The Slap

  ‘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.’

  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.