I trail behind Trent, who trails behind Dad, who powers ahead, calves hardening, on his mission through the hardware store. I catch a look at our reflections in a mirror for sale: a line of progressively dissatisfied Darks. A terrifying glimpse at my gene pool. My future.
No. Please, no.
I suggested waiting for them out the front, conveniently close to the sausage sizzle, but Dad insisted we stay together, turn off our phones and ‘enjoy the moment’, so Trent and I endure his search for the perfect pair of secateurs. It’s all part of my punishment that’ll probably last an eternity.
Dad proves his disappointment in me by expertly weaving snarky comments through his gardening jargon and self-help talk.
A dig at me for not considering Mum’s suggestion to study computer science.
A comment about how Bill Burton’s twins are getting high distinctions at uni.
An aside about how Jermaine Wright’s son — ‘who was in Trent’s year, remember, boys?’ — is close to making his first million in his start-up business.
Every time Dad says something, Trent shoots me a look, fighting back laughter while silently screaming with his eyes.
For Dad, flooding us with ‘kids done good’ examples is a group-bonding exercise equivalent to high-fiving each other as we stand on hot coals together at a motivational-speaking conference.
Right now, throwing myself on scorching ashes sounds preferable to listening to Dad asking the sales girl to explain the differences between the anvil, bypass and parrot-beak secateurs for the forty-seventh time.
‘The boys’ll be starting at Rizza’s without me,’ Trent mutters. ‘You being grounded is nothing compared to this nightmare.’
I pull out my phone to reread the texts from Layla, keeping one eye on Dad as he strides to the checkout. I haven’t seen her since the other night, and I’m still filled with enough guilt to flood the river — despite her letting slip about her supposed imminent break-up with Kurt. I’m not the guy who kisses girls with boyfriends. Yet that’s exactly who I am. Because when Layla pressed her lips against mine, I gave in to it — to her — within seconds and somehow managed to stifle the roaring of she’s taken in my brain. Not only that, she’s my oldest mate — the only real mate I have left in Durnan now everyone else has bailed. If I blow it any more, I’ll complete my gradual downward spiral into Nigel-No-Friends territory. She wants us to be friends, that’s it. Which should be easy ’cos it’s what we’ve always been. But friends don’t kiss each other the way we did … do they?
‘Oi,’ Trent whispers, trying to check out my phone. ‘Whose Insta photos are you creeping on?’
‘Piss off.’
Dad’s fake laugh interrupts us — the loud, bellowing chuckle he saves for impressing people — so I slide my phone back into my pocket for later. Ever since he got into the self-help stuff, we’ve heard that laugh so much I’m considering earplugs.
Secateurs in hand, Dad waves for us to follow him into the car park. He charges ahead, arms propelling him forward. This time, Trent and I trail behind together.
‘When did he get like this?’ I mutter, watching him wave at every second person like a cheesy salesman. His energy might be impressive if it wasn’t so annoying to be on the receiving end. ‘And all that stuff about other people’s kids — it’s like, we get it. We suck. It’s not like I don’t want to do anything. Yeah, it’s taking me a while to sort it out, but … damn.’
Trent scoffs. ‘He’s always been like this. You’re just not used to him seeing you like he sees me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘No big plans, no degree or career goals, no girlfriend to bring round for dinner, too much mucking up — you’re a no-hoper in his eyes now. Dad wants kids he can brag about.’
He notices my steely look.
‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, bro, thought you knew.’ He shrugs. ‘It ain’t too bad once you get used to it. He learns to expect less, then you’re free to float along.’
No-hoper. Expect less. Float along. The Trent Dark way. I mull over Trent’s words on the walk back to the car. We’ve always been different, everyone says it: Mum and Dad, teachers, friends, even Sal noticed. Yet somehow, despite going down different paths, we’ve ended up at the same destination: Loserville.
Trent claims the back seat so I’m forced to sit up front.
Dad buckles his seatbelt and readjusts the rear-view mirror. ‘That went well, don’t you think?’
Trent clears his throat. I try not to laugh.
‘Now, Milo,’ Dad goes on, ‘turns out the girl at the checkout is related to one of the sponsors I met at the races. She loves her job — loves it — and reckons she’d be able to get you in there if you were keen for a second casual job. Whaddya say?’
Trust Dad to turn an innocent trip to the hardware store into a chance to rescue his poor directionless son.
Trent chuckles from the back seat. Luckily Dad is concentrating on reversing out so he can’t see the corner of my mouth twitching. It’s all so ridiculous.
‘Milo, you hear me?’ he asks as we head out of the car park.
‘Ah, yeah, maybe.’
‘Bloody hell, Milo, I’m serving it up for you. You should say thank you.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ I stare out the windscreen. ‘I’ll have a think. I’m already working heaps.’
‘These are important foundations I’m trying to lay down for your future. Me. Don’t forget that.’
Trent snickers. ‘Yes, Milo, don’t forget those important foundations.’
‘Watch it,’ Dad says, eyes narrowing in the rear-view mirror.
Trent apologises, fake as anything, but Dad buys it.
When Trent announces he wants to be dropped off to see his mates, I wait for Dad to tell him no, but he simply grunts. Trent flops back in his seat satisfied, like he’s proved his point. Maybe Dad has given up on him and I’m still a project with potential, at least while I haven’t completely stuffed it. I wonder if it’s possible to throw myself out of the car after Trent without Dad noticing.
We drive for a few blocks, listening to the sound of Trent tapping on his thighs.
‘Turn left here, Dad, Rizza’s place is above the pharmacy,’ he says. ‘Sweet, there’s a park there — yeah, right there!’
In front of Joe’s Charcoal Chicken Shop — Layla’s work.
As Dad eases into the car spot, I can see two girls behind the counter, neither of them her. Thank you, world.
Trent sniggers. ‘Hungry, Milo? You could get yourself some wings and chips. Hang on, you’re more of a breast man, right?’
Dick.
‘Actually,’ he adds, ‘you look kinda thirsty.’ He’s straining so hard to repress laughter that his face looks like it might split in half. He jumps out of the car, then looks back in so we’re eye to eye. ‘Pretty sure the chicken shop’s got something that’ll quench that thirst, bro. Catch yas.’ He throws me a little wave as he walks off.
Dad unbuckles his seatbelt. ‘Are you thirsty? I can grab you something.’
Jesus. ‘No. Not thirsty. Thanks, Dad.’
‘About your mum’s suggestion,’ he starts, then clears his throat. ‘Computer science could really be something for you. Emma Hui’s daughter does something with computers and now she runs her own business.’
Here we go again.
‘Yeah, I’ve looked at a few unis, Dad.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘And?’
‘It looks okay, I guess. You can start in semester two, but I don’t want to rush into —’
‘Semester two! There we go!’ He slaps the steering wheel as though it’s decided. ‘Brilliant. Computers! Whaddya say?’ Before I can answer, he looks over my shoulder, distracted by a young guy walking past in a suit. ‘Hey, look, is that Peter Newbins? I think they’ve brought him on to try to sell the Robinsons’ place. He’s a real goer.’
‘Dad, c’mon. Leave it alone.’
He thrusts a five-dollar note into my hand. ‘Go grab yourself a mineral water. Actually, grab me one too. I’m thirsty after all that computer talk.’
Thirsty. I’m going to kill Trent. And Dad. And then myself.
Dad gets out of the car, slicks down his hair and chases after Peter Newbins with the gracefulness of a giraffe. Hope Pete has earplugs stashed in his trouser pocket.
Gnawing on my bottom lip, I look into Joe’s from the passenger seat. Still no sign of Layla.
I get out of the car and cross the pavement until I’m close to the entrance. It’s simple: get in, get the drinks, get out. But, heart thumping, I panic and make a last-minute detour to the right and find myself staring into the window of the travel agency.
An agent spots me and stands up, gesturing for me to come inside. I mouth ‘Just looking’, as though this has always been my plan, and scope out the flights with such gusto anyone would think I’m being paid to do it. My brow even furrows in concentration as I pretend to take it all in.
Italy.
Bali.
London.
Fiji.
America.
I size up the prices under the agent’s enthusiastic stare. It’s strange to think a few thousand dollars is enough to change your life. To get you to the other side of the world. Away from everyone. Away from everything. Start fresh.
As I study the world map on the window, I’m reminded I haven’t got one stamp in my passport. It’s as crisp and clean as the day it arrived in the mail four years ago. Mum helped us organise them when Dad floated the idea of a holiday to Hawaii, but exchange rates blew out so we went to Queensland for the third time.
The travel agent gestures again, desperate for a sale. I mouth, ‘Ah, not today,’ and walk back towards Joe’s, coiling the five-buck note around my thumb.
That’s when I see her.
She’s standing on a chair in the back corner of the shop, straightening their specials board. Her curly hair is swept off her face with clips and she’s decked out in a Joe’s shirt. I smile as I recall her prancing around on the side of the highway in Veronica’s Little Bookshop T-shirt. She was hilarious, despite everything, and made the unbearable somehow perfect. She’s taken, the voice hisses again, and she just wants to be friends.
Suddenly I want to bolt before she spots me lurking outside, but my feet feel bonded to the ground. Not that it matters: Layla’s already seen me through the window. She looks happy about it too — all dancing eyebrows and a beam so brilliant it might just light up Durnan.
I can’t be here. I can’t talk to her like this.
Not when she looks and acts like that.
Not when I’m acting like this.
I don’t even know how to freakin’ text her any more.
I gesture to the car, pretending I’m in a rush.
Realising I’m not coming in, she cocks her head to the side, confused, her grin hardening into tight, pressed lips.
I hurry to the car and keep my head down until Dad’s back. I’m relieved he’s too busy waffling about Peter Newbins and life plans and home loans to remember anything about the mineral waters.
* * *
Layla: Hey!
Milo: Was with Dad, had to rush off
Milo: Sorry
Layla: That’s OK, when are you grounded til?
* * *
Layla: You there?
Milo: Yeah, what’s up?
Layla: Nothing really, you alright?
Milo: Yeah, just at work, bit busy
Milo: How are you?
Layla: I’m OK. Are you?