The Slap (28 page)

Jenna raised herself, struggling to keep a balance. She savagely brushed saliva away from her lips and chin. ‘What the fuck is there between him and me? What do you mean? He’s fucking Veronica bloody Fink. He’s not fucking me. I think that means he’s in a relationship with Veronica. He’s not in a relationship with me, I’m the fuck buddy.’ The final sentence wasn’t clear as Jenna once again began to wail. Connie hugged her tighter. Her dress was getting stained. It didn’t matter. Her best friend was upset. Everyone was pissed, out of it, no one would notice. She looked up at Lenin. He looked embarrassed, caught out, as he stared at the front entrance. She turned to look.

Jordan was standing in the doorway. He mouthed something to Lenin.

‘Come on.’ Lenin gestured silently to Connie and to Tina. The girls rose.

Jenna, confused, looked around her. When she saw Jordan she crossed her arms. ‘You can fuck off.’

The boy walked past Connie and Tina and held out his hand to the crying girl. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’

‘I said, fuck off.’

Jordan still had his hand outstretched. Connie stood still in the doorway, looking back, not sure if she shouldn’t stay and look after her friend. Lenin gave her a gentle push and they moved down the hall.

‘Let them sort it out,’ he whispered to her.

They went back into the party.

Connie didn’t feel like dancing now and walked straight through the house and into the yard. Nick and Richie were still sitting on the crates by the bonfire. She sat on Richie’s knees and nuzzled her face in his hair.

He stroked her shoulders. ‘You right, Con?’

‘Mmm.’ She lifted her head. ‘Jenna and Jordan are having a fight.’ She smiled at Nick. ‘How are you travelling?’

The boy nodded his head vigorously, his face beaming. She laughed.

‘You’ve had more, haven’t you?’

Richie nodded.

‘You want some?’

She thought about it. She was still warm and secure in the euphoria of the drug but the heightening of the senses had worn off. She was beginning to feel drunk. Reluctantly, she shook her head. ‘Nah. I’ll be completely hammered.’

‘That’s the best way to be.’ Both she and Richie were surprised by Nick’s vehemence. ‘I want to be like this for the rest of my life,’ he continued. ‘I don’t ever want to be normal again.’

‘Mate, you are not normal.’

Nick glared at Richie. ‘What do you mean?’

Connie intervened. ‘What’s so great about being normal? It’s better to be different, not like everybody else. Who wants to be normal in John Howard’s Australia?’

Richie made a rude farting noise. ‘All the dicks at this party. I’m glad you’re not normal, Nicky my boy.’

Connie gave Richie the finger. ‘Nick seems pretty normal to me. You, well that’s another matter.’

‘Thanks very much.’

She slid her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘I don’t want you to be normal. I don’t ever want you to be normal.’

Nick stood up. Without saying a word he walked away from them, weaving his way precariously up the path.

‘Another loo break?’

Richie nodded, and laughed.

‘He’s been going all night. I told him to just piss in the garden. No one cares.’ He pointed past the eucalypts to a row of bushes and fading jasmine plants along the back fence. ‘That’s where I’ve been going.’

Connie looked up to the sky. Clouds obscured the stars and the moon. ‘I wish I could piss standing up.’

‘Maybe you can.’

‘Not in this dress. I’d embarrass myself.’

Richie pushed her off him.

‘Am I too heavy?’

‘Yeah, you’re a lard-arse.’ He reached inside his pocket and pulled out what looked like a wad of torn paper. He held it out to her.

‘What’s that?’

‘The photograph of Hector.’

She was silent. She wanted to say, forget everything I said this afternoon. She wanted to apologise. She wanted him to apologise. She knew he wouldn’t and she knew she couldn’t. Richie stood up and sprinkled the scraps of torn photo over the fire. They caught flame, danced above the heat for a moment, then curled into black cinder. There was a bitter, chemical smell. She tried to remember what Hector looked like in the photograph. Young, like her, like Richie, like Nick, like Jenna, like Ali. Young like her. Except he wasn’t. She looked at the curling scraps of the photograph. She wished she could burn him away from her, make him disappear. He doesn’t want me. It still hurt, like a burn, a scald right to the centre of her being. She remembered the relief in his face when he told her it was over. A gorilla, that’s what she had called him. What a stupid, childish thing to say. She was glad that the flames danced before her, that they camouflaged the mortification she was experiencing.

‘Con, you okay?’

She stepped back from the barrel, and sat back on Richie’s lap. She lay her head on his shoulder. He stroked her face.

Nick returned and stood nervously by the crate. ‘You want to sit here? I can sit on the grass.’ His eyes were wide, like an animal’s. He looked vulnerable and a little afraid. She wondered if the mushies were as good as he said they were.

She stood up. ‘It’s cold. I’m going inside. You should come in and dance.’

Richie made another farting noise. ‘Not with those arseholes.’

‘They’re alright.’

Richie turned to Nick. ‘See, I told you she was a replicant. She’s one of the normal ones.’

He could be such a dick sometimes. Everyone at the party was alright, everyone was fine. She liked everyone tonight.

She held out her hand to Nick. ‘Come and dance.’

The boy, alarmed, shook his head. ‘I don’t dance very well.’

‘That’s okay. It’s not a competition.’

‘Nah, I’d feel like a freak.’

‘You’re not a freak.’

‘Yes, he is. He’s a freak like me.’

She ignored Richie, was still holding out her hand. ‘Coming?’

Nick sat down on the crate. He looked down at the dirt and lawn.

She shrugged. ‘See ya then.’

Behind her she could hear Richie singing, off-key, the Sugarbabes’ ‘Freak Like Me’.

Nick said, Shut the fuck up, but Richie kept on singing.

 

‘You want a smoke?’

It was Ali. She nodded. He took her hand—his hand was huge, it completely covered hers—and pulled her with him towards a door at the end of the hall. Ali shut the door behind them. They were in darkness. The noise of the party had suddenly stopped. Ali turned on the light—they were in a bedroom.

‘Whose is this?’

‘This is the guest bedroom.’

‘Wow, it’s huge.’

There was a queen-sized bed, a large Manet print on the wall, and a little golden reclining Buddha perched on the bureau by the bed. Ali plonked himself on the middle of the bed, cross-legged. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco, his rolling papers and a tiny nugget of hash. He started rolling the joint. Connie, confused, wondered where she should sit. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. There was no way she could sit cross-legged in this dress.

‘You look so fine,’ he whispered.

She touched the tip of his hair. The gel was sticky in her fingers. Her make-up was probably all runny from the dancing and the sweat. She looked around for a mirror. Ali read her mind. He indicated a door, its red paint chipped and faded, off the bedroom.

‘Bathroom’s through there.’

She went in and washed her face, combed her hair back. She didn’t look too bad. She took a step back from the mirror and looked at herself. The dress seemed to shimmer in the faint bathroom light. She was beginning to grind her teeth, she probably needed another drink. Her mouth would stink tomorrow morning. She’d try not to have another cigarette, they made her lips dry. She opened her mouth wide. Were her teeth yellow? Her smile was too big for her face. She wished she had smaller lips, tinier teeth. But the dress was beautiful.

She returned and perched on the bed. Ali handed her the joint and lit it. After a few puffs the soothing wave of the hashish rolled through her. She lay down across the bed and handed the joint back to Ali. He jumped over her and walked into the bathroom. He returned with a small crescent translucent bowl that held sea stones and shells. He emptied them over the bureau and used the bowl to ash the joint in.

‘Are Jordan’s folks back yet?’ It must be way past midnight. The movie would be finished by now. The house stank of marijuana and tobacco.

‘They’re not coming back. Mr A has booked a hotel in the city for tonight. They’re not back till morning.’

‘They put a lot of trust in Jordan.’

‘They can trust Jorde. He’s not a dick. He won’t let things get out of hand.’

Connie was looking up at the ceiling. It was one of the old-fashioned ones with an intricate relief from a circle around the lampshade, swirls of flowers and leaves. They had been hand-painted, red and yellow, white and green. It looked like a watercolour. Ali passed back the joint and she looked at him. His hair was wet from sweat and there wasn’t a mark on his cinnamon skin. He too had a big mouth but it suited his face. He could be a model except there was nothing soft or feminine about him. He was commanding. She rolled the word around her head.
Commanding
. She was a little afraid of being alone with him.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing.’ She had one short puff and handed him the joint. ‘I was just wondering how you and Jordan became friends.’

‘Because he’s so smart and I’m just a dumb-fuck Mussie?’

Connie blushed. She had gone red, she knew it, on her cheeks and neck. She was embarrassed because it was, kind of, what she thought—not the Muslim bit, not that, and not that Ali was not smart. He just wasn’t academic. Ali laughed at her embarrassment.

‘We’ve known each other since we were kids. We were in the under-eleven footy squad together.’

‘Serious?’ Jordan was straight humanities. He was applying to the Victorian College of the Arts to do film or acting or something like that. Jordan Athanasiou didn’t even like sports.

‘He wasn’t very good, but he wasn’t an idiot.’ Ali stubbed the joint out into the bowl. ‘Most people are idiots.’ He got up on his knees and looked down at Connie. ‘You’re not.’ Ali seemed enormous, a giant above her. ‘Connie,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’

His mouth was firm, but he didn’t hurt. She fell into his mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, saliva. She realised that Hector always hesitated when kissing her, that he was holding back. She had always felt that she had been too aggressive, too eager. Ali was in control and her mouth and hands and body followed him. She could kiss him all night, she hadn’t realised how simple, how uncomplicated, kissing could be. She wasn’t thinking of anything—her mind was not floating above her body—she and Ali were the kiss. The kiss was all there was.

‘Can I fuck you?’

She just wanted the kiss but she nodded. This was how it was going to be. With this handsome, dark boy who a few days ago she thought an arrogant, sexist pig. She was frightened but she was nodding her head. This was how it was going to be. She was drunk. I’m not going to throw up, she ordered herself. She touched his skin. She had to remember how soft his skin felt. She touched his singlet. She would remember that it was coarse, a blend of cotton and polyester, the huge red number 3 across its front. She would remember the flowers on the ceiling, the reclining Buddha, the smell of the hash. She must write all this down when she got home tonight. She must remember to record everything, everything in her journal.

Ali had unbuckled his belt and pulled his jeans to his knees. His jocks were black and when he slid them off his cock was already hard. It looked big, thick. She must pretend it did not hurt. If it hurt, she had to pretend it didn’t. She looked away, embarrassed, from his crotch and stared up at his face. He was smiling at her. One hand caressed her face, the other was sliding up her thigh.

‘You’re on the pill, aren’t you?’

Should she lie? No fucking way should she lie.

‘No.’

‘Shit.’ His fingers were touching her pubic hair. He seemed doubtful, wary. Was she too hairy? Maybe she was too hairy? He pushed his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

‘Put it on,’ he ordered.

She and Tina had once practised on a banana, they had been in Year Eight and had laughed all afternoon. She couldn’t tear open the packet. He took it from her and ripped it open with his teeth. He lifted her up towards him, so they were face to face. Come on, baby, he whispered, I’m so fucking hot for you. When they were kissing, all of herself had been there. Now her mind was floating high above her body, looking down. He sounded like a porn movie, a bad rap soundtrack. She felt a little stupid. And he was talking like an idiot. Her hands were cold and clumsy, she tried to unsheaf the sticky coil of plastic but she couldn’t seem to stretch the mouth of it over Ali’s cock. It was starting to go soft. He was looking at her with a quizzical expression.

‘You’ve put on a rubber before, haven’t you?’

She was blushing again. ‘Usually the guys put it on.’

He seemed to accept that and took the condom. He’d thankfully wiped the leer off his face. Now he just looked embarrassed. ‘Connie, ’ he began softly. ‘Do you want to blow me? Just to get me hard again.’

She wasn’t resisting. His hand was gently pushing her down there, not with any force as she was not resisting. This is what girls do. This is what she had so much wanted to do for Hector. She looked at Ali’s penis, sniffed at it. There was an unrecognisable smell. It smelt of flesh but not a bodily smell she had ever encountered before.

She shook her head. ‘No.’ She sat up. She couldn’t bring herself to do that. She wasn’t quite sure why. It seemed slutty or maybe just too intimate. It seemed a much more intimate thing to do than be fucked. She shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry.’