pregnant with me and I hated her saying that. As she turned back into the dark interior of the
house, her shoulders stooped. I pumped the accelerator and sped away towards Scott, my head crammed with sex thoughts about the first time we rooted.
I’m sitting next to him at the kitchen table. Sweat runs down the back of my thighs, collecting in little pools behind my knees. Outside, the air shimmers in a heat
mirage. Scott wrestles with the edges of the sports pages, which flutter in the currents from the ceiling fan. I place two empty tea mugs at the top corners of the paper. He nods and reads on, his
full lips pursed in concentration.
‘Mum’ll be gone by now,’ I whisper so that Mrs Greenwood, whisking eggs in the kitchen, doesn’t hear.
Today we’re doing it for the first time. At my house while Mum’s at work. I think about doing it on her bed because her room’s got air-con, but she’d find out somehow.
She’d sniff out the sex germs. I wonder if I’ll look different after we’ve done it. More like a woman. Less like seventeen. I wonder if my breasts will get bigger and if Mum will
be able to tell I’m not a virgin any more. But I’m ready. We’ve been going out for almost three months and I’ve got my driver’s licence now.
‘C’mon.’ I try to sound calm but my words are light and breathless.
‘OK. Let’s go.’ Scott takes the tea mugs to the sink and kisses his mum on the cheek.
‘Where are you two love-birds off to?’ she asks.
‘Rosie’s place for a swim,’ says Scott.
I stare at the table, studying the spiral grains in the wood. In my stomach, my nerves jitter like bugs around a fluoro.
‘If I didn’t have to make these bloody sponges for the Women’s Auxiliary, I’d join you. It’s like a sauna in here.’
Scott urges me down the stairs, through the rumpus room and outside into the blinding midday light. We stand bare-footed on the grass: me with my freckly arms folded across my bikini top; Scott
bare-chested in tartan boxers. I stare up into his purple eyes, smudgy in the heat-haze, and I think about all the hours we’ve spent pashing until my jaw ached and ulcers burned in my mouth.
I think about him pushing his fingers up inside me.
‘Whose car?’ he says.
Scott’s rusty Gemini sits in the garage. Behind it, the brand-new Laser which I’d bought with Grandma’s will money, its shiny, red body roasting in the sun.
‘I’ll drive,’ I say.
‘No. I want to.’ Scott swipes for my keys.
‘My car’s in front.’
‘Yeah, I’ll drive yours.’
‘No way. It’s new.’
‘But you just got your licence.’
‘So?’
‘I’m a better driver.’
‘Crap. You drive too fast.’
‘Slow drivers cause as many accidents as fast drivers.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Babe, just give me the keys. Stop being a silly little girl.’
‘Stop being a silly little boy or I won’t keep my promise.’
‘You want it, too.’
I grin because I do but don’t give in. ‘C’mon, Mr Stubborn, get your scrawny butt in the passenger seat.’
‘I’ll race you instead.’
‘But your car’s a shitbox.’
‘You’ll be crying.’ He dashes into the garage.
I climb into my car, fasten the seat-belt and reverse out on to Jacaranda Avenue. Scott pulls out alongside me. He leans across and shouts through the window.
‘I’ll give you a handicap, OK? Because you’re just a chick.’
‘No way. I don’t need one.’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
He spends a long time lining his front wheels up with mine so there can be no unfair advantage on either side. When satisfied, he says, ‘On the count of three. I’ll hold my hand up
like this to signal go.’
I nod and picture the new sexy lingerie – black lace bra and matching g-strings hidden in the bottom of my jumper drawer – and, as Scott revs the accelerator on his 1979 bomb-mobile,
a thrill rips through my body. His hand goes down and he shoots off towards the traffic lights, his head bent low
house, her shoulders stooped. I pumped the accelerator and sped away towards Scott, my head crammed with sex thoughts about the first time we rooted.
I’m sitting next to him at the kitchen table. Sweat runs down the back of my thighs, collecting in little pools behind my knees. Outside, the air shimmers in a heat
mirage. Scott wrestles with the edges of the sports pages, which flutter in the currents from the ceiling fan. I place two empty tea mugs at the top corners of the paper. He nods and reads on, his
full lips pursed in concentration.
‘Mum’ll be gone by now,’ I whisper so that Mrs Greenwood, whisking eggs in the kitchen, doesn’t hear.
Today we’re doing it for the first time. At my house while Mum’s at work. I think about doing it on her bed because her room’s got air-con, but she’d find out somehow.
She’d sniff out the sex germs. I wonder if I’ll look different after we’ve done it. More like a woman. Less like seventeen. I wonder if my breasts will get bigger and if Mum will
be able to tell I’m not a virgin any more. But I’m ready. We’ve been going out for almost three months and I’ve got my driver’s licence now.
‘C’mon.’ I try to sound calm but my words are light and breathless.
‘OK. Let’s go.’ Scott takes the tea mugs to the sink and kisses his mum on the cheek.
‘Where are you two love-birds off to?’ she asks.
‘Rosie’s place for a swim,’ says Scott.
I stare at the table, studying the spiral grains in the wood. In my stomach, my nerves jitter like bugs around a fluoro.
‘If I didn’t have to make these bloody sponges for the Women’s Auxiliary, I’d join you. It’s like a sauna in here.’
Scott urges me down the stairs, through the rumpus room and outside into the blinding midday light. We stand bare-footed on the grass: me with my freckly arms folded across my bikini top; Scott
bare-chested in tartan boxers. I stare up into his purple eyes, smudgy in the heat-haze, and I think about all the hours we’ve spent pashing until my jaw ached and ulcers burned in my mouth.
I think about him pushing his fingers up inside me.
‘Whose car?’ he says.
Scott’s rusty Gemini sits in the garage. Behind it, the brand-new Laser which I’d bought with Grandma’s will money, its shiny, red body roasting in the sun.
‘I’ll drive,’ I say.
‘No. I want to.’ Scott swipes for my keys.
‘My car’s in front.’
‘Yeah, I’ll drive yours.’
‘No way. It’s new.’
‘But you just got your licence.’
‘So?’
‘I’m a better driver.’
‘Crap. You drive too fast.’
‘Slow drivers cause as many accidents as fast drivers.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Babe, just give me the keys. Stop being a silly little girl.’
‘Stop being a silly little boy or I won’t keep my promise.’
‘You want it, too.’
I grin because I do but don’t give in. ‘C’mon, Mr Stubborn, get your scrawny butt in the passenger seat.’
‘I’ll race you instead.’
‘But your car’s a shitbox.’
‘You’ll be crying.’ He dashes into the garage.
I climb into my car, fasten the seat-belt and reverse out on to Jacaranda Avenue. Scott pulls out alongside me. He leans across and shouts through the window.
‘I’ll give you a handicap, OK? Because you’re just a chick.’
‘No way. I don’t need one.’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
He spends a long time lining his front wheels up with mine so there can be no unfair advantage on either side. When satisfied, he says, ‘On the count of three. I’ll hold my hand up
like this to signal go.’
I nod and picture the new sexy lingerie – black lace bra and matching g-strings hidden in the bottom of my jumper drawer – and, as Scott revs the accelerator on his 1979 bomb-mobile,
a thrill rips through my body. His hand goes down and he shoots off towards the traffic lights, his head bent low
Similar Books
