Crossing the Line Page 2
My mind is drifting as Jenkins blabs on until he stands and says, ‘Right. Time to meet your classmates.’
It’s always this way: a blur of faces, every one of them checking out the new girl. And a welcoming teacher who has no idea who I am. I keep a stone face and sit where I’m told, staring ahead at the blackboard. I don’t make friends easily; in fact long ago I gave up trying to be liked. I’m always moving on pretty quickly – hello, goodbye. So why bother in the first place?
‘Hey, Sophie!’
It’s Greta. I hadn’t noticed her sitting a few seats away. Her face lights up and she winks. I wonder why she’s so friendly. Probably gay. Just my luck.
At lunchtime she latches on to me. ‘You’ve gotta meet my friends!’
This is different. During break times I’ve always lurked around alone, totally ignored. I’m not exactly shy, but charging straight up to complete strangers and expecting them to cheerfully include me in their group is just not my style. Greta’s a true original, doesn’t seem to give a stuff what others think of her. She insists that I sit with her and her friends in a grassy corner of the schoolyard.
‘Tell us,’ Greta says, ‘we’re all dying to hear – how did you get expelled from Cheltenham?’
My little white lie has snowballed into something huge. If I can keep it going I might end up a legend. But do I want to lie to Greta and these guys? No, not really.
As I’m working out what to say, a gangly Year 10 boy barges up and shouts, ‘Hey, Greta, I hear Brian Pausacker’s got the hots for you!’
‘That loser!’
My new friends all hoot with laughter, Greta the loudest. ‘Tell him I’ve already got a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t, I’d rather suck on a lemon than go anywhere near that gross face of his!’
So perhaps she’s not gay at all – maybe she just likes me . . .
The other girls also give the boy heaps, and he racks off as fast as his skinny legs will let him. Maya, who sits to my left, is the quietest and the most conservative of the group – the opposite of Greta. No studs or rings, no off-the-wall hairstyle. She shares her sandwiches with me because, in my anxiety about the new school, I forgot to pack lunch or bring any money. The others are friendly, too. One offers to give me a spare textbook, while another promises to photocopy English literature notes so I’ll be up to speed. I feel completely at ease with them all and can’t believe my good luck. At the same time, a small voice is nagging at the back of my mind, telling me not to get too involved. So many times I’ve been in relationships that break down. It’s hard to trust. Still, what matters is the moment, and the moment, for now, is good.
3
While the rest of the world is asleep, I hop onto Matt’s bike – which he said to borrow anytime – and head off. I love this time of the day before people intrude with their busyness and the air is fresh. The streets are deserted as I cycle through suburbia until I come to the pool: beaches on both sides of it stretching golden and unbroken to the next headlands.
I have the water all to myself. In I step, cautiously, gasping and heart thudding, toes, ankle, shins, thighs, ever deeper. Head under . . . Oh! It’s freezing!
And then I launch into the first lap, gliding away from the world. As I swim, light flickers to create washes of watercolour swirling in arcs of cellophane greens and silvers. The world below my goggled face is a repetition of concrete and lichen. As I follow a crack that runs the length of the pool my body ceases to exist. Vaguely I’m aware that behind me the water churns as I glide forward, arms rotating, over and through, over and through, on and on.
Now there is nothing within me but peace.
When my body tires and I’m almost out of breath, I become aware of others moving around the pool, on the blocks, beside me in the water. That’s when the magic ends.
Amy’s at the breakfast table, head poised over the Saturday newspaper, circling ads in the classifieds.
‘Not looking for a new place, I hope?’ I squat beside her with a bowl of muesli.
‘No.’ She looks up. ‘Garage sales. I love them. Ever been to one?’
‘Nope.’
‘Matt makes fun of me, but half the stuff in our place I bought way cheap at sales.’
She points out a couple of chairs, the curtains, a stack of CDs, a print on the wall.
‘I’m just about to go. Wanna come?’
Before long we’re in Amy’s VW bug, roaring down streets. She speeds like she’s out to win a Grand Prix, takes corners on two wheels, swears and honks at other drivers.
‘This your car?’ I ask, wondering how she can afford one on the youth allowance.
‘A friend’s,’ she says.
Curious, I dig deeper. ‘How old are you, Amy?’
‘Old enough.’
‘Yeah, sure. But are you old enough to have a licence?’
‘You know what?’ she says. ‘There’s too much red tape in this world. Why do I need a licence? I can drive. Look at me. I’m doing fine, aren’t I?’
Suddenly she swerves to avoid a pedestrian, just missing him.
‘See?’ She grins. ‘Only a top driver could have got out of that.’
At the first stop we check out tables chocka with all sorts of junk. Nothing much interests me, but Amy’s stockpiling – glassware, cutlery, a crimson scarf, an astrology book (no back cover), cute ornaments . . .
‘Look at this!’ she keeps exclaiming.
When it comes to buying, she’s a mistress of the barter.
‘Fifteen dollars.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘All right – ten. But I won’t go any lower.’
‘That’s a rip-off – see you later.’
‘Wait.’ Deep sigh. ‘What’s your offer?’
Finally she gives the poor man five dollars and she’s the proud owner of a boxful of assorted junk – though she calls it treasure.
Then we’re on to the next sale.
It’s funny how people sell their belongings for a song. I don’t have much, but what I do have is for keeps. My things are part of who I am. What I treasure most is the stuff from my life with Arlene and Dutch. Photos mostly, but toys and books, too. I’ve kept a nightgown with tiny pink and purple elephants on it that Arlene used to wear. Sometimes when I’m lonely and missing them, I hunker down under my doona and hold the nightie close to my face. I imagine Arlene’s smell and the feel of her arms around me. Dopey, I know, but still, that’s what I do.
‘You having fun, Sophie?’ Amy grinds the car gears and curses again at a driver who’s too slow. I grin, and nod.
All up we visit ten sales. After about five I’m over it. Not Amy. ‘I do this every Saturday morning,’ she tells me proudly. ‘Love it!’
After the sales we park at the local mall and wander from shop to shop, mostly checking out new CDs. Amy’s into New Age music. I like it too, and she promises to record her favourite chill-out tracks for me. I think of her full-on driving and decide she needs to have some calming music on in the VW – playing loudly.
‘Must get some incense!’ She makes it sound like it’s life or death. I tag along as she charges into a store. Several minutes later, after much deliberation, I hear: ‘Should I get musk or vanilla?’
I presume this is a question for me. But she answers it herself.
‘What the hell, I’ll get them both.’
Then, before I realise what she’s up to, she’s stuck two boxes into her skirt waistband and is ambling down the aisle looking like innocence personified.
‘Move it,’ she says. ‘We’re outta here.’ She strolls ahead and I pretend not to be with her. I can’t believe she’s s
o brazen about shoplifting.
‘You could have been caught!’ I say when we’re away from the store.
‘No chance.’ She smiles at me like she should be congratulated. ‘They never miss it. Besides they overcharge like crazy. Incense is much cheaper at the markets.’
I’m thinking: So why don’t you buy it there – instead of stealing? But I keep it inside my head. I don’t want to get offside with her when I’ve just moved in. It’s easier to let it go. Still, I don’t like it.
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ Amy says. And then, as though reading my mind, she adds, ‘Don’t worry, I never nick stuff from friends.’
We’re having a chai tea later at home when our conversation turns to Matt. Actually, I’ve steered it in his direction.
‘So how available is he?’
Amy raises her eyebrows. ‘You interested?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Me either. Anyway, I don’t know him much more than you.’
‘How come? You share a place with him.’
‘Yeah, but only for a few weeks. I’m almost as new as you, Sophie – or is Soph better? Which one do you like?’
I’m about to say I’ll take anything, but then a dash of Amy’s mad personality rubs off on me and I tell her grandly, ‘You may call me Sophia . . . Lady Sophia.’
‘I’ll call you a goose!’ she replies, as we both laugh.
‘Sophie, Soph – both are fine,’ I say.
‘Anyway,’ she pauses to take a sip of her tea. ‘About Matt – all I can tell you is that there’s a photo of him and a girl in his room. She’s got her arms around him so maybe she’s his girlfriend.’
I thank her for that info but can’t help wondering what she was doing in his room. I’ve had enough snooping in my life. Hate it. I do like Amy but I don’t know yet if I trust her. I tell myself, be careful.
‘Come here, My Lady.’ Amy beckons me over. ‘I’m going to braid your hair.’ I go along with it. Keeps her happy. And secretly, I like the closeness of it. She spends the next two hours, when she could be doing a dozen other things, attending to and transforming me.
‘You look gorgeous.’ She angles the mirror on all sides so I can check out what she’s done.
‘Not true . . . But thanks, Amy. Thank you.’
A strange chick, this Amy. Generous. Impulsive. Shoplifter. Snoop. But friend, too, I hope.
Later that afternoon I duck down to the shops and buy a posy of roses as a thank you for her kindness.
4
I love my new place. True, it’s often messy, but it’s my first real home since Arlene and Dutch. Living with Amy and Matt is great. We’re equals.
Today Matt invites Amy and me to a soccer match.
‘It’s our team’s grand final,’ he explains.
‘So why should that interest me?’ asks Amy.
‘I’m playing.’ Matt glares. ‘It’s us Rebels versus the Eagles, didn’t you know?’
Amy snorts into her coffee. ‘So you’re inviting us to sit in rain, hail and snow and watch you he-men run around for hours and hours playing with a ball, and we’re supposed to cheer our guts out?’
Matt’s face colours. ‘Well, if you’re not up to it . . . ’
‘I’d love to go,’ I volunteer, sneaking a sideways look at Amy. I’m as keen about soccer as she is – watching grass grow is more entertaining but I figure some time alone with Matt is worth a little sacrifice. She shakes her head and casts her eyes upward as if I’ve put the feminist cause back a few hundred years.
‘Have fun. I’m going away for the weekend anyway.’ Amy shrugs. ‘Not that I’d go if I were here. Boring, stupid game.’
Matt returns fire. ‘Yeah, I suppose it is boring – if you’re too dumb to understand the rules.’
‘What’s to understand? You kick the ball and if you can’t get to it you punch whoever’s closest. Isn’t that how it works?’
‘Wow.’ Matt grins. ‘You sound just like my coach.’
‘Hey.’ Amy points a finger at him. ‘If I were your coach I’d tell you to try holding your breath – for an hour or so.’
Matt pauses to think of a snappy reply. But Amy blocks her ears.
‘For once,’ she says, ‘I’m having the last word.’
He nods, admitting defeat.
‘I’ll be in my room when you’re ready, Matt,’ I say, trying to look eager, but of course not too eager.
‘Sucked in,’ Amy mutters.
With time to puddle around, I gaze out through the window onto the busy street. At last the Department has given me an allowance to buy some curtains. Now I wonder what colour and pattern to choose. Something soft and pretty. Yeah. There’s money in the budget too for bed linen and a new doona . . . I could make this room really special.
As I move about, pulling up my bedcovers and picking up clothes, I make a mental note of what I need: a bedside lamp, maybe some posters. Desiderata, which I love. Or a photo of a beach on a sunny day. So this is what ‘home’ feels like . . .
Snuggled up on the bed, I think about writing a poem in my journal. Out the window I watch leaves swishing around on a tree. For so long I was like those leaves, blown about and bossed. Finally I have some control of my life.
All too soon Matt taps on the door. ‘You ready?’
‘Sure am.’
I grab my jacket, hide my journal, and we’re off.
‘Thanks for coming, Soph.’
He opens the door of his van for me. I act as though I’m accustomed to this gallantry.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Good day for a drive.’
‘Perfect.’ He turns on his bright smile. And the day looks even better.
There are only the two front seats in the van. The back is crammed with boxes and masses of tools. Matt notices me giving it the once over, and I get the naughty schoolboy grin.
‘Sorry about the mess.’ He shrugs. ‘What can I do? It just keeps following me around . . . I’ll clean it up one of these days . . . Maybe.’
I’d like to ask him what’s in the boxes, but he might be a mad bomber and that knowledge would very likely ruin the day, so I don’t ask. But as the engine roars to life, he volunteers the answer anyway. ‘Got all my workshop gear in there. I’m into making things.’
‘Yeah, like what?’ I’m glad to have something to talk about.
‘I’m doing this course at college . . .’
Little by little he joins the dots that make up his life. Nothing personal yet, but I’m patient. His face glows when he tells me about an award he won at high school.
‘It was a national science competition – you know, hundreds of kids would have entered. Got lucky there. Bit of bribery never hurts!’
His face has road maps when he laughs. When he gets really old there’ll be deep grooves in it. But I like that kind of face.
‘You didn’t bribe anyone,’ I say. ‘What did you win it for?’
‘Aw, just some fruit-picking gadget. No one ever manufactured it – all too hard and expensive. But winning the prize was good. Made me think about being an inventor. That’s why I took this course in engineering.’
Not once, as we drive, are there any awkward gaps in our conversation. Matt opens up like he doesn’t when Amy’s around.
At last, I think, a guy with some brains. And ambition. The boys at my new school – and they are all boys, not mature like Matt – generally seem so childish that I wouldn’t want to hang with them. Matt talks about all sorts of things, the neighbourhood, our house – and, most impressive of all – he even asks questions about me. With some guys, I really don’t think they realise there are other people in the universe. Matt wants to know about my hobbies, subjects I like at school. He sidesteps any delicate areas, which I appreciate. One day we might get to talk about the tricky bits of both our lives. Too soon yet. Now it’s just good to talk, nice and easy.
I ask him about Amy, sure there has to be a problem. Seems to me they’re always fighting.
 
; He sees it differently. ‘Nah, it’s not fighting. We bump heads now and then, that’s all. We’re good mates, really. It’s just that Amy wants to be the boss of the world and she can’t, because that’s my job.’ He chuckles to himself, and then adds, ‘I wish.’
Matt switches off the engine, reaches over for his sports bag and then turns to me. ‘Well, here we are! Hope you like the game.’
‘Sure I will,’ I say. ‘Soccer’s great.’
Did I really say that? Oh boy, I’m glad Amy didn’t hear me.
‘Trust me,’ he says, ‘it’s going to be fun.’
I follow him over to the clubhouse where there’s a cluster of supporters and guys dressed in Matt’s blue and white colours. I get the usual round of introductions and handshakes – too many names to remember.
‘She’s my flatmate,’ Matt insists when someone ribs him about me being his new girl. I nod, backing him up, but I’m quietly pleased that anyone would think that.
‘See ya soon.’ Matt winks as he and his team troop onto the field, while I’m left alone with the soccer groupie crowd. Most of them are girls my age or slightly older, probably here to cheer on their boyfriends. One of them notices that I look a bit lost so she comes over.
‘I’m Tracey,’ she tells me. ‘My guy’s out there doing his thing. We’re getting married. Boyd. Did you meet him? Spiky red hair. Tall.’ She points him out.
‘Aw, yeah. I see him.’
She moves closer. ‘Now just between us – what’s this I hear about you and Matt? Are you two seeing each other?’
I shake my head. ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just his flatmate. There’s another girl who lives with us, too. Amy.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘And she’s not his girlfriend either,’ I add.
‘Well. Fascinating.’
‘What’s so fascinating, Tracey?’
‘You’re the first girl he’s ever brought to a game.’
I shrug. Disinterested. Don’t care. So what?
I hope she buys it.
Of course I care. It’s intriguing, promising. It makes me happy. But then I rein myself in – slow down, Sophie – I’m in no hurry for the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I’m too tied up with my final year schoolwork for that. Don’t need the hassle. Nah. Forget it . . . well, for a while anyway.