The Summer of Kicks Read online

  ‘And it’s not the Fruit Wizards or the Happy Pansies or the frickin’ Salad Boys or any of that other girly crap that Bailey was throwing at us?’ asks Scene. He twangs a chord on his guitar. It’s electric but unplugged so the sound it makes is tinny and unpleasant.

  ‘OK, are you ready? The Floating Sinks,’ Reece says. ‘Get it?’ He looks around the room, searching for a scrap of approval. ‘It’s clever because it’s an oxymoron.’

  ‘You’re an oxymoron,’ Scene says. ‘There’s no way I’m going to be in a band called the Floating Sinks, and I’ll tell you why.’ He takes a fistful of corn chips, scoops up a glob of salsa and piles the Mexican cocktail into his mouth, continuing to talk as the yellow triangles crunch into tiny splinters and make their way down his throat.

  ‘Picture this,’ Scene says. ‘You’re at a party. Hypothetical girl walks up. We start talking and it’s all eye contact and smiles, you know?’ He looks at the four of us. ‘Obviously you wankers don’t know, but try your best to keep up. And we’re talking and she’s really interested and she says, “Guitarists are really hot. What’s your band’s name? I’d really love to come and check you out,” and I say, “We’re the Floating Sinks.” And what do you think she says next?’

  ‘She says, “Great oxymoron – your band-namer must be a total genius. I think I need to get naked with him immediately”?’ says Reece.

  ‘What she says is, “Here, can you hold this?” and hands me a card and in big letters it says, Here’s my number.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is there’s no number on the card – it’s blank. And when I flip the card over,’ Scene continues, ‘on the back she’s written: I would have given you my number, and I would have gone back to your place and I would have shagged you senseless, but … your band name sucks.

  ‘Maybe she just didn’t get it?’ Reece suggests. ‘I mean, she might have been new to the country, like an ESL student. You know, English as a second language?’

  ‘Listen, dumb ass, she spoke fricking English and she had legs up to my ears and she modelled lingerie and she hypothetically played the banjo underwater – the only thing she didn’t do was understand your frigged-up band name, because – and read my lips here – it’s SHIT!’

  ‘All those in favour of the Floating Sinks say “I”,’ Reece says.

  Three ‘I’s follow.

  ‘Idiots. I’m dealing with idiots here,’ Scene says. Frickin’ great way to spend my day off.’ He turns to Mikayla. ‘Hey. What do you think?’

  ‘What?’ says Mikayla. ‘What do I think?’

  ‘You’re a member of the music-loving public, right?’

  ‘Um … yeah,’ she says enthusiastically.

  ‘Then your opinion’s more important than any of ours,’ says Scene. ‘So what do you think: does the name work or does it suck?’

  All eyes are on Mikayla, waiting for her call.

  ‘Well, it’s definitely clever,’ she begins. ‘And when you think of bands like The Stone Roses, Savage Garden, even an obscure eighties band like Glass Tiger – oxymorons have a good track record.’

  Seems Mikayla knows her stuff.

  ‘So in closing,’ she says, ‘I think the Floating Sinks as a band name … I think it totally rocks.’ Hemmo’s dungeon erupts. Despite Scene’s claim that we’re all idiots, the cheering continues, and Mikayla is beaming. She high-fives Bailey to her right, then Reece, and now her face shifts to me. She smiles a wide smile and mouths the words ‘thank you’, and I get the feeling that maybe this is the first time that Mikayla has ever felt like she’s fitted in. Anywhere.

  Chapter 21

  All buff and sleeveless, like it’s a good thing

  Since the coffee and the Mexican food and the almost kiss, all I’ve had are the memories of that one night. One collection of conversations, of looks and smiles and feelings, and in minutes we’ll be making a whole new set. There’ll be some talking – conversations that we’ve never had before – and we’ll sit and maybe eat and she’ll be close to me, and I’ll see her face, watch her smile, and for however long we stay out she’ll be exclusively mine. I’m walking towards her – or at least where she’s going to be, and I’m aware that it could be different this time. There’s a lot of pressure surrounding these first few moments of our second date together.

  She’s texted me.

  Yr 2 mins late. Lol. Hope yr not lost :)

  And so I start to text back to tell her that I’m almost at the pedestrian crossing – it’s right in front of me – but before I finish my sentence, I see her across the street, from behind, and abandon my texting.

  It’s her. At least I think it’s her. Her hair looks lighter today, maybe it’s just the sunlight, and God, I can’t wait to see her, to be sitting and talking and doing all the things you do when you’re out in public and you’re getting to know each other.

  I want to hold her, already I can feel it, this need to be close to her, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I have to get past the re-meet. The awkwardness of it all. In the back of my mind is Candace’s party, but right now, that’s where I want it to stay. Right now is all about Ellie.

  I step closer. She hasn’t seen me yet. Her head is turned, her face staring off to the right, and it’s not until I’m directly in front of her that she lifts her head. She smiles.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. It’s an enthusiastic hey, and Ellie replies with, ‘Hello, you.’ She stands.

  I’m nervous, and I don’t know what to do with my arms as I stand here trying to talk to her. I fold my arms. I stick a hand in my pocket. Then both hands in both pockets. But what if she thinks I’m adjusting my package? I whip my left hand straight out of my pocket, and now that whole arm is dangling weirdly, uncomfortably, by my side, like it’s a long sock full of hamburger mince. I look at Ellie and she looks comfortable with her hands and arms and I just feel like a dork, so I move them again but it’s just adding to my nervousness, and I’m concentrating too much on my arms and too little on what she’s saying. Something about texting me, I think. She laughs and I fake-laugh to join her, merge some of my own laughter into hers, and somehow I think I’ve caught up to her again.

  ‘So … feel like coffee?’ I suggest coffee because I don’t know a single other thing that she likes. I half gesture a coffee-drinking motion, but I haven’t fully committed. My hand’s only chest-high, and to bystanders it might look a little more like I’m motioning to her that she’s a wanker. Stupid arms. I pile the offending limb behind my back, out of view, like a naughty kid to the corner.

  ‘Coffee?’ Ellie says. ‘Actually, you know what, I think I’ve changed my mind.’ She picks up her phone and purse. ‘There’s somewhere I really need to be, so …’ and I’m wondering what the hell is happening, speechless as she looks behind herself, checking the seat for belongings, the way people do when they’re about to move on. She’s slinging a bag over her shoulder, and uncrinkling her skirt with both hands and as she’s readying herself to walk off towards something more important, I don’t have a clue what to say or do to stop any of this from happening. Is it just today she’s pulling out of? Is there really somewhere else she has to be? Somehow I don’t think so. She turns her face to mine, and I must look like a huge nervous idiot. Her goodbye is coming and it’ll be brief, I’m sure. No drawn-out farewell kiss, and by the tone of her voice we won’t be sharing a warm hug, and it’s funny when you instantly recognise that the landslide has begun, how quickly you’re willing to settle for anything you can get. At first you’re scrambling for photo albums, then just a worthless ornament, and as your house slips away, you’re clutching for a toothbrush that may not even be yours. And at this point I’d be happy with a handshake. I try to think back to when I last touched her – in any way.

  It was the almost kiss. The last time we saw each other we said goodbye with our lips nearly touching, but not today. To
day it’s ending. My heart’s pushing hard beats against my shirt and there are words to say, but it’s over, I guess, and all I have left is to sign off with a little dignity intact.

  ‘So …’ I say. I have no idea how to follow it.

  ‘So …’ Ellie repeats. She’s looking down at her feet and that one word might be the very last thing we share. She lifts her head to me, preparing to end this thing that never really started, but as her face comes into view, I see something. Something I failed to notice through all of this. ‘Coffee it is, then.’

  She reaches out for my hand and, with her eyes on mine, what I see is that she’s smiling.

  And she’s been smiling the whole time.

  ‘The Java Flow has kick-ass coffee,’ Ellie says, and I should be mad at her – that was a crappy thing to do – and there’d be plenty of guys who would see that as a big warning sign, a solid reason to not go any further, but now her hand is on my shoulder and I’m looking into her eyes again. ‘Kick-ass,’ she repeats, and this second time she’s more tentative, and it’s almost like a question. I should be mad, I know I should, but I see her eyes and that smile and she’s just so cute, so I say nothing. I go, and with our footfalls synced, we make our way to the Java Flow and to the kick-ass coffee.

  ‘So I hear that you’re a tiny bit famous,’ Ellie says. Perfect. She’s seen the video.

  ‘Mmm. That was all courtesy of my lame not-really-friend, Hemmo,’ I say. ‘Feel free to erase that from your memory any time you like.’

  ‘You know, I haven’t actually seen it,’ she says, and I can’t quite believe my luck. ‘But hey, no time like the present. Do you have your phone on you?’

  ‘What? No, you don’t have to … I mean …’

  ‘Oh, be a big boy and hand it over. I’m going to see it anyway,’ she says. What choice do I have now? Do I want to be a little boy? Hardly. So now I’m a big boy. And I’m handing her my phone.

  The video intros with a heavy dance bassline. Doof-doof-doof-doof, followed by a wicka-wicka-woop-wicka scratching loop, and my face is filling the screen. Well, it’s mostly my face. My mouth has been animated and as my lips begin to move, the lyrics kick in, and I’m CGI lip-syncing to a collection of words and phrases that were innocently uttered at band practice. Things that any one of us could have said at any time have now been cut and spliced together to form a song, and here I am mouthing along with the dance beat, repeating lines like, ‘Feel it deep down – do-do-do rude things to me, feel it – feel it, do-do rude things to me.’ The camera zooms out and it’s my face now stuck on what looks like Hemmo’s body, and he’s performing an extended set of overstated pelvic thrusts. ‘Do rude things to me,’ I suggest again to the camera. And then to my mother. It’s amateur footage now of the Grease moment. The onstage fall-on-top-of-my-mother Grease moment. It’s not my voice, but no one knows that in YouTube Land. Here, I’m the star of the show. And Hemmo’s cut the video and reversed it and repeated it so it looks like I’m moving up and down, up and down, on top of my mother. The imagery is damaging enough. But the accompanying words? Hemmo’s ever-so-enthusiastic ‘I wanna do that!’ followed by Mum’s ‘and this is the missionary position’.

  ‘Wow,’ Ellie says. ‘You and your mum always get along that well?’

  ‘We have a special relationship,’ I say and I hope it comes across as a joke.

  ‘I think it’s bad-ass,’ she says, and I look up to her and smile. ‘Slightly disturbing, Ernie, but still bad-ass.’

  Instantly Hemmo and his stupid video don’t matter so much anymore.

  ‘There you go, guys. One long black and one soy mocha,’ says rolled-up-sleeves-and-biceps-bulging Java Flow employee Matt, as he lids our takeaway cups and tills our money.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ I say, and as we take our change and coffees, mine is immediately hot against my palm. Too hot. It’s only single cupped, but I don’t say anything. Don’t suppose I’m going to impress Ellie with wimpy girl hands. Ellie smiles at biceps Matt, calls him by name as we move away, and he smiles back like they’re old friends, and I’m guessing he has a thing for her because he looks at Ellie the way I’d look at someone if I had a thing for them. He might be a nice guy. Or a great guy. Hell, he might volunteer at the abandoned animal shelter and hand knit matching socks and undies sets for every homeless puppy on the planet, but when he smiled at Ellie, he elected himself a member of the opposing team. A threat. According to Mum, this is a primal thing that all guys experience. It’s normal to feel protective, especially in the early stages of a relationship. Darling, she says. You have to remember that humans are social by nature, and not every conversation equals betrayal. I don’t want to come across as some kind of jealous, possessive freak, but I also want to be able to walk down the street without some slick coffee guy flexing his muscles into her face.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ I try to sound casual.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That um … coffee guy,’ I say. ‘Biceps coffee guy.’

  She turns to take a look. ‘Hmm. I don’t think I’ve ever been served by him before.’

  ‘But you …’

  ‘Name tags, Ernie,’ she says. ‘When you use people’s names, you get better service. True fact.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ellie nods.

  ‘So correct me if I’m wrong but doesn’t your name tag say, She works here? That kind of goes against everything you just said, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Ellie says. ‘Some days I don’t want to give good service.’ She smiles, and without having even seen the bait, I’m reeled in by her slightly bad-girl coolness.

  Thick patches of grey, both light and dark, swirl above us as we cross the road and head towards the stretch of grass that hems the beach. I hold Ellie’s coffee (double cupped) as she sits down and, as if we’ve been doing it for years, she reaches up and takes over the cup-holding duties as I sit beside her. When I’m ready, she hands me mine, without a word. It’s still too hot.

  The day has become evening and a sprinkling of lights dots the arc of land that shelters the bay. Towards the horizon I can just make out the sails of a small boat pogo-ing between the white-capped waves. They’re low, maybe half or a third of a metre, but they’re rushing in large frantic packs towards the shore, chopping and darting, desperate under the dark sky to reach their mark.

  And it’s raining now. Cold rain, coming at an angle, blowing off the sea into my chest, my face. Wind grabs at my hair, makes a joke of the effort I went to earlier to look just right for her. Coffees in hand, we run to take shelter under the covered walkway.

  ‘This used to be a caravan park,’ she explains, and the light from the nearest street lamp softly kisses at her neck and her face and I’m envious. Jealous of its touch. Her hair, it’s wet string, and I think she’d be embarrassed to see it like this, but it’s her face – I’m looking past her hair to her face and the way her eyes hold mine.

  ‘Caravan park, huh?’ I say. It’s a totally imaginative response.

  My phone rings and I’m reluctant to answer it. I don’t want anything to interrupt us. But it could be important, so I check.

  Home.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, ass face. How’s your little girlfriend?’

  ‘Bugger off,’ I say. ‘Stop calling me,’ and I hang up.

  ‘Your mum again?’ Ellie smiles.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘She loves a bit of potty mouth. It’s all she responds to.’

  Now droplets of rain speckle her exposed skin – her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, and I know it’s a guy thing, but each time she turns away my eyes are drawn there – hoping not to be caught, but hoping to catch a glimpse of her skin, because even though it’s something so simple, so normal, it’s the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen up close.

  She sips at her coffee, reminding me to do the same, and I’m
trying to think of ways to stay here to lock this moment in.

  Ellie is still talking about the caravan park. A glimpse into the history of her town and I’d probably be interested any other time, but I’m quickly realising that this is building to be one of those moments – a moment to roll the dice – to take Ellie by the hands and say to her that I have this overwhelming urge to kiss her right now and to follow through and take the moment. It’s what I need to do. I know it with every ounce of truth and conviction that exists.

  But I don’t do it. Of course I don’t, and the moment’s gone, along with my nerve.

  I’m still looking at her face, though, and it’s only been a handful of seconds, less than thirty, since she first mentioned the whole caravan park thing, but somewhere in there, in that half a minute, I built up the courage to kiss her and then lost it again.

  ‘That used to be a nightclub or a funky old jazz bar,’ she says, pointing out a brownish building that stands diagonally across from us on the other side of the street. Although we’re still undercover, the wind and rain continue to lash at us.

  I could kiss her now. Hell, why not? Why not? I’m asking myself, and the feeling of control is back. I’ll just wait. Wait until you look up again, till the light catches your eyes and then …

  ‘Oh my God – Ellie? Is that you?’

  ‘Dylan?’ Ellie says, her face turning towards the voice. ‘No way, Dylan?’

  Who the hell is Dylan?

  And he’s right on us now, leaning in for a tight hug. And a lift-her-off-the-ground hug, like he’s known her for a thousand years. Then he steals a kiss. Right in front of me.

  ‘Hey, look,’ he says, his saturated T-shirt straining to hold in his Johnny-workout biceps and huge chest. ‘A bunch of us are heading over to Stu’s. Wanna come with us?’

  Ellie points to me.

  Testosterone Pete considers for a moment, then looks my way and half nods. A reluctant invitation.

  ‘Oh, but you’ve got that thing,’ she says, before I manage so much as a syllable.