You Don't Even Know (4 page)

“He said I smell.”

Ethan's score crept closer to mine. I gritted my teeth.

“And that I'm gay. What's gay?”

Ethan sniggered. “Alex.”

I wanted to smash him – and not only in the game.

“Go play with her, Lexie,” said Ethan, “I'm about to trash you anyway. Again.”

I gripped the controls tighter. My score surged higher.

“Alex, please?”

“Clear off, Mia.” The moment I said it, I felt like shit.

Mia walked across the tiled floor, sucking her thumb. Her toy rabbit dangled from her elbow. She leaned against me.

Every bone and muscle in my body turned as soft as playdough. I pressed pause and tossed the control on the leather sofa. “We'll finish this later.”

“Oh, what? You're a coward, you know that, Lexie? You're only going because I was about to smash you.”

I ignored him and followed Mia up the stairs. She chatted about Dora or something, her voice bubbly.

Mia never whipped me at games, took the piss or was cruel; she wanted to be with me. I scooped her into my arms and blew a raspberry on her neck.

She squealed and giggled.

“I love you, Mi,” I said, lowering her to the floor outside the rumpus room.

“I love you too, Alex.” She raced to the basket crammed with costumes and tossed the sparkly fairy wings at me. “Let's play dress-ups.”

I slipped my arms through the elastic loops.

A nurse stands over me, attaching a bag of clear fluid to a metal pole. She squeezes it and punches numbers into the box below the pole. She follows the tube from the bag to a plastic tap on the back of my hand, which is swathed in clear tape.

“Hello, sunshine.” Her voice is rich and warm.

I try to sit up.

She presses her hand against my shoulder. “Stay flat, Alex.”

I sink into the pillow, aware of pressure around my head, heaviness in my chest and a dull ache in my arm. But which arm?

The nurse slips a white clip over my left index finger and reaches for the folder at the end of my bed. She writes, checks the time on her watch and writes again. She places the folder at the end of the bed and slips the pen back into her top pocket.

“What day is it?” I croak.

She takes the clip from my finger. “What day do you think it is?”

My thoughts are thick and muddy. “Wednesday.” As soon as I say it, I know I'm wrong. I squirm and move my legs. “No, it's um.” Each word tastes dry and brittle. My chest is filled with a stabbing pain. My right arm is heavy.

“Easy, sunshine.” Her voice is soothing. “It's Sunday.”

“Sunday – but that's …” I press my fingers against the sheet and count. “I've been asleep four days?”

She nods. “Sedated. Do you remember what happened?”

I chase wisps of memory. Bleak grey buildings looming over me, pale-faced people wrapped in scarves and huddled in coats. So much traffic.

“You had an accident, Alex. Mr Dobson, he's a neurosurgeon, did emergency surgery Wednesday night, and another operation Friday. You've been asl–”

I cut her off. “In a coma.”

“Induced coma, to allow the swelling to go down.”

She moves out of my line of vision. I hear liquid splashing into a glass. She slips a hand under my shoulder and holds a straw to my mouth. “Slowly.”

The water is soft and cool. I try to drink more, but she takes the glass away and lowers my head to the pillow. “Let's see how you keep that down for starters. I'll bring you ice chips to suck until we're sure your stomach is up to more.”

A drum beat starts in my head. I try to work out where it's coming from – behind my left ear? My right ear? The top of my head? It's like chasing my shadow.

I start to move my right arm but it's too heavy.

“Broken – in two places,” says Jenny.

The beat in my head grows.

“Pain?” she asks.

My answer is a wince.

“Okay, let's see what Mr D has written up for you.” She checks the folder at the end of my bed and hurries from the room. I turn my head to the window. Rain batters …

Rain batters the windows that ran the length of the indoor pool. It felt strange to be sitting on a bench with a bunch of guys wearing speedos and T-shirts when outside people were rugged up in jumpers.

Smurf, our main goalie, stood between the bench and the pool demonstrating how some dude had cut up rough at his school, chucking bins and chairs at the teacher. “So I dive to the right, arm out and,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that, I save Ellie Morecombe from copping a chair to the face.” He grinned. “And now she owes me.”

The team laughed.

“What's so funny?” asked Benny, strolling towards us, netting bag of balls over his shoulder. He was flanked by the two guys from the institute of sport, Dory and Rambo, who sometimes helped Benny.

“Smurf's sharing his pick up techniques,” I said.

That sparked more laughter and stirring.

“Care to share, Smurf?” asked Benny.

Smurf tapped his nose. “A Smurf trade secret.”

Benny grinned and clapped. “Righto, you blokes. Let's get started. Land stretches first.”

Spread out on the pool deck, we worked through our warm-up routine, starting with hammy stretches and working up to squats. Benny weaved between us, correcting our posture.

About two years ago, when I was towelling off on the pool deck after cutting laps, this buff old dude came over and asked if I'd be interested in playing water polo. Freaked me out when he said I had the right physique for it. I figured he was some sort of pervert. But when I asked around the rec centre, it turned out he was some sort of legend.

Smurf and I tried to work out how old Benny was once. We started with the years he competed in the Olympics, combined all the other stuff he'd done and decided he had to be pushing fifty. He didn't look forty. As well as two Olympics, he'd played in heaps of state, national and international competitions. Not that he ever talked about it. Dory and Rambo told us about them. Since Benny stopped playing water polo, he'd coached for the institute of sport. I asked him once why he bothered with us. He shrugged and said it was a way of giving back to the sport.

It didn't take many practice sessions for me to work out I loved water polo and Benny. Once you made Benny's team, he gave you a nickname, usually a movie or TV character's name. Reckoned it was his way of uniting guys who came from all over the place. Benny called Sam, an apprentice electrician with spiky blond hair and an attitude, Bart. He named Colin, who turned pale blue when he was cold, Smurf and he called me Buzz. When I asked Benny why, he smiled and said I sometimes had trouble seeing reality. There were worse nicknames than Buzz, I guess. Like Huddo.

If anyone else had dished out those nicknames, it would have been lame, but something about Benny made it work.

“Keep focused, Buzz.” Benny stood over me while I did burpees. “Great work. Onto planks.”

A snort of laughter filled the humid air. At first I thought it was Smurf and Bart trading jokes but Smurf was ahead of me, holding a perfect side plank.

“Look at 'em in their budgie-smugglers. Bunch of posers.”

Ethan.

I lost control of my plank and dropped to the pool deck.

“Hold it, Buzz,” called Benny.

I pushed back into the side plank, stretching my arm above my head.

“Stuck up, wankers.”

I gritted my teeth, determined to stay as strong and steady as Smurf.

“Man, that is so gay.” Ethan's friend, Stav. Wherever Ethan went, Stav was close behind.

“Okay, guys. Into the water. Ten slow laps,” said Benny.

To reach the pool I had to pass Ethan and Stav plus Ethan's prissy girlfriend Ginny and Stav's pathetic one, Felicity.

Ethan stepped up the macho crap as I approached.

I stopped an arm's length from him. “Really? Coming from you, who spends half his life staring at other guys' arses?”

“You're soft, Lexie.” The hairs on my arms rose despite the warmth. He'd called me Lexie since I was little, only because he knew it drove me nuts.

“Clear off, Ethan.”

Smurf and Bart stood shoulder to shoulder with me, arms folded across their massive chests.

“You lot rowers?” scoffed Smurf.

“Now that's gay,” said Bart.

“Typical. Too soft to face me alone,” snarled Ethan.

I felt the humid air shift as Benny moved to stand between me and Ethan.

“Righto, boys. Water, or it's surrender.” When Smurf, Bart and I didn't move, Benny added, “For ten minutes.”

Surrender involved treading water, egg-beater style, with your arms straight up in the air. Pure torture. Benny only made us do it if we were late for training or if we dropped a ball in a knock out drill.

Punching Ethan would almost be worth a session of surrender. Almost.

Smurf slapped my shoulder. “Come on, Buzz.”

I waited a moment before moving.

As I dived into the water, Benny said, “Clear off from my training session. Come back and I'll let them sort you out.”

I open my eyes and try to look around the room. The ceiling is made up of tiles covered in tiny dots. To my right, windows fill an entire wall. Beige curtains are bunched in the corner nearest me. Beyond the windows, tufts of clouds drift across a watery sky. If I lift my head, I can see other beds – one beside me, another two opposite. In each lies a lump beneath blue bedspreads. Above the lumps, bags of clear plastic hang from a metal stand with a pump like mine. Alarms go off at different times to mine.

The room sways. I sink back into the pillow and everything fades to white …

White empty page, black curser pulsing in the corner.

De Jong had phoned Dad again, this time about my progress in English. Apparently Mr Anderson felt I was squandering my “natural abilities” and hadn't handed in work, which was a complete lie. I handed in two essays last week.

Dad's message had flashed up on my phone screen as I walked through the front door after school.

De Jong emailed. Finish the essay now! Will talk later
.

Mum had appeared in the foyer two seconds later, frowning at her phone. “What's this about Mr De Jong and essays?”

Great. Dad had copied Mum into the message.

The short version of what happened next was Mum went off tap, I cracked it, she yelled louder, and I thundered to my room. It wasn't so much her going off that annoyed me, but the fact she sounded like Dad. Just once I wish she'd say what she thought instead of what Dad told her to think.

According to the computer clock, I'd been in here for ten minutes. Felt more like hours.

The curser blinked.

English sucked.

Lord of the Flies
sucked.

Dad sucked.

Mr Anderson sucked.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe if I rewrote the question in my introduction, the rest would flow.

The door creaked open. I spun around, ready to give a serve to whoever entered without knocking.

Mia's face poked through the gap. “Alex, have you stopped squaring now?'

My rage dissolved. “Yeah, Mia, I've stopped.” I pushed the chair back from the computer. “Sorry about that.”

Mia slipped into the room. She stood in front of me, her small hand clenched in a fist.

“Whatcha got there, Mi?”

“Mummy bought me chocolate after 'nastics.” She held out the fist and uncurled her fingers. Nestled on her chubby palm was a plastic penguin figurine from the movie she loved. “He's for you.”

“He's cool, Mi. But you keep him. Penguins are your favourite.”

She shook her head. “Yes, but he's for you. You swim like a penguin.”

I smiled, remembering her endless giggles last summer when I swam the length of our pool under water, bursting through the surface at her feet, making penguin noises. At least the noises I figured penguins made. She had me do it again and again, until my lungs felt like over-stretched elastic.

“Alex, can you teach me to swim like a penguin?”

“You have to learn other stuff first, Mi.”

“Teach me that, then the penguin swim.”

“Okay. Sure.” I closed my fingers around the figurine.

Mia jumped and clapped. “Now?”

“Not today, Mia. What about Saturday morning?”

She nodded, face serious. “Saturday. Morning.”

“Done. Saturday morning it is.”

Mia hugged me and skipped from my room.

I sat the penguin under my computer monitor and pumped out that stupid essay.

“He doesn't remember what happened.”

I don't know who is speaking and I don't care. It's what's being said that captures my attention.

Doesn't remember what happened.

Remember. I grit my teeth and try.

I remember anger.

Sorrow. No not sorrow, something deeper, more painful.

I remember slamming the front door, scared and pleased to have left my phone on the bed. Scared, because I felt naked without it. Pleased, because it meant a day of not being hounded by Dad about school and essays and manning up.