' she asks, a tiny twitch in her jaw the last remaining evidence of her nerves.

‘You look like the next
elected
Premier of Victoria,' I answer.

‘I have to get through the campaign first,' she says.

‘You'll be great.'

My mum reaches out and rubs my arm warmly, clutching it for a minute before drawing me into a tight hug. I almost pull away out of habit, but decide that today of all days I can suck it up.

‘Don't sweat it, Mum. You were born for this,' I say, and I mean it. She's so steady and strong. I've never seen her lose it, even when the crazies around her are at their craziest. When The Zoo looks on the edge of anarchy, Mum always finds just the right thing to say – her calm,
warm voice reassuring us that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the world is not going to ‘hell in a handbasket'. (Something that, according to Gran Mulvaney, has pretty much already happened.)

Mum turns to Luke, who's skulking in the corner in the hope she'll forget about his attack, and sweeps him into her arms so that we're both pressed against her roughly. That's two hugs in one morning – way over my quota – but I let it slide and scowl at Luke when I see him trying to wriggle free. He stops, stands stiffly, then relaxes his body. It's possible I saw him slip his other arm around her too.

I guess it's a big day for all of us.

‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?' My dad is smiling in the doorway, looking uncomfortably like how I remember Grandpa. Not just the long Webb legs and angular frame, but also in age too. The dusting of grey around his temples. The lines around his mouth. Politics ages people, I've noticed. Not just the politicians – their husbands and wives too. God knows what it's doing to Luke and me.

‘I don't know …' Mum laughs, shooting Dad that special look she saves for him – the one that makes Luke and me want to leave the room. ‘Depends if you know the password.'

Dad swoops in to plant a wet kiss on Mum's lips. ‘The soon-to-be-elected Premier of Victoria, I presume?'

‘That'll do.' They smile at each other long enough for both Luke and me to escape to the other side of the desk, me shielding my eyes and Luke howling for them to stop.

‘You have a twenty-four-hour pass,' I tell them, ‘because making history is reasonably cool. But after that –' I shrug – ‘business as usual.'

‘We need to get a move on,' Dad says.

‘Wait – who's taking me to the regionals?' Luke asks in a panicked voice.

‘Sorry, bud, Mr Alessandro called. Nathan is sick and he's had to pull out of the meet,' Dad says. ‘He's not going to be able to take you.'

‘Is Nathan okay?' Luke asks. In Luke's mind, you'd have to be at death's door to withdraw from the regionals.

‘Just a tummy bug,' Dad says, ‘but I'm afraid you'll have to pull out this time too – just this once.'

Luke's mouth opens, fish-like, but nothing comes out.

‘No way,' Mum says, before Luke can try again. ‘Nope. Their stuff doesn't make way for mine. I'm a mother first.' I hear an unexpected edge in her voice, a shrillness that isn't usually there. ‘I'll ring around, find someone else to help …' She straightens her scarf, suddenly all business. But when she looks at Luke, her voice softens. ‘We can't let our Olympian-in-the-making miss the regionals, can we?'

‘You don't have time for this, Ro.'

‘Give me your phone,' she says, holding out her hand.

For a nanosecond Dad looks set to stand his ground, which would possibly be the first time ever. But Mum's head is tilted up in that way I've seen on question time – right before she's about to rip shreds off the Opposition Leader in that smooth, even voice that has the power to cut down even the bravest of men. Even though they call her Yummy Mummy, they never say it to her face. They wouldn't dare.

‘I'll sort it out,' Dad says.

‘I can't miss the regionals,' Luke says firmly, the colour gradually returning to his cheeks.

Mum touches Luke's face tenderly and smiles. ‘You won't.'

‘You need to focus, Ro,' Dad says. ‘Today and the coming weeks are all about you. They have to be. I'll take care of it.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘We'll be an hour at most,' Dad says. ‘This way, I get to see both of you win.'

Luke nods, already mentally strategising the race ahead.

‘I'll be back before your speech,' Dad says, and kisses Mum again. ‘We both will.'

‘My room …?' I remind them.

‘It's all yours,' Mum says. ‘Get your swimming stuff, Luke. Cute as that bum is, it's best for everyone you wear bathers.' Luke storms off, huffing at the indecency, while Mum shoots me a long look. ‘How bad was it?'

‘Not bad – short burst, a bit red in the face, but one puff and he was fine.'

‘Got it,' Mum says, then heads out after my brother, telling him to do his spacer now, ‘… while I'm looking.'

Dad and I share a smile, but I can see something uneasy sitting behind his eyes. I remember our lunch at Carfe Diem, his concern.

He's squinting at my laptop, the screensaver flashing through some photos – of me holding Luke when he was a baby, me outside Mum's electoral office when she was first elected to Parliament, Kessie and me in matching Pearl Jam T-shirts back before Kessie found politics. ‘Did you get the tickets?' he asks.

‘Yeah. Third row.'

‘Nice.' He nods, then holds out his hand.

I give him back his credit card.

‘Happy birthday, Francesca,' he says, kissing me quickly. My birthday is in three months' time, but this was the only thing I wanted – tickets to see Pearl Jam live. And now that I have them, I can even forgive him for calling me Francesca.