I walk slowly along his street. The wind haunts the leaves, but it isn’t scary or mournful. It’s melodic. The shadows of the trees dance along the footpath. The clouds definitely are television-commercial soft.
How close is too close?
‘Audrey?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Why are men lousy at hugging each other?’
Audrey raises herself on one elbow and frowns.
‘Not all men. My dad hugs Uncle Ted. A big slobbery embrace every Christmas to make up for not seeing him the rest of the year.’
We’re stretched out on the soft grass under a tree in Bussellton Park, beside the stream. Fifty metres away is a playground where two girls chase each other around a wooden pirate ship. They climb slowly up to the front of the ship. The youngest girl stands near the skull-and-crossbones flag and spreads her arms wide. The other girl wraps her arms around her sister to stop her from falling. They both shout for their mum to watch. The mother claps her hands and laughs.
Audrey wriggles closer to me.
‘You can hug me, if you want. To practise.’
‘You’re not a man, Audrey.’
She rests her head on my shoulder and I look through the leaves of the plane tree at the sky, thinking of Noah and his dad, thinking of how I wanted to hug his dad too. But it would seem really soppy or stupid or fatalist, as if I was admitting there was a problem.
‘Are you still thinking of hugging men, Darcy?’
‘Yep. Only one man though.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s a secret.’
Audrey pokes me in the ribs, gently.
‘I love secrets, tell me.’
‘Do you know the definition of secret?’
‘Yeah, sure. Information shared only between good friends.’
‘Not quite.’
‘Okay, I won’t hassle you about this mysterious man you want to wrap your arms around.’
‘It’s not a sexual thing.’
‘I thought we agreed not to mention the “S” word anymore?’
‘Nah, that was last night. Today, we can indulge for as long as you want.’
Audrey checks her watch. ‘Until six o’clock when I’ve got to be home.’
‘So this is daylight sex?’
Audrey giggles. ‘It’s not sex. It’s sex talk. Like those 1900 numbers you see advertised in magazines.
‘I’ve always wanted to ring one, just to listen. How erotic does it have to be for three dollars and thirty cents a minute? Does the woman swear, or just mention bodily parts? Or say something stupid like...’ Audrey adopts a breathy fake voice, ‘“Take me, baby, take me ... NOW!”’
I jump when she moans loudly. ‘Geez, Audrey, you scared the hell out of me.’
Audrey pats my shoulder, reassuringly. ‘Sorry, it looks like I’ll never make it as a – whatever they’re called.’
We both lie quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, drifting away, our bodies touching, Audrey’s breath on my face. I’m surprised I’m not a bundle of nerves.
How did we get here, so close, so quickly?
It was only last night when we kissed.
My blackhead hasn’t even reached full bloom. Yet I’m comfortable hugging Audrey, girl of my dreams since Year Nine. The girl who thinks Heart of Darkness sucks shit big-time. The girl with the brown eyes and one patch of green. The girl who right now is – snoring beside me.
Well, breathing very heavily.
I dare not move. Pins and needles tingle down my shoulder to my elbow. One of the girls at the playground starts crying and runs to her mother. I try wiggling my fingers to get the blood moving. Audrey sighs in her sleep and I feel the rush of air tickle my nose. I concentrate on the tree above our heads, counting the branches, trying to guess how old it must be. Audrey moves her leg a little closer, wrapping tightly around me. Her eyes are closed and one hand is curled in a tight little fist under her chin. The other hand rests on my chest.
I’m trapped.
Any movement will wake her.
Her face is so near.
No blackheads.
No blemishes.
There is a fingernail mark under her left eye. It’s so faint I can barely see it. I lean closer. Maybe she scratched herself while sleeping. A long wisp of hair curls along her cheek and falls near her mouth. I want to brush it away. I can see every hair follicle on her fringe. Her hair is ink black, even in the dappled sunlight.
And on her chin is...
‘Hey!’
I reel back, rolling quickly away. My knees shake and my hands wave uncontrollably in front of me like a puppet on steroids.
Audrey sits up. ‘You scared me!’
‘I scared you!’
Audrey rubs her eyes.
‘I was sleeping. I opened my eyes and you were...’
‘I was looking at you. I know. I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep.’
‘I was!’
‘I didn’t mean ... I was looking at you ... You were...’
‘I was what?’
I can’t say beautiful. I’d feel like a real prat.
An elderly couple walk along the path. The grey-haired man is dressed in shorts and long socks. His legs are blindingly white. His wife has a little terrier on a leash. The dog is sniffing in the bushes along the path, stopping every few seconds to wag its tail and explore.
Audrey repeats, ‘I was what?’
She kneels in the grass, brushing her hair away from her face again. Maybe that’s how she got the scratch.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t say. It’s too embarrassing.’
‘More embarrassing than condoms stuffed in a letterbox?’
‘I was admiring you.’
‘You were looking at me while I slept!’
‘You fell asleep on my shoulder. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Except look at me.’
‘Better than looking at the dog.’
As if on cue, the dog barks once and comes close, sniffing the ground near us.
Audrey reaches out to pat him. He barks again, turns and scampers back to the path and the old couple.
They smile at us.
Audrey waves.
She turns to me, deep in thought.
‘Did you just compare me to a dog?’
I swallow hard.
‘Unintentionally, yes.’
Audrey leaps up and jumps on me, knocking me back wards in surprise. We sprawl on the grass. Audrey pins my hands to the ground with her legs, sitting on my chest. She’s smiling as she leans down and kisses me. Her hair tickles my face. In one quick movement, she rolls off me and resumes her position lying beside me, head near my shoulder. She whispers, ‘If I fall asleep again, Darcy, look at the dog, okay!’
‘I didn’t mean...’
Audrey raises her fingers to my lips and whispers, ‘Shhhh. You talk too much.’
I add, ‘And don’t say anything.’
Don’t run with your shirt pulled over your face
Dad collects the ball near the half-way line, spins out of a clumsy tackle by the bald guy with the paunch, touches the ball forward while looking up, searching for a teammate. He sees the winger running fast – as fast as a forty-four-year-old ninety-kilo winger with a bad back and short legs can run.
Dad angles an exquisite thirty-metre diagonal ball over the defender’s head, right into the path of the chubby winger as he cuts inside.
The winger attempts to control the ball on his chest but stumbles at the last moment. The ball bounces off his shoulder, hits the defender in the head and loops slowly out to the penalty area where Dad is following through.
Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the ball and meets it on the volley.
He strikes it hard and low.
The ball flies towards goal, cannons off the knee of the goalkeeper, bounces across the goal, hits the post and then spins wickedly into the net.
Dad wheels away from the celebrating throng. He lifts his shirt over his head and runs along the touchline to
where Audrey and me are cheering wildly.
He would have made it if someone hadn’t left the first-aid kit too close to the line.
A sack of cabbages dropped from the back of a fast-moving truck has more elegance than Dad falling. But that doesn’t wipe the grin from his face. He stumbles to his feet, a white powder line stained on his shorts, jersey and naked torso. As Dad is surrounded by excited teammates, he modestly pulls his shirt down. He trots back into position. Before the referee blows the whistle for the resumption of play, Dad looks across and gives me the thumbs up. I clap my hands above my head. I saw the crowd on television do that to Pele once. Audrey puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles at the top of her lungs. Dad waves again and then focuses on the game, chasing the ball across to the far side of the field.
Audrey leans close to me and whispers, ‘Your dad’s a great player, but he runs like a girl.’
The referee blows for half-time and Dad almost sprints off the field. He’s breathing heavily by the time he reaches us, sweat dripping from his brow. He takes a long swig of water from the bottle I offer and smiles, ‘One–nil. We’ve never beaten this team before.’
Audrey laughs, ‘Maybe Darcy is your lucky charm, Mr Walker.’
Dad tips the rest of the water over his head. ‘He’ll have to come to every game now.’
He laughs to himself. ‘Just kidding, son.’
He steps forward and gives me a sweaty, smelly football hug. ‘Thanks for coming, Darcy.’
He hands me the empty water bottle and walks across to where his teammates are getting a pep talk from the coach.
Audrey punches me lightly on the shoulder.
‘Looks like we have a football date for the rest of the season, Walker!’
I roll my eyes in mock horror.
***
I’ve got a new routine.
Each morning begins with the obligatory blackhead check and quick shower with facial scrub, followed by a hurried breakfast with one parent asking about Audrey.
‘Yes, Mum we’re still together. The sex is fantastic, particularly since we’ve ditched the condom. What do you think of the name Othello for a grandson?’
Mum is learning to ignore me. Dad still chokes on his toast, without fail. It’s increasingly difficult dreaming up rude things to say this early in the morning. I told Audrey about it. She texts suggestions.
I get woken by the phone and dirty messages.
I walk to school via Noah’s place. He’s sitting on the verandah, waiting with his dad. In the past week, Mr Hennessy has started moving his fingers. Me and Noah sit and have one game of chess with his dad.
Whoever loses has Mr Hennessy as partner for the next day.
Me and Noah’s dad have a system.
Fingers moving means good choice.
Thumbs moving means poor choice.
No movement at all means don’t be so stupid.
At lunchtime, me and Audrey sit against the school fence, looking over the oval. Tim and Braith kick the ball to each other. Miranda, Stacey and Claire sit near the goalposts, watching the boys and laughing. Rumour has it that Claire is thinking of leaving school and moving in with butcher-boy. What some people will do for free meat!
After school, me and Audrey walk home across Bussellton Park, stopping at our spot under the plane tree. Sometimes we do homework in the shade. Sometimes we do other things, which aren’t so boring.
***
My name is Darcy Franz Pele Walker. I have two weeks left in Year Eleven.
My best friend is Noah Hennessy.
My extra special best friend is Audrey Benitez.
And my dad is a great football player – for some body of his age.
About the author
Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs. For the past twenty years he’s been a full-time writer and regularly performs his work in schools throughout the world. Steven’s work is both popular and critically acclaimed. His books have been shortlisted for the Children’s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Awards on six occasions and he has twice won prizes in the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards with by the river and thespangled drongo. He lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner Cathie, a belly dance teacher, and their two sons, Jack and Joe. For more information, visit Steven at www.stevenherrick.com.au
Steven Herrick, Slice
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