you?’
‘No!’ he says vehemently. ‘If she wants to be with a guy like Stuart, I’m not chasing her around telling tales about him. He’s a mean bastard though. Got his girlfriend pregnant last year and didn’t want to know about it.’
‘He has a girlfriend?’
‘Well, they’re broken up now.’
An awkward truce seems to be forming.
‘So will you ease up about—’ ‘—the polished mahogany incident?’
I grit my teeth.
‘Yes. Will you stop being such a prick about it?’
He smiles. ‘No.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Steady on, now. That’s no way for a youngster to talk. And the thing is – what are you going to do about it?’
I breathe out a large breath.
‘ Jerks ville.’ But now I am smiling slightly.
‘If you arc down,’ he fits the lid on the top of his register drawer with a decisive thwack, ‘I could be persuaded to accompany you to Rino’s for a pepperoni extravaganza. I may even pay for it.’
It is a school night and I haven’t done my maths homework.
‘No more teasing,’ I say, not smiling anymore.
He looks at me.
‘ No more teasing ,’ I repeat.
‘Okay. No more teasing.’
S PECIAL TREAT
Chris buys a sixpack of beer on the way to Rino’s. James Squire something-or-other.
‘Special treat,’ he says, parting with a twenty-dollar note. ‘You like beer don’t you?’
I hate beer. Hate it. ‘Yeah!’
Oh, well. Love is pain. Or is it beauty is pain? I wouldn’t know about the latter, but the former makes my sternum ache.
We pass a payphone, which makes me think I should call home to tell them I’m going out for dinner. But then, it is after nine, so Mum and Jess will be asleep. Dad will still be up if he is back from rehearsal, but I doubt my lateness will cause any consternation there.
We sit in a booth at the back of the restaurant and order a family-size pepperoni pizza. My stomach muscles slowly unclench one by one, as the relief of being back in Chris’s good books floods through me.
He extracts a couple of beers from their cardboard pack and flicks off their tops with two satisfying hissing sounds. To the casual observer we must appear as . . . well, as equals I guess. We are both wearing our work uniforms. I and I alone have Chris’s undivided attention lavished upon me across the formica tabletop. My cup runneth over.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asks, pouring the richly glinting amber into frosted glasses.
I think for a moment, then raise my glass. ‘To the girls who eat boys like you for breakfast. May they suffer from severe indigestion.’
‘Right on, sister.’
The honest clink of thick glass on glass.
‘So, Amelia, what do you hate?’ he says, leaning back in his side of the booth.
‘Hate?’
‘Yes, hate. You know, despise, loathe, abhor. What erodes you from the inside?’
‘What, about myself, or the world in general?’
‘Let’s start with you, then move on to the world in general.’
‘I hate that I am fat and ugly and stupid.’
Chris takes a swig of his beer. ‘You are none of those things, but I can dig irrational self-loathing. What else?’
‘I hate that I want so many things I can’t have. Just . . . don’t like that sensation.’
‘What else?’
‘I hate that I’m angry a lot of the time. It’s exhausting. I hate that no one takes me seriously. I hate that I must sound like such a whinger right now. But, really, it’s your fault for asking me.’
‘Hmmmm. What about the world in general?’
I sit back in my chair and take a sip of my own beer. ‘I know I should say that I hate wars and starvation and inequity. And I do. But on a day-to-day basis, what I hate most is that both my parents smoke. Our house is small and there’s only one living room where the telly and everything is. It smells bad, it gets into my clothes and my hair and I know it makes my asthma worse. My father actually gets angry at me when I complain about it. My mother just looks away and pretends she hasn’t heard. The room
‘No!’ he says vehemently. ‘If she wants to be with a guy like Stuart, I’m not chasing her around telling tales about him. He’s a mean bastard though. Got his girlfriend pregnant last year and didn’t want to know about it.’
‘He has a girlfriend?’
‘Well, they’re broken up now.’
An awkward truce seems to be forming.
‘So will you ease up about—’ ‘—the polished mahogany incident?’
I grit my teeth.
‘Yes. Will you stop being such a prick about it?’
He smiles. ‘No.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Steady on, now. That’s no way for a youngster to talk. And the thing is – what are you going to do about it?’
I breathe out a large breath.
‘ Jerks ville.’ But now I am smiling slightly.
‘If you arc down,’ he fits the lid on the top of his register drawer with a decisive thwack, ‘I could be persuaded to accompany you to Rino’s for a pepperoni extravaganza. I may even pay for it.’
It is a school night and I haven’t done my maths homework.
‘No more teasing,’ I say, not smiling anymore.
He looks at me.
‘ No more teasing ,’ I repeat.
‘Okay. No more teasing.’
S PECIAL TREAT
Chris buys a sixpack of beer on the way to Rino’s. James Squire something-or-other.
‘Special treat,’ he says, parting with a twenty-dollar note. ‘You like beer don’t you?’
I hate beer. Hate it. ‘Yeah!’
Oh, well. Love is pain. Or is it beauty is pain? I wouldn’t know about the latter, but the former makes my sternum ache.
We pass a payphone, which makes me think I should call home to tell them I’m going out for dinner. But then, it is after nine, so Mum and Jess will be asleep. Dad will still be up if he is back from rehearsal, but I doubt my lateness will cause any consternation there.
We sit in a booth at the back of the restaurant and order a family-size pepperoni pizza. My stomach muscles slowly unclench one by one, as the relief of being back in Chris’s good books floods through me.
He extracts a couple of beers from their cardboard pack and flicks off their tops with two satisfying hissing sounds. To the casual observer we must appear as . . . well, as equals I guess. We are both wearing our work uniforms. I and I alone have Chris’s undivided attention lavished upon me across the formica tabletop. My cup runneth over.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asks, pouring the richly glinting amber into frosted glasses.
I think for a moment, then raise my glass. ‘To the girls who eat boys like you for breakfast. May they suffer from severe indigestion.’
‘Right on, sister.’
The honest clink of thick glass on glass.
‘So, Amelia, what do you hate?’ he says, leaning back in his side of the booth.
‘Hate?’
‘Yes, hate. You know, despise, loathe, abhor. What erodes you from the inside?’
‘What, about myself, or the world in general?’
‘Let’s start with you, then move on to the world in general.’
‘I hate that I am fat and ugly and stupid.’
Chris takes a swig of his beer. ‘You are none of those things, but I can dig irrational self-loathing. What else?’
‘I hate that I want so many things I can’t have. Just . . . don’t like that sensation.’
‘What else?’
‘I hate that I’m angry a lot of the time. It’s exhausting. I hate that no one takes me seriously. I hate that I must sound like such a whinger right now. But, really, it’s your fault for asking me.’
‘Hmmmm. What about the world in general?’
I sit back in my chair and take a sip of my own beer. ‘I know I should say that I hate wars and starvation and inequity. And I do. But on a day-to-day basis, what I hate most is that both my parents smoke. Our house is small and there’s only one living room where the telly and everything is. It smells bad, it gets into my clothes and my hair and I know it makes my asthma worse. My father actually gets angry at me when I complain about it. My mother just looks away and pretends she hasn’t heard. The room
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