Steeplechase by Krissy Kneen Page A

head to one side. His gaze is too intense and I am relieved when another, taller boy with shaggy brown hair and a wide jaw leans over his shoulder and takes my hand and shakes it.
    â€˜And Andy,’ John tells me. ‘But I went to school with Charles not Andy, which is a shame because Charles used to beat me up and Andy would have been nicer to me.’
    â€˜What? No.’ Charles leans into Andy’s shoulder, staring thoughtfully at the eaves and I realise they are a couple. ‘Oh maybe that one time. But you have to admit…’
    â€˜No,’ John chuckles. ‘You have to admit. You were horrible. You did have to admit it.’
    â€˜Well yes, that one time but only that one time and I so could have beaten you up on plenty more occasions than that.’
    â€˜You know how boys are,’ Andy tells me. ‘They hit someone if they have a crush on them.’
    â€˜No, we wrestle,’ Charles corrects him and reaches out to jostle playfully with John.
    Inside there are too many people to remember. I am introduced quickly and just as quickly forget everybody’s names. They are all in their twenties. Some of them, like Charles, look almost like teenagers; others, like Andy, might be a little older, maybe thirty at a stretch. I am overdressed. The girls all wear short skirts and tights or jeans. The boys are more formal in jackets and coats and one boy, a pretty Asian boy who looks no more than sixteen, is even wearing a skinny tie.
    There is an open bottle of vodka on the table and they pour shots from it, some of them mixing with cranberry or orange juice. Charles pours a straight shot and knocks it back in a flamboyant toast to the mother of all goats as Andy brings a great roasted beast to the table, the legs still on it and sticking up straight towards the ceiling. It looks inedible, but the serving that arrives on my plate is surprisingly tender, with a pleasantly charred flavour. The meal is nice, spiced vegetables, hot bread cut in thick slices to soak up the juices. I glean from the conversation that Charles and Andy are known for their culinary expertise. It seems it is an honour to be on their guest list. John puts his hand on my knee and I notice one of the girls watching the gesture with a slightly confused expression. She might have thought I was his mother, or at least an aunt.
    They are talking about some movie they have all seen, something about a vampire, but not the vampire one that is really bad and terribly uncool apparently. This other vampire movie is less bad, but still quite awful and not worth the price of a ticket although it seems that they have all forked out the $9.50 to see it, or whatever a student movie ticket is worth these days. Someone calls my name and I turn too quickly and my neck clicks painfully. I didn’t realise I was quite this tense and I put my hand to my neck as if I am scratching it, pressing my fingers into the tender spot until it hurts less.
    â€˜Sorry? What was that?’
    â€˜I was just wondering where you met John.’
    â€˜Bali,’ John tells the young girl without flinching. ‘Over a pina colada and a game of craps.’
    The girl is very pretty, delicate pixie face and long blonde hair that she keeps folding back behind her ear in a self-conscious, slightly flirtatious manner. When she screws up her nose and mouth her pixie look becomes slightly rattish. She will not age well. It is an unkind thought, but it is a comforting one.
    â€˜Art school,’ I say and she seems interested. She leans forward.
    â€˜What strand are you studying?’
    â€˜Sculpture.’
    â€˜Oh cool. What, like clay?’
    â€˜Polymers,’ I tell her quickly, surprised by my own ability to lie. ‘Industrial materials. I want to fill the art gallery with polystyrene, make the punters cut their way into the exhibition with a hot knife.’
    â€˜Oh cool,’ she says.
    â€˜Actually that is very cool,’ John