The Summer of Kicks Read online

  ‘So who’s Elanor?’ I’m not really that interested, but I ask anyway.

  ‘The only Elanor I can think of is that old Elanor Mitchell who used to work with me down at George Brown’s. She kicked the bucket just on five – is it five? No, six years ago now. Why she’d be trying to contact me though … I never liked her. Such a stuff-shirt. She’d never have a joke with anyone. Painful woman. I didn’t have a lot of time for her back then and I certainly don’t now that she’s dead.’ Nanna takes a sip from her tea, the teabag tag still dangling from the side of the cup, then places it on the table. ‘Besides her, I don’t know anyone else called Elanor. Do you, dear?’

  ‘Sorry, Nan. Can’t help you,’ I say. ‘Are you sure it was spelling out Elanor? Maybe it was Elvis trying to contact you.’

  ‘Elvis?’ says Nanna. ‘That’d be just my luck, contacted by a drooling, flared-pants-wearing pill-popper. Lord sakes, I turn down offers from men who match that description every time I walk into the bingo hall. Ah, the thing’s gone mad,’ she says, and shoves the fortune-telling board into a black cloth bag. ‘One time it told me I’d marry a man called Dirt. Lord, love a duck. Sometimes I think I’d be better off asking a weatherman to tell me the future – and you know how reliable they are.’ She sets the thing aside and heads to the kitchen in search of cutlery.

  Dad’s response to my text is quick. Possibly too quick and I suspect that he’s bailed up some twenty-something on the street and grilled them for answers.

  Hey, Starrph – feeling positive that I aced it this time. Three songs by Kings of Leon?

  1. No 2. Idea 3. Now how about a band that’s not from Generation Whatever?

  Oh, and give me three Queen albums in order of release, please.

  I send my response.

  Queen’s Greatest Hits Vol I, Queen’s Greatest Hits Vol II, Queen’s Greatest Hits Vol III.

  Oh yes. I’m hilarious.

  ‘So, I kind of got a job today,’ I say as Warren and Rue join us for dinner.

  ‘Hey, that’s fantastic, little brother,’ says Rue.

  ‘Let me guess – bikini model?’ Warren asks, laughing. He’s the funniest person he knows. Next comes the leg-of-lamb-sized fist to my shoulder and I can’t help but wince. ‘Ah, man up, Starry,’ he says. ‘Girls don’t like wimps, do they, honey?’ He turns to Rue for approval, but receives none so walks off. She’s learned to tune him out over time. More power to her.

  ‘So what is it? Tell all,’ says Rue, with genuine interest. ‘Which establishment is about to be blessed with your wit and brilliance?’

  ‘As of this Saturday, I’ll be a name-tag-wearing employee at that place at the mall, Vinyl Analysis.’

  ‘Wow, that’s really fantastic,’ Rue says, with a huge smile. ‘It’s, like, the perfect job for you. You’ll totally rock their world.’

  ‘That’s my plan,’ I say.

  ‘Vinyl Analysis?’ says Mum, smiling. ‘What do they sell – vinyl pants, vinyl lounges, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Vinyl as in those old black round things the early settlers used to listen to. You can still find them in some of the better museums, you know,’ says Rue.

  ‘Seriously? They sell actual vinyl records?’ Mum asks, and I nod. ‘I thought it was all CDs and downloads from YouTunes now.’

  ‘Nah,’ I laugh. ‘Vinyl’s back in. It’s mostly old stuff they sell. Second-hand. But they have a bunch of brand-new vinyl too – way better quality than the old stuff. Heaps of bands are releasing vinyl now. Guys like Radiohead, Vampire Weekend, Beck, The Black Keys. If you have the right software, the old stuff’s really easy to convert to digital.’ Mum looks at me as if I’ve just switched over to Swahili without subtitles, so I attempt to dumb it down for her. ‘Digital means you can listen to it in the car,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ooh, maybe I should dust off my old records, then,’ says Mum.

  ‘Seriously? You have vinyl, too?’

  ‘Do I?’ Mum says. ‘I’ll have you know I have quite the collection, my dear.’

  ‘And why was I never told this?’

  ‘Now, it’s been a while, let me think …’ Mum says, staring diagonally upward, and I imagine she’s right there, fifteen years old again, flipping through album after classic album. ‘Well, I have some Jenny Morris,’ she says. ‘There’s that Cher one, The Bangles, plenty of Madonna. Spandau Ballet …’

  ‘Oh,’ I groan. It’s like someone’s promised me a great birthday present and I unwrap it to find a five-dollar voucher to Plant World.

  She continues. ‘Culture Club, Boy George. Do you kids even know Boy George? He was very influential. Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and ooh, Richard Marx,’ she says, and her tone has changed. ‘I tell you, he had rockin’ hair and a cuuuute butt to boot. If there was a girl in 1987 who wasn’t having lustful thoughts about Richard Marx, I didn’t meet her.’ And then she starts singing. ‘And it don’t mean nothin’, to say what you say,’ and I have no idea if she’s singing the right words because it’s a song I’ve never heard, by a guy I’ve never heard of. ‘You know they played that at my year twelve formal? I remember dancing with Paul Aitkinson and he had the most gorgeous long hair, just like Richard Marx. And he could move, too.’ And now she’s swaying to imaginary music and she’s there, at Whatever High School, dancing with some dork called Paul, and I have to tap her on the shoulder several times to bring her back to Planet Now. ‘But your father – you know how expensive his record collection is. Worth a packet, too. What if he agreed to drop them around next time he’s zipping past? Would that suit you, darling?’

  ‘Um, now let me think … YES!’ I say. ‘I was just texting him before. I’ll send him a text and ask.’

  ‘You can if you like, darling, but I have to call him straight after dinner anyway. Everyone else is sorted, but I need to know if he can get the day off so he can come to the thing … so I can kill two birds,’ Mum says.

  The thing is the Pre-Christmas Lunch Spectacular. Every year we do a Christmas lunch a few days before Christmas – just the five of us – me, Mum, Nanna, Rue and Dad. It’s been six years since Dad moved out, but seeing as he lives only four streets away, we all see enough of him that it’s like he never left. He and Mum are like best friends, which I have to admit is kind of weird and more than a little confusing but, hey, whatever works.

  For this year’s festive munch-out, seeing as dumb-ass Warren is with us, Mum’s decided to make it a plus-one Christmas.

  ‘I suppose your father will come with the highly undesirable Desiree in tow,’ says Mum. The name Desiree comes from the French word for desire, and this has been one of Mum’s within-the-boundaries jokes about Desiree ever since Dad started dating her last year. She’s a prickly, awkward woman, and I still can’t figure out which boxes she’s ticking on Dad’s list. I get why Mum and Dad worked – a wild-haired free spirit and a wild-haired rock star, they just got each other. They still do. But the attraction to Desiree? It’s just weird. She’s like a boiled egg in a punnet of ripe strawberries – hardly the person that people are likely to gravitate towards. I guess Dad has had his fill of strawberries and needed some savoury to balance out the sweet. As for us spending time with Dad, since Mum and Desiree go together like raw beef in a milkshake, we pretty much have to do the four-street shuffle to his place if we want to hang out with him. He still pops in here every now and again, but I get the idea that it’s only when Desiree doesn’t know about it. They still live in separate houses too, as she won’t move in with Dad unless they’re married, and Dad’s adamant that he’s not ‘walking that plank’ again, so it seems they’re at an impasse. They play a lot of house-tag which, according to Dad, suits them both fine.

  ‘Is Nanna going to bring one of her purple-haired bingo babes?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d say that’s very much on the cards,’ says Mum. ‘Unless Hugh Jackman finds himself in town with nothing to do. I’ve hear
d he’s got a bit of a thing for older women.’

  ‘Nice. So who’s Rue bringing? God, I hope it’s someone intelligent.’

  Mum slaps me with a rolled-up Tyre-Mart catalogue from the end of the bench.

  ‘How about you?’ she pokes. ‘Anyone special?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say.

  In my mind, however, it’s different. The Christmas lunch is in full swing, and everybody’s seated around the outdoor table under the jacaranda tree. Mum, Nanna, Dad with Desiree, Rue with Warren, and my plus-one is Candace McAllister. Somebody’s asking us, ‘So how long have you two been a couple?’, and Candace is putting her hand on my leg, throwing a smile in my direction, and then I step in to clarify that it’s just on a year now. Mum asks us how our elopement went. I pull out my phone to share some photos for them to gush over, then I drop the news that we’re expecting a baby. Twins, a boy and a girl, due on Mother’s Day. Candace brags that I’ve just made my first million dollars through some internet business no one understands, and the Brittney Pigs’ album has just notched up its tenth week at the top of the download charts. The international tour with back-from-the-dead Elvis circa 1968 as support act kicks off on Boxing Day, in Paris. They raise a toast to us, the happy, über-successful couple, and Candace and I make out like I’ve just returned home from a lifetime in a POW camp. With one sweep of my arm I clear the table – plates, cutlery, a well-gouged Christmas ham plus a multitude of baubles and mini-Santas crash to the ground as we mount the table and go at it like rabbits right there in front of them all to rapturous applause, like we’ve just single-handedly abolished world hunger.

  ‘I guess I’ll bring Reece,’ I say, less than impressed with the fantasy-versus-reality step-down. ‘He’s always up for a free feed. That OK?’

  ‘Sure, darling. He is your bestie after all,’ Mum says. ‘It’s just like it was yesterday when we watched you two run around at under seven’s soccer. Soooo cute.’ She hands me a pile of plates and I carry them to the table. ‘But don’t race out and ask him just yet. Now that you have a job, you’ll find that your work people can pretty quickly become your people – your tight circle of friends. Plus, you’re in the customer service industry now, which means you’ll have access to all kinds of groovy young individuals. Who knows …’ she says. ‘You might meet someone.’

  ‘And ten seconds later I’ll ask her to the Christmas munch-out with my lunatic extended family and a pile of random add-ons,’ I say.

  ‘If I met you at a record store, darling, I’d jump at the chance,’ Mum says. ‘I’m just saying don’t rule it out. Your father and I met on a Thursday, he took me to the movies the next night and by the following Tuesday we were doing the business …’

  ‘Gross,’ I say. ‘But please continue.’

  ‘And, as you know, engaged ten days later.’

  ‘And what a successful union that was,’ I say.

  Mum half smiles.

  ‘I’m assuming there’s a point to this disgusting fable?’

  ‘I’m just saying that life has its own timeline. You never know what, or who, is around the corner, my little Starry-man.’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘In my experience life is particularly good at blind-siding you. The old roller-coaster analogy is spot on,’ she says. ‘There’ll be terrifying lows mixed together with amazing adrenalin-filled highs, and so many twists and unexpected turns that you just won’t see coming. The question is, are you going to chicken out and go line up for the merry-go-round instead or are you going to size up, stand in line and prepare for the ride of your life?’

  Chapter 11

  Copping a mouthful

  Besides a few inappropriate boofhead comments and one three-fingered gravy smear to my cheek courtesy of the Tool, dinner has gone smoothly and Mum has offered to drive me to and from work on Thursday nights, so long as I make my own way on the weekends. It’s not that far. Eight or nine kays at the most, so I guess I’ll pull out my bike and work on my buffness, with the convenient alternative being that I can also get the bus if it’s raining, too hot, too cold or if I just couldn’t be stuffed riding.

  After clearing the table and taking my usual place at the sink, wiping to Mum’s washing, I lay down on my bed and flip through my art diary to a fresh page and pick up a felt-tipped marker. Putting my headphones on, I select a playlist and hit shuffle. It’s The Killers from back when they were still good. I don’t plan it, but shapes begin to grow across the page – triangles and rectangles, jagged star shapes and loosely formed octagons, each of them housing the words Empire of Gandalf. They’re all crap. I stay on the same sheet of paper, find a blank corner, and instantly my previous efforts are forgotten, making way for five or six new logo designs, this time for the Brittney Pigs. One of them – the one with a pig snout inside the top half of the letter ‘P’ – is actually not bad. I try a couple more, then slide the book and pen into my bag, and climb into bed, pulling the sheet to my waist. I look up at the fan, stirring through the darkness, stuck in its eternal groove above me, and I think about Vinyl Analysis, wondering if I can really fit in there. I know that I can talk the talk – an impressive knowledge of music isn’t the problem. It’s walking the walk. Scene reeks of coolness. He has the attitude. The persona. The eyeliner. There’s no mistaking where he fits. But me? I could attend cool school for the rest of my life and never be able to shake off the training wheels.

  The image of the fan is blocked. Warren’s face has replaced it. Eclipsed everything else in sight.

  ‘You look hungry, Starrphish,’ he says with a childish grin and effortlessly pins both of my arms down. ‘We can’t have you going hungry, can we?’ he chuckles. ‘Here. This should help.’

  Now there’s a ball of something in my mouth. He’s laughing. Laughing hard. He allows my hands to be mine again and I reach up to grab the thing I’ve been gagged with. I half pull and half spit out a dark material blob. When I switch on the lamp, it’s all too clear.

  ‘You’re a massive knob, you know that?’ I say to him.

  But Warren the Tool just laughs some more.

  ‘Who does that? Who shoves their jocks into someone else’s mouth?’

  ‘I do, little man. Oh, and ipso facto – they’re used. Totally wore them for two days!’

  I escape his grasp, head to the bathroom and forcefully clean my teeth. Gargle with Listerine, then repeat. It’s a small bathroom, and I can’t help but physically bump into Rue, who’s diving through the top drawer, searching for floss.

  ‘How do you put up with him?’ I say to Rue. ‘He’s a total neanderthal.’

  ‘All that meat-headed bravado – it’s all an act,’ she says.

  ‘Well, put him in a suit and give the man an Oscar,’ I say, and we both laugh a little.

  ‘You leave him alone,’ says Rue, smiling. ‘He’s a good guy – trust me. You just don’t know him like I do, that’s all.’ But this side of Warren’s she’s talking about – it’s a side I’m sure I’ve never seen, and I wonder if she’s seen the Warren-the-roommate side. The sub-human bully that I now share a confined space with. Rue’s an intelligent girl with a quality sense of humour. She’s not hideous to look at, and I’m guessing that she could probably trade up from Warren without any trouble at all. I just don’t get why she would commit to such a moron? So he’s kind of good-looking. OK, magazine-ad good-looking. He’s respectably muscly. And sure, he’s a hot-shot local football player and I guess you could throw in the fact that he’s won ten or something surfing competitions, but he’s still a total jerk who, for the most part, treats people like crap. And then there’s me. If I were someone’s boyfriend, I’d sure as hell treat her better than Warren treats Rue. All I need is the chance. Right now, all Candace knows about me is that I sit next to Hemmo or Bailey and sometimes I put my hand up in class. If she was interviewing people for the position of new boyfriend, as far as Candac
e knows, that’s the full extent of my resumé. But if we had the chance to spend some time together – even just half an hour – once she found out that I was kind of funny, and a bit intelligent and into music, and she knew the stuff that I liked, then maybe I’d at least have a chance. And I think I’d be a pretty good boyfriend. From all the years of Mum getting in my ear, spreading her relationship and sex therapy wisdom, I’m pretty sure that I’m armed with enough information to get me through. But so far it’s all theory. And I have about as much hope of putting it into practice with Candace as I do of growing an extra set of testicles on my forehead.

  Chapter 12

  You got greased

  On the way to last-period science I meet up with Reece and Bailey and we cut past the lockers, taking a left at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Is the band meeting still on this afternoon at Hemmo’s house?’ Bailey asks.

  ‘Unless Armageddon hits first,’ I say. ‘If today turns out to actually be the foretold end of the world, we’ll probably have to reschedule.’

  ‘Do we need to bring anything?’

  ‘I’m bringing this,’ says Reece, and unfolds a sheet of A4, with some kind of rough design scrawled across it.

  ‘Check it out,’ he says proudly.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s our band logo,’ says Reece. ‘I’ve been working on it since English. Pretty cool, huh?’

  ‘What’s Emporyo Gunduck?’ Bailey asks.

  ‘It says Empire of Gandalf, you moron.’

  Bailey squints at it, but he doesn’t seem convinced.

  I grab the paper and it looks as though somebody’s strapped a pen to an epileptic guinea pig and let it loose on the page. There’s a bunch of jagged lines tearing across the paper and amongst the mess I can just make out the words Empire of Gandalf scratched in blue ink across the centre.