The Slap (29 page)

Ali was still looking strangely at her.

She felt mortified—she was such a pathetic virgin.

‘It’s okay. Kiss me again.’

They lay next to each other, kissing. Her body returned to itself. She pulled him closer to her. She wished they could just kiss. He was fumbling with the condom, she tried not to think about it. To only think of how good he tasted, of beer and dope and peppermint gum. His hand was between her legs and then his finger was inside her. She let go of his mouth and groaned. He held her head gently in the cusp of his broad hand and said, once more, You’re so beautiful, and then he thrust.

She cried out. It felt like a knife had cut straight through inside her. He tried to push himself inside her again and she winced, whimpered, then cried out, a strange moan that sounded exactly like the cry a dog made when it woke terrified from the anaesthetic. Ali pulled back and she cupped her hands between her legs. She felt ripped apart. She was ashamed, her face was streaked with tears. Ali was holding her. She was crying into his chest. He tightened his grip. Slowly, very slowly, the pain began to dull. She didn’t want Ali to loosen his hold on her. She didn’t want to look at his face.

‘Connie, Connie,’ he finally urged, gently. ‘My foot’s gone to sleep.’

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him. He rose and began to thump at his calf. His jeans and underwear were still around his knees. She pulled up her own panties and, as she did, panicking, she searched her thighs, her legs, the bedspread for blood. She couldn’t see anything. Ali grimaced, then carefully rose from the bed.

‘I’m going to the loo. Will you please stay here?’ Connie wanted to laugh. His cock was still hard.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

She did laugh as Ali, his jeans and underwear around his legs, jumped to the door. His cock bobbed up and down. It reminded her of Terrance and Phillip fighting on
South Park
.

When he was gone she wiped her face and eyes with the pillow-slip. She must look awful. Maybe she should go. But she sat on the bed, staring at the door through which Ali had disappeared. She didn’t want to face the party alone. They had gone off together. Everyone would be gossiping. She couldn’t bear to face the party alone.

She heard the toilet flush. Ali emerged, fully dressed. She looked down at the floor, polished boards and a thick, pure wool rug, floral patterns the same colours as the ceiling above.

Ali sat beside her. And then he placed his arm around her. ‘You’re a virgin, eh?’

She didn’t reply.

‘I’m glad. You don’t act like a slut.’

This made her furious. ‘I see, so if you had fucked me I’d be a slut.’ ‘Don’t pull that femo shit with me. You’re not a slut.’

‘And sluts are bad, are they?’ She jerked away from him.

He pulled her back. ‘No. But you’re not a slut.’ He stood up, taking her hand. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

 

He held her hand for the rest of the night: when they danced, when they went to get a drink. He even held her hand at the end of the party when it was just her and Ali, Jenna and Jordan, Tina, Veronica, Costa, Lenin and Casey sitting in the lounge room listening to Devendra Banhart’s
Nino Roja
. Jenna and Jordan were sitting together on the couch, his hand in her lap. Veronica didn’t seem to care.

Jenna had winked at Connie when she and Ali had walked back into the party. Tina had mouthed at her, with a smile,
You ho
. She wouldn’t say anything to them tonight. She’d tell them all about it at school. She’d tell them the truth. At one point Richie had walked into the party. He was frowning, searching the room. He saw her and Ali sitting on the couch, holding hands and went over.

‘How’s it going, Rich?’

Her friend ignored Ali. ‘I’m heading off.’

‘Where’s Nick?’

‘He’s waiting for me outside, on the street.’

‘Say goodbye from me.’

Richie grunted.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. You’re just so normal. Sometimes you are so fucking unbelievably normal.’

He was angry at her. She had no idea why he was angry at her. She couldn’t be bothered with it now.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Without saying goodbye, Richie turned away.

Ali called after him. ‘See ya, Richo.’

He didn’t bother answering.

‘He’s jealous, isn’t he?’

Connie gripped tight on Ali’s hand. ‘No, of course not.’

‘He’s in love with you. It’s obvious. He has been for years.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘What? He’s some kind of fag or something?’

She was about to answer, Yes, he is, but stopped herself. She couldn’t do that to Richie. She couldn’t betray him. And not to Ali. Richie didn’t know how good Ali was. She’d make them friends. They had to become friends.

‘It’s just not like that, okay?’

Ali was about to say something. He stopped.

‘What were you about to say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘You know when I say the word fag, I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s like when you call me or Costa a wog.’

‘I don’t call you a wog.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, what do you mean?’

He squirmed next to her. He whispered in her ear, ‘I heard your Dad was gay.’

‘He was bisexual.’

Ali grinned. ‘Well, obviously.’ His face straightened, he looked concerned. ‘I just say things sometimes, without thinking. I don’t give a shit what anybody is. I want you to believe me.’

‘I do.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘My old man would have loved you. You are exactly his type.’

Ali kissed her again.

He walked her home, hand in hand. They didn’t talk much. He had on one of Jordan’s jumpers, black with a turtle neck. She liked the look of him in black. He walked her to her house. They kissed again.

‘How are you getting home?’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘To Coburg? That’s going to take ages.’

‘Nah. Forty minutes, tops.’ They couldn’t let go of each other’s hand. He was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He finally let go of her hand—it felt limp, empty once out of his warm grasp. She was terrified of what she was going to say to him at school on Monday. He was still shifting from foot to foot.

‘Do you want to see a movie?’

‘When?’ Had she just squeaked? She had just squeaked.

‘Friday night?’

‘Yes. Sure.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her softly, tenderly, on the lips. ‘See you on Monday.’

She watched him walk down the street, his hands in his pockets. Under a street lamp he turned and waved at her. She waved back. He looked like a little boy. She went into the house.

There was a light underneath her aunt’s door. She knocked lightly.

‘Come in.’

Tasha was sitting up in bed, reading. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s late, isn’t it?’

‘Three-thirty. Okay for a Saturday night. Good party?’

Connie pulled back the doona cover and slipped under the sheet next to her aunt. ‘I think I just got asked out on a date.’

‘Who by?’

‘His name is Ali.’

‘You are your father’s daughter.’

‘He’s really nice, Tash.’

‘I’ll make up my own mind. He fell for the dress, didn’t he?’

Connie looked around her aunt’s room—the stack of books by the bed, the old feminist and socialist posters on the wall, the icon of the Catholic Jesus in Mary’s arms. It was warm and comforting.

‘Do you get lonely, Tash?’

‘No. I have you.’

‘But if you hadn’t had to look after me, maybe you would be with someone now?’

Tasha was silent.

Connie turned and looked up at her aunt. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘It’s possible. It’s also possible that I would be all alone in this house. I was thirty-seven when I started looking after you, Con. I’m forty-two now. There wasn’t a Prince Ali around the corner for me at thirty-five. Who knows, maybe there will be at forty-three. I don’t really care. I’ve had you. I’ve had you with me. I think I’m lucky.’ Tasha leaned down and kissed her niece on her cheek. ‘Now, go to bed. You were just fishing for compliments. I love you. You know that.’

Connie jumped out of bed, grinning.

‘I’m just going to message Zara and then I’ll go to bed.’

 

She couldn’t asleep. She fired up her computer and then opened the bottom drawer of her desk. Under the bottles of liquid paper, Post-it pads, notebooks and pencil was an old tin box; the image of the smiling Prince Charles and Lady Di had faded so she had no nose and he had no chin. She opened the box and shuffled through the papers inside, the cards, the ticket stubs to Placebo and Snoop Dog. The letter was at the bottom, where she always put it. Her aunt did not know she kept it. Her father had given it to her, when he was dying in the hospital in London. It’s a copy he had told her, a copy of a letter I sent to your aunt. She’s replied, he added: She said yes.

Connie started to read.

This was always the hard bit to read. Always.