CantBeattheChemistry

Factors of Compatibility

‘Boy in house!’

Walls vibrate as Year 7 and 8 girls stampede down the boarding house stairs. The 9s and 10s follow, slower, but just as eager to interrogate the guy waiting to see his friend or girlfriend or friend-he-wishes-would-be-his-girlfriend in the common room.

Car keys dangling from my fingers, I glance at the red clipboard on my desk with the heading, Boarding House Boy Test.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sandy says in her best head-of-debating voice. My roommate shoves the plastic bag with paint supplies under my nose and waves me towards our dorm room door. We were supposed to be dropping them at my brother’s. ‘If we want to get back before curfew we need to leave now. No time to join the inquisition.’

The alarm clock on my bedside table reads 4:45pm. I’ll be cutting it fine getting back by six, but someone needs to stop all the trivial ‘favourite animal / vegetable / cereal’ type questions with ones that actually shed light on compatibility. I owe my fellow boarding sisters that much. I don’t understand why Sandy doesn’t appreciate my contribution to the science behind dating.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.’ I swipe the clipboard off my table and bolt downstairs before she can stop me.

In the common room, boarders are crowded all around a senior guy in a St Barnaby’s uniform fidgeting on the couch.

‘So, Bryce—’ one of the bolder Year 7s leans forward from her vantage point on the coffee table, ‘—if you could be any animal, what would you be?’

My eye roll is unavoidable.

‘Um …’ Bryce throws a help-me glance at a nervous-looking Ally Brinski sitting on the couch opposite him. He must be here to see her. She mouths the word sorry to him. There’s really not much she can do about the infantile question.

But I can.

‘Why don’t you tell us about your post Year 12 aspirations instead?’ I say, stepping further into the room. Ally spies my clipboard and her eyes widen. A sign of relief that I have the situation in hand, I’m sure.

Bryce looks around the common room like someone might give him the answer. ‘A gap year in Europe?’ he says eventually. He gives Ally a smile. ‘Relax, bum around a little, that kind of thing.’

Bum around a little? Ally is working her bum off to get into the Con. She won’t be bumming around next year. I put a cross next to question one.

‘What about extra-curricular activities? What groups or clubs or committees are you part of this year?’

Ally pales a little at my question. Does she already know the answer but wishes it were a different one?

‘Football and rowing,’ Bryce offers.

‘And?’ I wait. Surely there’s more.

Bryce looks confused. ‘That’s it.’

Ally’s pale face now makes perfect sense. I know off the top of my head, she has piano, saxophone and musical theory classes each week. I put a cross next to question two. At this rate I hold no hope for this relationship.

I take a breath and try the next question. ‘What would you say is the most important personal attribute in a—’

‘MJ!’ With a large, blank canvas wedged under one arm and a bag of paints in the other hand, Sandy waves at me from the common room door. ‘Time to go.’

I look down at my clipboard and frown. ‘I’m not even halfway through.’

Sandy glances from me to Ally to Bryce. ‘I’m sure Ally’s got all the answers she needs.’

‘Yes.’ Ally nods vigorously. ‘I do. Please go.’

Good point. Bryce’s answers to the first two questions said plenty enough.

‘All right, then. Nice meeting you, Bryce.’ I close the clipboard, take the bag of paints from Sandy and head to the front desk to sign out.

‘You know, you’ve really taken the Boarding House Boy Test to a whole new level,’ Sandy says, following me out into the brisk September air.

‘Thank you. It needed an injection of empirical rigour.’

Sandy opens her mouth, then shuts it and shakes her head. ‘Empirical rigour? Is that what they call it in your bio lectures?’

At the mention of the biology unit I’m doing at Head Start uni this semester, my shoulders somehow sag and tense at the same time. ‘Professor P said the words when he paired us up for our assignment. I agreed with the terminology.’

‘I still can’t believe you get to miss double PDHPE every second Monday. If douchebag Donovan makes us do the beep test one more time, I’m putting in an official—Hold on a sec!’ She steps ahead of me so she can catch my eye. ‘You’ve already been partnered up for your all-important science assignment?’

I nod.

Her mouth gapes. ‘Well, did you get partnered with Jason or not?’

At the sound of Jason’s name my shoulders just plain seize up. The beautiful, broody St Barnaby’s boy sits up the front in our Head Start bio lecture. I’ve taken to staring at the back of his head as much as the study notes on the whiteboard. I manage a nod. ‘Professor P thinks we’ll work well together.’

Sandy grabs my arm, her carefully manicured nails digging into the earthy green of my school blazer. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She tugs on my sleeve—hard—in case it isn’t clear she’s ticked off. Her reaction is understandable. She’s usually the first person I go to with this sort of news. And yet, this time, because, well, Jason …

I suck in a deep breath, tip my head back and close my eyes against the darkening sky. ‘I’m nervous I’ll say the wrong thing at the wrong time and somehow he’ll think I’m just a stupid high school girl.’

When I open my eyes, Sandy’s normally smooth brow is all kinds of crinkled. ‘MJ, look up braniac science geek in the dictionary and you’ll find your mug shot next to the entry.’

‘I’m not talking about school or uni stuff.’ It takes several presses of the remote to open the Civic’s boot. My fumbling fingers aren’t helping.

Sandy rests the canvas against the car. ‘Wait, are you actually saying what I think you’re saying?’

I look up and collide with Sandy’s narrow-eyed gaze, and it’s my turn to frown. How am I meant to know what she thinks I’m actually saying before I’ve actually said it? Why can’t people just ask direct questions?

She rolls her eyes like she’s heard my mental whinge. But then, Sandy has always been better at reading people than I have.

‘You like Jason?’ she says.

My face heats. For a split second I contemplate changing the subject—even lying—anything to stave off my growing discomfort at this topic. But Sandy would see right through me, and as uncomfortable as I am with touchy-feely stuff, I need her to know. I need her advice on all things romance-related.

‘Possibly, yes.’ I drop the bag of paints into the boot and take the canvas from her. ‘According to my Boarding House Boy Test questions, Jason and I could work well together outside the science lab as well as in.’ Another lick of heat shoots across my cheeks. I slam the boot shut with a little too much force.

In the Civic, Sandy’s dumbfounded gaze burns a hole into the side of my face. ‘You made him do your crazy questionnaire?’

‘Not crazy. Empirically rigorous.’ I glare back at her. ‘And no, I haven’t had a chance to ask Jason to do the questionnaire. I’ve deduced the answers based on what I’ve learned about him over the past six months at uni.’

Sandy shakes her head.

‘What?’

‘I didn’t realise you were into Jason that way.’ There’s a click of Sandy’s seatbelt. ‘I mean, he’s just, well …’

‘He’s what?’ Where is she going with this?

‘You’ve got to admit, Jason isn’t exactly what you’d call bursting with personality and charisma. Other than that Zac Effron thing he’s doing with his hair, brains is about all he’s got going for him.’

My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Sandy has seen Jason’s charisma—or lack of—in action while facing the St. Barnaby’s debating team, so I can’t exactly argue. I’m not the best judge of people, but even I have to agree Jason isn’t likely to be the life of any party. Which is just as well, since the last party I attended was back in primary school and involved a piñata.

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with liking a guy mainly for his brains.’ I start the car and switch the heater on. Not that I need it; the heat coming off my face could warm a small suburb.

Sandy nods. ‘I completely agree, but it helps if there are other draw cards. Like a personality.’

I clip on my seatbelt, but I realise she’s not even close to being done.

‘—and respect and kindness and a car and good taste in movies and music like, say, Vance Joy.’ She rubs her hands in front of the heater and grins, showing a set of straight white teeth that would make her orthodontist proud. ‘And a toned pair of arms honed by hours of drum practice.’ I can’t help a head shake as I pull away from the kerb. This is likely the real reason Sandy was so keen to drop off Theo’s paints.

‘Explain to me again what you see in my brother’s roommate?’ Because the handful of times I’ve found myself at Theo’s place on a Sunday arvo, Luke has stumbled in tired and bleary-eyed and not at all that friendly. If he’s trying to live up to the ‘deadbeat drummer’ stereotype, he’s doing a stellar job.

Sandy shrugs and smooths down the pleats of her uniform skirt. ‘He seems more introspective. Less assuming and in your face than a lot of the guys I know.’

‘How can you tell? You’ve only ever been around Luke a few times.’ When she’s tagged along to Theo’s with me.

‘I may have asked your brother the odd question about Luke and the guy seems intriguing.’

‘Define intriguing.’

Sandy twists in her seat to face me. ‘He’s super private and disappears each weekend. All very mysterious …’

Probably off drumming with some band in seedy pubs and clubs, the name of which he doesn’t want anyone to know.

‘… add those gorgeous green eyes and wicked sense of rhythm and, yeah, definitely intriguing.’ She winks and rubs her hands in front of the heating vent again.

I’m shaking my head before I’m even conscious of it. ‘Relationships aren’t built on a sense of rhythm, and definitely not on eyes, gorgeous green or otherwise.’

‘But they’re built on brains, apparently?’

‘Well, yes,’ I say as I pull up outside Theo’s building. I climb out of the car and catch her shaking her head at me across the bonnet.

She tugs her school blazer tighter around herself as she follows me to the back of the Civic. ‘So is that your number one criteria for dating a guy? Intelligence?’

‘Yes.’ The word comes out immediately. I don’t even have to think about it.

‘And the others?’

‘Others?’ I press the remote. For once the boot pops open without a fuss, and I find Theo’s paints strewn all over the place. I sigh and reach for the tubes of colour.

‘Your other criteria.’ There’s no mistaking the exasperation in Sandy’s voice. ‘Like I just said, respect, kindness, sense of humour, ability to overlook your lack of it. That kind of thing.’

Other than a watch it glare in her general direction, I don’t give her the satisfaction of an actual response. But other criteria? I drop the tubes of paint back into their plastic bag. I’ve never really given other criteria much thought. Intelligence has always been the most valued and rewarded personal attribute in our family, so it makes sense I’d be attracted to guys with superior smarts. Not that I had any time for a boyfriend between the extra tutoring, piano lessons and Saturday classes my mother had me going to throughout all of high school. But if I play my cards right with Jason, that may all be about to change.

‘Well?’ Sandy rubs her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to keep warm.

I ease Theo’s blank canvas from the boot and consider my non-existent ‘other’ criteria. ‘Good personal hygiene,’ I say eventually, and make a mental note to add this to my Boarding House Boy Test questions.

Sandy screws up her face like she’s got spinach stuck between her back teeth. ‘That’s more like a prerequisite. Try again.’

‘Fine.’ I thrust the bag of paints at her. ‘Kindness and a sense of humour. You happy?’ I head for the front door.

‘You’re not even trying.’

‘So I like my guys smart. Is that so bad?’

‘No worse than me liking guys for their taut drummer arms.’ She wriggles her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

‘That is not the same and you know it.’ I press the buzzer next to apartment twelve. ‘Being attracted to someone’s intelligence is not shallow. Liking someone because of the way they look is.’

‘Really?’ She tilts her head in that head-of-debating way of hers and I know I’m in trouble. ‘The way I see it, it’s prejudice either way.’

I’ll regret it, but I ask anyway. ‘Exactly how?’

‘It’s not like a guy has control over how smart or good looking he is. He gets what nature dishes out and has to make do with it.’

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a wave of the plastic bag. ‘And before you sprout some argument about study and education, that’s the equivalent of eating right and working out. It only makes the best of what you already have.’ She tilts her head to the other side and smiles her closing argument smile at me. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

I want to argue, but on some warped level she’s got a point, dammit.

The intercom crackles. ‘Yo?’ Theo’s voice saves me from having to give Sandy an answer.

‘It’s me.’ I hear the click of the deadlock releasing and push the door open.

Sandy slips past me but stops and turns before heading up the stairs. ‘I think you’re missing out, MJ.’ Then she’s gone, up the stairs, leaving me to haul the large canvas up three flights by myself.

Luke

The Problem With Failing

I’m staring at the pathetic excuse for food in our fridge when Theo pads back into the kitchen after answering the buzzer. ‘So what did Professor P want to talk to you about today?’

Behind me, Theo discovers my drumsticks on the kitchen table. I try to decide how to answer him while I ignore his noise pollution.

‘He’s concerned about my chem marks.’ My shoulders tense as the conversation replays in my head.

The noise pollution stops—Theo has dropped one of my sticks. Here’s hoping he’ll leave it on the floor.

‘Maybe you’d be better off doing something that doesn’t suck the life out of you like chem does.’

‘No.’ My fingers clamp around the fridge door. ‘It’s got to be chemistry.’ He knows that.

There’s a sigh from the kitchen table. It’s resigned more than frustrated—because Theo knows why it has to be chemistry. ‘The uni will give you special consideration, though, right?’

I snort. ‘Why would they? It’s my choice I miss Friday lectures.’ Uninspired by last night’s leftover spag bol, I grab two soft drinks from the fridge and face Theo.

‘I thought the P-man knows the situation.’ He bends to pick up the stick. I take a deep breath and wait for the thwacking to start up again.

‘He does, but there’s only so much he can do to help. He’s already turning a blind eye to me leaving his tutorials early on Friday afternoons.’ And quietly encouraging me to stick to what I’m good at—music. Not something that requires actual smarts like chemistry.

There is one other thing Professor P is doing to help. ‘He’s arranged for me to do a make-up for the mid-sem.’

Theo smiles and the thwacking gains speed, making me fear for my sanity. I have to end this.

‘Catch.’ I throw one of the softies at my roommate. The airborne promise of a sugar hit wins out and my rhythmically challenged friend drops the drumsticks on the table to catch the can. We pop the ring at the same time. There’s a fizz, then a few blessed beats of silence as we both gulp our drinks.

Theo puts his can down and runs paint-stained fingers through his dark blond-tipped hair. When he first bleached it I assumed it was some artistic nod to his mother’s side of his Chinese-Norwegian parentage. I assumed wrong. It was intended to tick his mother off.

‘I’ve got to pass it, Theo. I can’t fail again.’

‘So get a tutor,’ he says.

I choke out a laugh. ‘And pay with what?’ I’m barely making enough money to cover petrol and rent.

I sit opposite Theo at our beat-up kitchen table and turn the whole shitty problem around in my head. I can’t jeopardise the science half of my degree—that’s not negotiable—which means I have to pass chemistry; something that’s looking increasingly unlikely if I continue to cut Friday lectures and leave Professor P’s chemistry tutorials early.

I chew on the already-raw skin around my thumbnail. It’s not that I can’t understand the stuff, I just need a little longer to digest it, to have it make sense.

Theo reaches for my sticks again. My hand steals across the table and grabs them before he can. Any more of his thwacking and I’m likely to use the sticks to give him another piercing.

In retaliation he does that scraping thing with his tongue and lip ring that gives me the creeps. He grins. ‘You know, Macca’s doing uni level science this year. She could help.’

My soft drink freezes halfway to my mouth.

Theo continues, ‘She sat her Year 12 chem and bio exams early. Aced them too and got into the uni’s Head Start program. Her school releases her on Mondays so she can attend some science tute and lecture.’ He takes another slug from his can. ‘I’m pretty sure she did Introductory Chemistry last semester.’

She did. Always sat three rows from the front, pen moving across her notepad from start to finish of every class. I should have done the same. Maybe then I wouldn’t be repeating the unit.

I consider his suggestion. The few occasions MJ’s path has crossed mine, she’s not exactly been rainbows, unicorns and sunshine. She reminds me of a hedgehog: small, kind of cute, but all balled up and prickly, especially if you get too close. I can’t see her sticking her hand up to tutor me in chemistry. And even if she did, there’s still the problem of payment.

I taste blood and look down at my hand. I’m no longer drinking soft drink but biting my cuticle again. I put down the drink, pick up one of my drumsticks and twirl it to keep myself from gnawing away any more of my skin. ‘MJ would never do it,’ I say. ‘Besides, I can’t pay her anyway.’

‘Pay me for what?’

At the sound of MJ’s voice, my fingers turn all thumbs. My rhythm goes bust and the drumstick clatters to the floor. I turn in time to watch her walk into the kitchen behind her roommate, Sandy. Her small frame is obscured almost completely by the large blank canvas she’s carrying. Even half-hidden, the Olsen paleness and Wang jet-black hair are too striking to miss.

‘Great, you got it.’ Theo jumps up and relieves MJ of the canvas. ‘And the paints?’

MJ points to Sandy, who says a quick ‘hi’ and hands over a plastic bag.

‘Thanks. Would have been a pain lugging this stuff on the bus. The guy at the panel beater reckons I should be getting my car back in a few weeks.’

‘No problem. Any time.’ MJ drops her messenger bag onto one of the empty chairs and turns curious eyes my way. ‘Pay me for what?’ she asks again, unbuttoning her blazer.

‘Luke needs a chemistry tutor.’ Theo leans the canvas against the kitchen table and starts rummaging through the plastic bag. ‘You happy to help?’

Her fingers go still on the last blazer button. ‘You take chemistry?’

‘Yeah, I take chemistry.’

Her neat little brows scrunch up. ‘I thought you studied music?’

‘And chemistry.’ Why the hell does that surprise her so much?

‘What level?’

I pause, tempted not to answer. She knows I’m in the same year as her brother, so … ‘Introductory,’ I mumble.

Her eyes widen. ‘You’re failing Introductory Chemistry?’ The incredulity that takes over her face is a direct kick to my already bruised ego. I bend to pick up the drumstick off the floor, just so I can escape her disbelieving gaze. ‘I did that subject last semester,’ she finally admits.

‘So, you know this stuff backwards,’ Theo says. ‘Help the guy out.’

When I straighten, I’m caught in her eyes. Unlike Theo’s brown ones, they’re almost black, but not quite. More … a moonless midnight; so dark they swallow the pupil, so large they spill out onto the white of her face. And right now they’re more confused than patronising. Doesn’t make me feel any better.

I drag my gaze away from hers and glare at my roommate. ‘Leave it. I can’t pay her, remember?’

‘You’re a friend. She’ll do it for free.’ Theo slaps a hand on his sister’s tiny shoulder. ‘Right, Macca?’

MJ’s horrified expression tells me exactly what she thinks of the idea. And I’d bet an entire week’s music tuition money it’s not the lack of payment that has her face turning whiter than my drum kit skins.

‘I’m not letting her do it for free and I can’t pay, so … conversation closed.’

Theo opens his big mouth. My glare cuts him off before he can say anything else. Something tells me the girl’s company won’t exactly be a soothing balm to my self-esteem.

‘You give drumming lessons, right?’ We all turn to the back of the kitchen where Sandy is leaning against the counter. ‘Would an extra drumming student help pay for the tutoring?’ Full of confidence in her solution, Sandy fixes her gaze on me.

‘An extra drumming student?’ MJ has swapped the horrified look for her previous confused one. Her face is so expressive I doubt she’s ever capable of masking her emotions.

Sandy pushes away from the kitchen counter and, eyes now wide with some unspoken message, sidles up to MJ. ‘Yes, an extra drumming student. Me.’

A look passes between the girls, one loaded with oestrogen; one Theo and I have zero hope of deciphering. One MJ seems to be having trouble understanding, too—until Sandy nudges her with her elbow.

MJ sweeps a hand along the back of her neck, brushing the weight of her long, inky hair forward over a rigid shoulder. She lifts her eyes and moonless midnight locks on me. ‘You can pay me by giving Sandy drumming lessons.’

Sandy sends me a quick smile. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn.’

My gaze toggles back and forth between MJ and Sandy. I have no idea what’s going on, but heaviness gathers in my gut. The kind you feel when you know something smells off, but damn if you can find the source of the stench.

‘See?’ Theo heaves the canvas under one arm. ‘Problem solved. And with Macca doing the tutoring, you can’t fail.’ He grins at his sister and heads towards his room with his new stash of paint supplies.

He’s probably right. MJ’s the best shot I’ve got at passing, but something tells me it’ll cost me more than just drumming lessons.

My fingers tighten around the drumstick. ‘You sure about this?’

She glances at Sandy. Tiny shoulders slump on a heavy exhale before those huge eyes find mine. ‘Final exams are in November. That gives us just under two months. How far behind are you?’

Too far behind. ‘I failed the mid-sem exam.’ Again.

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath as though bracing herself for the impossible. Real confidence booster that.

‘Ideally, you’ll need two sessions a week. I can give you one.’ Her voice is all business. ‘We can start tomorrow, after your lectures and before I head home for the weekend.’

Now it’s me shaking my head. ‘I can’t do Fridays.’

Slender arms cross over bottle green. ‘Do you want to pass or not?’

I lean back in my chair and fold my own arms over my chest. ‘I can’t do Fridays.’

If we’re going to do this, she needs to get that straight. Fridays are non-negotiable.

Her response? A moonless midnight glare. I’m all but convinced she’s about to give me the see-ya-later-loser finger when Sandy clears her throat.

MJ stills, briefly closes her eyes. ‘Fine. How about Monday morning? My first lecture doesn’t start until nine. We can meet at the library at eight.’

‘Eight is fine.’

‘Not too early for you?’

Sandy elbows her in the ribs again and—nope—can’t say I’m sorry about the flash of discomfort that crosses MJ’s face.

‘Eight is fine.’ I force my lips into a tight smile.

She harrumphs, grabs her messenger bag and slings it over her shoulder. ‘Hey, Theo, if you don’t need me anymore, I’m going to head,’ she calls in the direction of her brother’s room.

‘See ya. Thanks again for dropping my stuff.’

‘Sure.’ She watches Theo’s bedroom door for a moment or two before turning my way again. ‘Monday morning. Outside the library.’ She’s all business as she buttons her blazer.

I point at her with my drumstick. ‘Bright and early.’

She grabs Sandy by the arm and jerks her towards the front door. After it clicks shut behind them, my eyes stay glued to the age-stained off-white paint. What just happened? A quarter of an hour ago I was convinced I’d fail chemistry. Now the odds are looking up because Theo’s prickly little sister is my damn chemistry tutor!

My restless fingers madly twirl the drumstick as I think. After a full five minutes I’ve come to a conclusion—it’s never been this hard to keep the damn drumstick from falling to the floor.

A Drum Of A Plan

I manage to keep quiet all the way down the first flight of stairs, before I give Sandy my best what-the-heck? look. ‘Drum lessons?’ My disbelieving question bounces off the stairwell walls. ‘Since when are you interested in drum lessons?’

She stops at the next landing and makes are-you-for-real? eyes at me. ‘Since Luke Bains is teaching them.’

I huff and start down the next flight of stairs.

‘Wait, why are you upset?’ She hurries down after me. ‘The whole thing couldn’t have turned out better. Luke earns the cash to pay for his tutoring, I get to spend time with Luke, Theo saves his buddy from flunking another uni subject, and you earn brownie points for helping out a friend. Everybody wins.’

Put like that, who can argue? No one, because—hello!—captain of the debating team, remember? That doesn’t change the fact that I’ve more or less been cornered into this whole tutoring thing.

‘I just don’t know if I have the time for anything extra, what with uni work and Year 12 and, well …’

‘Jason?’

My face warms. Not with embarrassment, but with guilt. Here I am, unwilling to help Sandy spend time with the guy she likes because it might mean less time with the guy I like. Some friend I am.

‘I guess one session a week is workable.’ Drummer Boy needs more, but one is better than nothing. ‘And I suppose it’s good revision while I’m doing it.’

Sandy wraps an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze as we hit the foyer. ‘Thank you. And you never know, tutoring Luke might give you brownie points in the brains department.’

I elbow her in the ribs. ‘It’s Introductory Chemistry. A piece of cake.’

‘Well, I-only-get-Distinctions brainiac, you’re doing it for a worthy cause.’ She pulls open the front door. ‘That’s got to make a good impression on the guy.’

‘So you’re a worthy cause now, are you?’

She cuts me an unimpressed glare as I round to the driver’s side of the Honda. ‘And here I thought you had no sense of humour. Seriously though, you’re helping Theo help his mate. That’s got to count for something.’

Maybe, maybe not. There’s no getting around the truth of it though: tutoring Luke will cut into my time—time I should be spending on my studies.

You’ll be helping Theo. Smart girl, my roommate, making it about helping Theo rather than Luke and her. We’ve only shared a room for a year and a half, but it didn’t take her long to figure out I’d do anything for my brother.

Mind you, if Mum found out I was ‘wasting’ my time tutoring instead of studying, she’d need to give herself CPR to get her outraged heart pumping again.

‘Let’s see how Monday goes.’ I buckle up and start the car.

Sandy reaches for the heater and cranks it up full blast. ‘I’m sure it’ll go swimmingly.’

Hopefully, because I haven’t tutored the guy yet and I’m already stressing about the whole thing.

At least I’ve got my first meeting with Jason before I see the drummer boy. Now, there’s something to look forward to.

***

My gaze strays to the coffee shop’s door for what must be the ninth or tenth time in the last five minutes. I’m early, I know, but a semester and a half attending the same chemistry and bio lectures as Jason has taught me he’s habitually early. Like me.

Except, apparently, this Friday.

I glance around the coffee-sipping crowd one more time looking for the familiar grey and teal of St. Barnaby’s uniform in case I’ve missed him holed away in some secluded corner, nose deep in his study notes. He’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s forgotten we’d agreed to meet before I head home for the weekend. Doubtful. He’s just as excited about this bio assignment as I am. And even though I can’t yet say for sure, I suspect he’s fastidious about noting the dates and times of his appointments. Like me.

My phone buzzes. The moment I catch sight of the screen, my teeth find the corner of my lip. It’s not Jason.

‘Hi, Mum. I’m not driving home straight away, remember? I’m meeting with Jason.’

‘That’s why I’m calling, Mackenzie. I don’t have much time. My next patient is due any moment. Is Jason there already?’

Her call might be unnecessary—she would have grilled me about my meeting with Jason before my school bag hit the hallway floor—but not unexpected. The great Meike Olsen-Wang needs to be on top of every detail related to my academic life.

I grip the mobile tighter. ‘No. I’m waiting for him now.’

‘Very good. Don’t forget to stress the benefits of choosing one of the research topics we selected.’

We? From memory, I had little say in the matter.

‘Yes, sure.’ I grab Professor P’s list of suggested paper topics and scan the highlighted items. I can recite the selection backwards, but I pour over it again; years of following my mother’s direction renders the act more compulsion than choice. ‘I’ll run it by him.’

The inhale of breath on the other end of the line trembles with impatience—that Viking-ancestor temper. ‘No, Mackenzie, you will carefully outline our arguments to him like we discussed, not run it by him. Getting Distinctions in your university subjects will give you a much-needed advantage. Have you any idea how difficult it is to secure a place in Sydney’s pre-med?’

Have I ever! It’s hard not to when it’s all she’s been harping on about since I started the Head Start program. But Sydney Uni? I’ll gladly continue on at Macquarie or head to Melbourne or Monash—the further away the better—to fulfil Mum’s ‘my daughter, the surgeon’ dream, but not Sydney. I don’t think I could survive her alma mater. Being compared to the brilliantly perfect and perfectly brilliant Meike Olsen-Wang would push me over the edge.

I’d never tell her this. Instead, I do what I always do. ‘Yes, I know, Mum.’

‘Good. Very good.’ A shaky laugh travels down the phone. ‘You’re an Olsen-Wang with an excellent opportunity, Mackenzie. Remember what that means.’

How can I forget? If we had a family crest, it’d read: The measure of your worth is in the use of your brain. And as far as my mother is concerned, there’s only one use for my capable brain—medicine.

My fiddly fingers freeze on the Post-it notes marking the articles in the stash of Scientific American periodicals I’ve brought to discuss with Jason. I swallow, the use of my brain is more than safe with Jason as my partner. The guy’s academic record would leave Stephen Hawking impressed.

The café door opens and I look up. ‘I have to go. Jason is here.’ I hang up before my mother can continue her screwed-up version of a pep talk.

‘Hi.’ Jason pushes his straight brown hair off his forehead as he sits down opposite me at the brand-new-but-made-to-look-rustic table. I glance at my phone—3.58. I guess he is still early.

I reach for the readings I’ve brought along, but at the last second remember the required social etiquette. ‘Did you want to order something?’ I point to my half-empty cup of hot chocolate. Mind you, two minutes doesn’t give him enough time to make an order without cutting into our agreed meeting time.

Jason shakes his head and taps my pile of periodicals. ‘You came prepared. Good. Because I intend to take this assignment very seriously.’

I relax into my seat. ‘So do I.’ I pull the stack of journals closer. ‘I thought we could use these to help pinpoint a field of interest. Unless you’ve already set your heart on something?’ Genetics. Please say genetics. Apart from being one of my mother’s approved topics, it would be indisputable proof that Jason is the guy for me. Because while my brain is being honed for all things medicine, my heart has been set on genetics since the day I stumbled on that letter from the Huntington’s Disease Society.

Expression set in quiet concentration, Jason flips through the first article I’ve marked—one on micro-biome engineering. He scans the abstract. ‘My interests lie mainly in the field of biotechnology, but I’m open to suggestions.’

Yes! Biotechnology I can work with. ‘Have you read the latest on CRISPRS?’

He pauses his page flicking and glances up. The spark of interest in his pale blue eyes brings his serious face to life. ‘That’s the bacteria-based DNA editing technique everyone’s racing to perfect, correct?’

I nod and pull last December’s issue from the pile, trying hard to temper my enthusiasm towards the topic. I don’t want Jason to think I’m overeager or … obsessed.

‘They’re calling it a “jaw-dropping” breakthrough in the fight against hereditary disease.’ I open the dog-eared periodical at the relevant page. ‘The technique has blown open possibilities in the field of genetics. Things are changing rapidly and it’s a bit … controversial.’ I glance over at him, find his eyes, and hope that spark of interest is still—perfect! It’s still there. ‘And you know nothing excites Professor P more than the whiff of something controversial.’

‘Hmm,’ is all he says, but he slides the mag closer and starts reading. Chatter hums throughout the coffee shop as I focus intently on Jason’s face and try hard to read his expression. He turns the page and my fingers tingle with the need to point out the third paragraph where the Cas9 enzyme is mentioned.

‘The research into Cas9 looks interesting,’ he says, not looking up.

Yes! But all I give him is a noncommittal ‘Hmm’ as I shove my hands under my thighs.

As he reads, Jason runs a hand through his hair, attempting to tame the few rogue strands that just won’t stay off his forehead. Zac Efron, eh? I squint, and well, maybe Sandy is onto something. Although Jason’s hair is a lot darker than the movie star’s, and his eyes are a pale blue, whereas Efron’s are … well, I wouldn’t know what colour Zac Efron’s eyes are.

My own eyes take in the rest of him. His face is more angles than planes: straight ski-slope nose, defined razor-blade jaw, two smooth hollows for cheeks, like he’s permanently sucking them in. My gaze strays to his lips. They’re a pale pink, top lip slightly bowed. Nice. Even if they do look a bit pouty with that sucked-in cheek thing he keeps doing. They’re also the only soft-looking feature in amongst all his stark seriousness. Maybe the contrast is nothing more than a trick of the coffee shop’s light. Only one way to find out.

The thought shoots sparks of excitement up my spine, followed closely by the cold, clammy hand of self-doubt. What am I doing, thinking about testing the softness of Jason’s lips? My only experience with this kind of thing amounts to ten minutes of awkward groping with Michael Chang in Aunt Maylin’s crammed laundry after Chinese New Year dinner last January. Just what every girl dreams of: a first—and very overdue—make-out session involving a bum wedged into a basket of dirty clothes.

Jason McNeil is one personal project I want to pass with more than an average grade.

I’m about to compare the rest of his physical attributes to Zac Efron’s when Jason cuts my inspection short.

‘I’m happy to put CRISPRS on our shortlist.’ He closes the magazine and puts it back on the pile. ‘But I think we should give other areas of biotechnology consideration. It’s never a good idea to make a decision as big as this without exploring all possibilities.’

I swallow the sudden wave of disappointment and remind myself Jason was a finalist in the Siemens competition last year. That alone is enough motivation for me to curb my urge to argue.

I force a smile instead. ‘Of course. Like you, I’m open to suggestions.’

He smiles back. The action sends the softness of his lips across the angles and planes of his face, and some of my disappointment disappears.

Jason bends, rummages in his bag, then turns towards me so swiftly I lean back in my chair. ‘I also came prepared.’ He dumps his own stack of periodicals on the table, all marked with Post-its.

Like mine.

The rest of my disappointment evaporates and I smile. This time there’s nothing forced about it.

Jason points out a selection of articles. ‘How about you read these over the weekend and I’ll read yours? We can decide on a project topic next week when we meet up again.’

I nod. ‘Sounds fair.’ And it is only fair that I take Jason’s suggestions as seriously as I want him to take mine.

‘First thing Monday morning good for you?’ Jason looks at me expectantly. ‘To meet up again, that is. We could meet before our nine o’clock lecture.’

First thing, eh? Nice and eager, I like that. I nod. ‘Monday morning is—’ then I remember, ‘—no good.’

My mixed head-nod no-good message has Jason bunching his brows.

I slump a little in my chair. ‘I have a tutoring student.’

‘Oh.’ Jason’s cheeks cave a fraction further as he purses his mouth. ‘This tutoring student won’t interfere with your commitment to the assignment, right?’

‘What? No!’ I sit bolt upright again. ‘It’s nothing. I … he’s a friend of my brother’s. He just needs some help with his chemistry work leading up to exams.’

Jason leans back in his seat, hands reaching for his stack of science journals. ‘MJ, I can’t work with someone who doesn’t take this as seriously as I do, so if you’re not sure, I can always ask Professor P for a new—’

‘No! I’m fully committed.’ I slap a hand on the periodical pile and swallow my rising panic. ‘I won’t let it interfere, I promise.’ So much for earning brownie points in the brains department. The way Jason is cocking his head and eyeing me sceptically, he’s not too keen on me sharing my brains with anyone other than him.

I offer him a reassuring smile. ‘It won’t interfere.’ At least that’s the truth, because I’ll dump Luke’s chem-challenged backside the minute it looks like it might stand in the way of me partnering Jason. Schooling my face into what I hope is a no-nonsense expression, I grab hold of Jason’s forearm. He’s sinewy beneath the cotton of his long-sleeve T-shirt. ‘Trust me, I’m committed.’

He regards me a moment longer but then smiles, warmth tugging at his angles and planes. ‘I guess if you make sure it’s not a problem …’

Relief has me sagging in my chair. ‘What about Monday lunch instead?’ We’re in the same first year science classes thanks to the Head Start program.

He considers this for a moment. ‘Monday lunch is good,’ he says, pulling over my pile of periodicals. ‘You know, I’m glad Professor P suggested you as my assignment partner. I think he’s right about us working well together.’

His gaze drops to my mouth, only for a second, but it’s enough to send tingles dancing all over my lips. Monday lunch can’t come soon enough. Unfortunately, I have to endure Monday morning’s tutoring session first.

Luke

Oh Tutor, My Tutor

My plan is simple: get to the library before MJ does. Call it juvenile, but I figure arriving before her will give me the upper hand. I’d bet a new set of Zildjian cymbals she’s the über-organised type—bookshelves sorted in alphabetical order, T-shirts stacked in colour-coordinated towers. Being on time is part and parcel of that kind of package.

I usually avoid people like her. My lack of organisation tends to disappoint the MJs of this world. No such luxury this time; I need the über-organised little hedgehog to pass my chem final.

The peace lawn behind the library is close to deserted. It’s only the hardcore-8am-lecture students trekking across it in the bite of the eight-degree morning. I feel like a fraud trudging in the same direction. You take chemistry? The stunned disbelief in MJ’s voice bounced around in my brain all weekend. By Sunday I was so rattled I started messaging Theo with instructions to tell his sister not to bother showing up this morning. If it hadn’t been for Rosie demanding my constant attention, I would have pressed send.

Beating MJ to the library is my way of reclaiming some control over this messed-up situation. Juvenile? Maybe. But at this point it’s all I’ve got.

Or not.

I stumble to a stop at the bottom of the library stairs, blink, rub my eyes. I’m barely awake so they can’t be trusted but … you’ve got to be kidding me. Arms crossed over her overcoat, back straight as a 2B pencil, she’s already here.

Goodbye, upper hand.

I breathe out, my defeat clouding in the frigid air.

‘Morning.’ I try for light and weightless but the word sticks to my tongue. Not the best day to skip my morning coffee. I climb the steps to where she’s standing. ‘You know the library doesn’t open ’til eight, right?’

Her lips flatten. ‘The library might not open ’til eight but the twenty-four-hour study space is open—’ she points to the sign on the sliding glass door to the left of the entrance, ‘—twenty-four hours.’ One delicate brow arches. Slowly. Like the fact I may have forgotten this has earned me a strike against my name on one of her lists somewhere.

‘I’ve been here studying since seven.’ Her chin lifts. ‘While you’ve been sleeping off the consequences of your wild weekend by the looks of things.’

Whoa! Hold up one damn minute. ‘Consequences of my wild what? Why … what makes you think I’ve been sleeping off anything?’

She eases closer and assesses my face like she’s looking at bacteria under a microscope. ‘Those rings under your eyes either mean you were partying all weekend or you’re hiding a more serious habit.’

Talk about regretting skipping my morning coffee. Somehow I manage to keep from rubbing at the dark circles MJ sees as evidence of a wild night. I’m tired, that’s about as obvious as the unimpressed scowl on her face, but partying isn’t the reason. As for a more serious habit, I might be failing chemistry but I’m not stupid enough to touch drugs. This morning’s Night of the Living Dead impersonation is all thanks to Rosie. The past few weekends she’s been clingy, not wanting me to leave. Which means I have to wait until she’s asleep before heading back to the apartment. By the time I crawled under the sheets after the drive back last night, it was well after two. Getting up this morning was an effort—one MJ clearly doesn’t appreciate. Besides, didn’t she say eight o’clock? Some deep-buried defensive instinct has me crossing my own arms.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I glance at my watch—five to eight. ‘Early even.’

Her nose twitches. ‘I’m telling you now, I won’t work with you if you don’t take this seriously.’ The strap of her messenger bag slips off her shoulder. She hoists it back into place like she’s steadying a rifle, then takes another shot at me. ‘I refuse to work with you if you show up after a bender.’

Drugs? A bender? ‘You got all this from a couple of dark rings under my eyes?’

Both her brows lift; a silent invitation to contradict her self-righteous assumption.

Man, I so don’t need this crap. Especially on a non-caffeinated Monday morning.

A guy I recognise from my chem tute walks up to the library doors and the reason I’m here floods back on the tide of my unfortunate reality—I do need this crap. I need to pass chemistry.

I sigh and unfold my arms. ‘I drive home to Muswellbrook every weekend. It’s a good two-hour trip, that’s if there’s no pile up on the highway. I didn’t make it back ’til early this morning.’

She doesn’t lose her barbed wire attitude but at least my explanation makes her scowl disappear.

‘Well … fine.’ Another one of those damn annoying nose twitches. ‘But make sure it doesn’t happen again.’ She gives her bag strap another yank and marches through the now-open library doors.

With a shake of my head, I follow. Mental note: don’t forget to buy coffee before the next session with the prickly little hedgehog. Large espresso, double shot.

This Isn’t Going to Work

Despite barely managing to keep his eyes open, I feel the weight of Luke’s stare between my shoulder blades as he follows me into the library. Most of the study booths are empty this early in the day—testament to the stereotype that university students sleep late. I like studying here nice and early. Mornings at the boarding house are crazy with Year 7 girls frantically searching for missing bits of their school uniform while the choral group seniors use the showers as their personal rehearsal space.

So, Drummer Boy claims he drives home every weekend, eh? Isn’t the whole point of uni to get away from home, not run back? Or try to get out of home earlier, like me.

Mum wasn’t pleased when I asked to become a weekly boarder at the start of Year 11. She would have much preferred I stayed at home where she could keep a closer eye on me in my final years of high school, but with the long hours she works and all the travelling Dad does for his job, I convinced her boarding would be a good option, at least during the week. I didn’t bother pushing for full-time boarding. No chance of that in Meike Olsen-Wang’s hawk-eyed hell. Thankfully, her and Dad agreed to the weekday-only arrangement. I desperately needed the distance to breathe.

I’d toed the academic line through all of high school, never complaining about the extra tutoring or the Saturday classes. I stayed quiet about never having friends over and always having to say no when someone invited me to a birthday party or a sleepover or, heaven forbid, something as frivolous as a night at the movies.

Sometimes, in my own way, I pushed back. I’d practise that day’s piano sonata only four times instead of five. Or deliberately skip a few questions in the allocated chapter of my Extension Maths textbook. Sometimes, despite the sick feeling it caused in the pit of my stomach, I’d even arrive at a class a few minutes late.

Small rebellions, I know. Pathetic, even. Never anything that might have brought Meike Olsen-Wang’s Viking-ancestor wrath down on me. Never anything that carried lasting consequences. I’m not that brave.

Not like Theo.

I slide into the study booth and motion for Luke to do the same. The faux leather creaks under our weight as we settle. ‘First off, you should tell me where you think your deficiencies lie.’

‘My deficiencies?’ His brows bunch as he unzips his fleece-lined hoodie.

‘Your deficiencies: the areas in which you have a lack, a shortcoming—where you need my help.’

His jaw clenches and he stares at me without answering. I watch something like indecision flicker in his eyes. They’re parakeet green. Nice enough, but I don’t know what Sandy is fussing about.

When the silence starts to become uncomfortable, I sigh. ‘Which sections of the exam did you get the worst marks in?’

He works his jaw some more. ‘Chemical reactions and energy flows.’

‘Is that all?’ If he’s failing that can’t be all.

He leans back in his seat, making the upholstery protest again. ‘And modelling bonding in molecules. They’re my main … deficiencies.’

There are sure to be more but it’s enough to start with. ‘Fine. Show me your study notes on those topics. I’ll need to see if you have any glaring gaps in the information you’ve taken down.’ I’m hoping it’s as simple as teaching him how to take notes effectively.

Half my high school cohort has no idea how to write study notes. The downside of being born part of the copy-and-paste generation, my mother claims. So while other kids learned to swim laps or ride bikes, I surfed databases and cycled down the information highway, learning to summarise, paraphrase and reconstruct other people’s knowledge. Far more useful, Mum insisted. And I guess it is—as long as I stay away from large bodies of water and never hope to win the Tour de France.

While Luke rummages in his backpack, I use the opportunity to take a peek at his apparently taut drummer’s arms. The hoodie makes things a little difficult but as far as I can tell … they’re just arms. His bicep bulge isn’t even all that impressive. What is Sandy making such a fuss about?

My arm inspection is interrupted when Drummer Boy stops his rummaging and sends his head lolling onto the backrest behind him. He groans so loudly the girl in the next booth turns around to glare shut-the-hell-up daggers at us.

‘Keep it down,’ I say. ‘No one’s interested in your self-inflicted hangover.’

‘Now hold up one damn minute.’

Startled by Luke’s sudden outburst, I push back into my seat.

He rests the very arms I was giving a once over on the table between us and leans forward. ‘I’m not hungover. I didn’t party last night and I don’t do drugs.’ His voice is paper-thin, strained with the effort to keep it just above a whisper. ‘I’m tired. That’s it—tired.’

For the first time this morning, his eyes are wide and green and fully awake.

‘If anything, the fact I showed up—and early—proves I’m serious about this tutoring thing.’

Valid argument, but it’ll take more than that to convince me.

‘So what’s with the deathbed groaning?’ I force some steel into the question even though his glare keeps my back flattened against my seat.

Said glare loses some of its defensiveness. ‘I forgot to bring my chem notes.’

It takes me a moment to register what he’s said, because who in their right mind comes to a tutoring session and forgets to bring their notes?

‘Tell me you’re not serious.’

Drummer Boy shoves a hand into the dark blond waves of his hair. ‘Look, I got home late, was rushed this morning, and, yeah …’ His gaze slinks from mine. ‘I forgot my notes.’

When he looks up again, there’s a silent apology in the tired green of his eyes.

Another set of eyes—pale blue—come to mind.

‘I don’t think this is going to work.’ I pile my books and binders into my messenger bag before I can change my mind. ‘I really don’t have time to waste on someone who can’t organise his own bag in the mornings.’ If he really was serious he’d come prepared. Like Jason. I shake my head. How can I even think about the two of them in the same brainwave?

‘You never wanted to do the tutoring, did you?’

Judging character is not one of my strengths, but the way Luke is slouching, arms folded, the apology in his eyes replaced by a defiant glint, he looks the very picture of a deadbeat drummer.

‘No.’ I shove my laptop into my bag.

‘So why did you say yes?’

Why did I? Sandy is hard to refuse, but that’s not the reason I said yes.

I take a breath. ‘Because Theo asked me to.’ And I’ve never been able to say no to Theo. Before he left for uni it was because of the way he always, without fail, stood up for me. After graduation, it was guilt—because the one time he needed me to, I couldn’t find the courage to stand up for him.

‘But now you’ve decided I’m too stupid to waste time on.’ It’s not a question, yet there’s no doubt Luke is waiting for an answer. My mouth opens but … I don’t know which words to give him in reply. What I do know is the exact moment he hears the shameful ‘yes’ in my silence.

‘Thanks.’ He’s up and reaching for his backpack.

‘Luke, wait—’ The faux-leather squeals as I shoot up to grab his arm. ‘I’m—’ What? Sorry? Well, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that this whole tutoring thing has come at a seriously inconvenient time. Still, I don’t want to leave it like this. ‘It’s just that final exams are soon and I’m working on my own uni assignments and—’

‘Save it, MJ.’ His lips stretch into a parody of a smile. ‘I get it. You haven’t got time to waste on someone like me.’ With that he pulls his arm from my hold and, backpack slung over one shoulder, walks along the row of study booths towards the exit.

My teeth catch the corner of my bottom lip and bite down hard to stop myself from calling after him. It’s better this way. Friend of Theo’s or not. I grab my messenger bag and make my way out of the library.

It doesn’t escape me that I walk the entire stretch of study booths and half the expanse of the peace lawn before my palm loses the warm memory of Luke’s solid bicep.

Luke

Drum Balm

The moment my eleven o’clock Teachers Ed lecture finishes, my feet make for the music department like they’re programmed to chew up the distance in as little time as possible. As I walk, I bite into the chicken and mayo sandwich I picked up from the student cafeteria. The thing might as well be made of sawdust. Maybe the lack of flavour has something to do with the sandwich sitting in my bag for the past hour. Or maybe I’ve lost my sense of taste after this morning’s epic ego bashing.

So I was tired and forgot my notes. Not a good start, I get it. But did she have to make me feel so bloody stupid?

I take another tasteless bite and send up a silent prayer: please let the rehearsal room be empty. This isn’t one of my regular practice sessions, and I can’t remember if someone else has booked this time slot, but if I don’t do something to rid myself of this unsettling mix of numbness and frustration, I’ll lose my nut.

That look on her face. Too stupid to waste time on. A mix of pity and disdain. Too stupid to waste time on. That look said more than any of her words ever could.

And it was exactly like the one on my father’s face all those years ago.

I was only seven, too naive to understand what the look meant. But even then, I recognised the superiority in it; the conviction that he was somehow above the responsibility life had handed him.

Too stupid to waste time on.

Yeah, well, they can both shove their superiority where the grass don’t grow.

I swallow but the saw dust sandwich sticks to the roof of my mouth. I turf the rest of my uneaten lunch into the nearest bin.

My mobile rings just as I push open the door to the music building. I don’t need to check to know it’s Theo. I was meant to meet him at the cafeteria for an early lunch. I toy with ignoring the call. Nah, he’ll figure out where to find me. Besides, if I don’t have this conversation now, I’ll be forced to have it later tonight. And I’d rather do it over the phone, where he can’t see the anger written all over my face.

I hit talk. ‘Hey. I’m not coming.’

‘Could have told me. I’ve been waiting at The Not So Dim Sim for the past ten minutes.’ As though to verify what he’s saying, someone orders the sweet and sour pork on the other end of the line.

‘Sorry. Something came up.’ I take a left past the sound editing rooms, my feet on autopilot.

‘Like what?’

‘Emergency rehearsal.’ I wince at the lie.

Theo’s a good guy, a friend. But I’m not about to tell him a few well-aimed words from his little sister blasted a gaping hole in my ego and now I need to hit some skins to bring the feeling back into my numb sense of self-worth.

‘For what?’

I don’t expect the question. I’m frantically scratching around in my brain for a believable answer when the scream of an electric guitar down the hall sparks an idea. ‘One of the guitarists from my music class scored an audition. Asked me if I could help him run through his set.’

‘Which one?’

‘Which one what?’

‘Guitarist. Is it Patrick or the dude with the turd-like dreadlocks?’

Despite my crappy mood, I smile. The guitar solo down the hall gains speed; semiquavers racing each other in a crescendo. I recognise the AC-DC classic. Definitely something Patrick would be into.

‘Patrick.’ I shake my head in disgust. Bad enough I’m lying, but now I’ve dragged Patrick into the dishonest mud with me.

‘Funny,’ Theo says.

‘Why?’

‘Because Patrick’s here, stuffing his face with noodles.’

Damn. I slow. Stop. Close my eyes for a beat.

‘Luke?’ Theo waits. When I don’t say anything … ‘How did this morning go?’ The guy is way too perceptive.

I slump a shoulder against the wall and focus on the screeching guitar solo filtering down the hallway. ‘Look, thanks for trying but it’s … your sister can’t help me.’ No, not can’t, won’t … she won’t help me.

‘Are you sure? ’Cause, like I said, she really knows her stuff. She’s a child prodigy.’

‘That’s not it. It’s not the content. It’s … our schedules just don’t line up. And she’s working on some paper for some important assignment, and I’m …’ Too stupid to waste time on.

There’s a dull throb on the side of my head. I’ve got the phone pressed so hard against my ear the edge is digging into the cartilage. My jaw locks and I press harder; the ache takes the focus off those six words swimming around in my head.

‘I can talk to her again, get her to—’

‘No!’ The word has more bite than intended, but I’ll eat a bucket of sawdust chicken and mayo sandwiches before I get him to beg MJ for her intellectual charity. I ease the mobile away from my ear a little. ‘Leave it, yeah?’ I say, this time with less teeth. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

Theo goes quiet. Lunchtime cafeteria noise and chatter travels down the line instead.

‘Again, thanks for trying.’ I push off the wall. ‘Talk to you at home.’

I start walking again. Faster. My destination: the soundproof rehearsal room.

***

The rehearsal room is empty. Thank you, musical gods. As soon as the door shuts behind me, my eyes zero in on the drum kit near the far wall. It’s bigger than the one at home: four toms plus the floor, two extra crash and ride cymbals, and a double kick. I don’t usually use the full kit—much prefer a clean, pared back sound—but today I’m planning on hitting every available surface. And then some.

I cross the room, my footfalls eerily quiet, their sound swallowed by the soundproof panels on the walls. Five seconds later I’ve plugged my phone into the sound system, my sticks are in my hand and I’m adjusting the throne for my height.

My foot finds the kick pedal, tests its familiar weight, filling the room with a warning boom, once … twice. Too stupid to waste time on. I twirl the sticks in my fingers, concentrating on the slide of cool wood against my skin. Too stupid to waste time on. I bite down on my frustration, but the words still echo in my head. Too stupid to waste time on. Only one way to drown them out.

I press play.

The speakers vibrate with the opening riff of Titanium. I ride the cymbals, gently at first, on the end of the opening eight bars. Close my eyes, add the kick in the second eight. Two, three, four … then the tom, two, three, four … the snare two, three, four. The beat pushes up my legs, into my cold core. Each hit of the toms fractures my anger, chips away at my numbness until I’m bulletproof. My fingers absorb the cymbal reverb, each clash a shot at those stupid, bloody words. I don’t know who I’m angrier at—my father or MJ. Doesn’t matter. He’s not part of my life and I’ll be damned if I ever deliberately cross paths with MJ again.

I focus on the beat as it pulses under my skin, through my veins, into my bones.

Steady. Calming.

Accepting.

I am titanium.

The Not So Dim Sim

The classes before lunch pass in a blur. My thoughts are a mess, continually drifting to my meeting with Jason. It’s highly annoying, but what did I expect? I’m anxious to know what decision he’s come to about the topic for our research paper. Other than a brief bout of guilt, courtesy of a text from Theo asking me to call him about the tutoring, I’ve thought of nothing else.

As a consequence, I scan the hall for Jason’s serious face the moment I make it to our biology lecture. He’s in the second row, an empty seat to his left. We’ve never sat together during our shared lectures, but now that we’re paired for the assignment, I’m sure he won’t find it strange if I sit beside him.

‘Sorry. Excuse me. Just need to … thanks.’ I shuffle along the row, knocking knees and dodging bags, all the while ignoring the annoyed glares thrown my way.

‘Hi,’ I whisper as I slide into the empty seat beside him. He gives me a quick smile before returning his attention to his laptop and his notes.

Normally I would be just as engrossed in Professor P’s take on molecular genotyping as Jason is, but today my eyes keep finding the clock display on my laptop, willing the Arrow of Time to hurry the hell up and finish this lecture already. I know we agreed to discuss our project at lunch but the waiting is killing me!

Halfway through the lecture I can’t take it anymore. It can’t hurt to give him a nudge. I dig out his periodicals and plonk them next to my laptop—right in his view. According to Sandy, guys are visual creatures, so here’s hoping this stack of peer-reviewed temptation raises Jason’s pulse rate.

Sure enough, he glances over, glances again, gives me another quick smile and then—damn—more tapping of computer keys as he returns to his notes.

I don’t expect him to forget the lecture and launch into a full-blown discussion about the project right here and now, but how hard is it to drop a hint? I slump back in my chair and spend the rest of the lecture half-heartedly taking notes and whole-heartedly glaring at my laptop clock.

The moment Professor P unclips his microphone, I shut down my computer and face Jason. ‘I’m not really hungry so I’m happy to stay here and talk.’

He gives me a crooked angles and planes smile. ‘Do you mind if we talk over lunch like we planned? I skipped breakfast this morning to get to an early study room.’

I force my head to nod. No matter how badly I want to get this conversation started, I can’t deny the guy some food. The cafeteria is only a short walk away, but I’m itching to get the ball rolling. ‘So, what did you think about the articles I gave you?’

‘Interesting.’ We file through the doors and out into the lick of early spring sunshine. ‘That recent study looking at the SIGMAR1 mutation in particular.’

Not quite the response I’m after but at least it’s positive. ‘Yes. SIGMAR1. Significant finding that, but I still think—’

‘I agree with you, though,’ Jason says, ‘CRISPRS seems to be the most suitable option for our research paper.’

I grind to a halt so quickly I’m sure I’ve left skid marks on the footpath. ‘You do?’ When Jason doesn’t notice I’ve stopped, I rush to fall into step beside him. ‘I mean, that’s great that you do!’

‘It’s controversial but that should play into our hands. And like you said, Professor P is guaranteed to like the idea.’

His words must have hands because they’ve lifted an anxious weight off my shoulders.

‘Guaranteed.’ I nod and give him a relieved smile of my own. Genetics! He’s agreed to do our paper on genetics! There’s a squeal inside me dying to force its way out, but I quash the immature reaction. Instead, I smooth my hair behind one ear the way Sandy does when she’s successfully closed a debate.

As expected, the cafeteria is swarming with hungry undergrads. Our chances of finding a table look slim. I’m about to suggest Jason buys his lunch and we head outside to talk when he points towards a group of people getting up to leave a four-seater.

‘You said you’re not hungry,’ he says as I sit down. ‘Mind holding the table while I grab something to eat?’

‘Knock yourself out,’ I say. Although maybe I should ask him to buy something for me after all. I didn’t eat much for breakfast as I was too worked up about seeing him today. I sigh and instead dig in my messenger bag for one of the muesli bars I keep stocked for occasions such as these.

Ten minutes later, Jason returns with a burger and fries. As soon as he’s seated, I pull out his stack of periodicals. ‘So now that we have a topic for our paper, we should read around it to help tease out a focused research question.’

Jason nods and takes a bite of his burger.

‘A couple of the articles you gave me—’ I pat his magazines, ‘—are relevant to the broader topic, but we’ll have to read wider to cover the breadth of developments in the field.’

He nods again. ‘I’ll set up a Google Doc reading list we can add to as we search. That way we won’t double up on the same material.’

And there it is again, the conviction that this guy is so damn perfect for me. I mean, Google Doc reading list! That was going to be my next suggestion.

He takes another bite of his burger, reminding me of the untouched muesli bar in my hand. Now that Jason has agreed to use my idea for the project, my previous anxiety has evaporated, leaving room for a stomach-churning of a different sort. Suddenly I’m famished. I rip into my muesli bar, still a little stunned at how easily everything is falling into place.

I’m about to ask Jason how often he’d like to meet while we delve into our background reading, when the sight of a familiar bottle-green school uniform across the cafeteria grabs my attention.

Sandy comes to a stop beside our table, a serve of gyoza in her hand and a side of exasperation in her eyes. ‘Found you. Not an easy task in this crowd. Especially when you don’t answer your mobile.’ If she wore glasses, she’d be looking over the rim of them at me right now.

‘I keep it on silent during lectures.’ Nothing more annoying than a phone going off in the middle of class.

‘Of course you do,’ she says and turns to Jason. ‘Hi, I’m Sandy, MJ’s roommate. Jason, right?’

Jason, still chewing on his burger, mumbles something around his food and nods a quick hello.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say before Jason can swallow and start a conversation. Sandy hasn’t risked ditching class since Anthony Sabatini tempted her with VIP tickets to a P!nk concert last year. I’m no music expert, but lunch at the university cafeteria is not in the same league as a P!nk concert.

‘It’s a B week. I have a double free Monday B week, so …’ She shrugs, like she doesn’t spend every single one of her free periods studying in the school library, usually beside me.

‘So you decided to trek all the way over here to try cafeteria food?’

She rolls her eyes in that don’t-be-ridiculous way of hers. ‘No, I wanted to talk to you.’ She slides into the seat beside me.

‘Can’t it wait ’til we get back to the boarding house? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.’ I widen my eyes meaningfully and point to the stack of periodicals.

Her gaze brushes the magazines before she offers Jason an apologetic smile.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ she says to me, dunking a gyoza into her soy sauce. ‘I just want to know when my first drum lesson will be.’ She bites into the dumpling and looks at me expectantly. ‘I mean, Luke’s on campus on Mondays, right?’

Ah, damn … drum lessons. My brain scrambles for the best way to break the bad news to her.

‘You give drum lessons?’ Jason’s eyes widen with what I assume is shock as they shift from Sandy to me.

‘No.’ I turn back to Sandy. ‘Now, about the lessons …’ There’s no easy way to tell her so … Just spit it out. ‘There won’t be any.’

Sandy stops chewing, swallows. ‘What do you mean, there won’t be any?’

I swallow too, even though all traces of muesli are long gone from my mouth. ‘This morning didn’t work out.’

Her neatly-plucked brows snap together. ‘What do you mean, it didn’t work out?’ The confusion in her question makes me want to wince.

‘Well, when we looked at the logistics, we realised it would be, you know, too hard … what with school and uni and …’ My gaze flits Jason’s way. Mouth back around his burger and eyes round with curiosity, he’s all ears. Maybe having this conversation in front of him isn’t the smartest idea.

‘You know what? Those look great.’ I point to Sandy’s gyoza. ‘Show me where you got them from.’ In one fluid motion, I snatch up my bag and grab Sandy’s arm, then drag her out of her chair so quickly she has no chance to argue. ‘Back in a minute,’ I say over my shoulder to Jason, who’s back to flicking through a Scientific American magazine.

Sandy plays along but by the time we’re in the queue at the Not So Dim Sim she’s the one gripping my arm. ‘You’ve ditched him? Ditched the tutoring?’ There’s equal parts hurt and disbelief in her voice.

I pull free of her grip and move forward in the line, both to get some distance between us—her disappointment is so palpable it’s hard to look at her—and to buy a few seconds to think. ‘It’s just not going to work.’

‘Why?’ She’s come around, so there’s no escaping the emotion on her face. ‘And don’t give me any of this crap about logistics.’

I cross my arms, less in defence and more to keep a grip on the situation. ‘He showed up wasted, spun me some drove-all-night-to-get-home story, then didn’t even have his chemistry notes with him. So, no, it’s not going to work.’ I brace myself for Sandy’s reaction. She’s perfect law school material—the cool, calm, collected type—but with those closest to her she’s not afraid to parade the full spectrum of emotion.

There’s a slight tremble of her bottom lip—the first crack in the Great Sandra DeVaughn Fault?—but then she snaps her mouth shut and forces her lips into a ruler-thin line. ‘You couldn’t do this one thing for me?’

The line moves again, taking me and my growing guilt with it.

When it stops, a need to defend myself burns its way up my throat. I grip my bag strap tighter and lean in closer to her. ‘He’s just some wannabe pop star from the wrong side of the Bridge. Can’t you just stick with the preppy North Shore guys you normally date?’

My voice has steadily crept up in volume and people behind us cast curious glances our way. I shift my weight to my other foot and try to keep my own fault line from cracking any further.

‘Wannabe rock star from the wrong side of the Bridge?’ The hurt on Sandy’s face stings almost as badly as a B on an end of year exam. ‘Ever thought I might actually like Luke? That there’s a reason why I want—’

‘Like him? You don’t know anything about him past the colour of his eyes and the size of his biceps!’

Sandy’s mouth pinches so hard her chin gets that pock-marked lemon skin look. I’ve done it again—I’ve gone too far.

She throws a glance over her shoulder at Jason. When she swings her gaze back to me, cool, calm and—almost—collected, Sandy is back. ‘Maybe a girl who’s been out with all those preppy North Shore guys could teach you at least one thing about dating.’

My stomach tenses in warning. ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that.’

She draws in a breath, makes herself taller somehow. ‘Like what, exactly?’

‘Like I’m implying that you…’ For once, I catch my foot heading for my mouth and stop, because if the look on her face is any indication, she’s about to go all Krakatoa on me.

‘Sandy, don’t do this.’ I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, the material suddenly damp. ‘There’s no reason Luke can’t give you drum lessons without the tutoring.’

‘There’s one very good reason: pride.’ She folds her arms across her chest. The action draws my eye to the crest on her school blazer—ex scientia victoria: from knowledge comes victory. ‘If you had any sort of emotional intelligence, you’d know that Luke—or any other guy for that matter—would not want any reminders of this whole tutoring venture. Not only will there be no drumming lessons, but the guy will likely not want anything to do with me now, since I’m the roommate of the girl who made him feel stupid for forgetting his notes. Thanks a million, MJ.’

We stand there, in the middle of the student cafeteria, me staring at her in confused disbelief and Sandy glaring at me in frustrated disappointment.

My mobile buzzes in my bag. Another text from Theo.

You sure you can’t manage even one tutoring session a week with Luke? It’d help the guy a heap and mean a lot to me. He’s in a really tough place.

The knot of guilt forming in my gut would make a girl scout proud. A huff brings my head back up from my phone screen.

‘Sandy, wait!’ Too late. She’s spun on her heel and is walking out of the cafeteria, leaving me with the sight of her school bag perched on rigid shoulders.

‘What can I get you?’ The question jolts me out of my stupor. I turn to face the owner of the impatient voice. ‘The menu. What would you like?’

A way to get my friend back and make my brother happy. But I don’t have to look at the Not So Dim Sim’s menu board to know I won’t find that here.

Luke

The Agreement

Symbol Ti. Atomic number twenty-two. Titanium. The corrosion resistant element mocks me from the inside cover of my chemistry textbook. Wrestling with my notes on bonding in diatomic molecules, I’m about as far from corrosion resistant as I can get. One look at the red-raw skin around my thumbnails confirms the pathetic fact.

Atoms interact by merging waves. I spin my pen in my fingers as the sentence revolves in my head. I’ve read the line and the paragraph that follows four times, but it still makes no damn sense. I’ll need to listen to the upload of the lecture again. Maybe it’ll be more enlightening the third time around.

I chuck the pen at my useless excuse for notes and dig my fingers into the corners of my eyes, pressing at the hopelessness. This study-session is corroding my will to live.

Time for a hydration break.

It’s just me and my piss-poor chem notes at the apartment. Usually I’m hanging for Theo to get back from his Monday night shift at the cinema. He’s always up for some mindless Netflix and a debrief about the weekend. For some reason he never seems to mind me harping on about Rosie’s latest antics.

Today, however, I’m hoping he’ll be back late from his shift. He’d pick up on my I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it vibe, and I’m not in the mood for the worried glances he’d throw my way when he thought I wasn’t looking.

The buzz of the intercom kills the quiet just as I reach the fridge. I scratch my cheek. It’s not even six yet. Shouldn’t Theo still be cleaning up empty popcorn packets or something? Besides, the guy has keys.

Maybe I ordered pizza and forgot, because my brain has bonded with diatomic atoms while merging waves with molecules or … whatever.

I grab a can and make for the intercom. ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s MJ. Can I come up?’

She can’t be here. Not after today. What the hell is she doing here?

‘Um … Luke?’

The cold sting of the lemonade in my hand brings me back to the here and now. I work my throat to wake up my vocal chords and press the intercom again. ‘Sorry, Theo’s not here.’ My voice is flat, uninviting, just so there’s no misunderstanding about the underlying message—not that she would misunderstand, what with that powerhouse of brains she’s carrying on her tiny shoulders. ‘Try his mobile. He won’t be back before eight.’ That’s all I give her before my thumb slides off the intercom and I head back down the hallway. I’m not the type of guy who holds a grudge but that look on her face, those words. It’s still too raw.

Four steps, that’s all I manage before the intercom buzzes again. I slump a shoulder against the wall, dig my fingers into the corners of my eyes again.

What now? More paint supplies? Maybe that’s it. If she’s just delivering tubes of paint, I can deal. Five seconds of interaction max—open the door, grab the bag, Thanks, I’ll make sure Theo gets these, close the door. Done.

I am titanium.

I down a mouthful of lemonade—briefly wishing it were something stronger—then drag some air into my lungs and release the door.

Her muffled footsteps slap up the stairs quickly. Definitely not the sluggish climb of someone burdened with a guilty conscience. Not like I was expecting remorse. I’m on the wrong side of a straight A average to inspire that emotion in the little hedgehog.

There’s a knock at the door, and the bruised part of me wants to keep her waiting, just a little. But my need to get this over with wins out. I open the door, eyes angled down at grab-the-bag level.

But there’s no bag to grab.

Brows bunching, my gaze climbs a trail up her jean-wrapped legs and cable jumper to her face.

‘Theo’s not here.’ I’ve already told her that. And it doesn’t escape me that the moronic echo will only verify her too-stupid-to-live opinion of me, but hey, she’s already tried and sentenced me so … whatever.

She shifts from foot to foot. ‘Cinema. I, um, know.’

So if she knows Theo’s out and her empty hands make it clear there’s no art supply delivery, that means … she’s made the trek up the stairs to see me? I scan her expression for hints of an apology. If she was planning on delivering one, I’d find it written somewhere on that expressive face of hers—nothing. Her mouth is a tightly clamped zip-lock bag and her moonless midnight eyes unreadable.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why?’ The word is rude around the edges. I smother a wince. If Mum heard me use that tone with a ‘young lady’, I’d feel the swat of her hand on the back of my head.

‘I, um, need to talk to you.’ MJ adjusts her bag on her shoulder. She grips the strap so tightly her knuckles gleam pearl white. Maybe I shouldn’t write off an apology just yet.

I step aside to let her in. Damn, if I’m not curious how she’ll go about this. Call it instinct, but something tells me this girl lacks apology experience.

Head held high, she leads the way into the kitchen. Once there, she faces me, still strangling that bag strap of hers.

‘About this morning. I’d like to …’ Her gaze wavers, brushes a spot over my left shoulder, then skims the scratched Formica benchtop beside me only to land on her dark blue Vans.

Come on, MJ, you can do it. The word you’re looking for is apolo—

‘Revisit my decision.’

‘Revisit your decision? What does that mean?’

Filled with resolve, her eyes lift to meet mine. ‘It means I may have been too hasty this morning. You were tired, regardless of the … reason.’ Her brows arch. It’s condescending as hell. ‘And, as they say, everyone deserves a second chance and all that.’

I swallow a snort; no way does she believe that last part. I make my way past her to the other end of the kitchen and lean back against the sink.

‘And now you, what?’ I take another gulp of my drink. ‘You want to give the tutoring another try?’ Because coming from her, I’m having trouble swallowing this second chance claptrap. Unless … ‘Hold on, has Theo twisted your arm on this?’

For a moment, her eyes flash with something resembling guilt. Then she squares her small frame and her expression shutters again. ‘Like I said, I was hasty. Unfair. So, maybe we should try for another day, when you’re less likely to be, um, tired.’

Right, definitely sibling guilt.

I deposit the soft drink on the sink and cross my arms. ‘I don’t need your charity.’

She widens her stance a little, and her free hand joins the other to clutch her bag strap. ‘It’s not charity when you’re paying for it. Sandy is looking forward to the lessons and is more than happy to accommodate your schedule. Just name an afternoon, and she’ll be there.’

Her gaze does the shoulder to Vans journey again, this time skating over the scratched table between us on its way. The whole thing is highly suspicious for someone who uses eye contact as a form of interrogation.

I give her a tight smile and reach for my lemonade. ‘You know what? This isn’t going to work.’ This time I have no problem being her echo.

MJ’s guarded expression disappears the moment my refusal is out. Her eyes grow larger and her mouth drops open as blatant surprise floods her face. The reaction rankles, like I should be grateful that she’s giving me a second chance or something. Whatever. Even chem-failing first years have some pride.

When surprise gives way to her next emotion, the can of drink stalls halfway to my lips. Panic. Her face is frozen in full out, petrifying panic. What the hell?

She recovers quickly enough and pulls her features together again. ‘Can we, um, talk about this?’

I’m wary of this bland-faced MJ. Unguarded MJ’s reactions might be a slap in the face but at least I know she’s being honest. This watered-down version is fake, and judging by the strain around bland-faced MJ’s eyes and mouth it’s a mask she’s not used to wearing. So why put it on for me? And to convince me to do something she wanted no part of right from the start?

Time to get some answers.

I pitch the can into the bin and fold my arms again. ‘Let’s cut the crap. Why are you really doing this?’

Her head jerks back and there’s a return of the zip-lock bag. I’m ready to bet my sense of rhythm she’s about to spin me another tall tale when she lets out a defeatist sigh, the tension in her shoulders deflating like a punctured tyre. Then, for the first time tonight, she looks at me with honesty in her eyes.

‘Theo asked me. I don’t want to let him down, and …’

‘And?’

She sucks in a deep breath. ‘I need your help.’

Whoa! What? ‘You need my help?’

‘Yes, I know, hard to believe, right?’

The insult should sting, but she delivers it so matter of fact, I almost laugh at her lack of social awareness. Almost.

‘How?’

‘Okay.’ She releases the strangle hold she has on her bag strap and slides her hands down to rest on the bag. ‘You might or might not remember, but I’m working on a science project …’

Yeah. Huge. Important. Whatever.

‘… It’s a research paper for uni. It’s also collaborative, which means I need to write the paper with a partner.’

My eyebrows shoot up so high they collect cobwebs off the ceiling. ‘You want me to help you write a science paper?’

MJ’s face scrunches. Two seconds later the creases of confusion iron out. ‘God no! I want you to give Sandy her drumming lessons because she’s peeved at me.’

I frown at her—she really doesn’t have any filters. ‘What’s this got to do with your science paper?’

Her face flushes a telling shade of red. ‘I can’t have Sandy peeved at me. I need her to help me make Jason realise we could be more than just assignment partners.’

Ah, now the maths is adding up. Little hedgehog’s got her spines all in a twist for a guy. ‘So why can’t you just tell this Jason guy you’re into him?’

She huffs. ‘Because I don’t have Sandy’s gift with words … or guys.’ There’s more than a hint of vulnerability in her statement.

Despite myself, a pang of pity hits me for this girl of complex contrasts. With her pale skin and midnight eyes, she’d turn her fair share of heads. Sure, she’d need to lose some of her spines. And maybe learn some basic social ettiqu—why am I even thinking about this?

I think back to Friday, Sandy sitting in almost this exact spot on the benchtop and suggesting the drum lessons as soon as I said I couldn’t afford to pay for the tutoring. Then I look up and … shoulder, tabletop, Vans.

There’s more to this than sibling guilt and snagging a guy. I smell something foul and it’s getting stronger. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

MJ blinks at me and the bland expression is back. ‘What do you mean?’

I shake my head. Someone should tell her that wannabe poker face will send her broke. ‘Either you tell me what’s really going on or you can forget the whole thing.’

The earlier panic flashes across her features. She goes for her bag strap but changes her mind mid-grab and grips one of the chairs by the back rest instead.

‘Okaaay.’ The way she sucks in a breath has me narrowing my eyes at her. ‘The thing is, Sandy might have a bit of a thing for you …’

Ah hell.

I grab the edge of the sink behind me, partly because my arms have suddenly gone limp but also because it stops me from tearing my hair out in disbelief. ‘You’re setting me up with your friend?’

‘What? No!’ She has the nerve to roll her eyes at me. ‘It’s just drum lessons. But if you want to include side benefits, I’m sure Sandy—’

‘Whoa! Hold up one damn minute.’ Did she just say side benefits? I push away from the sink and grip the back of a chair opposite her. ‘I don’t do side benefits.’

She keeps hold of the chair but leans away from the harshness in my voice. ‘Okay, okay. I just thought, since you’re into the music scene and all, you’d—’

‘What? Jump at the chance to mess around with any high school girl that shows interest? Because I’m a muso? A drummer?’

Her cheeks stain a guilty crimson even as she shrugs a shoulder in a silent yes.

I shake my head because … No words. I have no words. She really has no clue about the whole girl-guy relationship thing.

Side benefits!

‘Okay, just give her drum lessons then,’ she says, matter of fact.

My mouth drops open. The girl has labelled me stupid and easy in the space of a day and she’s still expecting me to do this? I push away from the chair so hard it bangs against the table. I need to get out, get away from her judgmental bullshit.

Her hand on my arm stops me three steps from the kitchen door. ‘Luke, wait!’

I spin to face her. ‘For what? More of your self-righteous assumptions?’

She flinches like I’ve struck her. Good. Maybe it’s finally sinking into that socially challenged brain of hers that I’m pissed off.

Despite the startled look on her face, she has a death grip on my forearm. Her throat works as she swallows. ‘I’m sorry.’

I blink … blink again.

‘I’m sorry about this morning.’ She releases my arm but holds my gaze as she scoops the inky weight of her hair over one tense shoulder. ‘About just now. I didn’t mean to … Sometimes I’m no good at …’ She blows out a long breath. ‘The thing is I need your help and you need mine. If I promise to get you through chemistry and not make any more, um, self-righteous assumptions, will you consider the drum lessons—just the drum lessons—for Sandy?’ All trace of bland-faced MJ is gone, her expression open, genuine.

My instinct screams at me to say ‘no’. The whole thing is trouble. But her midnight eyes are more than a little desperate and I am failing chemistry.

She glances at me. When I don’t say anything, her hands reach for that bloody bag strap and when her slim fingers close around it, clutching it in a silent death grip I—Ah hell!

‘Fine.’

Her mouth pops open. ‘Fine? You mean you’ll—’

‘Yes. I’ll do the drum lessons,’ I say, avoiding MJ’s eyes. The uncharacteristic gratitude in them is making me edgy. ‘I’ll walk you down.’

I head for the door. I’m done with this conversation, but we still need to organise another time for a tutoring session. I turn to ask how she wants to go about this arrangement when she speaks first.

‘Thanks.’

Whoa! First a sorry and now a thanks. Will wonders never cease? I offer a tight smile and a non-committal shrug, because I’m still undecided if she’s all that welcome. Chemistry. I’m doing this to pass chemistry.

Neither of us speaks until we’re standing beside her dark blue Honda and she’s fishing for keys in that messenger bag of hers.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. ‘So how do you want to do this?’

She turns to face me. The dark blanket of her hair gleams blue-black in the late afternoon sun as she scoops it over one shoulder. ‘Why don’t you text me the days and times you’re free and I’ll work around you.’

A good two or three seconds pass before I hand her my phone; I don’t trust this amicable version of the little hedgehog.

Her fingers fly over the screen and a few seconds later MJ Olsen-Wang’s number is in my list of contacts.

‘I’ll wait for your text,’ she says, handing back my mobile.

I nod and when I don’t say anything else—because what else is there to say?—she climbs into her car and pulls away from the kerb.

And, yeah, I’m back to having a chemistry tutor again.

This latest development will test my levels of corrosion resistance to the max.

All About Spin

‘… And for a pair of AOs to give a bonding or anti-bonding pair of MOs there’s got to be overlap, right?’ Luke’s question is almost drowned out by the incessant chatter coming from the study booth next to us. The way the group is carrying on, you’d think this was Friday night drinks at the local pub, not Thursday afternoon study at the university library. It wouldn’t be so disruptive if not for the guy with the explosive snort-like laugh.

I send them a glare over the partition. The noise dies down and snort-laugh guy eats his next round of explosions.

When I turn back, Luke’s head is bent over his notes again, his brow a crinkled sheet of concentration. For someone who’s only had just short of four sessions going over this material—I’ve managed to squeeze in an extra tutoring lesson on top of our agreed Monday afternoon one—he’s catching on surprisingly quickly. So much so I might have to revise my initial assessment of him. ‘Deadbeat drummer’ doesn’t quite describe the guy who showed up on time for all of his sessions, alert and ready to work, and with all his lecture notes at that. If you can call his pile of badly organised ideas lecture notes that is.

Straight away, I could see his note-taking was part of the problem. There was no structure. Important concepts were there but lost among trivial information. Once I suggested he try a mind-mapping approach to organise his mountain of note vomit, it was like someone flipped a switch in his brain. After that, the facts seemed to stick a lot better.

‘MJ?’ Luke glances up from his notes and lifts his brows at me.

I quickly think back to AOs and MOs. ‘Correct.’

He nods, twirls his pen in his fingers, connects several of his mind-map bubbles with lines and makes a couple more notes, before he twirls his pen again. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, then back again.

‘Is that something all drummers have to learn?’

The spinning stops, and Luke glances at the pen in his hand. ‘Yeah. We have to master it before they let us near a drum kit.’ The corners of his lips lift, sending warmth into his eyes, and the spinning starts again. ‘I can’t remember ever learning. I just do it. It’s … I don’t know … like drumming, it helps centre something inside, helps me think.’ He glances down at his notes and his smile inverts. ‘Doing this stuff, I should be spinning pens in both hands.’

‘You’re doing okay.’ Better than okay if I’m honest, but he’s not finding it easy, nor is he enjoying it. Which brings me to my next question. ‘Why chemistry? You’re a music major, right?’

The spinning stops, then starts again. ‘Percussion. But my careers advisor suggested I bulk up my teaching degree with a solid minor like maths or science if I wanted to be employable.’

‘So why not maths?’ Many musicians have a knack for mathematics.

The pen spins faster. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. Clockwise. ‘It needs to be chemistry.’

‘Why?’

‘It just does.’ The finality in his tone is so loud even I manage to pick up on it.

There’s more to this chemistry story, but my brain has moved on to my next burning question. ‘You’re studying to become a teacher?’ The last word comes out more squeak than speak. If someone asked me to guess Drummer Boy’s future profession, teaching wouldn’t have made the long list.

Luke’s pen stops spinning. ‘Something wrong with that?’

Where do I start? ‘What isn’t wrong with that? I mean, apart from the lack of respect and bad pay, why would anyone willingly want to teach a bunch of kids who’d put the Kardashians at the top of the social science syllabus?’

The pen drops to the table. ‘Whoa! Do you not have a filter? How can you—’ Luke shakes his head. ‘That’s a really shitty thing to say. On so many levels.’

Struck at the flash of hurt in his eyes, I swallow, not liking the taste his unguarded emotion leaves in my mouth. ‘Sorry. I … like I said, sometimes I’m no good with …’ People. I’m no good with people, I want to tell him. But I don’t. I pick up Luke’s pen instead and, eyes fixed on my fingers to avoid the hurt in his green ones, start twisting and untwisting the ink cartridge.

‘I was one of those kids.’ Luke’s voice is quiet. ‘I couldn’t sit still long enough to care who or what topped the social science syllabus or any other syllabus for that matter. By Year 9 everyone had written me off.’ There’s a slow intake of breath and a creak of faux leather as Luke leans forward in his seat and rests his forearms on the table.

‘There was this music teacher, Mr Lane. He saw past my inattention and disorganisation, glimpsed something no one else saw—a potential nobody else bothered looking for. He gave me my first pair of drumsticks and with them, my first ever feeling of self-worth.’ Slowly, he tugs the pen from my fingers.

I look up and brave his gaze. The hurt is gone, replaced by an emotion I know only too well: determination.

‘I want to do that, MJ. Give kids like me something to aspire to, something that’ll make them feel good about who they are, what they can do. Because we’re all good at something. Not everyone has the ability to find a cure for cancer but we can all contribute in a positive way.’ The pen spins again. ‘We need more teachers and schools to recognise that.’

I don’t know what to say in the face of his revelation. I’ve never concerned myself with those at the bottom of the grading curve. All my life I’ve been told to look forward, look up, look to better myself. Those behind me have no place in that relentless forward momentum. They don’t matter.

But they matter to Luke. His blatant outward focus, his other-centeredness, is so foreign to me it upsets my equilibrium.

‘What about you?’ he asks.

I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of the familiar bitterness that’s gathered there. ‘Medicine. Cardiothoracic.’ I don’t add that I’m expected to finish up wielding a scalpel in the surgical theatre. Luke’s eyes are wide enough, whether with awe or something else, I’m not sure.

‘No wonder you can do this chem work in your sleep.’ He smiles but it doesn’t reach the green of his eyes.

I may not rate his decision to become a teacher, but suddenly I’m struck with the need to validate him. ‘You know, teaching … that’s a very noble—’

‘Don’t.’ His voice is quieter than before. Its softness cuts my own mid-sentence. When I look up, there’s a sharp edge to the hurt in his eyes and something twists in my stomach. My gaze slinks from his, looking for something—anything—else to fix on. It lands on my phone lying on the table. Ten to five. Another few minutes and Jason will be here for our next meeting.

‘We can finish early if you want.’ Luke’s voice is back to normal, but his movements are jerky as he closes his notebook and shoves it into the backpack at his feet.

Great—I’ve crossed some invisible social line again.

‘You don’t want to discuss the last section of your notes?’

He shrugs, twirls his pen one more time before spearing it into his backpack to follow the notebook, signalling this session is over.

‘Your mind is already elsewhere.’ He tips his chin at the mobile that’s made its way into my hands. I glance down and find myself looking at Jason’s last text to me, confirming our meeting time for this afternoon. A strange mix of guilt and embarrassment heats my face. I battle it the only way I know how: I pull Luke’s chemistry textbook closer and return to the safety of AOs and MOs.

‘Didn’t you say Professor P is allowing you to do a make-up test next week?’

He nods.

‘Okay, we’ll finish this section and revise the topic on Monday night.’

‘Too late. Test is Monday morning.’ He slides the textbook out from under my hand and gives me another of those smiles that doesn’t reach his eyes.

‘Monday morning?’ Our four sessions so far aren’t quite enough to guarantee him a pass. We need at least another two. Or a serious cram session. ‘Tomorrow night then.’ I’ll tell Mum I’m studying with Jason so she doesn’t expect me home until late.

He shoves the textbook into his backpack and zips it up with more force than necessary. ‘I told you, I can’t do Fridays.’

My face heats again, this time with irritation rather than guilt. ‘If you want to pass, you’ll have to get your priorities straight, Luke.’

Arms crossed, he sits back in his seat. ‘I have my priorities straight. I’m driving home tomorrow.’ The deadbeat drummer scowl is back, and that’s about as much as I can take.

‘Look, you need a serious cram session to pass, so whatever gig and after party you’ve got lined up for the weekend will have to wait. I’m trying to help you here.’ And getting damn sick of his lack of gratitude. I mean, I have better things to do than chase him to study.

Snort-laugh guy chooses that moment to share another of his explosions. I’m ready to jump the partition and deck him over the head with Luke’s chemistry textbook but settle for another filthy glare instead.

When I turn back, Luke is shaking his head, that lifeless smile spreading across his features. ‘Is this what you call no more self-righteous assumptions?’ He angles his head and lifts the corners of his lips in a smear of a half-smirk. ‘I’m driving home tomorrow after my chemistry tute. But if you’re set on a serious cram session before Monday you’re welcome to come with me. Mum’s always nagging me to bring home a friend.’

Locked in a battle of gazes, I try to stare him down. Is he bluffing? No way am I following his sorry backside to the middle of nowhere to make sure he studies his notes.

‘What time do you leave?’ I bluff, hoping he will change his mind and stay here at the possibility of my joining him.

Luke’s eyes narrow. He shifts in his chair. Now who’s calling whose bluff, Drummer Boy?

‘One. On the dot.’

‘Text me when you leave your tutorial. I’ll meet you at your car.’ I can’t have him get the upper hand.

His jaw drops a fraction and I’m losing my fight not to smirk at the disbelief taking over his face. ‘I’m telling you, I have to get home for the weekend, MJ.’

I raise both brows. ‘And I’m telling you I’ll meet you at your car for a home-away study session.’

He stares at me, lips slightly parted. They’re darker than Jason’s, the bottom one a touch fuller, more generous. When a scoff escapes them I lift my gaze back to his eyes.

‘You’re something else, you know that?’ He stands, swipes his backpack from the floor and swings it onto his shoulder in one smooth motion. ‘Pack enough for two days and nights. We’re not coming back till Sunday.’

A sense of deja vu descends over me as my gaze follows him along the study booths towards the exit. I’ve shaken the bulk of it off when a few seconds later Jason’s voice grabs my attention from behind.

‘Your tutoring student?’ He slides into the seat Luke just vacated. His eyes are focused on the exit doors, a frown puckering his forehead.

I nod.

Jason reaches into his bag and pulls out a wad of notes. ‘How’s that coming along?’

Is that jealousy in his voice or am I being a hopeful idiot? I clear my throat. ‘Okay, I guess. He’s got a test on Monday so we’ve scheduled an extra session for the weekend.’

More lines furrow his brow. ‘An extra session? Is that going to interfere with your research time?’

The hopeful idiot in me sighs and pulls my research notes from my bag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have plenty of reading time over the weekend.’ Because when Luke realises I’m serious about going home with him tomorrow afternoon, he’ll do the quickest U-turn in driving history and we’ll be back to doing one extra cram session on Friday night.

Easy.

Luke

She Drives Me Crazy

Quarter to one. I lift my backpack off the floor and ease out of my chair, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Even so, Professor P catches my eye as I reach for the door handle. He frowns but gives me a brief nod—acknowledgement of our unspoken agreement—and I slink out of his classroom like I’ve done every Friday since signing up for his Introductory Chemistry unit at the beginning of the year.

It’s a two-hour trip, door to door. Not that long, but long enough for me to be stressing about the one o’clock lecture I’m missing while my ancient station wagon chugs down the highway in the direction of home. Worth it though. Seeing Rosie’s beautiful face always is—especially when I hand over my latest addition to her collection. I reach into the backpack to double check I’ve got the poster. Theo’s usher job at the cinema has turned out to be a goldmine during its latest ’80s movie marathon.

I pull my mobile from my pocket and check the time: 12.51—right on track. If the highway is clear, I’ll be there by three without a drama. I go to shove the phone back into my jeans but stop. Text me when you leave your tutorial. Angry heat builds behind my ribcage. I’ve managed to drown out MJ’s words for most of the day but now they come crashing to the forefront of my mind, weighing down my feet, slowing them to a stop. I palm my phone, right thumb hovering over the message icon. I should text her, blow her self-righteous you’re-a-zero-commitment-muso conviction right out of that IQ-packed brain of hers. But that means spending the weekend with the little hedgehog and I’m not sure I can cope with a 48-hour bolus dose of MJ.

While my right thumb still hovers undecided, the left one slips between my teeth and I start on the skin just above the nail. Maybe it won’t be that bad. If I ignore the way yesterday’s session ended, the tutoring has been almost bearable. Okay, maybe even kind of enjoyable. Smart is an obvious word to describe Theo’s baby sister, but, surprisingly, so is patient. And astute. Yeah, not an adjective I’d normally associate with MJ—cyborgs have better people skills—but on the academic playing field at least she reads people and situations astoundingly well. Case in point: my piss-poor note-taking system. If she lost some of her spikes she’d make a damn good teacher. The thought jerks at the corners of my mouth; one of the Muppets will win a Grammy before MJ joins the plebeian ranks of the teaching profession.

I tongue the metallic tasting line of skin above my thumbnail and force my feet to move. If I text her, I’m stuck with her for the whole weekend. If I don’t, I’m confirming her view of me. And for some bizarre reason that bugs me more than it should.

‘Didn’t I say to text me when you left your chemistry tutorial?’

My head snaps up. You’ve got to be kidding me! Arms crossed over her school blazer, my bolus dose of MJ stands at the entrance to parking block D.

‘How did you know I’d be parked here?’

She lifts her chin, possibly so she can look down her pert nose at me. ‘It’s the closest parking block to the music department. Music was your first lecture this morning and since you have a tendency to cut your arrival times fine …’ She shrugs. ‘Simple deduction.’

I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t impressed. The girl is smart. And a little scary.

I clear my throat and hold up my mobile. ‘I was about to text you.’ Not a complete lie; I’d half made up my mind to take her with me.

She cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything. I’m waiting for the nose twitch and … bingo! There it is. She’s got condescension down pat this girl, but I’m fast learning there’s a predictability—a pattern—to her reactions. Patterns are a bit like beats. And beats are my thing. I can’t help the twitch of my mouth at the realisation.

‘This isn’t funny, Luke.’ She yanks at her bag strap. ‘I’m giving up my weekend to help you pass your make-up test, so take this seriously.’

I cock my brow. If the size of her bag is anything to go by—one barely large enough to hold a laptop and some folders let alone a weekend’s worth of clothes—then she’s got no intention of giving up her weekend. Probably convinced I’m going to cave and ditch my ‘gig and after party’ if she holds her ground.

I should be annoyed, but the ridiculousness of the situation just makes me want to laugh. I quash the urge. No point in aggravating the little hedgehog more than necessary. Although I can’t wait to watch the flood of horror on her face when the truth finally sinks in. It might just be worth putting up with her for the whole weekend.

I can’t help a little dig, though. I point to her bag. ‘Traveling mighty light for two days and nights.’

She raises her chin and squares her shoulders. ‘I’ve got everything I need.’

I shake my head, fast realising MJ rivals Rosie for queen of stubborn, and that’s saying something. I brush past her into the car park. Her determined boot heels clunk on the concrete as she follows close behind. Half a minute later, she’s sliding into the passenger seat of my station wagon as I slide the key into the ignition.

Before I turn the engine over, I twist to face her and give her one last chance. ‘You really want to do this?’

She blinks, long inky lashes dropping once, twice and … is that a flash of indecision? Come on, MJ, give in, just this once. But then her shoulders pull back and …

‘This make-up test could decide if you pass or fail your chemistry unit.’ The crossed arms over her bottle-green armour signal the end of this conversation.

I suck in a deep breath and throw the station wagon into reverse. The next 48 hours could well be the longest of my life.

***

Other than the car’s wheezing engine on the highway, the cabin is silent; my sharp-shooting tutor remains strangely quiet. I glance her way. Back straight as though the fibres of her blazer are glued to the seat, she’s staring out the windscreen. I’ve only really gotten to know the little hedgehog over the past few weeks but it’s plenty long enough to know a silent MJ is as rare as a talented X-Factor boy band. It’s not long before the silence takes a sharp turn for awkward.

‘Okay if I put on some music?’

A shrug. Yeah, this is gonna be a long two hours.

I’ve set my mobile to shuffle. First track, second bar, the ropes pulling at my shoulders start to ease. When I flick my gaze MJ’s way, her face is in full expressive mode, nose scrunched up like she’s walked into a fish market on a 35-degree day. She lifts a brow in question.

‘Phil Collins. In the Air Tonight.’

There’s no response from the passenger seat so I explain. ‘Famous eighties drummer and singer for Genesis before he went out on his own.’

She shakes her head.

‘Seriously? You’ve never even heard your parents play any of this stuff?’

‘My parents lean towards classical.’

No surprise there. ‘And what do you lean towards?’

She shifts in her seat. ‘Classical.’

‘What, like while you study or when you kick back?’

She shrugs, pulls the edges of her blazer closer together, and I’m thinking this girl doesn’t know the meaning of the words ‘kick back’.

I hand her my phone. ‘TSFH faves playlist.’

She frowns but follows my instructions. Next Cannon in D Minor blasts from the speakers and her eyes chew up her face.

‘What on earth is this?’

‘Two Steps From Hell.’

Her eyes grow larger, if that’s even possible. ‘Two steps from who?’

‘They’re a trailer music production duo.’

‘Trailer as in park?’

I ignore the note of snark in her words. ‘Trailer as in movie. They write music for movie trailers.’

‘Why would you listen to movie trailer music?’ The incredulity in her voice is half insult and half confusion.

‘Because it’s damn brilliant! And awesome to drum to.’ Not that I’d expect her to know the difference between a good and bad drum song. ‘It’s also the closest to classical I’ve got.’

She snorts. ‘What, like Mozart on speed?’ But then the brass and wind sections race into the first crescendo and she tilts her head, listens. I hide my smile, thumbs keeping time on the steering wheel as the drums go off at the halfway mark. When I sneak another glance her way, her brow has stopped impersonating a sheet of corrugated iron.

‘My dad sometimes listens to jazz,’ she says as she reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a muesli bar. ‘Nina Simone. Nora Jones. But Mum’s all about classical, all about stimulating the brain.’ That last bit comes out with an edge, but when I catch MJ’s eye looking for an explanation, she drops her gaze to the muesli bar in her lap.

‘Is that lunch?’

A nod. She’s produced more than the odd muesli bar during tutoring sessions but for lunch? ‘I’ve got a peanut butter sandwich in the back if you’re hungry.’

She palms the muesli bar, teeth working her lower lip. ‘Thanks, but I often skip lunch so this’ll be all right.’

Yeah, I don’t buy it. It’s that little jut of her chin that gives her away.

‘You sure? Cause I’ve already eaten.’ I pray my empty stomach keeps my own lie quiet. ‘And I’d really like to get stuck into the bag of chips I’ve stashed with the sandwich.’ That, at least, is true.

MJ glances at the oat bar again, then up at me. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your junk food addiction.’

And there’s the snark. Eyes focused on the road, I smile. This MJ I can deal with.

I reach behind me and pull my backpack between the front seats. ‘Help yourself. There should be a bottle of water in there as well.’

MJ doesn’t waste time dropping the muesli bar back into her bag and rummaging through mine. She pulls out the food and bottle of water. The bag of chips crinkles as she tears it open and hands it to me.

‘So what’s the name of your band?’ she asks, unwrapping the sandwich.

‘My band?’ I sit the chips in my lap. ‘I don’t have a band.’

‘Hmm.’ She bites into the sandwich, then it’s only the sound of strings and brass as another TSFH track starts on the stereo.

‘But you give lessons,’ she says a moment later.

‘Yeah, Monday and Thursday nights. High school kids mostly, some first year uni students, and this one fourth year guy. No sense of rhythm, totally no feel for the music, but determined as hell to learn.’ I fish for some chips. The zing of salt and pepper hits the roof of my mouth.

‘And Sandy.’ There’s the tell-tale cap crack as MJ unscrews the water bottle. ‘I heard you had your first lesson.’ It’s a statement but her curious gaze burns question marks into the side of my face.

‘Yeah, yesterday after our tutoring session.’

She takes a mouthful of water. ‘So? Was she any good?’

I squeeze an eye shut and suck air through my teeth.

‘That bad, eh?’

‘Let’s just say rhythm isn’t your friend’s friend.’

MJ winces, then peeks across at me from under raised eyebrows. ‘So it wasn’t … awkward or anything?’

I shrug. ‘A bit, maybe.’ Sandy was a model student, but I could tell her mind wasn’t on the drumming. Talking about it to MJ, though, would be more awkward. Time to change the subject before she starts asking questions for her friend.

‘How’s the assignment going?’

MJ screws the cap back on the bottle and slips it into the centre console holder. ‘Okay, I guess.’

I cut her a glance. ‘Just okay?’

‘Good. I mean, great really.’ She perks up in her seat. ‘We’re looking at genetic editing techniques, CRISPRS technology in particular. You can’t get more interesting than that.’

Yeah, I don’t know. The only CRISPRS technology I’m interested in is the one sitting in my lap.

My hand dives back into the chip bag. ‘But?’ I ask, because I can hear the ‘but’ as loudly as the engine of the rev-head hooning past us in the right-hand lane.

The peanut butter sandwich gone, MJ scrunches the cling wrap in one hand and swivels to face me. ‘You’re a guy, right?’

My hand freezes in the chip packet. ‘Ah, on last inspection … yeah.’ I glance warily in MJ’s direction, finding quiet calculation circling in moonless midnight like a hungry shark.

‘Okay, you may have noticed I’m not all that good at, um, reading people, so how do I tell if, um …’ she takes a breath just as I hold mine, ‘… if a guy is into me?’

The chips crunch in my fingers. I brave a look at her and damn if the open vulnerability on her face doesn’t punch the breath right out of my lungs.

I release my handful of chips and grip the steering wheel with both hands. ‘You just, well … know.’

She huffs. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know!’ She pitches the cling wrap at her messenger bag. ‘It’d be a lot simpler if guys came with a criteria sheet.’

Yeah, then she could read the damn thing from top to bottom to get a Distinction.

‘I’m guessing we’re talking about your assignment partner here?’

A nod. ‘Jason. We’re meeting twice a week, and the project itself is progressing nicely, but where Jason and I are concerned …’ She sighs. ‘I don’t know what to think, what I’m meant to look for, you know … indicators of interest, that sort of thing.’

Indicators of interest? ‘Look, guys aren’t all that complicated, and really not that subtle. If we like someone they usually know.’

‘Usually, but not always.’

The shakiness of those words draws my gaze her way. She’s curled in on herself, all spikes retracted, her usual confidence blunted by her cluelessness. Guess now I know where her deficiencies lie. I’m tempted to have a dig at her, but seeing her like this tugs at something in my chest.

I sigh and reach into the bag of chips again. ‘If he’s into you, he’ll try to get into your personal space, find excuses to touch you, on your shoulder, your hand.’ I pop a chip in my mouth and flick her a glance. Her brow is back to imitating corrugated iron. Probably analysing her last study session with the guy.

‘He’ll also be real attentive, hang on your every word, that sort of—what are you doing?’

She’s rummaging around in her messenger bag, pulling out a—you’ve got to be kidding me!

‘Will you put that away!’ I make a grab for the notebook and pen she’s produced, but she’s too quick and pulls them out of my reach.

I shake my head. ‘This isn’t the kind of thing you can study for, MJ.’

‘Why not? Attraction is a science. Inexact maybe, but still a science.’

‘You’re something else, you know that?’ I don’t know this Jason guy she’s all in a tangle for, but I’m feeling for him. Man, am I feeling for him.

‘Personal space, attentiveness. Got it.’ She peers up from her scribbling. ‘What else?’

I take a deep breath. No point in fighting this. Might as well just roll with it. ‘Compliments.’

‘Like?’

‘He might mention how much he likes talking to you, how your shirt brings out the colour of your eyes.’ How your note-taking technique excites him almost as much as a brain dissection.

‘Sorry?’

Please tell me I didn’t just say that out loud. I sneak a peek at her face but she doesn’t look pissed off, just distracted.

‘I missed that last bit. Something about eyes?’ She reaches a hand into the chip bag in my lap, pulls out a handful and looks up at me.

‘He might say something about your eyes,’ I tell her. ‘Guys notice eyes.’

She snorts around a mouthful of chips. ‘Among other things.’ Out of the corner of my eye I see her look down at her chest, then cock a haughty brow at me.

‘Okay then, guys worth your time notice eyes, and you’ve got knockout eyes, MJ.’

When I glance her way, those very eyes stare at me, wide and unblinking.

I clear my throat—must have a bit of salt and pepper seasoning stuck at the back—and reach for the water bottle. ‘Speaking of eyes, watch his. If he’s watching you all the time, sneaking glances: dead giveaway. And if you catch him eyeing off your mouth, bingo.’ I take a gulp from the bottle, register traces of peanut butter.

Peanut butter from the sandwich MJ just ate.

Gaze on autopilot, it zeroes in on MJ’s lips. Like her eyes, they’re … striking, a cymbal clash of vivid red.

‘Because that means he wants to kiss me?’

I down another gulp of water and force my attention back on the traffic. ‘Means he’s at least thinking about it, yeah.’

‘How predictable.’ I don’t need to look to know there’s a nose twitch in her reply.

‘Told you. Guys aren’t that subtle. You’ll know. Even if he’s on the shy and reserved side, you’ll know because he’ll show an interest in your life, make excuses to spend time with you, come up with ways to hang out together.’

‘Excuses to hang out together …’ She’s busy scribbling in her notebook again, and I fight the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel.

‘What makes this Jason guy so special that he’s worth taking notes for?’

The pen stops moving across the page and her face slackens with the same look Theo gets when he talks about exhibiting at the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art one day.

‘Jason McNeil is perfect. He’s everything I want in a guy,’ she says, staring off into a future somewhere beyond the windscreen. ‘Off the scale intelligent, efficient, driven.’

For real? Most girls would sprout a list like ‘funny, caring, donates to the RSPCA’. But not MJ. She’s hot for a guy likely to do a profit and loss analysis on every bunch of flowers he buys her.

‘And all this makes him perfect for you because …?’

Her sigh fills the car with her exasperation. ‘A guy like that will push me to reach my full potential.’

I take my eyes off the road to look at her, and I see all the things she admires in her assignment partner: off-the-scale intelligence, efficiency, drive. If he’s really all the above, then they’ll get on like two type A peas in a pod. But something rankles.

I grab one more chip, then hand her the packet. ‘Define “full potential”.’ I have a fair idea of what those two words might mean for the little overachiever, but I want to hear how high she plans to reach. Not so much for the information itself; I’m more interested in how she delivers it—because it might explain why the air around her is suddenly heavy with resignation.

‘After I finish my undergrad degree, it’s off to one of Australia’s top medical programs.’

‘Eventually specialising in cardiothoracic surgery.’

She shoots me a surprise-laden glance. ‘Correct.’ She’s staring out of the windscreen again, but the wistfulness from before has slid off her face and pooled in a congealed heap on her lap—replaced by empty resignation.

She inhales, fills her lungs with resolve. ‘Ten to fifteen years of concentrated effort and iron focus, and I should achieve this goal.’

Ten to fifteen years. She says the words like they’re weighted.

Shackled.

A prison sentence.

I look over my shoulder to check the blind spot before changing lanes and use the opportunity to run a covert gaze over my complex little passenger. Prickly and standoffish, that’s what a first and undiscerning glance reveals about MJ. But if you brave the initial discomfort and peer closer, you uncover a guarded vulnerability hiding just beneath the spikes.

And damn if I’m not curious what—or who—put it there in the first place.

Highroad On The Highway

When Luke pulled north onto the highway, I thought I had it all worked out. He’d drive for a bit, make it look like he was all set to make the whole trip home, then suddenly remember he forgot something—like, maybe, his chemistry notes—and pull off at the nearest exit. So when we zoom past exit after exit I start to squirm in my seat.

I grab the water from the centre console and take a long swallow but stop short of draining the bottle. As much as I try ignoring it, I can’t rid myself of the gut-grabbing feeling I may need the rest later—to wash down my words when Luke makes me eat them.

‘So how much longer?’

He doesn’t look my way but his lips twitch. ‘I didn’t take you for the “Are we there yet?” type.’

‘Just answer the question,’ I say as we leave yet another exit with all its possibilities of returning to Sydney in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I glance at my messenger bag—my near empty messenger bag. He’s driving us all the way home and I don’t even have a change of underwear to my name.

‘Almost there.’ Luke stops his incessant thumb drumming on the steering wheel and glances at his watch. ‘Just in time for the bell.’

And I’ll have to call Theo, ask him to call Mum and Dad and convince them I’m staying with him this weekend, so they don’t freak—wait.

‘What bell?’

He turns my way and lifts his brow in an annoying you’ll see gesture, then takes the next exit off the highway. Less than a minute later the station wagon slows to a stop and I have my answer.

‘St Patrick’s River High?’

Why on earth would he need to stop here? Unless … Oh. Wow. Talk about scraping the bottom of the gig barrel. I’d imagined a pub or club. That, at least, would have given him some muso cred, but this? A high school? Where the performance is most certainly going to be in the school hall? I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t basking in the glow of my vindication.

He cuts the engine and the station wagon splutters into silence. And I can no longer contain my glee. I swivel in my seat to face him.

‘You can admit it now, Luke. That the reason you had to come home this weekend is, in fact, a high school gig.’ That’s right, time to come clean, Drummer Boy.

But he doesn’t look in the least sprung. Or chastised. Or embarrassed. Which sets off those gut-clenching spasms again. I order them into submission and cross my arms, waiting for a confession, a sheepish look at least.

It doesn’t come.

He’s the picture of calm. The frustrating guy simply stretches one long arm behind me and grabs his backpack from the rear seat, giving me a nose-full of his deodorant in the process. Gotta say, I pictured him more of a musk kind of guy, but this lemon pie meets pine needles thing he’s got going on works for him.

‘We’ll head home shortly. This is just a brief detour.’

His bicep flexes, then bunches under the cotton of his hoodie as he heaves his backpack into his lap. Maybe I was too quick to judge that bicep bulge. Although I still wouldn’t call it impressive, it’s … noteworthy. I swallow the half-formed snipe about detours and dead ends lodged at the back of my throat.

‘I thought you’d be interested to see what I get up to every Friday afternoon. Well, this is it.’ With another twitch of his lips, this one almost resembling a smile, he pushes out of the car’s cabin, leaving me no choice but to pull my blazer tighter around myself and follow.

***

As Luke predicted, we arrive just in time for the bell. At exactly ten past three the quadrangle I’m following him across vibrates with a fog horn drone. Then the familiar volcanic rumble of hundreds of feet erupts, spilling out of classrooms, flooding all the hallways, crashing into the freedom of the Friday afternoon sun.

‘Slow down! That wasn’t an air raid siren, you know?’ The guy is all legs and determination. How is a shorter than average person meant to keep up with that stride?

Luke doesn’t respond, but he adjusts his gait, so I have some chance of catching up to him. We push against the tide of students until he leads the way through the school’s main doors into reception.

‘Luke!’ A botoxed, blonde-bob of a woman beams up at him from behind her guard-dog desk like he’s her favourite nephew. ‘Is it Friday already?’

Luke’s return smile seems genuine enough. ‘Sure is, Mrs Ellis.’

‘I hope you’re in good form for your game of bowling tomorrow.’ Mrs Ellis tips her head to the side, but the blonde bob is in cahoots with her facial features and both remain eerily unmoving. ‘It’s all Rosie’s been talking about.’

Rosie? Who on earth is Rosie? And, wait … bowling?

‘I owe her a rematch,’ Luke says, like conversations about bowling are a common occurrence for him. ‘I beat her last game. She’s real eager to get even.’

Girlfriend. Is that who this Rosie is? I suck in a breath; how am I going to break this Luke-has-a-girlfriend news to Sandy?

Luke waves a pen at me to sign the visitors’ register.

I swipe the pen from him and sign my name under his. ‘Who’s Rosie?’

Luke’s answer is another one of those irritating you’ll see eyebrow lifts.

I take a deep breath, grip my bag strap that little bit tighter and round the corner after him. I’m not giving up my valuable time so he can hang with his I-love-bowling girlfriend!

‘Answer the question, Luke, who’s Rosie?’ There’s just enough edge in my voice to make sure he knows I’m not impressed with this particular turn of events.

He surprises me by coming to a sudden stop in front of room 149. Music. I step back, expecting him to turn and give me an answer. He doesn’t. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he opens the door.

‘You’re about to find out.’

Luke motions me inside. The second my eyes scan the room I’m wishing for those last few drops of water in the bottle. As I take in all the expectant faces, my gut cramps with an unsettling premonition: I’ll be eating my words, forcing them down with a bitter side of miscalculated assumptions—until all that’s left is a greasy smear of what was once my pride.

Luke

Rosie Takes Five

If shock and confusion bumped uglies and had a love child, MJ, at this very moment, would be it. Her already über-Nordic complexion borders on bleached, and her white-knuckled fingers are strangling her bag strap as she takes in the music room and everything in it. I follow her gaze and do the same, try to see the scene through her widening eyes. The large circle of chairs, the various sized drums: congas, doumbeks, djembes and bongos. Nothing unusual for a music room—except for the twenty or so young people getting ready to make some wicked noise in it.

Through my lens I see Jack, gently rocking on his chair, ready to roll with a frame drum. Next to him, Dakota, a rhythm stick clasped in her jerking hand; her wheelchair makes anything larger tricky. Then there’s Solomon, dragging one of the heftier African djembes into the circle with the help of his aid.

MJ’s gape is silent, but it screams of a completely different picture to the one I see. Without the benefit of personal connection to sharpen her vision she’s blindsided by the same labels everyone else is blinkered by: autism, cerebral palsy, Tourette syndrome.

And Down syndrome.

‘Luke!’

The voice yanks the corners of my mouth into a grin, and I forget all about MJ’s distorted view of reality as familiar arms snatch around my waist. They squeeze hard, like it’s been five years instead of the five days since I was last trapped in them.

‘Hey, how’s my favourite girl?’ I hold her tight, loving the unabashed display of her affection.

‘I’m going to beat you tomorrow.’ Another squeeze of her arms.

‘You sure about that? Cause I’ve got a feeling last week might have been the start of a winning streak for me.’

Her eyes spark with challenge at my taunt. She pulls away, just a little, to look up at me. ‘I’m gonna beat you tomorrow. I am.’

I tug her back into the warmth of our hug. ‘Give it your best,’ I tell her and plant a kiss to her forehead.

When I pull back I’m no longer the centre of her attention. She’s staring over my shoulder, eyes burning with a curiosity as devoid of shyness as her displays of affection.

‘Hi. I’m Rosie. Who are you?’

Man, just this once I wish John and Solomon would follow drum circle rules and quit imitating their favourite cymbal bashing Muppet before the session starts. Maybe then I wouldn’t have missed the gobsmacked pop of MJ’s jaw clamping shut in response to Rosie’s question. Almost as loud as the gears grinding in the little hedgehog’s head back at the office at the mention of Rosie’s name. That overactive brain of hers processed the information so quickly, she put the latest Intel chip to shame. But whoever it was that her brain decided ‘Rosie’ is, Rosie in the flesh, with eyes the exact colour of mine, so similar to MJ’s and yet so very different, is not what MJ was expecting.

MJ’s lips don’t so much part as fall open, then pop closed again. She’s struggling, her voice probably buried somewhere under the weight of her self-righteous assumptions. I’m also struggling. Struggling to contain the I-told-you-so grin threatening to split my face in two. Then I see her fingers, roped tight around the strap of her bag, twisting the breath from the fabric and … ah hell.

‘This is MJ. A friend of mine from school.’

Rosie’s gaze darts from MJ’s bewildered face up to mine then back again, the inevitable question forming on her non-censored tongue before I have a chance to stop her.

‘Are you Luke’s girlfriend?’

The bag strap twisting stops about the same moment everything inside me stills.

‘No! I’m … we’re just …’ Her eyes find mine, the moonless midnight so wide it’s comical. At least it would be if not for the note of choked horror lacing her words. That one note vibrates up my spine, scraping along each vertebra until I’m standing there, all rigid and stiff and defensive. It’s stupid and irrational, because this is MJ, so there’s no way I’d ever contemplate the idea, but hey, I’m human and my wounded male ego takes offense at the never-in-a-million-years look on her face.

I tug Rosie tighter into my side and force my muscles to relax. ‘We’re just friends.’ Although ‘friends’ is stretching it at the moment. ‘MJ is helping me with my chemistry homework.’

Rosie nods. That’s how simple it is. No second guessing, no suspicion, just trust and acceptance. It’s what makes my baby sister so damn easy to love.

‘I have a test on Monday,’ I say. ‘MJ’s giving up her weekend to help me study.’ I hold MJ’s gaze and … bingo! There’s that nose twitch I’ve come to know so well. Although wouldn’t you know, this one’s nowhere near as high and mighty as all her others have been.

‘But bowling?’ Rosie twists to look up at me. ‘Are we still bowling?’

‘Sure. Of course we’re still bowling.’ I smile down at her, because it’s hard not to when her expression lights up at my promise. I peer over Rosie’s head, find MJ’s semi-recovered but still bewildered expression. Time for a little payback. ‘And MJ’s coming with us.’

MJ’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. By the panicked freezing of her features I’m guessing the prospect of bowling terrifies her more than the idea of being considered my girlfriend. I press my lips to Rosie’s hair to muffle my laugh. Not that I need to; the steadily growing racket in the room would have drowned it out anyway.

I give Rosie one last squeeze. ‘Go get your drum. We better get started before Solomon puts his fist through his djembe again.’

She runs off towards the other end of the drum circle where she’s already set up a pair of bongos, and I turn to MJ.

‘Welcome to my regular Friday night gig.’ I sweep a hand across the room with an over-exaggerated flourish. ‘These kids party hard. And don’t get me started on some of the drugs they’re into.’ I’m rubbing her face in it, I know, but damn if she doesn’t deserve it. To her credit, she keeps her smart mouth shut and takes it stoically on that small, if stubborn, chin of hers.

‘Want to join in?’ I nod towards an empty seat in the circle.

MJ gives a sharp jolt of her head. ‘Um, no. Thanks.’

No surprise there. ‘Grab a seat on the side then. The session runs for about an hour. After that you’ll have the pleasure of playing a hundred and one questions with Rosie on the way back to our place.’ I flash her an unapologetic grin and head for the storeroom to grab myself a djembe, the stupefied confusion in MJ’s eyes injecting an extra bounce into my step.

***

We start with a basic boom-sha-la-ka warm up jam for the first five minutes or so. A quick scan of the room confirms there’s no one new to the group, so I’m good to transition from rhythm to rhythm without too much explanation. These kids, predominantly Year 8s, 9s and 10s, have been coming for at least a year, and even though some of them might struggle to catch the beat at first, they know their stuff. Despite their different limitations, these teens are quite highly functioning—they just happen to have a permanently engaged delay button pushing them five or so seconds into the past. That’s why the drum circle works so well; the constant repetition of rhythms means everyone has a chance to catch up and be part of the action. That’s the beauty of the beat; it doesn’t discriminate.

I round off the warm up with the customary ratta-tatta riff and head straight into an African Fanga. It only takes a few bars to anchor everyone in the downbeat, and then we’re moving to the soulful rhythm. The whole idea is to stop overthinking and ‘get out of your head’. Just feel, experiment with the rhythm and sound. As the instructor, it’s my job to read the circle, guide the speed and volume of the music depending on the vibe I get from the group. Even so, with a group I know well, such as this one, I usually manage to let go and just become part of the beat. Not today. Today I’m too aware of MJ observing everything from the far corner of the room.

Half an hour of guiding the group from rhythm to rhythm under MJ’s silent scrutiny, and I’m ready to ditch the djembe and retreat behind the safety of a full drum kit. The girl’s lack of blink reflex is spinning me out. I’m not even sure she’s moved in the past thirty minutes. Maybe the shock of being wrong about my ‘weekend gig’ has pushed her past the point of sanity, and the little hedgehog’s brain has stupefied. I’ll have to wave some extension physics papers under her nose. The smell of a complex equation or two is bound to snap her out of it.

First, though, I’ll need to run the gang through their concert piece. I glance at the music room door as I beat out a finish rumble. Where is Mrs Bowers? Usually she’s shuffled in and settled her happy bulk at the piano by now.

‘Okay, guys, time to get your jazz groove on.’ I put my djembe down and pull out my sticks, hoping like hell the music teacher shows soon, because it’ll be near impossible to practise the piece without her providing the driving melody. Add MJ and her eerie unblinking eyes, and I’m likely to jab a tom with one of my sticks. Just as I round to the back of the kit, the door opens and … in walks Mrs Ellis. Not good.

She rushes up to me, leans in so I can hear her over the drone of disjointed drumming coming from the group. ‘I’ve just had a call from Mrs Bowers. She’s very sorry, she won’t be in today. Something about an injured wrist.’

Like he’s sensing a disturbance in the drum circle force, Solomon starts beating out a loud and impatient rhythm on his djembe. Beside him, Rosie shoots me a worried look.

I sink down onto the throne. ‘Any chance some of the other music teachers are still on site?’

Mrs Ellis gives me a stiff-haired head shake. Definitely not good. My left thumb finds its way between my teeth and I chew on the problem. The concert is still a while off, but the Brubeck song is complex and the group needs all the practise they can get. Maybe choosing a five-four piece was ambitious, but I know these kids can do it, and I wanted to show their friends and families what they’re capable of. Guess I’ll have to talk them through it with just me on the drums. Not ideal—this bunch of drummers doesn’t do so well with unexpected routine changes.

Mrs Ellis leaves the room. I take a breath and place a hand on the skin of the snare to help anchor the knot of nerves tying up my stomach. I won’t let these kids down. ‘Listen up, people. Mrs Bowers is unwell, so unless one of you is hiding a secret piano playing talent, it’s just me on the drums today. But that’s okay. All you’ll have to do is follow my—’

‘I can play.’

It takes me a second to register where the voice is coming from, and when I do, I swivel towards the far corner so quickly I almost slide off the drum stool.

‘I can play. Piano.’ Moonless midnight blinks at me. Guess MJ’s recovered that particular reflex. Ironic, since I seem to have lost mine. I stare at her until my eyes are ready to crack.

‘Can you sight read?’

‘Of course.’

Stupid question. ‘Jazz?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s all quavers and crotchets …’

All quavers and—is there nothing this girl can’t do? But then she did say her dad sometimes played jazz. Maybe she meant actually played. That aside, why is she offering to do this when her face resembled an extra on the Little Shop of Horrors the second she walked into the room?

Solomon’s increasingly insistent drumming reminds me I don’t have the luxury to ask that question at the moment. I shove the nagging thought aside and pull an extra copy of Brubeck’s Take Five from my backpack.

I hand her the music. ‘Give me four bars, then come in and play to the repeat. This is a shorter, simplified version. The idea is to give the kids a chance to go nuts in the middle section, that’s their improv solo.’

She nods and heads for the piano to the front right of me. Perching on the edge of the seat, back concert-pianist straight, she brushes confident fingers over the imitation ebony and ivory. A glance over her shoulder is my signal she’s good to go.

I ride both cymbal and snare to set the rhythm. My one kernel of doubt at MJ’s ability to pull this off dissolves the moment she smoothly locks in with the bass line and melody after my intro. Not even so much as a hitch. And damn if the girl doesn’t swing the upper end of the melody line a touch. I’m impressed. Just a little. Okay, maybe a bit more than a little.

With the beat established and the tune swinging away, it’s not long until the group joins in. The intensity builds as everyone gets into it, faces pulled wide with equal parts concentration and enjoyment.

We’re about half way though the piece when it hits me: I’m jamming with MJ! And it’s … good. I can’t see her face because she’s got her back to me, but I’d be surprised if she wasn’t smiling. I don’t care how uptight the little hedgehog is; this here’s way too good for her not to be feeling it. If I can’t keep the beat-whipped grin off my face, then she’s got to at least be cracking a small smile. Who’d have thought; MJ getting right into one of my Friday night ‘gigs’. I shake my head in time to the beat. Not what I was expecting.

There’s something else I wasn’t expecting: how well we lock in with each other. How we anticipate the other’s next move and adjust to accommodate it. She’s not even looking at me but we’re in sync—almost like two halves of a duo created to complement the other.

MJ and I complement one another? The thought vibrates through me like a kick to the bass drum; the concept so bizarre, I fumble the beat for a bar or two. MJ throws me a look over her shoulder, but damn if she doesn’t drive the bass line a little louder until I find my way back into the rhythm.

I fix my gaze between her shoulder blades, on the wall of black silk that’s her hair, and concentrate on not making a total schmuck of myself.

MJ and I … complement one another.

For The Love Of Patrick

‘How long have you been playing piano? You’re good. Almost as good as Mrs Bowers. She’s really, really good!’

Luke wasn’t wrong; Rosie’s been peppering me with questions from the moment we climbed into his station wagon half an hour ago. My request to stop at the shopping centre isn’t just so I can buy an emergency supply of toiletries and underwear for the weekend—something which Luke, so far, hasn’t made any snark comments about—it’s also to escape Rosie’s inquisition. My head is still spinning from this afternoon’s mind-bending revelation.

Drum circles? How could I get it so wrong? How could I get him so wrong? All the signs pointed to deadbeat drummer, not selfless Samaritan. I mean, how many first year uni students give up their Friday afternoons to drum with a bunch of special needs kids? And then … Rosie. It’ll take a long time to clean this egg mess off my face.

My attempt to snatch a few minutes alone to process everything is thwarted the moment we pull into the car park. Mouth on autopilot, Luke’s little sister unbuckles her seatbelt and attaches herself to my side before Luke has a chance to pull his keys out of the ignition. Aren’t people with Downs meant to be shy? If that’s the case, Rosie blows that myth out of the Down syndrome gene pool.

‘Five years? No ten. You’ve been playing for ten years!’

Where is this girl’s off button? At the rate she’s going she’ll know everything from my third cousin’s name to my bra size by the time we make it back to the car. I glance Luke’s way looking for help. The suffer-in-your-emergency-undies smile he’s wearing makes me think I’m not getting any.

‘Twelve,’ I tell her. ‘I started at five.’ And practised relentlessly twice a day, one hour before school and another after. Every single day. Except for that one week in Year 8. The week of the ice skating excursion Mum never wanted me to go on. When my wrist recovered, she doubled my piano time. I had a lot of missed practice to make up, she said. I haven’t skated since.

Inside the store, I head for the feminine hygiene section. My aim is to lose Luke, and by default Rosie, because I’m dying for some brain space here! I’m aware I’m not all that guy savvy, but here’s hoping the stereotype about male aversion to anything regarding that time of the month is true.

Sure enough, as soon as he realises what the shelves are stacked with, Luke grinds to a halt at the top of the aisle like tampons and pH neutral intimate wash are his personal kryptonite.

But Rosie has no such hang-ups, and any hope I had of her suffering separation anxiety from her brother evaporates into the cloud of bouquet fresh air hanging over the feminine hygiene section.

‘I only play the drums, but I love to sing. Do you like to sing?’

I grab what I need and turn to—Yikes! No separation anxiety, and no concept of personal space.

I take a quick step backwards, putting some much needed distance between myself and Rosie’s way too in-your-face presence. I can’t place how old she is. It’s hard to judge; the syndrome might be clouding my true perception of her age, but I’m thinking maybe fourteen? Fifteen?

Her hair is a shade or two darker than her brother’s dark blond, and she carries a stockier build, but her wide, expectant eyes boast of family resemblance. Like Luke’s, they’re striking—a look-twice parakeet green.

‘Um, no, I don’t sing.’ I follow the ding and bustle noises to the nearest checkout. Where the hell is Luke?

‘But you bowl? Luke said you’re coming with us tomorrow.’

Not if I can help it. Bowling, like skating, doesn’t advance academic standing, therefore it’s not something I’m familiar with. I’ll get Luke to drop me at the local library so I can work on my school work and assignment reading.

‘MJ can’t wait.’ Luke’s voice sneaks up from behind me. ‘And knowing her, she’ll be giving it a hundred per cent.’

Okay, maybe the guy didn’t take a dig at my need for spare underpants, but the glint in those green eyes when I turn to glare at him is now showing shades of mock. Selfless Samaritan or not, I’m not letting him get the better of me. I quash my fear of all things embarrassing and shove my sanitary pads and undies into Luke’s hands instead of on the conveyor belt. His face! Ha! Those look-twice eyes bulge so hard the parakeets lay eggs.

I rummage in my handbag to find my purse. ‘Bowling.’ I can’t bring myself to say the word without scrunching my nose. I mean, it’s bound to be noisy, possibly unhygienic with all those people touching the same balls, but how hard can it be? ‘Sure. I’ll go bowling.’

‘You’ll love it.’ Rosie again. ‘If you need, you can play bumpers. That okay, Luke?’

Luke dumps my stuff on the conveyor belt with a shrug. ‘If MJ needs bumpers …’

When I catch his gaze, there’s no more shade of mock; Luke’s face is one I’m-laughing-at-you prime colour.

I pay, grab my bag of emergency supplies and stomp out into the car park. You should be grateful. The sudden thought slows my stride. Grateful? I guess if a forced game of bowling is the extent of Luke’s retaliation for me thinking he’s no more than a wastrel muso, then okay, maybe I should be grateful. Because, as irritating as Luke’s silent ribbing is, I can’t deny it’s … justified.

‘Another poster? Which movie, Luke?’ Rosie’s kid-in-a-toy-store voice draws my gaze across the car park. ‘Point Break? I haven’t got Point Break. Or Dirty Dancing.’

‘You’ll have to wait ’til we get home.’ They’re a good fifteen metres away, but there’s no mistaking the genuine spark of affection for his sister in Luke’s eyes.

Okay, so the guy isn’t exactly who I thought he was. And thanks to my inability to read people, I’m stuck spending the weekend with him and his bubblier-than-a-shampoo-filled-spa-bath sister. A weekend I could be studying.

Spending all this time with Luke the deadbeat drummer would have been painful enough but spending it with this other person he’s turning out to be sets off my underutilised people radar in warning. Practising the Brubeck piece with Luke is the first time I’ve enjoyed playing the piano since … I can’t remember when. So a weekend with Luke the drum circle instructor and doting big brother might push me dangerously out of my safety zone.

***

It’s well after five, the sun hanging low, when we pull into the drive of a single-storey, weatherboard house. The yard is tidy, the lawn clipped short around an Ironbark gum; the statuesque tree the only eye-catching feature about the whole place. Despite the lack of bells and whistles, a warm burgundy trim against cream timber makes the place look inviting.

‘We’re home.’ Rosie tugs at Luke’s backpack the moment we’re out of the car. She’s been harping on about that stupid poster the entire trip back from the store. The upside of her incessant nagging—yes, hard to believe there’s an upside—less questions fired at me. The downside: some deranged part of me now also wants to know what the stupid poster is all about.

‘At least wait ’til we’re inside.’ Luke smiles patiently. Coupled with the way he’s holding his ground, you’d think he’s enjoying his sister’s badgering.

Weekend emergency supplies in hand, I hoist my messenger bag over my shoulder and follow the two of them to the front door. Inside, the hallway is narrow but bright. Through an open doorway to my left I glimpse a purple bedspread and a poster-covered wall. No prizes for guessing who sleeps there.

We pass a second door, this one closed. Possibly Luke’s room. Are his walls also covered in posters? If so, what idols does he worship? Only this morning I’d have said hard rockers and pop stars, but now I’m not so sure.

The scuffle of claws scratching the hallway floorboards distracts me from any further thought of Luke’s room. I press into the wall as a ball of scruff launches itself into Luke’s arms, pink tongue attacking his face like it’s covered in bacon grease.

‘Hey! Yeah, I missed you too.’

Luke lets the bitzer have at his face for a little longer before he puts him down with a stern ‘stay’ that the dog totally ignores.

‘This is Harvey,’ Rosie says, bending to pat the overexcited dog. ‘Mrs Radcliffe was going to take him to the pound. Luke saved him.’

Luke shrugs. ‘A stray border terrier had his way with her precious purebred Collie and she didn’t like the result. Wasn’t hard to find the pups new owners. They were cute as hell. And this mutt—’ he scratches the dog behind both ears, ‘—let’s just say he had me wrapped around his little tail the moment he peed on Mrs Radcliffe’s couch.’

Luke smiles up at me and a shiver races up my arms. Drum circle instructor, doting brother and now puppy rescuer. That egg mess on my face is going to take industrial strength bleach to get off.

The smell of something roasting down the hallway distracts me from further thoughts of how badly I misjudged Luke. Chicken, lemon and herbs. My stomach clenches then expands in anticipation. Nothing beats Dad’s BBQ roast pork, but I won’t say no to roast chicken.

‘In the kitchen.’ A woman’s voice floats towards us on the herb and lemon scented air. We round the corner into an L-shaped kitchen lounge area, where a brunette in nurses’ scrubs is bent over a bench, chopping salad vegetables.

‘Dinner is in the oven, another half hour or so. I’ve got to run so you’ll need to finish—’ She stops when she sees me. ‘Oh, hello.’ There’s a question in her eyes when she turns them on Luke. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek before answering.

‘This is MJ, Mum.’ He dumps his backpack on a kitchen chair, washes his hands and takes the knife from her. ‘MJ is Theo’s sister. She’s helping me with my chemistry unit,’ he says, chopping carrot into bite-size pieces.

The smile on Mrs Bains’ face reaches all the way to the corners of her eyes. Brown eyes. The striking green must come from the other chromosome donor.

‘Lovely to meet you, MJ.’ She wipes her hands on a dishcloth and steps closer to shake my hand. ‘Luke’s friends are welcome anytime.’

‘She’s not his girlfriend.’

‘Rosie!’ Luke’s mother shakes her head at her daughter while my face explodes with heat. I can’t see Luke’s expression—suddenly the carrots have his undivided attention—so I can’t tell if he’s also suffering some embarrassment or if he’s silently laughing at mine.

Totally nonplussed by the awkward tension she’s caused, Rosie shrugs and flops into a chair at the kitchen table. ‘She’s not. I asked.’ She swipes a piece of carrot from the chopping board and chomps away, ignoring Harvey’s feed-me eyes.

Mrs Bains gives her daughter a warning look, then swings an apologetic smile my way. ‘There’s chocolate cheesecake in the fridge. Help yourself after dinner. If your appetite is half that of your brother’s, you’ll be needing it.’

Wait … Theo’s been here before? Eating Luke’s mother’s chocolate cheesecake? How do I not know this? Once I’ve processed the fact that there’s a whole side of Theo’s life I know nothing about, I remember my manners.

‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Bains. I’m sure whatever you’ve got in the oven will be plenty enough.’

Luke stops mid-chop and shakes his head. ‘You don’t want to turn down Mum’s chocolate cheesecake. Trust me on this. You should hear the sounds Theo makes when he eats the stuff.’

‘Luke, stop!’ Mrs Bains gives a head shake of her own, but a blush of pleasure colours her cheeks at his praise. ‘I’ve got to rush. I’ll be back around ten tomorrow morning.’ A squeeze of Luke’s shoulder, a kiss on Rosie’s cheek, and she’s out the door.

‘She works the graveyard shift in the ER.’ Luke scrapes the chopped carrot into a salad bowl and reaches for a capsicum. ‘The hours suck but the penalty rates mean she can be around for Rosie in the afternoons during the week. I look after Rosie Friday and Saturday nights.’ He looks up and finds my eyes with his, and that one look drives the final nail into the deadbeat drummer coffin. I shift from foot to foot and adjust the strap of my messenger bag where it’s starting to dig into my shoulder. There’s a beat of awkward silence until Rosie jolts into action, making a grab for Luke’s backpack.

‘Now I can have it?’ She doesn’t wait for Luke’s go ahead. She’s already opening the zip.

Luke stops chopping and leans his lanky frame against the sink. The pleasure tugging at the corners of his mouth is as transparent as cling wrap.

It takes Rosie all of five seconds to locate and unroll the poster, and I find myself angling closer so I can see what all the fuss is about. Vaguely, I recognise the white 1960s dress, and the girl—looking for the time of her life—wearing it.

‘Dirty Dancing!’ Rosie’s whole face smiles. She leaps out of her chair, hugs Luke, and disappears down the hallway.

‘We’re dealing with a serious Patrick Swayze obsession,’ Luke says, still grinning. ‘Mum’s to blame. She’s got every single one of the guy’s movies and when Rosie was finally allowed to watch them this year …’ He wipes the flat of his hand down his face, revealing a pained grimace when his palm drops away. ‘I’ve seen Dirty Dancing so many times I can recite the dialogue in my sleep.’

‘Luke! Come look!’

He puts the knife down and, with a soap opera sigh worthy of a Logie, wipes his hands on a dish cloth. ‘We better go have a look. Otherwise she’ll pester us all night.’

I follow him down the hallway, Harvey close behind.

Rosie pulls us into her bedroom the moment we’re close enough. ‘Look. Next to Ghost. Perfect fit.’

She’s hugging Luke again like he’s handed her the keys to Disneyland instead of an old movie poster. And by the look on his face, he’s loving every second of it.

‘Perfect fit,’ Luke says. ‘I’ll tell Theo you like it.’

Theo. Of course. I take in the other posters on the wall, wondering how many Theo’s cinema job has supplied … and how many other things I don’t know about my own brother. You only have yourself to blame.

‘Have you seen Dirty Dancing?’ Rosie sits on her purple bedspread, eyes wide and focused on me.

Behind her, Luke is frantically nodding his head, mouthing the words, Yes! Say yes.

‘Um, yes. I have.’ It’s not a lie. Like Rosie, I also watched the movie with my big brother. Theo bought tickets to the stage show for my sixteenth birthday and insisted I watch the original before we went. Not that we ended up going; the date of the show clashed with a study intensive Mum had booked me into. There was never a question as to which of the two I’d be missing.

Rosie spies movement behind her and flashes Luke a suspicious glance over her shoulder.

‘What about Ghost?’ Her gaze darts from Luke to me, then behind her again. She’s onto him, and I’m trying hard to keep a straight face, which takes a monumental effort because Luke’s eyes bulge with exaggerated dread.

Rosie pounces on my delay. ‘Have you seen it?’

Slowly, I shake my head because, let’s face it, I’m crap at lying, and this girl would be all over the fib in a second.

Rosie practically bounces on her bed. Behind her, Luke starts banging his head against the door jamb. Uh-oh. What have I done?

Now it’s Rosie’s turn to nod like a maniac. ‘You’ll love it!’ She’s bouncing again. ‘The pottery wheel is the best scene.’

I think I hear Luke groan, but I can’t be sure, because Rosie’s broken into song, something about hungering for someone’s touch.

Luke grabs me by the arm and tugs me out of the room. ‘For that, I should make you sleep on the couch. Ghost is twice as painful as Dirty Dancing.’ He gives me the eye bulge of dread again before he opens what looks like a hallway linen cupboard.

‘It can’t be that bad.’ I’d never admit it out loud, but Dirty Dancing was kind of okay. ‘And I’d prefer the guest room, thank you.’

‘Trust me, it is that bad, and we don’t have a guest room.’

No guest room? Which means I’ve put my foot in it again. I scan Luke’s face for any sign I’ve offended him. His nose, busy rummaging through the piles of linen, doesn’t look put out of joint though.

‘The couch is fine,’ I say.

‘As much as you deserve a night on the torture rack that doubles as our couch after what you just signed me up for—’ he glances in the direction of Rosie’s room where his sister is still singing, then lifts a brow at me, ‘—a ban on Mum’s chocolate cheesecake would be much worse. And that’s exactly what I’ll get served if she finds out I made you sleep on the couch.’

But if there’s no spare room and the couch is a no go … I fidget with the strap of my messenger bag. ‘So where do I sleep?’

Luke pushes a stack of linen, soft and floral, into my arms. ‘My room.’

Luke

Bowling for Rosie

I could have delivered the sleeping arrangement information a little less sledgehammer-like, but then I would have missed out on MJ’s expression, and damn if I don’t enjoy watching that mouth of hers fall open in bewildered shock. Enjoyed it a little too much, an annoying voice in the back of my head says, but … whatever. I’ve got to get through this weekend somehow.

Inside my room, I get busy stripping my bed. I should have called Mum and told her about our weekend guest the moment MJ’s stubborn resolve slammed the station wagon’s passenger door after she got in. I’m glad I didn’t; Mum would have gone and readied the bed, and tidied my room, and vacuumed the house and, I don’t know, probably dusted our non-existent chandeliers. She’s got enough to do without trying to impress the little hedgehog.

Speaking of which, MJ’s standing in my doorway, death grip on the clean linen, spines stiff with shell shock. A quick scan of my room reveals it could be in a more respectable state. There’s a crooked stack of books on the table ready to knock the picture of Rosie, Mum and me into the laundry basket on the floor. My half-open dresser drawers are spewing an assortment of T-shirts over the rim. And the evidence of last Saturday night’s munchies litters my bedside table in the form of chocolate wrappers. At least the bed is made, although I’m not game enough to look under it. Still, somehow I don’t think the lack of neatly stacked T-shirts is what’s causing MJ’s spooked expression. More likely it’s the news she’s bunking down on my pillow this weekend.

I turn my back to her so I can tug free the furthest corner of the sheet—and so she doesn’t see my grin. I can’t figure out why rattling the girl is so bloody enjoyable. Maybe because she loses that prickly superior exterior. And I’m starting to like the MJ without it.

‘Theo usually sleeps on the spare mattress on the floor whenever he stays over.’ I point a foot to the worn wood boards next to my bed as I ball the rest of my dirty bed sheets in my arms. ‘But I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with that.’ I make sure I’ve got a clear view of MJ’s oh-so-expressive face when I deliver my next two sentences. ‘Besides, Mum would frown on a girl spending the night with me in my bedroom. Even if we’re not sharing a bed.’

And bingo! Her face flares with warmth; a sunset pink against the cool paleness of her skin. I don’t hide my grin this time. Instead, I make sure she sees the harmless intent in it. I want to rattle her into shaking off some of her spines, not make her wary of me. And after the tampons and pads thing she pulled on me back at the store? Yeah, the girl knows how to get her own back.

I see the moment she recognises my ribbing for the bit of messing around it is. Her eyes narrow on mine and those cymbal clash lips twitch at the corners, just a little.

She takes a tentative step into the room and dumps the clean linen onto the bed, hanging on to the pillow case. ‘How often does Theo stay here?’

I throw her the pillow. ‘Once a month or so. Sometimes more. Rosie thinks he’s the best thing since High School Musical, and the guy knows how to sweet talk Mum.’ I stretch the fitted sheet over the mattress. ‘Your brother can really turn on the charm when it suits him.’

A flash of reminiscence lights up her face, then just as quickly something douses it. Sadness? Regret? It’s hard to tell, even with that what-you-see-is-what-you-get face of hers, I can’t read this one. Theo doesn’t talk all that much about his sister, and when he does, it’s never personal, only the she’s-studying-this, she’s-topped-that-test kind of stuff. But were they close once? And if they were, why aren’t they now?

I grab the doona by the corners, flick it in the air so it falls evenly across the bed. MJ’s expression is still pensive when I straighten up. Time to lighten the mood.

‘First time Theo slept over he got the couch. Wanna know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Thanks to him I was subjected to both Dirty Dancing and Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights that weekend. Count yourself lucky.’ I nod at my bed.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice, usually so confident, so full of authority, is barely there. So much for lightening the mood.

‘I’m kidding, MJ. I’ll sit through Ghost. It won’t be the last time Rosie makes me watch it.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ Her gaze wavers and skims the picture on my desk, then returns to mine. ‘I mean I’m sorry about … about thinking you were …’ Her eyes are dark, vulnerable. ‘I’m really sorry, Luke.’

I stare at her, all milk pale skin and ink black hair. She’s one big contrast, inside and out, and … so not what I was expecting. Sunset pink creeps across her cheekbones, and the way she strangles the pillow with her arms I know this doesn’t come easily to her. But she holds my gaze, bravely waiting for a response.

And unless I’m a right bastard, which I’d like to think I’m not, there’s really only one thing for it.

‘Apology accepted.’ I slide the pillow from her death grip and throw it at the head of the bed. ‘But if you desert for a bathroom break during the pottery scene, I’ll find a way to make you pay.’ I round the threat off with a Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle so she knows I’m teasing. At first her eyes remain guarded, then … a blink, and another, and I glimpse the light of a star or two in the moonless midnight.

‘Come on. Let’s get the chicken out of the oven.’ I head out into the hallway. She quietly follows. ‘Then we’ll find you something to sleep in. I reckon Rosie’s got an old T-shirt or two that might fit you.’ Even though MJ’s older, she’s tiny compared to my sister.

‘Um, that’s not necessary,’ she says once we’re back in the kitchen. ‘You don’t have to go to any trouble. I can sleep in my underwear.’

The image is instant:

MJ.

On my freshly made bed.

In nothing but her underwear.

My fingers turn all thumbs and I almost drop the oven mitt. Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? I swallow, find my voice. ‘No trouble.’ Heat creeps up my face. I yank the oven door open, let the burn from the roast lick at my skin.

I somehow deposit the roasting tray on the table without dropping the bird on the floor. MJ seems oblivious to my out-of-the-blue clumsiness. Who’d have thought; for once her lack of awareness is a positive.

We go about setting the table in silence while I will the last of the heat from my face.

‘Luke?’

I glance up, find her watching me, a tentative smile tugging at her lips.

‘Thanks.’

It’s just one word but it’s open, honest, not a spike in sight, and I know without a doubt she’s thanking me for much more than just promising to find her some pjs.

‘No trouble.’ I’m repeating myself. A bit of a habit around this girl. And damn if my face doesn’t flare up again. ‘Better go get Rosie,’ I say and head quickly out of the kitchen.

That night, Ghost is almost bearable. In the past, the Whoopi Goldberg character was its only saving grace, but tonight even the pottery scene is kind of watchable. Maybe it’s Rosie’s extra loud and extra off-key rendition of Unchained Melody that has me smiling. Or MJ’s pathetic attempt at hiding the fact that she’s actually enjoying the soppy movie. Whatever it is, by the time the credits roll and Rosie’s produced an old Glee Club T-shirt that brings MJ’s trademark nose twitch out of hiding, I’m starting to think this weekend won’t be so bad after all.

***

The moment we step into the bowling alley, I know: MJ has never held a bowling ball in her entire life. The way she flinches at the bang-roll-crash soundtrack of the place is a dead giveaway, but it’s the strangler treatment she’s giving her messenger bag that clinches it for me. The harder she cuts the bag strap’s air supply, the more my resolve grows to make this an enjoyable experience for her. Not just because everyone should have at least one feel good ten pin bowling experience, but because the longer I hang with this girl, the more I suspect Theo’s baby sister has an overall shortage of feel-good experiences.

And if anyone can help create warm fuzzy moments, it’s Rosie.

In her element, Rosie herds MJ towards the shoe counter. ‘First, shoes.’

‘I have shoes,’ MJ says over the music, neat little brows pinching together.

Rosie gives MJ a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing.

‘Not bowling shoes.’ Rosie shakes her head. ‘You need bowling shoes.’

MJ’s brows are inching back into their natural position when they snap together again.

We sort our shoes, but not before MJ gives us a horrified lecture on the contagiousness of athlete’s foot when she finds out she’ll be wearing shoes someone else’s feet have been in. Eventually we calm her down and muscle her over to our assigned lane. Her face remains all prissy and puckered—especially when she discovers Rosie has a pair of her own bowling shoes—but I’m up for a challenge today. MJ’s going to have a good time if it kills me, and by the germophobic way she’s undoing the shoes’ laces with thumb and forefinger, it just might.

‘Hey, relax.’ I sit down beside her and make short work of untying my runners. ‘As far as I know, no one’s died of wearing rental bowling shoes.’

‘There’s always a first time,’ she mutters under her breath but does the shoes up nonetheless. She stands, one hand tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘All right, what now?’ Her gaze darts around the place like she’s looking for emergency exits. You’d think I’ve taken her into a sniper zone, not a bowling alley.

‘You need a ball.’ Rosie drags her along to choose one off the ball stand. I grin when I catch sight of them on their way back. Rosie’s face is lit up like a pyrotechnic display at a rock concert, whereas MJ looks like she’s downed a packet of laxatives that are starting to make their presence felt.

She’s out of her comfort zone, big time. Even if she researched ten pin bowling online last night before heading to bed—which I wouldn’t put past the stubborn little brainiac—there’s no way reading up on the activity will have prepared her for the real thing. She’ll have to ditch her know-it-all attitude and let someone else teach her. Call it juvenile, but there’s a small part of me that’s digging this reversal of situations. But more than that, I want her to let go, enjoy herself. To stop thinking about her studies. One weekend without her precious books—or her precious Jason—isn’t going to kill her.

Rosie’s up first. It’s like an unwritten law in our family—my sister is always the first to bowl. Mum tried mixing up the order once. Didn’t end well. You can’t change the habits of someone so obsessed it borders on clinical addiction. So Rosie always bowls first.

Arms half crossed, half wrapped around herself, MJ sits next to me, watching Rosie’s every move like her life depends on it. As expected, Rosie’s run up is flawless. A controlled swing of her arm and bang-roll-crash! Nine pins down.

‘She’s good.’ There’s no missing the note of gob-smack.

Most people assume someone with Downs can’t play a good game of bowling. Reality is, Downs people are no different to anyone else when it comes to the game: some bowl well, others bowl crap. And Rosie bowls everyone away.

‘She’s here at least once a week with Ten Pins Down, the local Down syndrome bowling club.’

‘Ten Pins Down?’ MJ’s nose scrunches. ‘That’s almost as bad as The Not So Dim Sim.’

‘True. They make a good pork dumpling though.’

She adds an eyebrow lift to her scrunched-up nose and I can’t help messing with her, just a little. ‘Between games. They get out these little bamboo steamers and set up their own Dim Sim production line next to the ball return.’ I try to keep a straight face, which her are-you-for-real? expression is making impossible. ‘They call it the Down Dim Sim.’

The bottom half of her face gets it first, the corners of her mouth twitching while her eyes still search my face for the truth. ‘That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard, Luke.’

It might be, but her grin is inching towards her eyes.

We’re both still smiling when Rosie takes the remaining pin down for a spare.

‘Nice work!’ I give her a high-five when she plops down beside me on the bench.

She gives me a smile in return, but it’s not at full capacity. ‘Next will be a strike,’ she says with a nod.

The girl is determined to beat me.

I bump MJ with my shoulder. ‘Wanna go next?’

She eyes the lane with naked distrust but—yeah, I see it—there’s a glint of curiosity. ‘Can I watch you first?’ She leans closer, sending a wave of baked apple and spices my way. Her hands find the hem of her T-shirt again and tug. ‘I’ve, um, never done this before.’

For a moment I’m stumped. The warm scent of her shampoo or deodorant or whatever catches me off guard. Her straight out admission that she doesn’t know how to bowl keeps me there.

‘Yeah, ah, sure.’ I stand, move towards the ball return, more to clear my head than to grab my ball. I feel her eyes on me each step of the way; a touch of moonless midnight, feather-soft, right between my shoulder blades.

Don’t cock this up. Easier said than done, because with MJ’s eyes on me, all my movements have gone rigid. Don’t cock this up. I know how to bowl, can do it in my sleep, but those pins seem damn far away. Luke, do not cock this up! Why? Why is doing well suddenly so important?

The question stops me halfway through my run up. I recover, step back to the start. And stop. I’m not competitive, far from it. Sure, I don’t mind winning a friendly game of bowling or whatever, but I’m the drummer, the guy at the back who hides behind the beat, happy for someone else to bask in the limelight. I don’t need the public’s praise, don’t want the weight that comes with that kind of attention. It’d soon grow heavier than the fourteen pounder in my hands.

I glance down at the ball. The brand name—Superior—leaps off the smooth ice blue in a lick of fiery flame.

Superior.

And I know. This isn’t about competition, or about being better. This is about changing the way MJ looks down her pert little nose at me. Sure, yesterday afternoon has put some major cracks into the distorted lens she’s been viewing me through, but somehow it’s not enough. She’ll never think of me as smart, I accept that, but I want her to at least see me as capable, as worthy of her precious time, as … I don’t know—anything other than a drugged-up muso.

What I don’t want is to think about why MJ’s approval is suddenly so important to me.

I heave the ball into the crook of one elbow so I can give my teeth access to the skin around the thumb of my free hand.

‘Um, Luke? Does it usually take this long?’

MJ’s question jerks me back to the bowling alley. How long have I been standing here, stroking the bowling ball like some confused fortune teller?

‘Yeah, ah, just … strategising.’ Just bowl already. And don’t cock it up.

I take a deep breath, swing my arm back, take the run-up and bang, roll … You’ve got to be kidding me!

Gutter.

The lack of comment from behind me says it all. I close my eyes in self-disgust and push through the wave of embarrassment on my way to the ball return, avoiding eye contact with MJ at all costs.

‘You want to play bumpers?’ Rosie asks as I wait for the ball. She’s trying to be kind, but I hear the confusion in her voice; I’ve never needed bumpers before.

‘Nah.’ I give her a reassuring wink. ‘Just warming up.’

She nods in that so-it-shall-be way of hers. Right on cue, my ball pops up on the conveyor belt and brings with it my chance at redemption. I heave it off the rack, the finger holes unusually slippery. Come on, Luke. You’ve done this a million and one times.

I take another deep breath, and this time I focus on the beat of the song blaring through the alley speakers. All I need is to hook in to the driving duth, duth, duth of the bass. I swing, run up, bang, roll …

Crash!

Eight pins down. I release my breath in a rush of relief. Okay, not a spare but respectable.

Rosie gives me the thumbs up as I turn for the bench. ‘Good job.’

When I finally risk looking MJ’s way, she’s … back to strangling the hem of her T-shirt. The little hedgehog is stressing too much about her own performance to criticise mine. Way to go, Luke, you self-centred schmuck.

I grab her ball from the return. ‘Okay, just run, swing your arm, then let go. The trick is to look at the pins, not the ball.’ I hand her the ball, along with a reassuring smile.

She gives me a tight one in return, but squares her shoulders and takes the ball from me. Next thing I know she’s following my instructions, feet slapping the wooden floor, arm swinging awkwardly behind her, and as I open my mouth to remind her to keep her eyes on the prize it’s bang … bang … thud.

Gutter.

I wince, then suck in a quick breath in relief. I know, not my finest moment, but I’m secretly glad there’s one thing I can do better than the great MJ Olsen-Wang.

Her second turn is a repeat of the first, and when she shuffles back to the bench, her previous determination deflating with every step, I feel like a right bastard.

‘We can play bumpers,’ Rosie says.

MJ’s already small shoulders shrink some more as my ever helpful sister drapes a comforting arm around them. It’s hard to tell if it’s because of Rosie’s suggestion or the physical contact.

‘No. I … Don’t change the game for me,’ she says to Rosie with a shake of the head. But when she looks up, those midnight eyes are all round and huge and full of disappointment. It kills me, the way she beats herself up over a stupid game of bowling.

And I know—before Rosie’s ball has knocked down all ten pins in a cracker of a strike on her second turn—exactly what I have to do.

Big Brother is Calling

‘Okay, so two a1 orbitals can be mixed to give two pairs—no, hold up—make that one pair of sp hybrids.’

A spinning pen, I’ve come to realise, can be a mighty hypnotic thing, because when Luke stops twirling his ballpoint and looks up at me, I have no idea what he’s just said.

I quickly glance down at the chemistry notes spread out in front of him on the kitchen table. ‘Correct. What about two hydrogen 1s orbitals?’

‘Can be resolved into an a1 or b2 combination.’

I nod and he gives me a quick grin.

I can’t help smiling back. I suggested we give the material another once over after we arrived back from the bowling alley, but it was Luke who pulled his pile of notes out a second time after dinner. I have no doubt these extra sessions will help him pass. Maybe even do well. Unlike his earlier performance back at the bowling alley.

I look across at the other head bent over school work at the kitchen table. Rosie’s performance on the other hand—unbelievable. Four times she blew all ten pins out of the alley on her first go, then twice more on her second attempt. It’s not surprising she won. What is surprising is how Luke managed to lose. Even with Rosie’s well-meant tips and enthusiastic demonstrations, it was me who should have come last. But I didn’t.

Because Luke was off his game, he claimed.

And needed bumpers, he claimed.

So somehow I beat him. Not by much, but enough to suspect he threw his game.

For me.

Like a kitten, warmth curls inside my chest, but since I’ve never held a kitten, warm or otherwise, I don’t quite know what to do with it.

Luke’s pen stills on the page, then he sets it spinning again in long, dexterous fingers. ‘You know, I think this stuff is finally sinking in.’

I follow the lean line of his arm to his face and trip to a stop smack in the middle of his gaze. There’s an explosion of gold around the nucleus of his pupils, burning ochre bleeding into parakeet green. Chaotic yet ordered, like one of the many coloured pencil shavings perpetually scattered on Theo’s bedroom floor. It’s … arresting. How have I not noticed this before?

‘You’re doing well,’ I say, collecting the pages of loose-leaf notes that have somehow ended up peppering the entire kitchen table.

‘Thanks to you.’ He smiles, a slow-motion transformation from crinkles of concentration to open gratitude. And far more mesmerising than any twirling pen. That kitten burrows deeper into my chest, making it difficult to take a decent breath.

My phone buzzes and I startle. It’s the intrusion I need to tear my eyes from the look-twice parakeet green.

I check the caller ID and breathe a sigh of relief; it’s not my mother.

I press the talk icon. ‘Hey, Theo.’

‘How’s the cram session going?’

‘Better than expected.’ I ignore Luke’s raised eyebrow and get up, moving into the hallway so I can talk without disturbing him and Rosie.

‘Glad to hear it. Next time give me a bit more warning when you’re planning to use me as your weekend alibi. Mum called five minutes after you.’ Checking up on me? Why am I not surprised? ‘I told her you were at the library. That kept her happy for a bit, but I’d ring her today if I were you or else she might get suss.’

‘I will. Thanks.’

‘So how’d you like the bowling?’

Theo’s question throws me. ‘How did you know we went bowling?’

‘It’s Saturday. Luke takes Rosie bowling every Saturday.’

And again I’m reminded of how little I know about my own brother.

‘It was all right, I guess.’ Actually, once Luke put up the bumpers and my balls weren’t swallowed by the gutter, it was kind of … fun.

‘Rosie’s something else, isn’t she? Man, can that girl bowl! And if that doesn’t knock you over, the sheer force of her enthusiasm will.’ There’s no mistaking the fond tone for Luke’s baby sister in Theo’s voice. A tone he used to use when he spoke about me. A tone I haven’t heard for … I can’t even remember how long. I rub the heel of my hand over my chest where that stupid tightening has started up again.

‘What movie did she make you watch?’ he asks.

‘Ghost.’

He chuckles. ‘Yeah, had to sit through that four times. Pure torture. Don’t know how Luke does it over and over again.’

‘He’s surprisingly patient.’ And gentle. And protective. And a whole heap of other things I have no business thinking about Luke.

‘Sandy’s into him, isn’t she?’

Sandy. Into Luke.

I frown. ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

Theo laughs. ‘It’s not half obvious. The couple of times she’s been over here, she’s made eyes at him. I know these things, which means I gotta ask: You sure you’re spending the weekend at his only to help him study?’

Why else would I give up my time if not to help him—oh. Oh!

‘Yes, I’m sure!’ Louder than intended, my retort fills the hallway. I crane my neck for a peek into the kitchen where my gaze collides with Luke’s concerned one. I offer him a quick nothing-to-worry-about smile, then back down the hallway into his room and shut the door behind me.

‘Easy, Macca. You know I won’t tell Mum.’

‘Dammit, Theo, it’s not like that!’ I sink down onto Luke’s bed and can’t help a snort at the irony. ‘His make-up test is Monday and he needs this cram weekend to pass.’

It’s the truth, but my fingers twist in the folds of Luke’s doona like I’m telling a lie.

‘Kay.’ There’s a pause. ‘But if you’re, you know, into him, that’s cool because—’

‘Theo!’

‘Macca!’

I huff at my brother’s stubborn persistence. ‘I’m Luke’s tutor. He’s my student. That’s all.’ And maybe—hopefully—also my friend. I’m no expert, but I’m fairly certain only a friend would sacrifice his pride in a game of ten pin bowling.

‘You sure? Because he’s one of the good guys.’

My fingers still. Theo is right; Luke is one of the good guys. If yesterday’s drum circle lesson didn’t prove it, then today’s bowling session did. The way he’s all about other people, about making them feel good about themselves, even at his own expense—Luke Bains is very much one of the good guys.

I grab a fistful of comforter. ‘He’d never be interested in me that way.’ Wait? And I’m thinking about this because?

‘Why not? So you’re a little rough around the edges socially, but other than that …’ I can almost hear him shrug a shoulder. ‘Why wouldn’t he be interested?’

‘I’m not exactly a compatible partner.’ I shake my head. MJ to brain. Shut up already! Because why am I even going there? Especially when any train of thought travelling in that direction has the potential to wreck my still shaky relationship with Sandy and derail my carefully laid plans with Jason.

‘And who exactly would be compatible with him?’ Theo asks.

‘I don’t know. You tell me. He’s your roommate.’ Even as I say it, I roll my eyes. Because I’m not interested in the answer.

‘I could see him with Sandy.’

Sandy. With Luke. My gaze finds its way over to the family snapshot on Luke’s desk. Suddenly the thought of Sandy and Luke together squeezes my stomach.

I clutch the comforter tighter in my fist. ‘Um, I’ve got to go. I should help clean up after dinner.’ I wince at the lie; Luke and Rosie have already done it. Being a house guest, I wasn’t allowed to help.

‘Sure. Say hi to Mrs Bains and Rosie for me, will ya? And give Mum a call.’

‘Okay,’ I say, even though speaking with Mum is the last thing I want to do right now. But when I hang up, I dial her mobile. It goes to voicemail. The universe must be taking pity on me.

‘Hey Mum—’ I inject forced enthusiasm into the voice message, ‘—just thought I’d let you know Jason and I are making some great headway. I showed him the article you suggested. I’ll call later. Bye.’

When I get back into the kitchen, Mrs Bains is wrapping a sandwich in cling wrap. It’s close to seven but her fresh pair of nurses’ scrubs is a reminder her working day has yet to start.

She greets me with a smile. ‘I hear you were subjected to Rosie’s Patrick Swayze obsession last night.’

A snort comes from Luke’s end of the kitchen table. ‘Don’t make it sound like Rosie’s the only one afflicted in this household.’

His comment earns him a grin from his sister and a glare from his mother, but when Mrs Bains looks back my way, she winks. ‘Nothing wrong with a little Swayze swooning, now is there, MJ?’

‘Um, I guess not,’ I say even as my cheeks heat, because, well, how else do I reply? The woman has been kind enough to put me up for the weekend.

‘I hope the three of you haven’t been slaving over your books all day,’ she says, slipping the sandwich into an oversized tote bag.

Rosie looks up from her maths equations. ‘We took MJ bowling. Luke needed bumpers.’

‘Really?’

The frown in the nurse’s voice has my eyes narrowing on her son.

Attention fixed firmly on the chemistry notes in front of him, he shrugs. ‘I was off my game.’

Off his game, eh? The way his mother’s eyebrows climb towards the ceiling finally proves the guy is lying. The thing is, I’m not entirely sure what to make of this revelation.

Mrs Bains loops her tote over one shoulder and turns back to me. ‘Don’t let Rosie rope you into any more Patrick Swayze movies if you don’t want to watch them, MJ.’ She bends to kiss Rosie on the head. ‘Although Point Break really is worth a look. Lots of tanned and toned bad boys on surfboards.’ She winks at Rosie, then turns to me with a sheepish smile.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Luke shake his head in disgust or embarrassment. Or both.

Mrs Bains must have seen him too, because she grabs one of his shoulders for a squeeze. ‘Now, don’t be like that. We’re all allowed our little obsessions. Rosie and I have Patrick, and you have Kit.’

‘Kit?’ I don’t remember him mentioning anyone called Kit. Then again, it’s not like he knows me well enough to share his obsessions with.

‘His drum kit,’ Rosie says with a goofy grin. She closes her maths book and jumps up from her seat. ‘All done. I’m going to watch Point Break.’ She looks at me, eyes wide and expectant.

‘I’ll, um, give it a miss tonight,’ I say. She opens her mouth, but then she glances her mother’s way, shrugs and tears out of the kitchen, presumably in search of Patrick and his surfboard.

I snag Luke’s gaze. ‘You’ve named your drum kit?’ My question comes out half ‘aw’ and half ‘huh?’, because I can’t decide if the whole thing is cute or creepy.

Luke crosses his arms and sucks his cheeks in just short of a pout. ‘What’s the big deal? Other guys name their cars. I name my drum kit. Got a problem with that?’

I shake my head at the same time as I bite down on a grin, because despite his defensive words, Luke’s face is quickly turning an interesting shade of red.

A glance at Mrs Bains shows I’m not the only one suppressing the giggles.

She gives Luke’s shoulder a there-there pat. ‘Don’t spend the whole weekend on schoolwork. Make sure to have some fun.’ She’s halfway to the kitchen door when she stops and turns back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, Leon called earlier. Crossroads needs a drummer tomorrow morning. I told him you’re available.’

All the heated embarrassment from a moment ago drains from Luke’s face, along with any other colour his skin might normally hold. ‘Mum, but I … it’s the first Sunday of the month.’

Mrs Bains’ smile is pinched, as though she’s pushing it through a wall of pain. I don’t understand the expression—my mother has never looked at me like that.

‘It’s been six months, Luke. You can’t avoid her forever.’ Her eyes flood with kindness, and Luke swallows, Adam’s apple scraping along the taut muscles of his throat. Something passes between them and he nods, although the air around him sags with reluctance.

Mrs Bains gives him that pinched smile again, and suddenly I understand her expression. It’s the look a mother gives her child when she’d do anything humanly possible to take away his pain.

By the time the click of the front door closing behind Mrs Bains echoes down the hallway, I’m bursting with questions. What happened six months ago? More importantly, who is the her Luke wants to avoid?

I open my mouth, but Luke’s eyes flare at me. They might be green, but they’re blinking stop, not go. For once, my rusty people radar goes off and I opt for something safer.

‘So, now you do have a gig this weekend.’ I make sure my tone is light, my smile curious, so he doesn’t think I’m taking a shot at him.

He huffs out a humourless laugh. ‘I wouldn’t call it a gig.’

‘But you said … oh, okay, a session recording then.’ I have to admit, after Friday’s drum circle session, the idea of listening to him drum during a recording is … intriguing.

Luke pushes his chair back and stands. He shakes his head—a resigned gesture. ‘Not a session recording.’

I’m confused, both at his unexpected responses and my bizarre disappointment that I won’t see him drum at a recording.

‘But your mum said this band—’ What was it again? Cross-, Cross-, ‘—Crossroads needs a drummer tomorrow morning.’

‘Not a band, MJ.’ He flashes me that humourless smile again. ‘Crossroads is a church.’

Luke

Crossroads

Not one question—not a single one—passes MJ’s lips. To say I’m surprised by her restraint is an understatement; the little hedgehog has never been backward in putting an awkward foot forward, especially one destined to end up in her mouth. But, miracle of miracles, she keeps her mouth shut. Well, not exactly. Those cymbal clash lips of hers are gaping, just a little. Not an open-wide-and-say-ah kind of gape, but enough for me to spot the burning questions on the tip of her tongue.

At this point I don’t really care if it’s shock or courtesy keeping MJ from bombarding me with the full force of her curiosity. I just grab the reprieve along with my chem notes and push my chair back from the table.

‘I’m beat.’ Not a complete lie. Mum’s announcement about volunteering my drum services for tomorrow morning has sucked all the energy out of me. Right now I just want to head for a cave, preferably one with a drum kit in it.

‘Think I’ll hit some skins for a bit then crash in Mum’s room until Rosie goes to bed.’ I only make it as far as the kitchen door before my manners smack me up the side of the head and force me to turn back to my about-to-be neglected house guest.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Please, God, let her not mind. I can’t do friendly tonight. Not even sure I can do civil. I’ll make it up to her tomorrow. If I survive the morning.

MJ shakes her head before she finds some words. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll, um … work on my English essay and do some assignment reading.’

‘Yeah, good idea.’ That makes me feel a little less guilty. ‘And you don’t have to come tomorrow.’ Because something tells me church might be even more out of MJ’s comfort zone than the bowling alley. And I’m not sure I want her there to add to all the inevitable awkwardness. ‘I can drop you at the library on the way, or you can stay here, whichever you want.’

She blinks at me and nods, and I hightail it into the garage. It’s late but a couple years back, Zac helped me line the walls with soundproof insulation, so the neighbours wouldn’t complain when I felt the need for the beat at weird hours of the night or morning.

Tonight it’s a good thing the walls are full of sound absorbent padding because I don’t hold back. I need the beat to calm me, ground me, anchor me.

So I can face Annie tomorrow morning.

***

Today won’t be the first time I’ll be seeing my ex since Christmas break. We were both at Jason and Holland’s wedding. A week after the breakup. Like the timing wasn’t shitty enough, but a wedding? I sat through the whole thing, painfully aware of her eyes on my stiff-as-a-church-pew back. It would have been bearable if her gaze had been boring bullet holes between my shoulder blades. But no, that’s not Annie. And even though I’m not known to run from a ball-shrivelling situation, the crushed look on Annie’s face had me backing out the door as soon as the minister said ‘man and wife’. I might be resigned to finally facing my ex—doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to revisiting that hurt locker though.

To add to my problems, MJ’s miraculous ceasefire is reaching an end. I’ve been waiting for the inquisition since I almost choked on my cereal when she told me she wanted to come along to Crossroads this morning. In all fairness, she deserves to be cut some slack; she left me alone to wrestle my Annie demons last night, even though it must have killed her not to bombard me with her burning questions.

I’m backing the station wagon out of the driveway when the inquisition starts. ‘So, the church thing. Is that something you’ve always done?’

‘For most of the past thirteen years.’ I slide the car into drive and head down our deserted street. ‘One of Mum’s nursing friends asked her to come along after Dad left.’

MJ nods. The absent father thing won’t be any surprise to her. She’s sharp enough to pick up there’s been no mention of a Mr Bains all weekend.

‘How old was Rosie when your dad left?’ she asks.

I take a quick peek at the empty backseat in the rear-view mirror, glad Rosie caught a lift with the Wilsons and their daughter this morning. ‘Two. He’d put up with the developmental delays for long enough, he’d said.’

MJ’s eyes widen. ‘But that’s … that’s …’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’ There are no words. None that should be spoken in public anyway. ‘The moment my father found out there was a high chance of Downs he wanted Mum to abort. She wouldn’t hear of it. When Rosie was born ... well ... Rosie ... he wasn’t happy. He found a job on the other side of the country and left a week after Rosie’s second birthday.’ Bad enough the self-righteous bastard had one kid that didn’t live up to his expectations. ‘His monthly child support cheque is the extent of our contact with him.’

I pull to a stop at a red light and force my fingers to flex, run them up and down the coolness of the steering wheel in an attempt to douse my flare of useless anger. ‘The Crossroads community was there for Mum when she needed it most. We’ve been going most Sundays since.’ Except me on the first Sunday of the month after last Christmas Eve, that is.

The light flicks to green and I turn into the intersection.

MJ’s eyes meet mine. ‘So you don’t have a problem with Theo being gay?’

Whoa! ‘Because I go to church?’

‘Yes. You know, the whole Sodom and Gomorrah thing.’

‘You’re really rolling out the stereotypes here.’

She crosses her arms. ‘Well, stereotypes wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t some truth to them.’

Yeah, like the drugged-up drummer stereotype. I flick her a sharp look. My unspoken words must be scrawled somewhere in my expression, because she shifts restlessly in her seat.

‘Statistics don’t lie. Look at the same-sex marriage vote. Church-going people generally have a problem with same-sex relationships.’

‘What, like Asian people generally have no road sense?’

Her mouth drops open, retort gathering on her tongue, but she swallows whatever she was about to say and scrunches her nose instead. Luke one—MJ nil. I allow myself a small victory smile in her general direction. ‘And no, I don’t have a problem with Theo being gay, obviously.’

‘But that’s not the case with most churchies, is it?’

Churchies? I suck in a slow breath. It really ticks me off the way she’s constantly trying to box me into some category. ‘I thought we were talking about me? Or are we back to generalising about the entire church-going population?’

She sits up straighter, tugs the edges of her coat together. ‘All right. Let’s talk about you. So why do you avoid church on the first of every month? What’s the deal with that?’

Bingo! There it is. And like the idiot I am, I walked straight into that one. Doesn’t stop me glaring across at her, ready to tell her it’s none of her damn business when … ah hell. Eyes startled, lips parted on a choke—it’s just dawned on her she’s crossed a line.

I blow out my agitation through tight lips. What is it about this girl? No matter how much she riles me with her thoughtless outbursts, I can’t stay annoyed at her. Not when her face tells me she had no clue her words would come out sounding so insensitive. Besides, she’ll be around to witness all the upcoming awkwardness, so I might as well fill in some of the blanks. Question is, how much am I happy for the little hedgehog to know?

‘My ex-girlfriend goes to Crossroads. She comes home from uni first Sunday of each month.’ There, that should be enough.

‘Oh.’

Silence. For all of three seconds. ‘So she dumped you?’

I shake my head. I don’t even know if it’s at her complete lack of filter or in answer. Or her assumption. ‘No. I broke it off.’ Should have done it months earlier, but I was too stupid to see the train wreck coming.

Silence. This time it stretches for longer. It’s only when we turn into the Crossroads car park and I kill the engine that MJ speaks again. ‘Why?’

I glance her way, take in the agenda-free curiosity in her expression, and decide it can’t hurt to answer this one. ‘Let’s just say we had a disagreement over uni choices.’

MJ does her nose twitch thing. ‘Uni choices?’

‘Yeah, she was trying to convince me I should go to the same uni as her. The harder she tried, the more I realised my feelings for her had changed. She wasn’t the right person for me anymore.’

MJ is quiet for a beat. ‘So what made your ex the wrong person?’

Good question. On paper we seem perfect together. Similar interests, same career paths, complementing personalities but … ‘The more she described what she saw as our future, the less I wanted it with her. It was all too, I don’t know, predictable.’

Yeah, that was it. Annie was the expected choice. The safe choice.

And for some reason that meant she wasn’t the right choice. Not anymore.

The Churchies

Crossroads doesn’t look anything like a church. Mind you, I’m no expert; I’ve only ever been inside one once, three years ago for Grandma Olsen’s funeral. I’m not seeing any stained-glass windows depicting pious saints. Or any ornately decorated altars for pompous priests to hide behind. And no crosses. Anywhere! Good thing Grandma Olsen is dead, because all this blasphemy by omission would surely send her to her grave.

What I am seeing, as I follow Luke down the centre aisle of the sizable auditorium, are rows and rows of moulded chairs, all facing a stage complete with keyboard, guitar, bass and drum kit. Add the speakers mounted on the acoustically insulated walls and the microphone stands lining the front of the stage, and you’ll be forgiven for thinking you’ve walked into a concert hall geared for a rock performance. Come to think of it, you’d better be forgiven no matter what, because—duh!—it’s a church.

‘Luke?’

The warm male baritone pulls my gaze around to the back of the hall.

‘Zac!’ Luke’s face splits into a toothy grin, then he’s leading me back up the aisle in the direction of his friend, who’s getting up from behind what looks like some sort of sound control desk.

He pulls his buddy into one of those chest-bump-and-thump-on-the-back guy hugs. Luke is slightly taller than his friend, but what Zac lacks in height he makes up in shoulder width and quiet confidence.

‘Good to see you, man,’ Luke says mid hug.

‘You too.’ Thump, thump, then Zac’s gaze finds its way to me. ‘I’m Zac.’ He extends a hand, along with the kind of bone melting smile that would have plenty of girls sit up and take notice. I accept both warily. Even with my defunct people radar, I have a feeling this guy doesn’t miss much.

‘MJ,’ I say, and peer up at Luke.

‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ Luke shoves his hands into his pockets. ‘MJ’s Theo’s sister.’

Zac skims my features as though looking for a family resemblance. ‘That’s right. Theo’s mentioned a baby sister.’

His words are delivered with a smile but they hollow me out. Theo visiting Crossroads is another part of my brother’s world I know nothing about. Proof the gap between us yawns as wide as I thought. At least he’s mentioned me to his friends here. That goes some way to filling the increasingly familiar emptiness spreading inside me whenever I think of my relationship with my brother.

There’s an awkward moment of silence where Zac’s narrowed gaze flicks from Luke to me, then back to Luke again. Okay, no doubt about it, Zac has Perceptive People Person stamped boldly across his forehead.

Luke clears his throat. ‘MJ’s helping me pass chemistry.’

Zac’s mouth falls open in a universal ‘ah’ of understanding, but his eyes remain narrowed.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until next Sunday,’ he says to Luke. ‘You know, first weekend of the month …’

Luke shrugs. ‘They’re short a drummer this morning and, well … I can’t avoid her forever.’

Zac shoots me a quick, but somehow loaded, glance before turning back to Luke. ‘You sure this is a good idea?’

Brows pulling together, Luke also gives me a quick once over, then those ultra-green eyes of his widen in what can only be described as an ‘ah crap’ expression. ‘You’re right. Annie’s going to think—’ He tips his head back and groans at the ceiling. ‘First time I see her and I bring—’ Another groan. ‘If she doesn’t hate me already, this’ll do it.’

‘Easy.’ Zac gives Luke’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘We both know Annie isn’t capable of hating anyone.’

I have no idea what they’re talking about, but Luke’s teeth are now gnawing away at his thumb cuticle so whatever it is, it’s stressing him out.

‘Yeah, but I’ve hurt her enough, and this looks like I’m rubbing her nose in it.’

Rubbing her nose in what? He hasn’t seen the girl in months, what could be so offensive that—Oh! Of course! When she sees Luke and me together, she’ll assume we’re together-together. Which is ridiculous, because he’d never—I mean I’d never! Together? Ridiculous!

I tug sharply at my handbag strap. ‘No need to worry. Anyone with eyes in their head can see nothing like that would ever eventuate between us.’ I nod at the undeniable truth of my words, ignoring the strange indigestion-like tightness building behind my ribcage. But really, what should Annie care? They’re no longer an item. Luke can date whomever he chooses. Except me, because … well, I mean, seriously! ‘Luke and me?’ I snort. ‘Ridiculous!’

‘Ridiculous.’ Luke repeats the word in a tight whisper. Our gazes brush, the green of his slicing between narrowed lids. What have I done now? I scan his expression for clues to his sudden mood change from panicked to ticked-off, but he shifts his stance and turns his back on me.

‘You on sound this morning?’ he asks Zac.

Zac gives him a slow nod.

‘Okay if MJ sits back here with you? ’Cause even though it’s ridiculous—’ he flicks me a smile over his shoulder. Like his voice, it’s tight, ‘—people might get the wrong idea if she sits up front with me and the band.’

Which is something neither of us wants, so what is his problem?

Zac raises a brow but nods again. ‘I’ll look after her.’ His smile is a good deal warmer than Luke’s. I’m still mulling over what I’ve done wrong when Luke stomps towards the stage where the rest of the band has already assembled.

The scrape of chair legs across the floor behind me drags my gaze from Luke’s tense shoulders back to Zac.

‘Over here.’ He motions to a spare chair behind the sound desk. Since Drummer Boy seems to have lost a drumstick up his bum, I have little choice but to join Zac.

‘So, you’ve been helping Luke with his chemistry.’ Zac’s attention is divided between the smorgasbord of nobs and dials in front of us, the tall brunette strumming a guitar on the stage and me.

‘Yes. Until final exams.’

He turns dials and adjusts sliders until the brunette gives him a thumbs-up.

‘And? Is he doing all right? Is he going to pass?’

I’m about to answer when ‘one-two, one-two’ comes blaring through the speakers. More dial turning and slider adjusting. Finally, the two vocalists are happy, and Zac moves on to the keyboardist. ‘He has to, pass, I mean,’ Zac says.

‘He can always repeat.’

‘He can, but probably won’t. Not again.’ Zac’s onto the bass player now. A bouncer type with a buzz cut and surprisingly agile fingers.

‘Why not?’ I try catching Zac’s eye to encourage some clarification, but he’s focused on the weird hand signals the guitarist is waving at him.

‘Why not?’ I ask again, even though some long buried etiquette awareness tells me I’m breaking a social rule somewhere. Well, I don’t care. I have a sudden and burning need to know why Luke won’t repeat.

Finally, Zac quits fiddling with his nobs and sliders and sits back in his chair. ‘Has he told you why he’s doing chem in the first place?’

I nod. ‘To make him more employable as a teacher.’

‘That’s half of it, yeah.’

‘What’s the other half?’

Zac’s eyes narrow as though he’s quietly assessing if he should tell me about the other half. ‘Passing chemistry is Luke’s way of proving that he’s good enough.’

I frown at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

Zac’s lips thin. ‘Let’s just say his father’s toxic you’re-not-good-enough parenting has had long lasting effects.’

Not good enough. I’m familiar with this edict. With Meike Olsen-Wang for a mother, it’s practically a family motto.

‘Failing chem a second time would be a fatal blow to Luke’s already dubious confidence,’ Zac adds. ‘So much so he’s talked about giving up on the teaching degree all together.’

I chew on my lip. All this time I’ve been convinced we have nothing in common when we do: we’re both driven by fear of failure.

‘But why chemistry?’ That still doesn’t make any sense.

Zac lifts a brow at me. ‘Luke’s father is a pharmacist.’

And finally, it all slides into focus.

Sound check complete, one of the singers counts the band in. Without thought, my gaze crosses to the stage and Luke’s lanky form behind the drum kit. The piano sat in front of the drums at the drum circle session the other night, so I never got a good look at him playing. But now he’s right there, in full view, commanding the kit as though it’s a natural extension of his body.

Such skill is enough to draw anyone’s eye towards the drummer. But it’s the expression on his face—a melding of concentration, rapture and peace—that keeps my gaze immovably fixed on Luke Bains as he weaves a tight, soul-felt rhythmic spell around each member of the band … and maybe a person or two behind the sound desk.

We might both be driven by fear of failure, but looking at him, so blatantly enjoying his talent for music, so passionate about the teaching path it has led him on, it’s clear that failure for Luke would be devastating—because he’d be letting none other than himself down.

Whereas failure for me … I suck in a sharp breath as the truth suddenly hits home as startling as one of Luke’s cymbal clashes: failure also bears consequence on me, but only because I’d be letting someone else down.

Because my path has never been my own.

‘So, will he pass?’ Zac’s eyes are so full of genuine concern for his friend that I can’t help but like him a little more.

‘Yes.’ My gaze finds Luke again, because for some unexplainable reason I can’t seem to look away from the drummer. ‘I’ll make sure he does.’ Resolve lengthens my spine as I lay the words down in a bed of certainty. It’s the least I can do after misjudging him so badly.

At least one of us should have the chance to fulfil their dream for the future.

***

After the service, Zac guides me into the foyer where everyone is gathering for tea and coffee. It takes us forever to make it to the drinks table, because every couple of steps a different Crossroads churchie stops Zac to have a chat. The guy is popular, which is unfortunate because it draws attention to me.

‘So, what’d you think? Of the service, I mean.’ Zac holds up a tea bag when we finally reach the refreshments.

I shake my head and point to the urn labelled ‘coffee’. ‘It was okay. Although I don’t have much to compare it to.’ I pour milk into the steaming mug Zac has handed me. ‘The minister …’ Do they call them priests in Protestant churches? ‘… he was interesting enough.’ If you’re into third-century Middle Eastern history.

Zac smiles. ‘Dad’ll be glad to know he passed muster.’

‘Dad?’ He can’t mean the preacher is his father.

‘The Rev is my father.’

Then again, maybe he can.

‘Don’t look so shocked.’

His comment sends heat into my cheeks. ‘I’ve never met a preacher’s kid is all.’

‘It get’s worse. I’m studying business and theology.’ He traps me with that perceptive gaze of his. ‘So, which preacher’s kid stereotype have you got me pegged for? Angel or rebel?’

At first glance? Zac has Obedient Preacher Kid stamped all over his clean-cut, Country Road persona. But then my experience with Luke has taught me not to trust first glances.

‘Neither. Studying business and theology is like studying white collar crime and the canon. You’re clearly still undecided.’

The corners of his mouth come into view over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘That’s a cop-out answer, but I’ll pay it. It’s your first time after all, and I have to be nice to you. It’s expected of the preacher’s kid.’

‘Thanks,’ I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm, but I’m positive the warmth in Zac’s smile has been genuine all morning, making me hope his niceness isn’t purely the product of preacher’s kid duty.

In stark contrast, I spot a pale-faced, non-smiling Luke making his way towards us through the throng of churchies.

His unsteady hand shoots out towards the mugs before he comes to a complete stand still. ‘Coffee strong?’

Either I’ve been right all along about his illicit substance habit or something has him seriously jumpy. Or maybe that drumstick up his bum is causing him some grief.

Luke dumps three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, stirs for all of a second, then downs a third of the cup in one gulp. ‘Service all good?’ He gulps another mouthful, waiting for my answer.

‘Um, sure.’ I’m about to ask if Middle Eastern history interests him at all, but he’s not paying attention. Fingers tapping a gunfire rhythm against the side of his cup, he’s scanning the foyer around me.

‘She’s talking to Mrs Radcliffe.’ Zac tips his chin to Luke’s left.

Of course—Annie. I turn to look, even though I have no idea who Mrs Radcliffe is.

‘You want us to leave? I can take MJ to meet the Rev. That might make—’

‘No.’ Luke throws back the rest of his coffee like it’ll fix what ails him. ‘Stay. I don’t think I can do this alone.’

And then I see her. Although I’ve never met Annie, the poised brunette walking our way has never-wanted-to-be-Luke’s-ex-girlfriend written all over the cobalt blue of her Pollyanna eyes.

‘Annie, hi.’ Zac greets her the moment she’s close enough, which is a good thing because Luke looks like he might throw up at any moment.

‘Hey. Mrs Radcliffe is looking for you.’ She gives Zac a quick smile, but her focus isn’t on the preacher’s boy; her gaze darts first Luke’s way, then mine.

Zac hesitates. ‘I guess I should see what she wants,’ he says. Reluctantly, he puts his cup down on the table and wades through the throng, churchies parting for him like the Red Sea.

Annie nods in his direction, but it’s so perfunctory I doubt she’s heard anything he’s said. No, her focus is on the tense drummer boy standing beside me.

‘How’ve you been?’ she asks, her voice a near whisper.

‘Good.’ Luke manages a stiff nod. ‘You?’

‘Okay … I guess.’ There’s a perfect mix of sweet and sorrow in her expression, the longing in her eyes so tangible it all but reaches for Luke. I’m starting to understand his aversion to this reunion.

His fingers have stopped tapping, but he’s gripping the cup so tightly his knuckles are about to push through his skin. ‘How’s uni?’

‘Going well. I’m really enjoying the education lectures this semester.’

Both studying to be teachers. How claustrophobic.

‘How about you?’

Luke shifts from foot to foot. ‘Okay, mostly. Chemistry is giving me a bit of grief but—’ he shoots me a quick glance, ‘—MJ’s helping me with that.’

Polly-Annie looks my way, a bright hello in her smile, but nowhere near bright enough to cover the wariness in her eyes.

‘MJ, nice to meet you.’ I listen for traces of malice in her words but … there are none. Which is surprising; the girl must be wondering if Luke and I are together. Someone should put her out of her misery.

‘Hi, I’m Luke’s chemistry tutor.’

Polly-Annie’s smile widens at my words, but the wariness stays put in her eyes. ‘So, you’ve met Rosie then?’

Her change of subject throws me for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I eventually say. ‘We’ve bonded. I’ll forever have nightmares involving pottery wheels.’

Polly-Annie chuckles. ‘We must have watched that movie a dozen times, right, Luke?’

Right, so that’s how it is. Things might be over for Luke, but that sweet and sorrowful longing in her eyes is proof Polly-Annie hasn’t given up on their relationship yet.

‘Speaking of Rosie, she mentioned Mrs Bowers has broken her wrist and you might need someone to accompany you during her upcoming concert?’ Annie steps closer. ‘I’m happy to help.’

Luke starts his frantic cup tapping again. ‘Um, there’s no need for you—’

‘I want to. It’ll be like old times.’ Annie’s hand finds Luke’s bicep and he freezes. The anguished panic flooding his eyes ignites an unfamiliar burn inside my chest, and before I know what I’m doing …

‘It’s all sorted. I’ve already told Luke I’d play.’

I’m not sure who the lie surprises more: me or Luke. Okay, maybe Luke, because he’s stopped his tapping and stares at me.

‘I know the piece from Friday, and we’ll have plenty of time to practise what with meeting up for tutoring at least twice a week, so …’ I slide Luke what I hope is a meaningful look, but he continues his goldfish impersonation. Come on, Drummer Boy, I’m trying to give you an out. Work with me here. I sidle closer and, making sure Polly-Annie can’t see my hand, pinch him on the back of the thigh.

He flinches awake. ‘Yeah, all sorted. MJ’s already offered.’ Luke’s eyes are still a confused green when he glances my way, but his shoulders are floating away from his earlobes, shedding tension with each downward millimetre.

The corners of Polly-Annie’s mouth follow a similar trajectory. ‘Well, if anything changes—’

‘It won’t,’ I say and, in full view of everyone, especially Polly-Annie … I grab Luke’s hand.

What are you doing? What are you doing? What. Are. You. Doing?

Not putting the girl out of her misery, that’s for sure. The moment her gaze drops to our hands, the sorrow swamps the sweet in her expression, and for a blink of her glistening eyes, I feel her pain. But I’m not here for her. I’m here for Luke. Although I’m well aware he might not come showering me with thanks since I’ve just given Polly-Annie the impression I’m her replacement. But what was I meant to do?

‘We better go. We should look over the last section of your notes again.’ I tug on his hand, still warm and solid in mine. Maybe he’s okay with my impromptu decision to thrust us into this make-believe relationship. I risk a peek at his face and … then again, maybe not.

‘Yeah, we should head,’ Luke says. I try not to squirm too much under his glare; I didn’t know parakeet green could darken so dangerously. But his hand stays sitting in mine, even if he is squeezing my fingers a tad tightly.

He gives Annie a brief goodbye smile, then tugs me through the herd of tea-and-coffee-sipping churchies towards the front doors. I catch sight of Zac halfway to the exit. When he spots us, his brow creases, then lifts when he registers our joined hands. I have no idea what the speculative gleam in the preacher boy’s eyes means, but it’s making me squirm all over again.

Two seconds later Luke has dragged me out of the building.

Luke

What If?

I keep my mouth shut as I drag MJ round the side of the Crossroads building to the car park. I need a moment to sort the confusing emotions banging around in my head. What was she thinking, sliding her hand into mine back there in front of Annie? No matter how dense the girl is when it comes to non-verbal communication, saying she’d accompany me at the concert then grabbing my hand screamed ‘girlfriend’. By the time my blindsided brain figured it might be a good idea to let go, it was too late; Annie had heard the unspoken message loud and clear.

At first I was annoyed—for about five seconds—then it struck me: this was MJ trying to help. And after harping on about how ridiculous the idea of the two of us is, this was MJ stepping out of her comfort zone—for me. The way Annie was tripping down memory lane, every intention of coaxing me along for the journey, I should be thanking MJ for sparing me the painful ride. I don’t want to hurt Annie any more than I already have, but I shouldn’t have to hide my new girlfriend. Whoa! MJ is not your new girlfriend.

Like she said, the idea is ridiculous. We’d never work. She’s way too uptight and I’m not off-the-scale intelligent, efficient or driven enough. Doesn’t matter that we locked into one another like a perfect fifth during the drum circle rehearsal, or that her surprised laugh spread through me like warm honey when she finally bowled a strike yesterday. She’d never see me as someone who could push her to her full potential and—hold up one damn minute! Why am I even thinking about this?

We get to the station wagon and, after a quick scan of the car park, I pull her around to face me. ‘Back there, with Annie, thanks, but that wasn’t the best way to handle things.’

‘Yes, well, I know you didn’t want to give the impression that we were, you know, together.’ She peers up at me, moonless midnight tinged with wariness, just a little. ‘But you looked like you needed some help, is all.’

I nod. ‘And I appreciate your effort, it’s just that …’ Now Annie, and possibly all of Crossroads, will think I’m dating this complex, smart and—okay, kinda cute—little hedgehog, and I’m freaking out, because somewhere along the line the idea stopped being as ridiculous to me as it is to MJ.

‘It’s only been six months,’ I say instead. ‘Since I broke it off. It’s still raw.’

‘For her or for you?’

My brows shoot up. ‘What do you think?’ How can she even ask that after my awkward as hell reunion with Annie just now?

MJ shrugs and adjusts her bag strap with her free hand, because I’m still holding on to her other one.

We both look down at our clasped hands. When MJ’s gaze next meets mine, there’s a question in her huge eyes. Yeah, if only I had the answer.

I let go of her hand and am rattled by how much I miss the warmth of her small fingers as they slide from mine. So much so I scramble for something—anything—else to take my mind off the feel of her skin against mine. ‘Back there, about playing at Rosie’s concert, was that a genuine offer or just for Annie’s benefit?’ Because if Rosie has her facts straight, I still need to replace Mrs Bowers.

Both MJ’s hands are now on her bag strap, one of them sliding up, then down the thin leather material. ‘For Annie’s benefit but …’ the up and down stops and she blinks up at me. ‘It can be genuine, if you want.’

MJ playing at Rosie’s concert—with me. If I want. ‘Yeah.’ I nod before my brain has fully processed the offer. ‘That’d solve my problem. Thanks.’

MJ shrugs. ‘It makes sense. It’s a practical solution, what with me seeing you anyway for the tutoring and all.’

I fish my car keys out of my pocket and open the passenger door for her, trying to ignore the strange surge of … something at the idea of spending more time with her.

As she says, it’s practical. It makes sense. And it has me smiling well into the next day.

A Sunday Goodbye

Luke pulls up beside my Honda in the university car park after 5.30. ‘Sorry we’re cutting it close.’ He kills the engine and turns to me with an apology in his smile. ‘Rosie’s been strange lately about me leaving on Sundays. She must really like you to let us go when she did, and without much of a fuss.’

‘It’s okay. I should make curfew in time.’ Besides, I enjoyed spending the afternoon with Luke and Rosie. I insisted on a serious cram session after church, but the card games after that were fun, even the Fifty-Two Pick Up Luke tricked me into. I had it coming, Rosie said. What did I expect, after polishing off half Luke’s ice cream. But the guy left the bowl unguarded while he went to the bathroom. What did he expect?

He had his revenge on the way back here. The two hours of trailer park music were bearable—just—but then Unchained Melody started on the radio and he refused to change the station. Instead, he sang along in a key not known to the human ear. And yet you can’t stop smiling about it.

It’s cold out, the sky spitting an icy drizzle, but I’m wide awake, strangely warm and buoyed in a way I haven’t been since … I can’t remember when.

Luke doesn’t seem to mind the spittle either. His lanky pace, usually an effort for me to keep up with, is unrushed as he walks me around to the driver’s side of my car. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night then?’

‘Sure.’ Monday night equals chemistry tutoring. ‘We need to figure out a time to practise for the concert too.’

I’m still amazed I agreed to the whole thing, but really, it’s no big deal. I can play the piece semi-comatose, and if I’m honest, it won’t be a chore going up to his place for another weekend. With any luck we might get another game of bowling in. I have little chance of beating Rosie, but with some practise, I might just whip Drummer Boy’s backside for real.

I dig around my bag for my car keys while Luke pulls his hands out of the pockets of his hoodie, then slides them back in again as though not sure what to do with them. ‘Wish me luck for tomorrow, yeah?’

His make-up test. I almost forgot. ‘You won’t need luck. You’ve got this. It’s all up here.’ I tap a finger to my temple.

‘Hope you’re right.’ He flashes me a smile, but it’s wobbly on its feet.

His lack of confidence has me reaching out, grabbing his arm and squeezing. ‘I’m seldom wrong.’

The gleam in his parakeet greens has every right to be condescending, but it isn’t. It’s warm and inviting—like the solid muscle under my fingers. I snatch my arm from Luke’s bicep and grab hold of the cold, damp strap of my messenger bag to steady me.

‘You’ll do fine.’ I nod resolutely. He’ll do better than fine. I feel it in my bones.

This time his smile is more assured, but after what I learned about him and his reason for studying chemistry over the weekend, I suspect it’s purely for my benefit. He turns for his car and I realise there’s something else I want to say.

‘Luke!’

He looks back, lanky form stopping between my car and his.

I take a shaky breath and grip the bag strap tighter. ‘I had a good time.’

He’s too far away for me to see his eyes, but his smile is brighter than the car park light he’s standing under, and wholly genuine. A sudden restlessness sends me climbing into my car, backing out, and heading for the boarding house with a last wave in his direction.

A quarter of an hour later, I sign in and rush up the stairs to my room, the palm that gripped Luke’s arm still channelling a mega case of pins and needles.

The tingles are forgotten the moment I step into my room and find Sandy sitting cross-legged on her bed.

‘Hey.’ She looks up from the Virginia Woolf text she’s reading. ‘How was your weekend?’ She’s smiling, but it’s tentative, like the memory of our fight over Luke and the tutoring is still weighing the corners of her mouth down.

I dump my bag on my bed and tug the emergency jumper I bought on the weekend over my head, so Sandy doesn’t see my face. ‘Same old. I did some reading and worked on my English essay.’ A half truth. I bend, pull out my laptop from my bag to plug in for the night, and so Sandy doesn’t spot the half lie on my face. Rosie’s Glee Club T-shirt tumbles out along with the emergency toiletries I bought on the weekend. I shove it under my pillow before Sandy catches a glimpse. It’s irrational; she will never connect the shirt with my weekend at Luke’s, but on the freak chance she does, it’s best she doesn’t see it. The way her sharp mind works she might jump straight over the harmless truth and land smack in the middle of some ridiculous conclusion.

Because that’s what the idea of Luke and me is—ridiculous. He’s the guy who gives up his Friday afternoons to jam with a motley crew of special needs kids. The guy who throws his bowling ball so it has no chance of hitting his remaining pins.

I rub my chest. That damn annoying kitten has curled itself up around something under my ribs again.

‘Well, other than a shopping trip for something to wear at Dad’s and Claudia’s engagement party, I spent the weekend with Mrs Dalloway.’ She holds up her novel. ‘So I guess neither of us had much excitement.’

The smack of guilt comes at me like one of Rosie’s well-aimed bowling balls. I push past it and grab my towel and toothbrush, ready to escape to the bathroom.

‘Although you might have had something to be excited about if you’d come back earlier.’ She shoots me a sly smile. ‘Jason came around today.’

The towel and toothbrush land back on my bed. ‘He did?’ He’s only ever contacted me on my phone. This is the first time he’s come looking for me at the boarding house, and on a weekend. This has to mean something.

‘What did he say?’ I ask, walking over to her bed.

‘Not much.’ She puts her book down. ‘Just that he was in the area and wanted to see if you were free.’

I plop down beside her. ‘Free? Free for what?’

She grins and shakes her head at me. ‘I don’t know, but you need to take a breath and relax.’ She pats my arm. ‘He braved the Boarding House Boy Test. That’s got to be a good thing.’

A good thing? I’m not convinced. It could go either way. But he came looking for me. On a Sunday—not on an agreed study day. This has to mean something! But what? I’m dying for answers here!

I’ll call him. I hop off Sandy’s bed and scramble around for my mobile. No sooner have I pulled it from my messenger bag, Sandy’s hand is on my arm again.

‘You can’t call him now.’

I frown at her. ‘Why not?’

‘Firstly—’ she counts off with a manicured finger, ‘—it’s nearly dinner time and it’s chicken Kiev night.’

She says it like it would be the end of the world if I missed that.

‘And secondly, you don’t want to come across too eager.’

‘I don’t?’

She shakes her head. ‘You’re seeing him tomorrow for one of your science sessions, right?’

I nod.

‘I’m sure you can wait that long to find out why he wanted to see you.’

I can’t! But Sandy knows what she’s talking about here, so I really should listen. The second slap of guilt is harder to push past this time. Tell her about the weekend.

I swallow, open my mouth and … ‘Did you find something to wear to the engagement party?’ Coward. I’m such a coward. But I can work at being a better friend by taking a greater interest in her weekend.

Sandy sighs and flops back down on her bed. ‘No. Claudia didn’t like anything I suggested. The whole trip ended one outfit short of a fight.’

‘I don’t understand. You’re the one who will be wearing it. Why should Claudia have a say at all?’ It’s not logical for someone other than the wearer to make clothing purchase decisions.

There’s a scoff from Sandy’s side of the room. ‘Because it’s her engagement party and she’s a control freak underneath all the let’s-have-a-mani-pedi-girls-bonding-night talk.’

I kick my shoes off and slide onto my own bed. ‘I thought you two got along?’

She shrugs. ‘She’s okay. Sometimes she tries too hard. It’s a bit sad having your father’s thirty-year-old personal trainer girlfriend try to be all buddy-buddy.’ She peers across at me. ‘I should tell her I’ve already got a best friend.’

Relief at her words allows me to sink back against the wall. She wouldn’t call me her best friend if she was still peeved at me.

Sandy leans over the side of her bed and pulls a plastic bag into her lap. ‘I found these at the Op Shop, though.’ Two berets fall out of the bag—one red, the other deep blue. Sandy pulls the blue one onto her head. ‘What do you think?’

I take in the size and shape of the floppy head gear. ‘It’s not going to do much to keep you warm.’ The fabric to head circumference ratio is much too small.

Sandy snorts. ‘I didn’t buy it to keep warm, you nim-wit,’ she says, adjusting the angle of the beret. ‘I bought it ’cause it’s cute. Try this one.’ She frisbees the red beret across the room at me. It’s soft and velvety and totally impractical, but in the interest of friendship, I tug it on, not sure how to make it sit properly.

‘Here—’ Sandy scoots over onto my bed and adjusts the angle on my head. She turns me to face the mirror on the back of our dorm room door. ‘Perfect. And Jason’s going to think so, too, when you wear it on the date he came to ask you out for.’ She smiles.

I’m not sold on Sandy’s theory about Jason, but in that moment it doesn’t matter—what’s perfect is the way her reflection hugs mine.

***

Despite Sandy’s theory, by quarter to twelve the next day, I’ve run through every possible reason for Jason’s unplanned visit to the boarding house. And in the harsh noise of the packed student cafeteria where I’m waiting for him, most of the scenarios flashing across my mind aren’t anywhere as positive as they were in the sleepy excitement of last night.

Scenario one: He’s reconsidered the topic for our paper and wants to start from scratch. This one sucks, but not a total disaster where my non-project plans with Jason are concerned.

Scenario two: He’s decided we’re not a good match for the science project and is requesting a different partner. One word: shattered. Because his rejection on an intellectual level translates into a rejection on a personal one.

The only thing keeping me from shredding the entire contents of the napkin holder on the table is the steady stream of texts from Luke. In the jittery nerves stakes, he’s right up there with me this morning. His make-up test isn’t until twelve and it looks like I’m his choice of diversion until then.

Remind me, two a1 orbitals can be mixed to give a pair of sp hybrids, right?

I roll my eyes; he knows this! I’m halfway through typing a reply, telling him exactly that when another text buzzes in.

No! Don’t tell me. I know this ;)

My grin is instant.

Yes, you know this. Stop overthinking.

I ball up the napkin I’ve been shredding and fire off another text.

Aren’t you in a lecture right now? You should be concentrating.

The speed at which he replies is testament to the fact that he’s doing anything but.

Educational Psychology. Just learned that Pavlov’s dog urinated at the sound of a bell. Real handy in a classroom ;)

I read the text twice, because …

Urinated? How is that handy in a classroom?

Salivated! Stupid autocorrect.

Like that’s any better.

How is salivating at the sound of a bell useful in the classroom?

My gaze is locked on the phone, waiting for his reply.

No imagination, MJ, that’s your problem …

That sets off another eye roll, but at least Luke’s texts keep my mind off Jason.

Meeting Jason for study today?

Correction, Luke’s texts kept my mind off Jason.

Waiting for him now.

I reach for a fresh napkin and get ripping.

You get all your reading done?

I pause my papery destruction to think of a suitable reply.

Have read what I needed to. Thanks for asking :)

I managed two articles Saturday night after Luke trudged off to the garage. I could have done more, but I found myself on the couch next to Rosie, Harvey draped across our laps, and Patrick Swayze dripping ocean water on the screen.

I know you never intended to spend the weekend away, but FYI, I also had a good time.

My hands pause mid-rip, and I re-read the last part of his text. The warmth that floods every corner of my body takes me by surprise.

I’m smiling as I type my reply.

Text me after your test for a debrief?

Will do ;)

I’m still smiling when I spot Jason winding his way between tables towards me, a tray of burger and fries in his hands.

‘Hey.’ He slides into the seat opposite and I’m treated to his angles and planes smile.

I force myself to ball up the paper carnage that was once a napkin and face the inevitable. ‘What did you want to see me about yesterday?’ Please don’t say you want a different project partner.

Jason’s eyes widen, and when the skin beneath them flushes pink, I know I’ve broken some social rule. But what’s the point in stuffing around? I need answers here! Even if they’re not ones I want to hear. I’m all for ripping that Band-Aid off quickly.

Eyes on his plate, Jason shoves a fry into his mouth. ‘How was your weekend?’

Okay, Jason clearly doesn’t subscribe to the quick rip philosophy. He’s still avoiding my gaze as he rummages around in his backpack, then stacks some notebooks on the table. Notebooks containing science project notes. I sag into my chair with the relief of seeing those notebooks.

‘Um, fine. I read those two articles I told you about. So yesterday, what did you want to see me about?’ Because if it wasn’t to tell me he was quitting or wanted a different partner …

‘A friend of mine lives up the road from your boarding house. Kevin Malcha. Know him?’

I shake my head.

A shrug. ‘Anyway, I was over there studying, and when we finished, I thought I’d drop by—’ he glances up, gaze briefly brushing mine, then landing back on his notebooks, ‘—see if you wanted to, I don’t know, grab a bite to eat or something.’

Grab a bite to eat or something. Not ditch me as a partner or talk about the science project. He wanted to grab a bite to eat … or something. What was it that Luke said in the car? He’ll make excuses to hang out together. A cautious bubble of hope lifts me up in my chair. ‘I’m free this Wednesday after school, if, um … you still want that bite to eat … or something.’

Jason’s gaze finally locks on mine. ‘Wednesday. Neat.’ He smiles. ‘That works for me.’

That bubble of hope grows until it bursts … into a tepid fizz of something lukewarm that barely passes for excitement. Shouldn’t there be more, I don’t know, anticipation?

My phone buzzes again.

Brain hurts already & I haven’t even started the damn test. I say we skip tutoring today & grab something to eat instead? My shout. As thanks for all your help.

I bite my lip around a grin. As far as ploys to get out of his tutoring session go, this one’s not bad. And Drummer Boy has been working hard this past weekend. Missing one session won’t hurt. I’ll have to ask for evening leave permission but …

On one condition: I choose where we go.

There’s this new Lebanese place a short walk from the boarding house I’ve been wanting to try out.

Deal! Gotta go. Wish me luck!

I shake my head, stopping short of the eye roll.

You don’t need it!

He can do this test in his sleep.

‘Can that wait?’

I look up to find a handful of Jason’s sauce-covered fries pointing at my phone. ‘I’d like to get started. We have a lot of ground to cover.’

It was one text. But I flick the mobile to vibrate and tuck it away, then get busy pulling my science project reading and notes from my messenger bag. Jason is right. I should be concentrating on the here and now, on our science paper, on him.

My brain, however, won’t cooperate. Three quarters of an hour later and my thoughts are still sabotaging the session, wandering off task—in the direction of the Lebanese restaurant around the corner.

Hopefully Luke will like the place. Lebanese isn’t everyone’s slice of baklava, but then he doesn’t strike me as the type to shy away from a new experience. Maybe he’s been there before. Which means he’ll be able to tell me which menu items to stay away from. No matter how great a restaurant, there’s bound to be a—

‘Earth to MJ? You paying attention?’

I glance up from my notes, straight into Jason’s pinched face.

‘Sorry, drifted off for a bit.’

I didn’t think it possible, but his face pinches even more, not doing those already questionable Zac Efron features any favours.

‘I haven’t had lunch yet.’ I glance at his empty plate. Unlike some. He has the grace to flush. It better be in embarrassment and not something else.

But then there’s that angles and planes smile, and my irritation leaches from me.

‘How about we call it quits for today,’ he says, scraping up the mess of papers and notebooks spread across the table. ‘The whole thing’s coming along nicely. We can talk about it some more on Wednesday, over dinner.’ Another smile, and the way he angles his head … okay, okay, I see the whole Zac Efron thing.

We pack up the rest of our things in noisy cafeteria silence.

‘So, Wednesday night.’ Jason hands me my notebook. ‘Is six all right for me to pick you up?’

‘Six?’ I guess I’ll need to ask for another evening leave permission. ‘Six should be fine. I can meet you out front of my dorm.’ No need for him to endure a second round of the Boarding House Boy Test. That Lucy girl asks way too curly questions for someone only in Year 7.

He nods. ‘Six out front of the boarding house.’ For a moment it looks like he’s leaning towards me, but then he straightens up and, backpack over one shoulder, turns for the exit.

Wednesday. A bite to eat. With Jason. I take a breath and release it slowly, air billowing out my cheeks. This is the start of something. I can feel it in my—

Messenger bag?

I rummage around inside for the vibrating culprit and grin the moment my eyes land on the screen of my phone.

You were right. I knew it all! Well, most of it anyway. Remind me never to doubt you again ;) So where are we going tonight?

It’s a surprise!

I type as I wind my way through the cafeteria.

Should I be worried?

I could so make Drummer Boy sweat but, no, tonight is for him, to celebrate his achievement.

Do you trust me?

I slow my stride as I wait for his reply. His answer, I realise, is strangely important to me.

You’re the one who should be worried.

I stop beside an empty table.

Why?

Because I do trust you, I mean. I must be certifiable!

I stare at the screen, at Luke’s words, acutely aware of the heavy warmth they’ve ignited deep inside.

See you tonight.

Forcing my legs into motion, I pass the Italian place, trying to ignore the wet sock smell of parmesan, as well as the buzz building in my veins. I ditch the parmesan quickly enough, but the buzz continues all through my study afternoon, making it hard to concentrate, forcing my mouth into a perpetual smile. And as day trickles into evening, and I pull my coat on before signing out and heading around the corner to the Lebanese restaurant, I recognise it for what it is—overwhelming anticipation. For Wednesday night, I tell myself. Yes, Wednesday night.

Not tonight.

Luke

The Lebanese Place

I find the restaurant easily enough. Inside, I’m struck by a jumble of sound and colour. The white-washed walls are covered with carpets and rugs. Around the tables, people sit on mismatched chairs and massive cushions, talking and laughing over the hypnotic music playing in the background.

MJ is already there, dark hair brushing her milky cheeks, tiny lines pulling at the space between her brows as she studies the menu.

She looks up before I lose my grin. ‘What?’

‘You’re all concentration, even deciding what to eat for dinner.’

She gives me one of her trademark nose twitches as I pull out the chair opposite her. ‘No point in stuffing around.’

Yeah, straight to it. That’s the MJ I’m fast getting to know. And like.

I bury my nose in the menu to hide my expanding grin. ‘Found anything you want?’

‘Have you ever had Baba Ghanoush?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘Eggplant dip. Want to try?’

By the eagerness in MJ’s voice I’m guessing she would. ‘Sure, I’m in. Sounds like the name of a fairy-tale bad guy.’

She blinks up at me. The tiny lines between her brows are back. ‘A fairy-tale bad guy?’

It’s stupid but … what the hell, I’ll tell her anyway. ‘It’s a game I used to play when Rosie was little. Whenever we went to a restaurant I’d make up story characters from dishes on the menu. The crazier the better. It kept her entertained while we waited for the food to arrive.’

‘And Baba Ghanoush is a bad guy?’

‘Yeah, with a name like that it’s got to be a witch or something. Think Hansel and Gretel, all gnarly hands and a taste for lost children.’

That earns me a smile.

‘What about this one?’ She leans closer and points to Falafel on my menu.

‘Too easy. The town jester. Loves nothing better than to falafel around.’

This time I get a cross between a snort and a giggle. I forgot how much fun this can be. And I’m fast realising MJ’s smiles do weird things to my insides.

‘Your turn.’

I point to a fried potato dish on her menu, but she chews on the corner of her bottom lip.

‘Stop overthinking, MJ.’ Relax.

‘Okay, okay. Batata Kezebra is …’ She’s thinking so hard her face is a comedy of concentration. Man, it’s hard not to laugh. I don’t dare; I don’t want to put her off so she retreats behind her spikes. ‘… a highly dangerous nocturnal bat-zebra hybrid.’

I lose the battle and bark a laugh. ‘Bat-zebra hybrid?’ Not what I was expecting. ‘What makes it so dangerous?’

Thinking face back in place, she taps a finger against her cymbal clash lips. ‘It throws fire.’ She points at me so suddenly I startle. ‘From the tips of its wings!’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what you were worried about. You’re a natural.’

Her eyes light up. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Yeah, her smile definitely does weird things to my insides. ‘I’m starving. Want to order the Baba Ghanoush and another dip to start while we decide on the rest?’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

Ten minutes later our dips arrive and we order a mixed taster plate.

‘So, percentage wise, how many questions do you think you nailed on that make-up test?’

From anyone else, the in-your-face question would have me gnawing on my fingers, but strangely, I’m getting used to MJ’s sledgehammer conversational approach. ‘Maybe eighty per cent?’ I say.

She nods. Here’s hoping it’s because she’s happy with my answer.

‘Now all you need to do is pass your final exam which—with my help—you’ll ace, and you’re set.’ Her face breaks into an infectious smile. Or maybe it’s her confidence in me that’s yanking up the corners of my mouth again.

‘You sound so sure.’ I pass her the last of the hummus. She shakes her head and I finish it off with a bite of pita.

‘I am. You’re doing great.’

‘Great enough to enrol in a Masters?’ I freeze. Why the hell did I ask her that? Other than Zac and Annie, no-one knows about my post-grad pipe dream. The fewer people know, the less chance there is of them laughing their head off at the idea.

I can’t taste what’s in my mouth, but I force myself to keep chewing so I don’t look like a complete idiot while I wait for MJ’s reply.

Her face scrunches like balled up paper. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

The bite of pita lodges half way down my throat and I fumble for my water.

Why would you want to do that? Not the same as Annie’s: Don’t you think that’s too much for someone like you to take on?, but close.

‘Luke? Are you okay?’

Four mouthfuls of water later I can speak again. ‘Sure. All good.’

‘It’s just, you’re only in your first year and a Masters is a lot—’

‘Forget I asked. No big deal,’ I say but avoid her eyes.

‘I’m just surprised. I thought you were just doing chemistry to prove—I mean, to make you more employable.’

Chemistry. She’s talking about chemistry, which should make her comment easier to swallow. So why doesn’t it? ‘Not a Masters in Science. In Special Ed.’

The creases across MJ’s brow iron out. ‘Why didn’t you say so? That’s completely different.’

‘Is it? Postgrad study is postgrad study: more commitment and hard work.’ Harder than a make-up test, that’s for sure.

‘So?’

Her question throws me. It must show on my face, because she leans across the table and pokes a finger at the centre of my chest.

‘Yes, postgrad is definitely a different playing field, but from what I’ve seen you’re not someone who shies away from commitment and hard work. And the chance to study something you’re passionate about …’ Her eyes fix on the wall over my left shoulder and flare with something like longing.

They’re still full of faraway possibility when she meets my gaze. ‘You’ve got to do it, Luke. It’s a while away yet, but you should definitely work towards the Masters. The workshops you run at Rosie’s school will more than prove to an interview panel that you’re committed to the subject. And the theory isn’t … well it isn’t chemistry.’

Still not convinced. ‘Unlike you, study’s damn hard for me.’

She snorts. ‘It’s not exactly a walk through a field of brain cells for me either.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Eyes cast down on her empty plate, MJ is quiet for a couple of beats. ‘The truth is I have to work hard for my grades. Theo’s the one with the natural talent. Me on the other hand—’ her teeth find the corner of her lip, ‘—it’s all discipline and hours of study.’

Okay, not what I was expecting.

‘I’ve seen what you can do when you put your mind to it, Luke. I’ve seen the passion you have for those kids. If anyone has what it takes to do a Special Ed Masters, it’s you. I’m sure of it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Well I’m not, but damn if her confidence in me doesn’t make me want the dream that little bit more.

‘I’ve got another two years before I need to decide. I guess if my grades are okay …’ I shrug, but my foot is tapping away under the table, refusing to listen to all the reasons I shouldn’t look to enrol in subjects that’d pave the way into Special Ed. For the first time, the idea doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

Our mixed platter arrives. I take my time between bites, not wanting to slow the flow of our conversation.

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘I know you’re headed for a Master of Surgery. What made you want to become a doctor?’

Her face shutters and the air around her grows heavy with tension. What did I say?

She takes particular care placing a cabbage roll onto her plate. ‘I’ve just always wanted to be one.’

The way her jaw juts sideways, just a little—yeah, not buying it. It’s not the first time she’s reacted strangely to the subject of her studying medicine. The car trip home, there was that whole prison sentence feel, the air of resignation.

Then I remember. ‘Your mum’s a doctor, right?’

She nods. ‘GP.’

‘And Theo was heading that way before he decided to swap the stethoscope for paint brushes?’

Another nod, but her gaze slips from mine. Too late. I’ve spotted the truth she’s trying to hide.

‘You don’t want to study medicine, do you?’

The shock on her face is instant. It also confirms my suspicion.

She bites into her cabbage roll. I smile at her diversionary tactic. I’m a patient guy. I can wait. Come on, MJ, you can trust me.

It’s tangible, this sudden need to have her trust me. I try not to think about what that might mean.

When she finally looks across at me, there’s vulnerability in her huge eyes. ‘Last Christmas break I found a letter addressed to my father … from the Huntington’s Disease Society.’

I wrack my brain but, nope, no idea what Huntington’s Disease is. It must show because MJ explains.

‘Huntington’s is a neurodegenerative disease. It causes nerve cells in the brain to die. It’s progressive and … terminal. My grandfather has just been diagnosed with late onset. Which means there’s a fifty per cent chance Dad has the defective gene. If he does, he’ll eventually develop the disease.’

No words. I have no words. Anything I say would be inadequate anyway. I don’t notice I’ve covered her hand with mine until she glances down at our jumble of fingers. I go to pull away but she curls her fingers over my pinky and holds on.

‘Have you told your dad you know?’

She shakes her head. ‘At first there was just shock. And then, with Christmas and all, with Theo and Mum at each other’s throats … everything was already so tense. When break finished and Dad still hadn’t called a family meeting …’ Her teeth catch the corner of her bottom lip. ‘I started to hope maybe he tested negative and decided there was no need to say anything.’ She shrugs, but it’s slow. Like her shoulder is weighed down by the fear that she’s wrong.

I can’t imagine the agony of watching someone I love suffer like that. If Mum ever—I can’t even go there. I squeeze MJ’s hand, hoping she hears my silent support when … hold up a minute. Since this thing is genetic that means there might be a chance that Theo and MJ—Ah hell. Talk about being dealt a crap card.

‘By the time school went back I’d researched everything about the disease,’ she says. ‘And I knew I wanted to find a cure for people like Dad and Granddad.’ She says this with a ton of anguish, like she’s made the decision to go into people smuggling instead of medicine.

‘And studying genetics is a problem because?’

MJ toys with the leftover cabbage roll on her plate. ‘Because I’ve got the brains for something better than genetics. It’d be stupid to pass up an opportunity to do medicine, especially now that Theo definitely won’t …’

Ah. Now the maths is adding up.

‘Have you told your parents?’

Her face pales to near translucent. ‘God no!’

No surprise there. I’ve never met the Olsen-Wangs, but if Theo’s remarks about his mother are anything to go by, I understand why MJ hasn’t come clean yet. But there has to be another way.

‘Isn’t genetics an offshoot of medicine? Okay, it’s more science than medicine but—’

Her head shake cuts me off. ‘It’s not the same. Mum would never look at me the same …’ She takes a slow breath, releases it on a huff of resignation. ‘There are worse things than being a doctor.’

Yeah? Not if you really don’t want to be one. ‘There’s got to be another way.’

Her shoulders stiffen. She releases my pinky and slides her hand from mine. ‘It’s complicated.’

Not as complicated as living a lie of a life. Especially if that life has a bitch of a question mark like Huntington’s hanging over it. But I don’t go there. This friendship thing between us is fragile; I don’t want to jeopardise it by pushing too hard.

Time for a subject change. ‘You up for dessert?’

She relaxes back into her chair. ‘Only if you do your story character thing with the entire dessert menu.’ Her voice and eyes are laden with challenge.

‘You’re on.’ I give her my best Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle. Even though I can see the game for the diversion tactic it is—a way for her to escape, to forget the future she’s hurtling towards. The Huntington’s diagnosis is out of her hands; in that respect there’s nothing she can do to change what’s coming her way. But she can do something about wanting to study genetics. Damn if I know why she doesn’t speak up. All I know is I can make her smile right at this moment. And that’s good enough for me.

For now.

Kiss Me Quick

It’s just after eight when Jason pulls his metallic blue beamer onto the boarding house street on Wednesday night. We both have extension classes at half past seven tomorrow morning, so I’m glad of the early night. I’m also hoping the relatively early hour—and the fact Jason parked under the cover of the huge Jacaranda tree a bit down the road instead of right in front of the boarding house entrance—might give us the opportunity for, um, a prolonged goodbye without the prying eyes of nosy Year 7s. At that thought, my fingers tangle in the strap of my handbag sitting in my lap. Maybe I should have let Sandy give me a few more pointers in this department before the date?

‘So, here we are.’ Jason pulls the hand break on and twists in his seat, turning that angles and planes smile on me.

‘Here we are.’ I twist my bag strap in my lap.

‘I had a great night.’ His teeth flash briefly in the street light. ‘I hope you did too?’ The unsure note in his question allows me to loosen my hold on my handbag.

‘I did.’ But the words come out half-hearted. Snap out of it, MJ! So what if he didn’t make me laugh by inventing crazy story characters for the items on the menu, or that he spent more of the night talking about himself than listening to me. We covered a lot of ground where our research paper is concerned, which allowed me to highlight our shared future goals. And the way his eyes darkened with what I’m sure was interest when I outlined my medical degree plans … I mean, it just re-affirms we are perfect for each other. Perfect.

‘It was perfect,’ I say, this time with determined enthusiasm. And for all I know it might as well have been. It’s not like I have any other dates to compare it to. Except for Monday night with Luke. Which wasn’t a date!

Jason shifts forward slightly. ‘I’d like to do it again.’

‘I’d, um, like that.’ I would. Of course I would.

There’s that angles and planes smile again, then his gaze drops to my mouth for half a heartbeat before he leans across the centre console and puts his lips on mine. And all I can think is teeth and tongue and more teeth and, and—Is that it? Because it’s all over after five wet and very underwhelming seconds.

When he pulls back, Jason’s eyes set off a warning in my gut. Is hooded good or is hooded bad?

‘Are you free Saturday night?’ he asks.

I’ll need to ask Mum and Dad about going out, but I nod, too afraid the relief coursing through me at his question might make me blurt out something stupid.

‘Message me your home address and I’ll pick you up around seven,’ he says, and turns the key in the ignition. Guess that’s my cue to exit the vehicle.

‘Sure,’ I finally manage and step out of the car. He doesn’t waste time getting on his way. I watch the beamer’s rear lights dwindle in the distance and try not to cringe. Really? That’s it? But he wants to see me again, and that’s all that matters. Even if the kiss was … if it was …

My fault. I gasp, the mouthful of cool night air a sobering slap of realisation: it was all over in an underwhelming five seconds—because I had no clue what on earth I was doing.

Luke

Reciprocal Chemistry

Thursday, 2.58. Everyone in the Educational Theory lecture is waiting for those four liberating words from the podium: That’s all for today.

When they finally come, the tide of students surges out of the auditorium in search of an afternoon pick-me-up in the form of sugar or caffeine. Me not included. I trudge towards the exit closest to the science faculty—I’ve got a make-up test consult with the P-man.

‘Mr Bains.’ The professor gives me a nod from behind his desk. ‘I have to say, I’m surprised.’

Surprised good or surprised bad? I sit in the chair opposite him and search the man’s face for clues, but it doesn’t indicate either way. I had a good feeling about the test, but now? The professor draws my paper from a file on his desk and I draw blood around my thumbnail. The man must read the panic in my expression. Either that or he’s glimpsed the state of my fingernails.

‘Pleasantly surprised, Luke.’

That one extra word, man, talk about relief. ‘So I passed?’

He hands me my paper. It takes a moment for the grade to sink in, but when it does—

‘A low Distinction? Are you sure?’

He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘That’s a vast improvement on your last grade, Luke. I wouldn’t be scoffing at it.’

‘No, I didn’t mean—’ I shake my head, because … the absurdity of his thinking. ‘You’re sure it shouldn’t be lower?’

Now it’s the P-man doing the head shaking. ‘Solid, Mr Bains. In fact, two more marks and you would have lost the minus.’

No way. No way! My whole body buzzes. MJ’s going to lose her nut over this. I can’t wait to tell her. We’re not due to meet at the library until four; she’s got school and I’ve got a drum lesson. But damn I can’t wait to tell her. I could text her? Nah, I’ll wait. I want to see my stupid grin reflected in all her moonless midnight. By the time I push open the door to the music room, my face hurts from all the smiling.

A glance around the room confirms Derek hasn’t arrived yet. No surprise there; the senior is usually late. Doesn’t bother me, and even if it did, I’m too pumped on Distinction endorphins to be annoyed about it.

I pull my sticks from my backpack and, stupid grin still in place, plant my bum on the throne. Body on autopilot, I muck around on the kit, mind only half paying attention to the rhythm while the other half winds back to Monday night and that Lebanese restaurant.

MJ’s admission she doesn’t want to become a doctor threw me like a drum solo in the middle of a Tchaikovsky piano concerto. Shows how much she hides beneath that grade-driven exterior of hers. If she applied all her drive and determination to a career she actually wants, man, the girl could make a real difference in the world.

I get she’s scared of disappointing her mother, but at some point, you’ve got to own your future and stop listening to the voices that drown out your dreams.

So why aren’t you?

I fumble my rhythm, sending one of my sticks to the floor. Instead of picking it up, my hand drives into my back pocket for my phone. I open the mail app and scan the titles MJ sent me after dinner Monday night. Rhythm and Intellect: Rhythmic Accuracy as a Predictor of Problem-Solving Skills. Correlation Between Intelligence and Components of Serial Timing Variability. A whole heap of other articles all saying the same thing. MJ’s evidence-based argument to convince me I’ve got what it takes to do a Special Ed Masters.

At first I wasn’t going to read any of them, but by Tuesday night I pulled my head out of my arse and admitted I wasn’t reading them because I was scared stiff MJ might be right. So I grew a pair and downloaded the stupid research papers. By the time I’d read the last one my whole body was shaking. Whether with fear or excitement, I don’t know. Hell, probably both.

But what scares and excites me just as much is the realisation that MJ truly believes I can do this. No one has ever gone this far to convince me I’m more capable than I think myself to be. That I’m good enough. Makes me wish Monday night had been a real date and not just friends sharing a meal and confidences.

‘Hey, man, sorry I’m late.’ Derek’s voice comes from the music room door.

‘No drama.’ I bend to pick up the dropped stick.

Unable to keep still all of a sudden, I hop off the stool and motion for him to take my place. ‘Let’s get started, yeah? I’ve got to be somewhere at four.’

***

I spot MJ’s raven head bent over a journal the second I round the corner into the quiet study area. My stupid grin fights to crack open across my face, but I wrestle my features into something that won’t scare small children.

She lifts her head when I’m still a few study booths away, but her expression isn’t right. The lines between her eyes are too deep, too long for her usual serious study face. Then she sees me, and a smile shoves the frown off her features. I quicken my pace.

‘So—’ she says as I slide into the study booth opposite her, ‘—what did you get on your test?’

I shake my head. ‘You’re like a sledgehammer, you know that? How about a hello first?’

‘Sorry. Hello.’ Eyebrows raised, she leans towards me across the table. ‘What did you get on your test?’

My grin tests its shackles. At least the girl is consistent in her social blunders. I pull my test paper from my backpack and slide it across for her to see.

Here I thought my reaction bordered on manic, but MJ’s smile gives mine a run for its tooth enamel. ‘A low Distinction? That’s fantastic, Luke!’ She grabs my forearm and squeezes, and damn if the heat of her touch doesn’t set off a series of jolts across my entire body.

‘It looks like my initial assessment of drummers and what they’re capable of was very wrong.’ Her admission shoots colour into her cheeks and sends tightness across my chest.

I don’t want to, but I pull my arm away and sit back in my seat. If I’m gonna have half a chance of concentrating on this afternoon’s tutoring session, I’ll have to avoid touching her. Especially if she comes out with any more of her ego stroking.

I clear my throat. ‘You eat lunch today?’

She squints at me in confusion but shakes her head.

‘Here.’ I pass her the ham and cheese sandwich I picked up for her on the way.

‘Thanks but—’

‘No buts.’ I cross my arms so she knows I mean business. ‘I need to pass chemistry, not have my tutor pass out.’ The girl just eats muesli bars.

Her lips thin as the inevitable wave of stubbornness pushes her to stand her ground.

‘I shouldn’t eat this in the library.’ But like her stomach, her argument is empty. Hunger wins and she takes an eager bite.

Satisfied, I give her a chance to swallow before I speak. ‘I was thinking we could go over the bits I got wrong in the test before we go on to other stuff.’

‘Sure. That’s a good use of today’s session.’ She takes another bite, moves her textbooks and science journals out of the way to make room for my chemistry notes, and there it is again—that frown.

‘Everything okay?’

Those huge eyes lock on mine for one, two, three beats. ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?’ On the fourth beat her midnight gaze wavers and … shoulder, tabletop, hands. Yeah, not buying it.

A couple of weeks ago I wouldn’t have pushed, but after last weekend, after Monday night …

I take the pen from her and pin her with my gaze. ‘Come on, MJ. Your face is shouting at me that something’s wrong.’

My words set off a massive sigh before she slumps back into her seat. ‘It’s stupid.’

‘Try me.’ I rest my arms on the table and lean closer.

‘I went out with Jason last night.’

Her answer freezes everything inside me. It takes considerable effort to form my response. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’

A nod. ‘It’s just …’

‘What? The food was bad? Conversation a dud?’ He bored you to death reciting the results of his latest petri dish experiment?

‘No, that was all, um, fine.’

‘But?’ There’s definitely a ‘but’ in the waver of her voice, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to fist bump the air. I pick up my pen instead and start twirling.

Her teeth catch the corner of her bottom lip, hold for a second, then let go with a scrape along plump flesh that leaves my gaze glued to her mouth. ‘How do you know you’re a good kisser?’

I stop the pen mid-spin. ‘Are you for real?’ But … oh great, there’s a guilty pink tinge stealing across her cheeks.

‘How do you know, Luke?’

I look anywhere but at her. ‘You just … know.’

‘But how?’ She folds her arms on the table and edges closer. ‘There has to be a way to tell if the person you’re with is, um, you know, enjoying it.’

Are we really having this conversation? Because the mental image of MJ and Jason sucking face is not something I want floating around in my head. ‘Look, kissing is … it’s an individual thing. Everyone likes something different.’

‘So what about you? What makes a kiss good for you?’

I shift in my seat, the study booth suddenly uncomfortable. ‘MJ, this isn’t the kind of thing I normally—’

‘Luke, please.’

The desperation in her voice, man, talk about Achilles’ heel. ‘Okay, okay. A good kiss for me is when—’ I take a deep breath; I can’t believe I’m about to go there, ‘—when time kinda … melts and I forget where I am and my heart thumps hard enough to break a rib just at the taste of her mouth.’

Silence. She blinks. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yeah, that about covers it.’ Not like I’m gonna tell her about the things a good kiss does to other parts of me. I tear my gaze away from her face and start up the pen twirling, faster this time.

‘There’s my problem then, I’m not a good kisser.’

The pen drops to the table. ‘Why the hell would you say that?’

‘Because there was no change in the space-time continuum and my ribs stayed intact while Jason kissed me last night.’ She says it so matter of fact, if it weren’t for the flare of pink across her cheekbones I’d be fooled into thinking it doesn’t matter to her. Half of me wants to punch Jason in the face for making her think she’s deficient. The other half wants to shake his hand for his monumental cockup. I settle for pushing the tip of my pen into my notepad—imagining it’s Jason’s face.

‘Ever thought it might be Jason who’s the bad kisser?’

She shakes her head and slumps back in her seat. ‘It’s got to be me. I’m not exactly, um …’ she peeks over at me from under her long, long lashes, ‘… experienced.’ Forget the tinge of pink; the girl flares a deep, traffic light red. That urge to punch Jason? Yeah, real strong right about now.

‘MJ, if a guy is into you it shouldn’t make any difference how much or little experience you have.’

She snorts. ‘Oh, please. No one likes a complete novice.’

I stop pockmarking Jason’s imaginary face. ‘Are you saying last night was the first time you’ve ever been kissed?’ Because … no way! Not when she’s, what, eighteen? Seventeen at the youngest?

‘Of course not!’ Her arms band across her chest. ‘It was the second time.’

Second time? She’s only been kissed twice?

‘There, see?’ She points a finger at me. ‘You’re gaping like I’m some aberration. That’s all the proof I need that it’s important to know what I’m doing.’

I snap my mouth shut, then open it again to set her straight. ‘I’m gaping because I thought when you said you weren’t “experienced” I assumed you meant you haven’t, you know …’ I wave my hand in front of her, hoping she’ll catch on to what I’m trying to say.

‘I haven’t what?’

Ah man.

‘Other things, MJ.’ I raise both brows. ‘That you haven’t done … other things.’ Okay, too loud. The guy in the next booth is looking a little too interested. Across from me, MJ flares traffic light red again. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop her from jumping back on her guys-prefer-experience band wagon.

‘Again, you’re proving my point. People my age are doing a lot more than just making out, and here I am, practically a kiss virgin.’

‘Kiss virgin?’ Where does she come up with this stuff?

‘No wonder it lasted all of five seconds. Jason could tell I had no idea what I was doing.’ Those deep, long lines between her eyes make a reappearance. ‘This is bad. This could jeopardise everything.’

‘I think you’re overreacting. First date, remember? Maybe Jason didn’t want to come on too strong.’ Or maybe he had to rush home to watch a special on the Science Channel.

MJ leans forward suddenly, so close her breath brushes my face when she speaks. ‘Tell me the truth, have you ever kissed a girl you really liked for less than five seconds, first date or not?’

I open my mouth and … nothing. She’s got me there. And by the smug look on her face, she knows it.

‘Didn’t think so. Which means I suck at kissing.’

Or Jason sucks at kissing, but there’s no convincing her of that.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her eyes going wide all of a sudden. ‘We’ve wasted half your tutoring session talking about my problems. We should get going—’ she opens my test paper, ‘—go over the things you got wrong.’

I won’t lie, I’m glad to move on to something other than MJ’s need to impress Jason with her lip locking technique. I’m reaching for my chem textbook when she grabs my arm again.

‘Go over the things you got wrong!’

I frown. ‘Yeah, that’s what we said, wasn’t it?’

Her fingers dig into my arm. Hard enough to be uncomfortable. ‘No, don’t you see? I need someone to go over the things I got wrong. With Jason.’

I shake my head. ‘Don’t follow.’

‘Like a tutor. Yes, that’s it.’ Eyes growing larger than I thought possible, her face morphs into a disturbing kind of excitement. ‘I need someone who’ll tutor me on the finer points of kissing.’

I look around the study space, just to make sure I’m really in the library and not stuck in some weird rom-com version of the Matrix.

The guy in the next booth looks over again. I send him a back-off glare, then face MJ.

‘Please tell me you’re not serious.’

‘I’m completely serious.’

No words. I have no words. MJ, however, seems to have plenty.

‘Surely kissing can be learnt. It’s an activity. No different to, say, netball or chess. All I need is a tutor.’

Wrong. I have words. They’re just stuck at the back of my throat, choking the bloody life out of me. How can she compare something as intimate as kissing to a game of netball or chess?

The guy in the next booth leans forward and opens his mouth. I clear my throat. Maybe I growl at him. Whatever. It has the desired effect. He slinks back to his books and I turn my glare on MJ.

‘Are you insane? You can’t go and ask someone to … to … you know!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s kissing!’

More furrows congregate between her eyes. ‘What, you don’t think I can learn?’

‘No! That’s not—’ Ah hell! ‘Kissing’s too personal. You can’t go and ask just any guy to teach you how to do it.’

‘It wouldn’t be just any guy. It’d be someone who knows what they’re doing.’

‘That’s not what I—’ I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. ‘It’s not going to work if you don’t feel comfortable with the guy.’

She thinks about this for a second. ‘If you’re the one to recommend him I’ll feel comfortable enough.’

Yeah, and hedgehogs will fly. ‘Sorry, can’t think of anyone.’

‘Fine.’ MJ crosses her arms and burrows back into her seat. ‘Don’t help me then. I’m sure Sandy knows plenty of guys who’d be willing to—’

‘I’ll do it.’ Did I just say that? Ah hell, I just said that! And now the damn study booth is shrinking around me.

‘You?’ MJ’s nose crinkles, but I think it’s in confusion, not disgust. At least I hope so.

‘Yeah.’ I shrug, hoping it comes across more whatever than I actually feel. ‘At least you can trust me. And I’ll be honest with you.’

She blinks. Man, those eyes, so huge, so dark—so full of possibilities. Just the thought of someone else looking into them before touching their lips to hers makes me want to pockmark every page in my chemistry textbook.

Say yes, MJ. Because suddenly I’m real keen to get into another tutoring session—one involving a whole different kind of chemistry.

Kiss Me Slow

Luke. Teaching me how to kiss.

I turn the idea over and around in my head. As insane as the suggestion seems, it’s not entirely without merit. I mean, he has had a steady girlfriend, so it stands to reason he knows something about the activity. I can’t really see the appeal in any of it, but what would I know? Isn’t that why I’m in this predicament in the first place? And if I want to keep Jason’s interest, I better start learning about the appeal, unless I want the relationship’s pulse to move slower than that of a hibernating bear’s.

I clamp my bottom lip between my teeth as parakeet green waits for my response from the other side of the booth. What the heck. It’s not like it can hurt.

‘You’re right. I can trust you.’ And I realise I do; I trust Luke. Not just to tell me the truth, but to do the right thing. Even when it comes to something as crazy as giving me kissing lessons. ‘When do we start?’

His eyes widen. ‘You don’t waste time, do you?’

‘No point in stuffing around.’ And, okay, if I’m honest I’m eager to get going. For Jason’s sake, of course. ‘My next date is Saturday.’

Luke picks up his pen and starts up his twirling again. ‘I’ve got another lesson at five tonight. With Sandy.’

Sandy. At the mention of her name, something inside me pinches.

The pen stops spinning and Luke angles his head. ‘You can come by my place after?’

‘No, not your place.’ Because it’s also my brother’s place. The make-out session might be instructional, but the possibility of Theo walking in on us seriously puts me off the idea.

I drag Luke’s notepad closer and flick the pages while I think. ‘What about the music room here? I could meet you there after your lesson?’ Well after Sandy has left.

Luke bites the top of his thumb considering my suggestion, and my gaze is drawn to his lips. Like Jason’s they’re full, though a deeper red, and there’s nothing soft-looking about them. Last night’s kiss might have been short, but it was long enough to confirm the softness of Jason’s lips was indeed nothing more than a trick of the coffee shop’s light.

‘The music room could work,’ Luke says. ‘As far as I know, no-one’s booked it after six.’

I’ll have to get permission for evening leave for the third time this week, but if I say I need to be at the uni … ‘Perfect.’

‘Music room it is then.’

He nods, then there’s a moment of silence, and I suddenly find myself lost for something to say—until Luke’s notepad provides me with an out. ‘We should look over your test.’

And that’s what we do. But if I’m honest, I’m having trouble concentrating on AOs and MOs, because my mind keeps drifting across the desk, wondering if the lack of softness of Luke’s lips is nothing more than a trick of the study booth’s light.

***

I hear him the moment I round the corner into the last hallway. A heavy boom bada-boom boom, boom bada-boom boom pushes against the music room’s walls, under the door, and straight into my quickening blood. I pause and peek through the small window in the door but can’t see anything; the drum kit is out of direct sight. Bummer. Seeing Luke in his element the other weekend, watching him handle the kit like it was an extension of his body, was excit—entertaining! That’s what is was, MJ. Entertaining.

Liar.

I close my eyes and rest my hand against the cool door pulsing with the heat of Luke’s drumbeat. What am I doing? It’s pre-med brains that turn me on, not drum belting bleeding hearts.

Pre-med brains, not bleeding hearts… I repeat the mantra a few more times, then take a shaky breath and push on the door handle.

The drumming stops the moment I step over the threshold. Shame I can’t say the same about a certain vital organ of mine.

Luke slides off the little stool behind the kit. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind.’ I can’t for the life of me tell if there’s relief or regret in his voice.

‘No.’ I pull the door closed behind me before I prove him right and bolt. ‘I just thought it’d be prudent to wait a bit, after your lesson, I mean.’

He angles his head. ‘Because of Sandy?’

I nod. He does the same but doesn’t say anything, and gives no clue as to what he might be thinking.

I grip the strap of my messenger bag tighter as I step further into the room. The rehearsal space is smaller than I expected. That walls-pressing-in-on-you feeling might be the effect of the soundproof panelling. Or it might be Luke’s presence, standing next to that big drum at the front of the kit. Having shed his grey hoody sometime between our tutoring lesson and now, the denim and long-sleeve white T combo he’s wearing isn’t exactly earth-shattering, but at the same time the way his crossed arms stretch the cotton across his chest as he taps his drumsticks against his bicep is … distracting.

‘What’s the big drum here called?’ I ask, both to divert my attention from his, um, T-shirt, but also because I’m curious.

‘That’s the bass drum or kick,’ Luke says, pushing away from the massive drum and thereby shrinking the acceptable two metre gap between us to a disconcerting one.

I quickly step around to the side of the kit and point to a smaller drum perched on top of the kick. ‘And this one?’

‘Toms.’ He rounds to the back of the kit again and hits the drum I pointed out along with three others, filling the room with four different pitched booms. ‘I’ve been thinking, about this whole thing with Jason. You sure the date wasn’t a flop and that’s why the kiss was a dud?’

‘The date? No. The date was, um, fine.’

‘Just fine?’ Luke angles his head as he looks at me. ‘Because it’s kind of hard to enjoy kissing someone if you’re not, you know, connecting with them on other levels.’

‘We connected.’

‘Yeah? How?’

I adjust my bag strap on my shoulder. ‘Well, intelligent conversation, for one. We’re both serious about study, about science.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Medicine. We’re both working towards becoming doctors.’

‘But you don’t want to become a doctor.’

I suck in a breath. I should never have told him. You didn’t. No, I didn’t. He figured it out by himself. More proof the drummer isn’t stupid.

‘What I want is irrelevant. We’re both going to become doctors.’

Luke’s eyes narrow but a moment later he blows out a breath and starts twirling one of his drumsticks. ‘Okay, okay. Science and medicine. Anything not related to study?’

Not related to study. I clamp my teeth down on the corner of my bottom lip. There’s got to be something, surely? Luke’s patient gaze shoots restlessness into my feet, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of shifting from foot to foot. Not related to study. Not related to—

‘We both hate asparagus!’

Luke lifts a brow as though to say seriously? and that’s when I’ve had enough.

‘The date was fine.’ I cross my arms and glare at him. ‘The problem is me. So are we doing this kissing thing or not?’

The drumstick stops spinning and something flickers in his parakeet green eyes. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

And suddenly all my restlessness is swallowed by the soundproof walls, and I can’t move. Which is fine, because Luke is doing the moving—towards me. He stops a very personal space invading half-metre away and slides his drumsticks into his jeans’ back pocket. I grip my bag strap tighter, the buckle biting hard into my skin.

‘First, we need to get rid of this.’ He pries the strap from between my fingers and pulls the bag off my shoulder. ‘If you were this tense last night, I’m not surprised the kiss was a dud,’ he says with a gentle smile, which does nothing to slow my heart rate.

He lowers the bag to the floor. ‘Okay, so show me what you did.’

‘What do you mean?’ I reach for my bag strap only to find the thick fabric of my school blazer. When I start to pull the edges together, Luke’s hands still mine and I drop them to my sides to escape the contact. Stupid really, when I’m about to swap spit with the guy.

‘Last night, show me what you did when you kissed Jason.’

I swallow. I didn’t do much other than follow his lead and hope it might get better than just teeth, tongue and the Niagara Falls of saliva, but Luke is looking at me expectantly, so I guess I better do something.

‘Um, sure.’ I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his for one, two, three seconds and … okay, no teeth, but not much else either. My heels find the ground again.

When I look up, flecks of confusion float in Luke’s eyes. ‘Okay, that was, ah—’

‘That bad, eh?’ I take a deep breath and let it out in a long, disappointed rush. My hands fumble for my blazer pockets since there’s no bag strap to tug on. ‘I told you. I suck at this.’ Ignoring the closing up of my throat, I reach for my messenger bag. ‘Maybe we should just forget the whole—’

‘No!’

It’s not so much the urgency in his voice that has me looking up, rather the brush of Luke’s fingers on my arm.

‘So, yeah, it needs a little, ah …’ he snatches his hand away and rubs it over the back of his neck, ‘… work, but nothing we can’t fix.’ For a heartbeat, his gaze probes mine. Then he’s the one reaching for my blazer edges, pulling me closer and before I have time to object—if I wanted to, that is—I’m lost in parakeet green for one febrile heartbeat before Luke’s lips find mine.

Firm. His mouth is firm, but the study booth light wasn’t completely truthful because it’s also …

Soft.

Especially when his lips part slightly and close over mine. Soft, but insistent, like he’s trying to tell me something. But what? I don’t know, until he gently sucks on my lower lip and … oh! A taste of warm breath, a whiff of lemon pie meets pine needles, and suddenly I get it. I get it! Because it’s not enough. Because I want … more! I want more!

My thoughts must bounce off the sound absorbent walls, because Luke’s tongue swipes along my lower lip. Blindly, I reach up to steady my restless hands on his chest and register the heated thud thud thud of his heart under my palms, but then—this, yes this!—his tongue finds mine and I forget all about his heartbeat, because my world is his breath and his lips and his tender, talented fingers—which have found their way into my hair—and maybe time melts and I can’t remember where I am, but one thing is crisp and crystal clear: kissing Luke Bains is far, far better than I ever imagined.

Which makes it oh so very dangerous.

Luke

Surprising Admissions

MJ wasn’t lying—she really has no idea what she’s doing. Her responses, like her facial expressions, are completely unguarded. Staccato hitch of her breath. Tentative touch of her tongue. The girl is definitely the kiss virgin she claims to be.

But the girl is also a quick learner.

By the time I’ve registered how well her tiny frame fits against the length of mine, how natural it feels to cradle her head in my hands as my mouth learns the cymbal clash secrets of hers, she’s leaning into me, clutching at my shirt with quiet desperation, returning my kiss in all her unguarded eagerness.

I pull her closer—my arms won’t follow any other command—until my head swims with heated thoughts of baked apple and exotic spices. Until my pulse pounds to a rhythm I’ve never heard before. Until—

There’s an almighty crash behind us that jolts us apart. I look over my shoulder where I’ve knocked the cymbal stand to the floor.

‘Ah, sorry.’ I bend, more to hide the heat that’s shot across my face than to right the stand. When I turn back, MJ’s eyes are larger than I’ve ever seen them before, and a little dazed. I can’t help my smile. Her gaze drops to my mouth and the already small room shrinks to half its size, sucking the air supply into the soundproof padding.

If her second kiss with Jason is anything like her second kiss with me—No. Not going there. I shove my hands into my pockets, and damn if my fingers don’t curl in the denim like they’re grasping for reasons that she’s better off with me than him.

Everything inside me freezes, then heats to a point beyond melting. There’s no use trying to fight it anymore—I want MJ. I want the little hedgehog, spines and all. Because if you brave a closer look, you see the deep-seated vulnerability hiding beneath the sharpness, you hear the genuine desire to help others behind the deceptive lack of filter. And she believes I can be more. It’s scary as hell, but I want her. All of her. Almost as much as I want her to want me.

I’m nothing next to her super-brain science partner but I’m a solid low Distinction.

Maybe, if I prove to her I won’t be a total embarrassment come final exams, I can show her there’s more to a relationship than a matching GPA and a joint hate of asparagus. Yeah, if I play my tutoring cards right, there might never be a second kiss with Jason.

‘So, um, was that … How did I do?’ MJ’s hands reach for that damned bag strap of hers, don’t find it, and cross over her chest instead. Classic defensive gesture. But her bunched shoulders, coupled with the wide-eyed vulnerability spreading across her face, tell me she’s gearing up for a serious blow to her pride.

I shove my hands further into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her again. ‘Better.’ Understatement of the year.

Her shoulders relax, just a little. ‘Really?’

I nod. ‘Really.’ Any better and I’d need CPR.

She inches forward half a ruler’s length. ‘In what way?’

How the hell do I answer that? But I promised her honesty. She trusts me to give her the truth. ‘More, ah, you were more involved, more responsive.’

She blushes, a fast flush of her features, and my fingers itch to trace the warmth.

‘Give me a grade.’

What the—? My head snaps back and I can’t control my frown. ‘I’m not grading you.’ Where does she come up with this stuff?

Her nose twitch is my warning she’s not finished with this line of thought. ‘If you’re worried I’ll be offended, don’t be. I’ve been told I take criticism well.’

I raise a brow.

‘Okay, reasonably well. Besides, how am I meant to improve if I don’t know where I stand in relation to the normal population.’

The normal population? I shake my head and move to the back of the drum kit, busying myself with packing up my stuff—before I give in to the temptation to cover her mouth with mine and show her exactly how much of an abnormal reaction her kiss has on me.

‘Luke, come on!’ Like a hedgehog with a bone, she follows me around the drum kit. ‘I’m dying for some answers here.’

‘No.’ Grading her would be … degrading.

‘On a scale from one to ten.’

‘MJ, no.’

‘Okay, fine, I get it. Time didn’t melt and you knew exactly where you were.’

My hands still on my backpack and my gaze darts to the cymbal stand—the stand I knocked over because kissing her had shot my spatial awareness—before I lift my eyes to her. ‘You really don’t know the effect you just had on me?’

But this is MJ. MJ, who slowly shakes her head, and I know I should spell it out for her. ‘Why don’t you ask Theo about the persistence of memory.’

Her forehead furrows like I figured it would, but I’m not ready to lay it all on the line yet. I have a few more chemical equations to conquer before I risk my heart on her spines.

When her mouth opens, I brace myself for an interrogation, but the buzz of her phone diverts her attention from me to her messenger bag on the floor. Puzzled eyes never leaving mine, MJ bends to pull her mobile from her bag. One glance at the screen though and those furrows of confusion dig deeper into her brow until they’ve morphed into welts of worry.

I feel my own set forming across my forehead in response. ‘Everything okay?’

She gives a curt nod but doesn’t take her eyes off the phone, letting it ring in her hand. I’m all but convinced she won’t answer it when she takes a breath and lifts it to her ear.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she says as she hoists her messenger bag over one shoulder and turns away, leaving me with a view of her profile. ‘I’m fine.’

Her rigid posture tells a very different story. Trying to at least give her the illusion of privacy, I force my attention back on my backpack but her frustrated sigh snaps my gaze back to her face.

‘At the university.’ Another sigh. ‘Yes, Mum, about three hours today. Those articles you suggested, some chemistry—’ she throws me a quick glance, ‘—and some extension Engl—what, this weekend?’ Her free hand goes for her bag strap. ‘I know but—’ Knuckles white, she wrings the life from the leather, and it takes all my self-control not to round the kit, prise her fingers from the strap and pull her into the safe circle of my arms. ‘—Really, you don’t have to. And final exams, they’re only a few weeks—’ her shoulders slump, and I hate it, hate seeing her so defeated, ‘—No, of course. You choose, I don’t mind. I—yes, six thirty, sure. I’ll tell Sand—Right, I get it. She’ll understand. Okay then, bye.’

Slowly, she lowers the mobile and stares at the screen for a few silent moments. ‘My mother,’ she says, not looking up at me.

‘I gathered.’ A million questions burn my tongue, but MJ’s shell-shocked expression stops me from blurting them out. I offer her silence instead, hoping she’ll trust me with some of the answers anyway.

She does.

‘It’s my birthday next Monday, but since I’ll be at the boarding house, my parents want to celebrate with a dinner out on Saturday night.’

‘Something you’re not thrilled about?’ Because that bag strap of hers is being subjected to another round of torture.

Finally, her gaze inches its way up and braves mine. ‘Dad’s great, but my mother, she’s …’ MJ works her teeth over the corner of her bottom lip. ‘We don’t always see eye to eye.’

And if that phone conversation is anything to go by, MJ’s the one doing most of the backing off during their mother-daughter disagreements. It’s all wrong, this fierce, determined steamroller of a girl deferring to someone else.

I nod and give her what I hope is an encouraging smile. ‘Want company on the night?’ Because suddenly I want nothing more than to be there for her. ‘I’m happy to be your …’ I clear my throat, just managing to swallow the word ‘date’. ‘Moral support.’

She lights up. There’s no other word for it; her face just lights up, shooting warmth smack into the middle of my chest. So much so I need to take a couple of extra breaths. She wants me there.

But the next moment the warmth drains from me as the smile slides off her face.

‘It’s a Saturday night. What about Rosie?’

Rosie. Ah hell. I close my eyes and let my head drop back on a quiet groan. For the first time in … ever, resentment at my weekend responsibility ripples uncomfortably under my skin—until MJ’s next words drown it in a wave of guilt.

‘You can’t ditch Rosie. She’d be devastated.’ Her genuine concern for my sister tugs at something inside my chest. ‘She needs someone to beat at bowling.’ There’s a tiny smile chasing that sentence before it disappears into the tight line of her mouth. ‘And it’s meant to be a family only thing. Besides, if my mother finds out I’m wasting my time tutoring instead of studying …’ MJ takes a shaky breath. ‘It’s probably better if you don’t come.’

Whoa! Talk about burn. My brain knows her words are weighed down by her mother’s ruthless expectations, but my ego—or maybe my heart—flinches at hearing her say time with me is a waste.

I try to force a smile, but I’m not that good an actor. Instead I bend to swipe my backpack off the floor and pull my hoodie from the bag as I turn for the door. ‘Guess you’ll have Theo to help smooth things over.’

‘If I can convince him to come.’ MJ’s voice is so tiny it barely registers in the soundproof room. She falls into step beside me and we walk in silence down the music department’s hallways, lost in thoughts neither of us wants to share.

‘Tell you what, I’ll text you quotes from the Patrick Swayze torture fest Rosie’ll have chosen for Saturday night, just to remind you there are worse punishments than a family birthday dinner.’

MJ lifts a haughty brow. But by the time we reach the car park, my barrage of Dirty Dancing quotes has wiped the defeated look off her face.

I turn to face her when we stop at her car. ‘I mean it, MJ.’ I bend my knees a little so I’m eye level with her. ‘If it gets too much just head to the bathroom and call me. I’ll talk you down off the ledge.’ This time the smile I offer her is anything but forced. I might not be there physically on Saturday, but I can be there for her in other ways.

She blinks at me, two flutters of dark, dark lashes. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is still tiny, but there’s a mountain of gratitude in her moonless midnight. Just enough to sooth the sting of her thinking it might be best I don’t meet her mother. My one consolation? At least she’s not asking Jason to meet her parents either.

***

Friday mornings are my favourite. Mainly because I know I’ll get to see Rosie later in the day. But also because my first lecture isn’t until ten, which means an extra hour or so of much needed shut eye.

This Friday morning, however, my eyes are wide open at the ungodly hour of seven with no hope of sliding shut again—because my usually considerate roommate is making enough noise to wake a coma patient. When Theo’s lead feet thump across the kitchen for the third time, followed by the creak and bang of the fridge door opening and closing, I haul my backside out of bed to find out what the hell has crawled up his.

Eyes caked half shut with the weight of interrupted sleep, I slink into the kitchen and find Theo scowling over a bowl of cereal.

The scowl turns into an expression of surprise when he sees me. ‘Yo, did I wake you?’

Because my mouth isn’t awake enough to form an answer, I make do with a raised eyebrow.

‘Sorry,’ he says. He looks it too. Actually, he looks a million worried worlds away. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Been up since, I don’t know, maybe five. Tried to paint but—’ he toys with bits of soggy cereal, ‘—it’s not helping.’

Okay, this sounds serious. I test my morning mouth by swallowing a few times and pull out the chair opposite him. ‘Not helping with what?’ My foggy brain offers up explanations for his funk: he’s missed an assessment deadline, he finally asked Patrick out only to get burned, he—

‘My parents have organised a dinner thing for MJ’s birthday Saturday night. Macca’s asked me to come.’

Ah, that. ‘Yeah, MJ mentioned something.’

Taking a deep breath, Theo leans back in his seat and pushes the cereal bowl away. ‘Last family dinner was Christmas and you know how that went down.’ He runs a paint-stained hand through his hair, then down his face until it stills when his fingers brush his lip ring.

‘This—’ he circles his index finger around the silver stud and I know I’m about to hear the story again, ‘—she couldn’t stop staring, man. Dad was okay I guess—he’s always been, well, quiet but okay—but Mum?’ A laugh, minus the humour. ‘My bloody mother spent all night glowering at it—at me—with barely contained contempt. I’m surprised she didn’t toss her turkey.’

‘So don’t go.’

He shakes his head. ‘Macca all but begged. I gotta be there for her. I can’t leave her alone in my mother’s clutches.’

No, he couldn’t. If a phone call with her mother stripped MJ of all her spunk, I hate to think what this birthday dinner would do. This Meike Olsen-Wang must be a real piece of work. Makes me appreciate my own mother that much more.

I lean in a little, catch his gaze. ‘Anything I can do to help, name it.’

His brows lift slowly towards his bleached hair. ‘Come with me. You know, wingman?’

I slump back in my chair. ‘Wish I could but—’

‘I know—Rosie.’ Theo drags the cereal bowl back towards him and, eyes on the soggy mess, stirs it around a couple of times. ‘It’s cool. Responsibilities and all. I get it, your sister comes first.’

My sister comes first. But lately someone else’s sister has been a close second. ‘That’s what MJ said when I offered her my “wingman” services. She reminded me Rosie needed someone to flog at bowling on Saturday.’

Theo’s dark eyes widen. ‘You’d have done that for Macca?’

I shrug. ‘She was real deflated after your mother called. I just thought, you know, she could use a buffer.’

‘And you, what, forgot that you’re not around on the weekends?’

I shift, my seat suddenly not all that comfortable. ‘Something like that.’

Theo’s cereal spoon stops mid spin. He angles his head, narrows his eyes just enough to tell me he’s picked up on a subtext.

‘So, how’s the tutoring going?’

He means the chemistry, but all I can think about is MJ’s mouth and hands and—ah hell—there’s no stopping the heat that shoots into my face.

‘Good. Great. Got a low Distinction on my make-up test.’ I force myself to meet Theo’s gaze. Wish I hadn’t. He’s still eyeing me through narrowed eyes, but the smirk toying at the corners of his mouth screams of too much perception.

‘She had a good time at your place the other weekend,’ he says.

‘Yeah, she told me.’ The memory tugs my lips into a smile. I catch myself but—too late. Theo has already registered the expression and everything it might mean.

‘Did you?’

‘Did I what?’ I fight an eye roll; we both know what he’s asking. Problem is I’m not sure how he’ll handle my answer.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t call me on it. ‘Did you have a good time with Macca?’

I lean back in my chair, drum my fingers on the table and give him a noncommittal smile. ‘Sure. Once she loses the spikes she’s almost fun.’

His lips twitch again, just before he tongues his stud, sending a shudder down my spine. Bastard’s deliberately trying to throw me. My thumb heads for the serrated comfort of my teeth when … wait, what am I worried about? Theo knows me, knows I’d never intentionally hurt his sister. And if I’m serious about dating MJ, the sooner I have him in my corner the better. I’m going to need all the help I can get to convince her we could be good together.

‘Look, thing is, I mean MJ is …’ How the hell am I supposed to do this? How do I tell a guy I’m really, really into his sister? If someone told me they wanted to date Rosie, I’d … I’d—

‘You like her, don’t you?’

My gaze snaps up to Theo’s. His lips aren’t twitching anymore; they’ve spread into a full out grin, one that makes me think he’s okay with the idea.

‘Yeah, I like her.’ And damn, again with the heat on my face. ‘So you’re okay with this?’

His grin slips and skids into a screwed-up expression. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I even told Macca I was okay with it, told her you’re one of the good guys.’

That makes me sit up straighter. ‘MJ asked you if I could date her?’

He shakes his head. ‘When she spent the weekend at your place I asked if you two were, you know …’ Theo’s grin makes a reappearance. ‘But she put you firmly in the friend zone, man. Sorry.’

Friend zone. Great. Not encouraging. Or maybe it is—because before that weekend describing us as friends would’ve been stretching it.

‘You think I’ve got a shot?’ Man, it’s weird talking to Theo about this.

‘Hard to say. I’ve never seen MJ go gaga over a guy, but there’s a first time for everything.’ Grin suddenly fading, he eyeballs me. ‘You know what you’re getting yourself into?’

I get the feeling he isn’t talking about MJ’s socially challenged personality, or even the uphill battle I’ll have with their mother if MJ agrees to date me. But the Huntington’s? MJ’s not meant to know anything about it, so there’s a good chance Theo doesn’t either. I feel for the guy, but this isn’t my family secret to tell. ‘There’ll be issues we’ll have to deal with, but with MJ, whatever crops up, it’ll be worth it.’

Still scrutinising me, he angles his head. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’

I nod. I want to be part of her life, part of her future, for however long she’ll have me there.

‘In that case you might want to see if someone else can take Rosie bowling this weekend—’ he lifts a spoonful of his cereal sop, then lets it splat back into the bowl, ‘—because it turns out MJ already had plans with her brainiac science partner, and when the great Meike found out, she invited him to dinner tomorrow night.’

Happy Birthday To Me

Normally, I enjoy Italian food. The different pastas, the creamy sauces, the decadent desserts, even plain old pizza if done in a wood fire oven. What’s not to like? But tonight, not even the most mouth-melting gnocchi can untwist my knotted stomach into a welcoming receptacle—not when my mother is sitting opposite me grating me like fine parmesan over pasta.

‘You say you’re managing three to four hours of study each day?’ Mum tears a piece off her sourdough roll and dips it into the bowl of olive oil on the table. ‘If we use your last physics paper as a gauge then three to four hours may not be enough. Don’t you agree, Jason?’

Jason. Because my humiliation isn’t quite complete, eh, Mother?

It would be rude to cancel already organised plans with him, she said. It’s about time she met my science assignment partner, she said. She wants to judge for herself if Jason is cut from the high quality intellectual cloth I’ve been wrapping all my stories about him in, she didn’t say, but that’s exactly why she broke her own family-only rule about this dinner.

At least I know Jason won’t disappoint. After all, one of his main attractions is the high probability he’ll get my mother’s stamp of approval. So I should be sitting back and enjoying the intellectual banter while my mother and hopefully-future-boyfriend bond over their impressive cranial capacities—except my stomach is cramping like I’ve swallowed a glass of drain cleaner. Fear of humiliation will do that to a body.

My one consolation is that she’s stopped asking why Jason and I haven’t been notified of our science assignment grade yet. The results were meant to be up on the online portal yesterday. Jason and I have been sneaking peeks at our phones all night. Like this dinner isn’t already stressful enough.

‘What exactly did you get on that physics paper?’ Jason dips a chunk of bread in oil and turns to me with his serious face. It’s all a little too suck-up for my liking.

‘Ninety-two per cent.’ One per cent short of a straight A.

My mother’s smile is tight. ‘In other words, three to four hours is not enough.’

I wish Sandy was here. I’m dying for some of her quick-with-a-clever-comeback wit and ability to out stare my mother in an eyeball standoff.

I, on the other hand, don’t argue. There’s no point. As long as there’s room for improvement it’ll never be good enough. The familiar slow boil of resentment roils in my stomach alongside my humiliation. Under the table, my hands brush the edge of the tablecloth. I grab hold of the fabric and silently tug at the stiff cotton, but unlike my feeling of self-worth the bleached fabric stays intact.

Suddenly a warm hand squeezes one of mine. I turn to find Dad smiling at me, the lines around his eyes deepening with pride.

‘That’s still an A, Meike.’ Dad’s voice holds a note of reprimand, one my mother chooses to ignore.

‘An A minus, Benjamin. You didn’t become partner in one of the country’s top architectural firms by settling for A minuses. Our daughter can do better. She will do better.’

Dad’s jaw tightens at the same time he gives my hand another squeeze, but he doesn’t say anything else. In that way we’ve always been alike. I wish we weren’t. I wish he’d stand up to her for once, maybe then I’d find the strength to do the same.

Beside me, Jason’s stealing another peek at his mobile under the cover of the table. ‘Maybe you should think about giving up that tutoring student.’

Crap, crap, crap. I fling Jason a thanks-for-nothing glare. He doesn’t notice, too busy checking his phone. My eyes press shut while I swallow a groan.

‘What tutoring student, Mackenzie Jane?’

How does she do that? How does she load an innocent question with so much warning?

I force my eyes open and straighten my spine. ‘It’s nothing. Just a couple of hours a week. Theo’s roommate is having some trouble with chemistry.’

My mother’s eyes narrow. ‘That’s a couple of hours you could have used to improve your physics grade.’

With the amount of time I slaved over that paper, two hours wouldn’t have made much difference. I open my mouth to tell her as much then shut it without saying a word. Not because there’s no point—even though there isn’t—but because she’s right; not spending those couple of hours tutoring Luke would have made a huge difference—to my friendship with him. A friendship that doesn’t expect perfection from me. A friendship that makes me feel good about myself. A friendship I’ve grown to value, maybe even more than turning an A minus into an A.

The realisation dries up my mouth so fast I gulp down my entire glass of water.

Dad eyes me with suspicious worry as he refills my glass. Despite my inner turmoil, I track his every movement, watching for changes in his coordination, for the involuntary spasms that might signal the beginning of the disease.

‘Speaking of Theo, where is your brother?’ My mother glances at her watch.

Yes, where is my brother? A look at my phone confirms he’s almost half an hour late. Not that I blame him; the way things are between him and Mum, I’m surprised he agreed to come at all. But I’d love nothing better than to see his freakish blond head fill the restaurant door, because I’m dying out here.

‘You did tell him 6.30, didn’t you?’

I nod.

Mum’s sigh is understated, almost inaudible. ‘Unsurprising, really. That boy thinks only about himself.’

My lips part, a defence for my brother ready on my tongue, but I catch myself. All a retort will achieve is more of her displeasure and a tighter vigilance on how I spend my time.

So I swallow my would-be-snipe, sending it down to join the shame pooling beside the anger and humiliation in my stomach. My only comfort is Dad’s clenched jaw; I’m not the only one wanting to defend Theo, and not the only one aware of the consequence such a defence will unleash. But where Dad has an excuse—he has to live with the woman twenty-four-seven—I don’t. Not really. Not when I’ve been spending as many weekends as I can at the boarding house.

I reach for my water glass with an unsteady hand and almost choke on the first mouthful; Theo’s blond spikes finally appear in the restaurant’s doorway … along with a pair of parakeet green eyes.

Luke

The Viking Ice Queen

The moment we step into the flash Italian place, I see them at a table towards the back. MJ’s parents are hard to miss. Sitting at one end of the table, her mum is strikingly Nordic; so blond my first thought is peroxide, but no way is her hair bleached. Her regal posture and the proud nature it hints at wouldn’t allow it. MJ’s father is the yin to her mother’s yang. Ink black hair framing a quiet, almost resigned, expression, he sits at the other end of the table, listening to his wife talk with a dark-haired guy whose angular face is way too serious for someone who looks like he started shaving yesterday. Jason. I dislike the guy on sight. Okay, maybe I disliked him before I ever laid eyes on the douche, because, well … MJ. She sits beside him, face paler than an albino ghost. Her panicked eyes dart from me to her mother. I slow my step, no longer sure my being here is such a great idea.

Theo doesn’t agree.

‘Yo, quit dragging your backside.’ He reaches behind him and pulls on my arm until I’m walking by his side. ‘We’re here. You can’t bail on me now.’

There’s something weird in his tone. I check his expression and find a replica of MJ’s panic clawing at his face. He glances over his shoulder to where his mother is busy gabbing with Jason The Brain. ‘Don’t bail on me, okay?’

The desperation in his eyes, man, talk about unnerving. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’m staying.’

He takes a breath, and we pick our way between the last of the tables separating us and his not all that happy family.

Mr Wang sees us first. Some of the tension pulling at Theo’s shoulders eases when a smile spreads across his father’s face. The man stands and steps forward like he’s about to embrace his son, but a glance at his wife makes him pull back at the last moment and clap a hand to Theo’s shoulder instead. ‘You made it.’

Theo forces a smile. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

The tense lines around Mrs Olsen-Wang’s lips shout that she doesn’t miss the sarcasm in that comment.

‘You’re late,’ she says. ‘And who is this?’ Eyes the colour of a watered-down sky look me up and down. It takes some serious willpower not to step back from the woman’s sub-zero gaze.

‘Mother meet Luke, my roommate.’

I hold out a hand. And drop it again when it’s met with a dismissive glance.

‘This is a family function.’ The words are directed at Theo, but they’re meant for me. If it wasn’t for Theo’s crazy desperate look earlier, I’d be heading back to the door at Olympic walker speed. I throw a glance across the table at Jason’s smug mug and my fists clench at the idea that he’s considered family.

‘That’s swell then, since Luke’s like the brother I never had.’ Theo crosses his arms.

Brittle silence hangs in the air as mother and son play eyeball standoff. The woman doesn’t want me here. I can’t help it; I take a small step back. It’s that or gnaw on what’s left of the skin around my thumbnail after stressing over MJ’s reaction at me showing up tonight.

I risk a glance her way and want to kick myself. Her fingers are wrapped around her cloth napkin so tightly they’re going to leave prints on the fabric, and here I am worrying over my own stupid discomfort.

Finally, Mr Wang’s voice breaks the tension. ‘Well, it’s good to finally meet you, Luke.’ He motions for me to sit. ‘Please join us.’

On instinct, my eyes find MJ’s across the table. As much as I promised Theo I’d stay, I need to make sure she’s okay with this. Even though it’s clear she doesn’t want to be here, it’s her birthday dinner, and I’d rather have Theo than her pissed off with me.

When she answers my unspoken question with a tentative smile, air whooshes out of my lungs. I pull out the chair opposite her and sit. Which leaves Theo with the chair opposite Jason—and next to his mother. He looks at me expectantly, but no way am I sitting that close to the Viking Ice Queen. Besides, I’m also here for MJ and sitting diagonally opposite her would mean I can’t do double wingman duty. That and I’d have Jason in my face the whole night. Yeah, no thanks. Time to give the menu my undivided attention.

‘Thanks a lot,’ Theo mutters as he sits. I’m saved from replying by the appearance of the waiter. He takes orders, starting with the Viking Ice Queen and working his way around the table. By the time he gets to me I’ve been staring at the menu for a good five minutes but still have no idea what I want. Everyone’s waiting, so I choose a random dish, something with veal, I think. Not that it matters; I’m too wired to enjoy the food. When everyone has ordered, the brittle silence descends again.

Mr Wang clears his throat. ‘So, Luke, I can’t remember if Theo said: What are you studying?’ His smile seems genuine, as does his interest. Sure, I can do small talk.

‘Education with a music major.’

Mr Wang’s brows lift. It’s hard to tell if it’s in disbelief or respect. ‘No small feat, moulding the minds of the young.’

There’s a scoff from the Viking Ice Queen. ‘It’s not exactly taxing. Not in today’s age where one can learn from experts via the internet. If Mackenzie had relied solely on the knowledge of her teachers she would not be where she is today.’

My stomach sinks. It’s going to take a lot more than a Distinction in a chemistry test to impress this woman.

‘When is the last time you’ve had to engage and inspire a room full of hormonal adolescents, Meike? There’s more to teaching than raw knowledge. Knowing how to impart that knowledge and make it relevant is just as important if not more so.’

I like this man. I like him a lot, although by the unimpressed look on his wife’s face, he’s just earned himself a case of frostbite. But Mr Wang doesn’t seem fazed as he turns to me with another question.

‘What instrument do you play?’

Here we go. The Ice Queen’ll love this one. ‘Percussion.’ I brace myself for a cutting comment from the Viking end of the table, but MJ beats her mother to it.

‘Luke runs a drum therapy group for special needs kids at his sister’s school. He’s very good. He’s thinking about doing a Masters in Special Education.’

Whoa! I don’t want this info out, but when MJ’s eyes meet mine warmth floods my chest at her proud smile.

‘So percussion, that includes the xylophone, right?’ One corner of Jason’s mouth lifts just short of a smirk.

Two can play this game. ‘Yes, the xylophone’s percussion. You want to learn how to play?’

He baulks at the idea. ‘No!’

‘That’s good, cause my tutoring slots are all taken.’

Across from me, MJ’s face goes up in flames. Ah hell. How can I be so stupid? Thankfully no one else seems to notice her face flare up. Least of all Jason, whose eyes—now narrowed—are still on lucky me.

‘Speaking of tutoring, if you’re a music major, why are you studying chemistry?’

I’ve been waiting for this question. ‘The science minor opens up more employment opportunities.’ Not as many as medicine but whatever.

‘No one wants to starve for their art,’ Theo pipes in.

‘And yet, you choose to do exactly that.’

We all turn to the Viking end of the table. The air between Theo and his mother grows icicles. It may have been a mistake forcing him to sit so close to her.

‘There was never any choice.’ Theo’s voice is dangerously quiet. ‘You made that clear from the start.’

‘There is always a choice, Theodore.’ The woman’s gaze flicks down to Theo’s lip ring. She swallows like she’s downed a mouthful of rusted metal. ‘You just happened to choose badly. Now you must live with the consequences.’

‘Meike, don’t.’ Mr Wang’s eyes plead with his wife. ‘This isn’t the time or place.’

She ignores him, eyes still turned on Theo. Waiting. Baiting …

Theo’s sneer sends his lip ring glinting in the carefully dimmed overhead light. ‘No, let’s do this. Which part disappoints you more, Mother? That I’m gay or that I won’t be forced into a profession I can’t bloody well stand?’

‘Theo!’ No one takes any notice of Mr Wang’s warning. We’re all waiting for the Ice Queen’s reply.

‘What disappoints me is that you wasted a valuable opportunity. You were accepted to some of the best pre-med university programs in the country.’ She slaps her hands on the table and leans forward, tension straining the cords in her neck. ‘And you threw it all away, so you could play with your pathetic paints!’

Theo jerks back like his mother slapped him. For a moment his expression shatters, but like a dog used to being kicked, he recovers quickly.

‘You really don’t get it, do you? Or maybe you just don’t care that your idea of choice means a lifetime of misery for both your children.’ He turns to MJ. ‘I’m sorry, Macca. I can’t do this.’ With that he pushes away from the table and storms past the confused waiter holding the first of our dinner orders.

‘What does he mean “both my children”, Mackenzie?’

Come on, MJ. Tell her. Tell her you’ve got your own dream.

But MJ doesn’t meet her mother’s gaze.

‘I better go check on him.’ She squeezes past Jason and heads for the door. The guy watches her rigid back weave between tables but doesn’t move. I don’t give him a chance to change his mind. I grab MJ’s coat and follow her out.

Uncomfortable Conversation

When I burst through the door after him, Theo is almost at the next intersection.

‘Theo, wait!’

Head bowed and hands thrust into the pockets of his ratty old jeans, he ignores me.

‘Theo, please!’ I break into a jog.

Finally, he slows and when he turns he looks broken. Something inside my gut stabs. My feet falter, but I keep moving until I’m standing in from of him.

‘I thought I could do it, Macca.’ He drags a shaky hand through his blond-tipped hair. The nearby street light is just bright enough for me to make out the ever-present traces of paint on his skin—a reminder of the oh-so shameful stain he’s supposedly left on our family. ‘I thought I could face her but she’s—’

‘Don’t. It’s not your fault.’ And it’s not. I know it isn’t. He has every right to be who he wants to be. It’s just …

‘Have you ever thought you might regret it? Later, when … I don’t know.’ When the novelty of slumming wears thin? When Mum finds out about Dad’s secret deposits into Theo’s bank account and makes them stop? When I gather enough courage to tell him I wish he’d follow the path Mum mapped out for him, because I’m no longer sure I’m strong enough to do it for the both of us?

Theo’s gaze skims my features like he’s searching for the sister I once was. The sister who’d never think to ask him that very question.

‘Have you?’ He bends his knees so we’re eye to eye. ‘I saw all the pamphlets, Macca. The ones you printed before Mum dumped a mountain of med course applications on your desk. The ones for science degrees with pathways to genetic research. Not medicine. Genetics.’ His hands land on my shoulders and he shakes me; one quick jolt. ‘You can’t live a life that’s not yours. You’re not responsible for her dreams. I can’t watch her do this to you. Don’t let her do this to you.’

A band ropes around my chest at his words. Or maybe it’s at the frustrated plea in his eyes. I suck in air to curb the sting of tears pressing at the back of my mine.

‘I can’t.’ The words are more breath than sound.

He jolts me again, slower this time. ‘Why?’

‘Because what if she’s right? What if this—’ I point a stiff finger at my temple, ‘—is the sum total of my worth? I can’t live knowing she thinks I’m a failure.’ Despite hating the control she has over my life, she’s my mother, and I crave her approval in my own twisted version of Stockholm syndrome.

His hands slide from my shoulders, and I can’t shake the sensation I’m losing much more than his touch.

He shakes his head. ‘Can’t you see? Failure’s exactly what she’s setting you up for. You’ve got to stop believing Mum’s is the only opinion that matters when it comes to your brain cells. There’s so much more to you, MJ. You need to follow your dream. Your dream, Macca.’ He presses a finger to my chest. ‘Your life. There comes a point where you have to cut the apron strings, even if it means spilling blood on her precious family carpet.’

It hurts because he’s right.

The harder I try to convince myself Mum’s path is the one to take, the more I know it’ll erode what’s left of my sense of self.

A chill rushes up my limbs, the kind my coat back inside the restaurant can’t keep away.

I wrap my arms around myself. ‘I’m not good with blood.’

My brother’s smile is tight with sadness. ‘All the more reason not to become a surgeon.’

I lose the fight to keep back the tears. No matter how much I wipe at them they keep coming, washing away my pretence, exposing me for the cowardly fraud that I am.

‘Do you hate me?’ The question freezes me in place, but now it’s out, I want to know. I need to know.

Theo’s brow furrows in confusion.

‘For never …’ I reach for his arm but let my hand fall again. My tongue is heavy, but I force myself to say the words weighing it down. ‘I should have defended you, when you told Mum about art school, about not following her into medicine. There were so many times I should have defended you but …’ I lift my gaze slowly, fearful of what I’ll find in his eyes. ‘Do you hate me?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t hate you. I—God, Macca.’ He pulls me into his arms and tucks my head under his chin, like he used to do back home when I’d come crying to him. ‘I never expected you to defend me. I know better than anyone what she’s like.’ He runs a hand up and down my back. It’s meant to soothe, but it only makes my tears flow harder.

‘You’ve become so distant,’ I mumble into his shirt. ‘I can’t help but think it’s because I didn’t have the guts to—because I didn’t stand up for you.’

‘I’m the big brother. If anyone’s meant to do any standing up, it’s me.’ His chest expands under my cheek with the laboured breath he takes. ‘I’m just frustrated, Macca. And tired. I can deal with her disowning me, but I’m so tired of watching you allow her to force you into something you don’t want to do.’

He eases me away from him and the look in his eyes—the pity looking back at me is so much worse than anything resembling hate.

And in that moment, I know: the gap between me and Theo will only grow wider if I choose my mother over him.

If I choose my mother over me.

I’m so focused on my brother I don’t notice Luke beside me.

‘Want a ride home?’ he asks quietly.

Yes. Yes!

But the question isn’t for me.

Theo shakes his head. ‘Think I’ll walk.’

It’s a good hour or more from here to their apartment but Luke nods, attuned to a hidden need in my brother’s expression I’m too blind to see.

‘Stay with Macca,’ Theo says to Luke as he turns to leave. ‘I don’t like the drip she came with.’

Jason. A grab of guilt tenses up my stomach. I’ve barely paid him any attention tonight. But then he’s barely paid me any himself. It’s not Jason standing here with Theo and me. It’s Luke.

He hands me my coat. It goes some way to warming up my body but does little for the cold lodged deep inside as I watch my brother head down the street.

‘You okay with me staying?’

Only when Theo’s back disappears around the corner do I turn to Luke. ‘Do you mind?’ Because right now I really need a friend.

‘’Course not.’ His smile warms me up a little more.

I try to return it but my lips won’t obey. And then I remember. ‘Who’s looking after Rosie?’

‘I convinced her to spend the night at a friend’s.’

The smile comes easily when I think of the lengths Luke must have gone to for Rosie to agree to his suggestion. ‘So how many Patrick Swayze movies are you in for when you get back?’

He runs a hand over his face and sighs. ‘I promised her a back-to-back marathon after church tomorrow.’

‘You’re driving up tomorrow morning?’

He shakes his head. ‘Tonight. Rosie’s sleepovers can be a bit unpredictable. I want to be around in case I have to pick her up in the middle of the night.’

That means he’ll have made the two-hour trip four times this weekend. A wave of gratitude washes over me and sets my eyes prickling up again.

‘You didn’t have to come.’ But I’m so glad he did.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal when we both know it’s mammoth. ‘Theo mentioned you could both use a wingman.’ Then his expression turns serious. ‘He’s right, you know. You can’t let someone else’s expectations dictate your life.’

I pull the edges of my coat together and turn back towards the restaurant. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘I’m not saying it is.’ He falls in beside me. ‘But any other way and you’ll be miserable, MJ.’

I cut him a glare. ‘So why are you letting your father’s expectations dictate your life?’

Luke flinches at the question, but I’m too far gone in my own self-pity to care about social etiquette. ‘Chemistry, Luke. You’re studying chemistry to prove something to your father. Zac told me.’

Shock grinds him to a halt, but he catches up to me halfway back to the restaurant. ‘Sure, before he left, my father reminded me most days I didn’t live up to his expectations. Even as a six-year-old I got the message I was too stupid to waste his valuable time on.’

His words slow my step, but it’s his smile—heartbreakingly devoid of humour—that brings me to a stop. A memory of my six-year-old self forced to play Bach minuets for hours on end until I couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers flashes across my mind. It’s sobering, this realisation that in some ways Luke and I aren’t all that different.

‘Dad might have left but his words never did,’ Luke continues. ‘They bounced around in my head for years, undermining every milestone, every achievement.’ Shoulders hunching, Luke slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘For a kid who struggled to learn at the best of times, those words eroded the little confidence I had. Mum tried to encourage me, help where she could, but she had her hands full with Rosie. If it wasn’t for Mr Lane …’ He trails off, eyes looking over my shoulder into a past no six-year-old should have lived. ‘The point is I eventually found someone who built me up instead of silently tearing me down. Who helped me find my own dream and encouraged me to live it. Someone who taught me the importance of silencing those damaging words bouncing around in my head. Passing chemistry might have started out with me wanting to prove something to my father. But you’ve turned it into me wanting to prove something to myself: that I’m good enough, MJ. That I can do it. You’ve shown me that I can silence the last of those damaging words. And that’s all Theo wants to do, help you silence those words.’

Silence those words? All I know is Luke’s words are sending a frisson of something racing through me. Fear? Longing? Hope? I’m too much of a coward to analyse the response, so I tug the edges of my coat together to stop myself from falling apart.

But he’s not finished yet. ‘You have so much going for you, MJ. You’re smart, determined, loyal. Don’t waste all that living someone else’s dream.’

I shake my head. ‘She gave up her own surgical career for us, and now that Theo isn’t studying medicine … I can’t do that to her.’ But my voice—like my conviction—is wavering. ‘I’m not strong like Theo and you,’ I say, as much for Luke’s sake as for mine.

He must sense my indecision, because one step forward and his warm hands are covering mine. ‘Yes you are. And you wouldn’t be on your own. You’d have Theo there every step of the way.’

His fingers squeeze my rigid cold ones.

I glance down. The skin around his nails is raw; evidence his father’s words still have the power to cause damage. And yet it hasn’t stopped those hands holding a pen while he wrestles with chemical equations or a set of drumsticks while he does what he loves best.

Could I do the same?

Feather light, his thumb brushes over my knuckles. ‘And me.’

And what?

Confused, I look up. And my breath stumbles at the offer in Luke’s parakeet green eyes.

Luke

There’s Only One Choice

I swear MJ’s stopped breathing. Too soon, you idiot. Too soon. Here she is, grappling with decisions about her future and I muddy everything by spilling my emotional guts. Way to add to her problems.

I let go of her hands, stuff mine into my pockets. Both to stop myself from gnawing at my skin and from reaching for her again. Her huge eyes are fixed on my face, scouring my expression for meaning. I should take back what I said. Or at least make it sound more platonic, make it sound less … less …

‘Do you mean you and …’ She swallows but keeps her gaze locked on mine. ‘As in you and I?’

There’s fear in her question, but it’s drowned out by the spark of possibility in her huge, trusting eyes.

I have no choice. With a hopeful breath I take the plunge. ‘Yes. You and I.’

Her lips part on a quick intake of breath like the idea of an ‘us’ is a complete surprise to her. But it can’t be. Not after dinner Monday night. Not when she’s got me knocking over cymbal stands and melting time.

I ball the inside of my hoody pockets in my fists. I ache to take her hands in mine but don’t want to crowd her. ‘I’m not saying we should jump into anything. Just, maybe, spend more time together, get to know each other, do something other than study chemistry. If you want.’

She blinks. That’s it? That’s her only reaction? For a girl who’s normally as easy to read as a neon sign she now manages to pull off a poker face?

‘Is that what you want?’ Another blink.

Ah hell, she’s going to make me spell it out for her. ‘Yes. I wouldn’t say so if it wasn’t. I like you, MJ.’ And it’s as much a surprise to me as it is to her, but there it is.

‘Why?’

Any other girl and I’d think she’s fishing for compliments, but not MJ. There’s genuine confusion cutting grooves across her brow.

Why? The answers come flooding without me even trying. ‘Because you love your brother with a fierceness I can understand. Because that prickly exterior of yours hides a girl who deep down wants to help others. Because despite my initial conviction you’d make me feel stupid you’ve made me feel more capable than I’ve ever felt before. And because I love to watch your face break into a smile, especially when I’m the cause of it.’

Okay, that last bit? Too soppy. Still, I force myself to hold her gaze, even as warmth punches through the skin on my face.

‘Oh.’ Another blink. She’s killing me with all her poker face practise. But … is that a tinge of pink spreading across her cheek bones? And bingo! A smile. Slow, like the flutter of hope locking up my lungs.

But it’s there.

And now it’s me who’s stopped breathing.

‘MJ?’

I close my eyes at the voice. It takes serious self-control not to bite Super Brain’s head off for spoiling the moment. The determined way he chews up the distance between the restaurant and us, I doubt he’d take much notice of me anyway.

His eyes are all for MJ. ‘The results are in. We’ve topped the class!’

Ignoring me, he sticks his phone under her nose so she can read whatever he’s so excited about.

Concentration pulls at her brows as she scans the screen. A moment later jealousy rakes my gut at the smile she beams up at him.

‘It gets better.’ Jason swipes across his phone and points to the screen. ‘Professor P signed us up to present our paper at the National Undergrad Project Competition in Perth. We fly out on the Saturday afternoon in two weeks.’

MJ’s smile slips. ‘Saturday?’

It takes me a beat to understand why her excitement is wavering. Then I do the maths and … ah hell.

Jason frowns at the sudden change in her mood. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I had plans that weekend.’ MJ’s gaze avoids mine.

‘Well change them.’ Jason crosses his arms. ‘This is more important.’

Her hands grip the edges of her coat again, knuckles gleaming white in the overhead streetlight. Slowly, she lifts her eyes to meet mine. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke’

I force my lips into a smile. ‘It’s fine. I’ll find someone else to play. You have to go.’ Of course she has to go. I’d never expect her to miss an opportunity like this, just so she can play at Rosie’s concert. Doesn’t mean disappointment isn’t gnawing holes into the lining of my gut.

Jason eyes me like I owe him an explanation.

It’s MJ that gives him one. ‘I was going to help Luke out with a concert but—’

‘I thought you said the tutoring wouldn’t interfere.’

I’m about to tell the douche I don’t like his tone when MJ straightens. ‘This has nothing to do with the tutoring. This was about helping a friend.’ She offers me a smile full of apology before facing Jason again. ‘I’ll be at the competition.’

‘I just want to make sure you have your priorities straight,’ he says, slicing me a sharp glance. ‘Let’s go back inside and tell your parents.’

The way he’s been buddying up to MJ’s mother, I’m surprised he hasn’t told them already.

He starts back towards the restaurant. When MJ doesn’t move, he stops again and raises a brow.

MJ tugs at her coat. ‘Give me a moment, okay?’

His jaw clenches but he nods. ‘Don’t be long.’ He throws me one last warning glare and we’re finally rewarded with the back of him.

The warmth of MJ’s hand on my arm snaps my gaze from his retreating form to her face. ‘I didn’t know Professor P would enter us in this competition, but it’s a fantastic opportunity and I can’t let Jason down. Please tell Rosie I’m sorry.’ There’s genuine regret in her eyes.

I force another smile. I’ve forced so many tonight it’s starting to feel normal. ‘She’ll understand.’ She won’t, not really. For Rosie, people come before prizes and achievements. Maybe she’s the smartest of us all.

MJ motions towards the restaurant. ‘I should go.’

‘Do you still want me to stay?’ It’s a straightforward question but I sense a great deal hinges on MJ’s answer.

Her moonless midnight gaze wavers and lands on her feet. ‘You have a long drive. I’d understand if you’d rather go.’ She glances up, only for a moment, but it’s enough to catch the quiet dismissal in her eyes.

Something like pain shoots through my chest. I swallow to push it down.

Face it, you’ll always come in second best.

The voice in my head is a whisper but it shouts the undeniable truth; I’ll never be good enough for MJ Olsen-Wang. Not as long as the likes of Jason are around. Not as long as MJ continues to live her mother’s plan for her life.

This time I can’t even force a smile. ‘I’ll head off then.’

She nods. ‘I’ll see you Monday?’

My stomach twists. We have four more tutoring sessions before final exams. How am I going to get through four hours with her after tonight? Guess I’ll have to perfect that forced smile.

‘Sure. See you Monday.’ I start backing away. My car is parked around the corner. Suddenly I’m desperate for the solitude of its crappy old interior with the stereo system turned up full blast. The loud music won’t make me forget, but it might stop me from thinking about her for the two-hour drive home.

Yeah, right. And Santa will bring you a brand new drum kit for Christmas.

Ready to wait until MJ is safely back inside the restaurant, I shove my hands into my back pockets and come into contact with paper. I pull out the card. Do I still give it to her? As far as I’m concerned, I’ve spelled out my feelings, but knowing MJ, a second hint won’t hurt. At least that way there’ll be no misunderstanding. If she cuts me down after that, I’ll know I’ve done everything I can to let her know where I stand on the idea of an ‘us’. And it is her birthday dinner out. Her choice tonight doesn’t change that.

‘MJ!’

Hand on the door, she turns.

I jog the distance separating us. ‘I know it’s not ’till Monday but anyway, Happy Birthday.’ I hand her the card and look one last time into those moonless midnight eyes, send one last silent plea that she gives us a chance, before I walk away.

I’m on the highway ten minutes later, Two Steps From Hell blasting from the speakers as loud as the old station wagon’s volume dial will allow.

Not loud enough to drown out my biggest fear …

That I’m too stupid for MJ Olsen-Wang to waste time on.

The First of the Cracks

The clock on the dashboard of Jason’s Beamer says it’s ten to eleven when we pull up outside my parents’ house. The moment the engine cuts out, Jason turns to me.

‘You know making it into this competition is a big deal, right?’

His irritated tone catches me off guard.

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then maybe you could show a little more enthusiasm about it. You’ve hardly said a word the entire trip here.’

That’s because he’s been happy to listen to the sound of his own voice rambling on about the competition since he convinced Mum and Dad he should drive me home after we finished at the restaurant.

But I’m being unfair. I’ve been happy to let him ramble. Because I haven’t been able to dredge up the same level of enthusiasm as him. I’m too preoccupied with the image of Theo walking away from me.

And then there’s Luke.

I push the image of Luke’s hopeful green eyes from my mind and focus on Jason.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just, when my whole family gets together it can be … you know, stressful.’

The baffled look on Jason’s face stops me from explaining further. He doesn’t understand. Not like Luke.

Stop! I need to stop. Even though the idea of spending more time with Luke is tugging on something buried deep inside, he’s not for me. Tonight made that very clear.

Mum would never accept him as my boyfriend. I could never do that to Luke. He deserves to be with someone who isn’t afraid to take him home to her parents. Someone who has the guts to stand up for his choices. As well as her own.

I shake my head to dislodge the unhelpful thought. My choices are laid out for me. It is what it is. I am who I am, and I’m not Theo. The sooner I accept that, the easier things will be.

I reach for my handbag sitting at my feet and flex my stiff fingers over the cool leather. ‘I think I’m just tired. The stress of waiting for the assignment results, and exams only around the corner…’ I give Jason the warmest smile I can muster. ‘I’ll be back to normal on Monday, I promise.’

Jason scrutinises me for a moment, then the corners of his mouth lift in a subdued version of his angles and planes smile. He leans towards me and I let him. This kiss is longer than our first, better. It’s … nice.

Over his shoulder, the dashboard clock numbers change from 11.04 to 11.05.

I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the sudden sting.

Time, I realise, won’t be melting tonight.

Legs functioning purely on muscle memory, I trudge into my parents’ kitchen a short while later. My hope Jason’s kiss would ground me, assure me I was making the right choice, dissolved soon after our lips met. Reading anything into a kiss is stupid, but I needed … something, because the night has scooped me out and left me hollow, and more confused than I’ve ever been before.

‘I like him.’ Mum glances up from the glass of wine she’s pouring herself. ‘Normally, I wouldn’t encourage this kind of … relationship during high school, but in Jason’s case I think we can make an exception. He’s ambitious, focused. He’ll be good for you.’ She gives me a rare smile from her side of the kitchen bench.

I nod. That’s all I can give her. That’s all she wants to see from me anyway.

I want to crawl into bed and escape my reality, even if only for a few sleep-filled hours.

***

Monday morning comes way too soon and brings with it new complications.

‘Hey!’ Sandy’s face lights up with a smile when she finds me at my locker. ‘Happy birthday.’ She gives me a quick hug. ‘Your present is at the boarding house. I wasn’t expecting to see you here today. And you shot out of our room this morning.’

‘Physics assessment. I’ll head over to the uni after second period.’

Sandy nods a silent ‘ah’ and waves to a couple of girls from her Economics class as they pass. When she turns back to me, her expression is cautious. ‘So how was Saturday night?’

I take a breath and pull my physics notes from my bag. ‘Mum tore into Theo as soon as he arrived, so he stormed out of the restaurant before any of the food was served.’

Sandy nods again but doesn’t press for more. Silence fills the air between us for a beat too long and—dammit—her face starts blurring.

‘Oh, MJ.’ Sandy’s soothing voice wraps around me along with her arm.

‘I’m not crying.’ I blink furiously, working hard to turn the lie into truth. A bunch of Year 11s walk past and throw curious glances our way. I blink harder.

‘Sure, you’re not crying,’ Sandy says, giving my back a gentle rub. ‘But I’m listening if you want me to.’

Do I want her to? She knows about the destructive dynamic between my mother and brother, about the effect the simmering tension has on me, and how I’m not one to really talk about the details. It’s too dangerous, talking about the details. It could expose me for the coward I really am. But the only other two people who’d have been willing to provide shoulders for me to cry on are the ones I’m tearing up about. Right now, Sandy is the only option.

Folders and books gripped tightly in my hands, I brave Sandy’s waiting gaze. ‘Theo thinks I should stand up to Mum and tell her I don’t want to study medicine.’

Sandy’s arm drops from my back. ‘But isn’t … I thought medicine was a lifelong dream of yours.’

I bristle at her words but can’t blame her for making the assumption. Not once have I indicated it isn’t my dream. And isn’t that the crux of my problem?

I shut my locker with a dull thud. ‘Not mine. Mum’s. When Theo enrolled in art school all her expectations of med school for him shifted to me. The thing is, Theo knows I don’t want to be a doctor and he’s sick of watching me pretend that I do.’

‘So if not medicine, what do you want to study?’ Brow furrowed, Sandy peers at me. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. You’re too straight laced to want to do anything remotely unsuitable in your mother’s eyes.’

Too straight-laced? I should be insulted. Strangely, I’m not. Maybe I’m starting to accept the reality; that I am too straight-laced, too gutless, too whatever everyone else wants me to be.

‘I want to be a genetic scientist.’ There, I’ve said it out loud. It’s frightening, and fantastical—and freeing, the desire escaping like a wild animal chained for way too long.

She pulls a face. ‘I was right. Totally straight-laced. But also nothing to be ashamed of, and you’d rock poking around in petri dishes all day.’ A shadow of something brushes across her face. The gingham pattern on the folder she’s holding suddenly has her undivided attention. ‘You should tell her, MJ. It’s exhausting trying to be someone you don’t want to be.’

Like Luke’s, her words hint at personal experience. Curiosity makes me pause, but I don’t ask her to elaborate. I’m not sure I want to hear another reason why I should upend my life because people who only know parts of me think it’s the right thing to do.

Theo knows all of me. A truth I can’t deny.

And Luke wants to know more of me.

A truth I can’t forget, especially as I stare at my friend.

I lean against the cool metal of my locker. My hand shakes as I rub my eyes. Why is this so hard?

‘Hey—’ Sandy nudges my shoulder, ‘—it’s your life, so you do what you need to do, but if Theo thinks you should come clean with your Mum …’ I catch her shrug out of the corner of my eye.

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Nothing worth doing ever is.’ She gives my arm a gentle squeeze as we turn away from the lockers, then bends suddenly before we take the first step.

‘This yours?’ She picks something up off the floor. ‘Looks like a birthday card.’

A birthday card? Oh yeah, a birthday card!

‘Yes, that’s mine.’ My hand shoots out, but she doesn’t hand it over.

‘From Jason?’ Her lips spread in a cocky smile as she turns the card over, looking for clues.

‘Um, no.’ I hold my hand out again. Too late, I pick up on the tremor in my fingers.

A brow lifts above one too-curious baby blue eye. ‘Don’t tell me Jason has competition?’

My face freezes. She wouldn’t read it, would she? I don’t know what Luke has written. If he’s anything like Theo, it’ll be an unimaginative one liner under some crappy poetry. But after what he said Saturday night …

Panic makes me swipe at the card.

Reflexively, Sandy dodges, confusion and question marks in her eyes.

I try to ignore them and hold out my hand again. ‘Please, just give me the card.’ This time I don’t care about the tremor in my fingers. I just want the birthday card.

And then she does the unthinkable. Before I’ve finished my ‘don’t you dare!’ she’s slipped the card out of its envelope.

Her brows pull together. ‘It’s from Luke.’

My teeth snag the corner of my lip; by her tone this could go either way. ‘Yes. I’m his tutor, remember?’ And there’s nothing wrong with a student giving his tutor a birthday card. Nothing.

Unless he’s written more than a token one liner. But the lack of sharp daggers in Sandy’s gaze when she looks back at me gives me hope he’s kept it nice and boring.

Then her eyelids narrow. ‘So what’s with all the secrecy?’

Excellent question, and one I don’t have an answer for, at least not quickly enough.

‘Was Luke at dinner Saturday night?’

I swallow, forcing down the lump of panic. We’re officially in dangerous territory here.

The lump claws its way back up my windpipe.

‘He came with Theo, yes.’ There’s no need to mention I asked him first.

‘Theo? To your birthday dinner?’

I shrug. ‘With Theo and Mum the way they are … I guess he wanted a wingman.’ Is she buying it? Please let her buy it. It’s hard to tell from her scrunched-up expression.

She looks from me to the card and back to me again as she finally hands it back.

To my surprise there’s no crappy poetry. Only a few lines of handwriting: Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate you giving up your time. I only wish I could have more of it. Happy Birthday. Luke.

I breathe out in relief; he’s thanking me for the tutoring. Nothing remotely incriminating. I frown at the irrational stab of disappointment.

‘You’re into him, aren’t you?’

The question snaps my head up so quickly my neck muscles wince. Then my mouth follows suit when I come gaze to gaze with disbelieving blue. Answer her. Quickly!

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ But there’s a heated sting in my cheeks and I can’t hold her gaze, because I’m slipping on the cold realisation of betrayal in her eyes.

‘I don’t believe this.’ The quiet of Sandy’s voice is not good. Not good. ‘Here I thought you were trying to get Jason’s attention when all this time—’ She takes a step away from me and it’s like a kick in the gut.

‘No! You’ve got it all wrong.’ My voice booms down the corridor. I look around. Thankfully no one else is close enough to hear. ‘I did want to get Jason’s attention.’

‘Did?’ She lifts her chin and sends a cold look down at me. ‘That’s past tense.’

‘I do.’ I edge a step closer to her. ‘I still want to get Jason’s attention. Really, I do.’ Even though now Luke might be … that Luke is …

Nothing more than a friend.

This time the stab of disappointment is sharper. Deeper. I tighten my hands around my folder and books to ground myself.

This is how it has to be.

I look up. If doubt had a picture next to its dictionary definition, it’d be Sandy’s expression as it is now. ‘You have the worst poker face, MJ.’

Heat. All over my neck, my face. Dammit! The embarrassed guilt lingers, then morphs into bubbling anger. Anger that should be directed at me, at my pathetic spinelessness, my fear to take a stand for what I really want.

But Sandy makes an easier target.

‘What exactly makes him so interesting to you? It’s not like he’s one of your preppy North Shore guys.’ I square my shoulders and face her straight on. ‘Or is that the appeal: slumming it with a guy from the wrong side of the Bridge?’

She inhales sharply, her features tightening, and I regret every stupid, hurtful word I’ve just said as my muscles tense in preparation for the mother of all fallouts. But Sandy doesn’t move.

Her voice is frighteningly controlled when she speaks. ‘What makes Luke interesting to me is the same thing that makes him interesting to you, although I doubt you’ve figured out what that is yet because you’re so socially unevolved.’

I shake my head; she’s not making any sense.

Sandy flashes me a look so dry I’m all but waiting for cracks to show in her flawless makeup. ‘For all your book smarts you really can be incredibly stupid.’

Her insult stings, but it’s justified. The fact that I have no idea what she’s talking about is proof of the fact.

‘Let me spell out for you why you’re suddenly getting the warm fuzzies for Luke when, up until now, it’s been brainiac Jason this and brainiac Jason that. It’s because Luke doesn’t care what you’ll get in today’s physics assessment or the science comp or all the other exams you’ll sit in the future, just like he doesn’t care how much my father earns and what well-connected family my mother comes from. He sees people for who they are when all the pretentious academic and economic trimmings are stripped off and allows them to just … be.’

He’s one of the good guys. Theo’s words echo in my mind.

‘That’s his appeal, MJ; the draw card that makes him different. A whole other kind of intelligence.’ She swallows and her eyes find a spot over my shoulder. They only stay there for a moment. Barely long enough for me to make sense of what she has said, and what it all means. Plenty long enough, though, for guilt to start pressing at my ribcage.

‘It’s not like that. Luke and I, we’re not …’ I grapple for words, but all the right ones slip through my clammy fingers. ‘We’re just friends. It’s got a little confusing, but I won’t let it be more than that.’

Steel swims in the blue of Sandy’s gaze when she focuses on my face again. ‘Sure. You keep telling yourself that.’ She turns her back on me and, head held proud and high, she walks down the corridor towards her period one class.

Shock shoots lead into my limbs until I’m so heavy I step back and lean against the nearest locker. My hands find the strap of my bag and twist. I’m making the right choice, aren’t I? I mean, Luke isn’t the guy for me. Luke is the guy who throws bowling games so I don’t feel inadequate. The guy who sneaks food into the library so I don’t starve. The guy who urges me to follow my dream of lab coats and petri dishes so I don’t lose sight of myself.

A whole other kind of intelligence.

I let the weight of it all pull me down until my backside sinks to the hard linoleum floor.

I know the sensible thing to do. As Theo would say, the paint-by-numbers option. Within the lines.

I close my eyes, an attempt to block out the truth I don’t want to see. It’s no use. The thud-thud-thud of my heart screams it loud and clear as the bell for start of class shrills through the building—my edges are already blurring. It’s only a matter of time before I’ve lost sight of who I am.

Or worse, of the person Luke makes me want to be.

Luke

Bitter Truths

The day my father bailed on us started like any other. Mum got me up, bundled me into her old Camry and drove me to school. Six hours later she was waiting for me at the gate, smiling. I barrelled towards her, eager to get home, stuff my face with Vegemite toast and watch whatever was on the cartoon channel that afternoon. Blissfully ignorant that my life was about to come crashing down around me.

Dad didn’t come home that night, but Mum was still smiling. A week later and still no sign of my father, but she clung tight to that smile. Only now, twelve years on, do I see that line of her lips for what it really was. Like a badly tuned drum, her awkwardly tight smile was a desperate attempt to uphold an illusion. Because the truth without it was too painful, too hideous to bear—the truth that your husband, your children’s father, doesn’t want you. Any of you.

For the next year, every time Mum smiled I glimpsed more and more of that bitter truth behind the lie of her smile. And even though seven-year-old me often wished I could escape into the he’ll-come-back illusion, I soon learned even bitter truths are eventually digested.

If nothing else, my bastard father’s decision to leave taught me that no matter how vile the truth is to swallow, it won’t kill you. Wishing for the illusion that he’d one day come back? That meant wishing for a reality into which Rosie had never been born. So I swore I’d never wish to escape into an illusion again.

Until I walk into the uni library Monday afternoon.

My legs drag, everything in me wants to stop, turn around, go back. Back to Saturday night, before I offered MJ more than friendship. Because waiting for me is a badly-tuned drum smile she’s forced her cymbal clash lips into.

By sheer force of will I make my legs cover the last few metres to the study booth she’s sitting in.

‘Hi.’ Like her smile, her voice is tight. But her eyes are soft and stay locked on my face. Okay, stay cool. Maybe this won’t end with my heart bleeding out under one of the study booth tables.

‘Did you get home all right Saturday night?’

So we’re avoiding the more-than-friends elephant in the room. Any other girl and I wouldn’t be surprised, but coming from sledgehammer MJ? This kind of dodge is bad news.

‘Yeah. Not much happening on the road that time of night.’ I dig for my chemistry stuff in my bag. Don’t know why I bother. No way is anything study related sinking into my brain until MJ gives me her decision. But I don’t do sledgehammer like she does.

‘How did the rest of dinner go?’ I ask instead.

Her expression pinches. ‘You didn’t miss much. We spent the rest of the night discussing the science competition.’ Her gaze slips from mine. ‘My mother and Jason have a lot in common.’

Heart. Under study booth table. Not yet bleeding out, but damn close.

‘Did you look at the card I gave you?’ It’s my last shot. If she shows no reaction to the card, then I’m done for.

‘Yes.’ Bingo! A smile. Genuine enough to bring out one of my own. Until I pick up on the total lack of emotional investment in her expression.

MJ reaches for my chem textbook, fidgets with the pages.

‘It was very thoughtful. Thank you.’

Thoughtful? Thank you? Maybe my message was too subtle. I know MJ needs emotions spelled out in big bold letters, but I couldn’t have been clearer if I’d painted her the damn picture myself.

‘Luke, the thing is …’

Here it comes. My fingers head for my teeth. I pick up a pen and start twirling to stop myself biting at my skin.

‘… we only have a few weeks until your chem final, so I think we should start revising the whole semester’s work instead of focusing on your current unit.’

My pen stops spinning because, seriously? We’re ignoring this? It’s not that I want the burn—man, I so don’t want the burn—but after everything I said Saturday night she’s not going to give me a straight answer?

Then it hits me; she has given me an answer. Her silence is my answer, even though she’s holding on to the illusion, pretending like nothing’s changed.

When everything has.

Everything.

I suck in air, the study booth suddenly way too stuffy. ‘That’s uh—’ I clear my throat, start again. ‘Good plan. That’s a good plan.’

The next fifty minutes drag slower than an educational policy lecture. The air is heavy with the weight of everything we haven’t said. But MJ pushes through, alternating between quizzing me and giving me study technique pointers. Somehow I manage to make the right noises whenever she asks a question, but no way will I remember anything we’ve gone over today.

As my heart is bleeding out under the study booth table.

Flight of Your Life

Since my parents and I arrive everywhere chronically early, we get to the airport, check in and make our way to the boarding gate well before we need to be there.

There was no convincing my mother they didn’t need to accompany me to the science competition. I’d like to think it’s pride behind my parents’ insistence they come. With Dad that’s likely the case. But I suspect Mum wants to be there to impart words of Meike Olsen-Wang wisdom up until the last minute before the event. Because, heaven forbid, I make any crucial decisions all by myself.

Dad’s face breaks into a warm smile when he sees Jason come our way. ‘You two ready to blow them away?’

I nod, even though I don’t feel all that ready. Other than the couple of meet-ups with Jason to finalise details of our presentation, I’ve barely glanced at the science competition submission in the past two weeks. I’d like to claim it’s Sandy’s fault, that I’ve been on edge about our falling out over Luke, but the fact of it is I’ve been fighting a growing apathy where thoughts of the competition or my competition partner are concerned.

I tilt my head and take a look at Jason. The word ‘boyfriend’ hasn’t surfaced yet, but both our meet-ups have ended with his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin. Him eager, me … accepting. Okay, if I’m honest it was nice, enjoyable even. Then there was talk of him taking me to that planetary exhibition next week. So there’s every indication that our science partnership is heading into relationship territory. Which, I’ve decided, is exactly what I want.

Is it? Is it really? Luke’s hurt-filled eyes that Monday two weeks ago flood my mind. I can’t exactly remember what I said at the end of the tutoring session, but the words just friends and better this way made a clichéd appearance, filling our remaining three meetings with tight smiles and a frustrating distance.

As much as I already miss him, I’m thankful the tutoring sessions are over.

I grab my bag strap tighter and force air into lungs that haven’t taken a decent breath in two weeks. This is how it has to be. This is who I have to be.

‘Of course we’ll blow them away,’ Jason says. ‘We’re a great team, Mr Wang.’ He slips an arm around my lower back and gives my hip a squeeze.

My breath hitches and my eyes dart to my mother, but if the smile on my mother’s lips is anything to go by I don’t need to worry about future PDAs with Jason McNeil.

I should be more excited. I mean, Mum’s as good as given me the green light here. This is a big deal. Jason and the comp, it’s all falling into place. So why am I not more excited?

Because your edges are blurring.

I quash the thought like I’ve done every other time it’s reared its stupid, unproductive head over the past two weeks.

My mother adjusts my shirt collar and smooths non-existent wrinkles from my coat. ‘Have you memorised your presentation?’

‘I have palm cards.’

I inch back so she’s forced to drop her hands.

The way her lips thin I know some of that Meike Olsen-Wang wisdom is about to come my way. ‘Yes, I know palm cards are permitted, but your ability to memorise your presentation is a reflection of how thoroughly you’ve researched your topic. It can only serve to impress the judges.’

‘Your mum’s right,’ Jason says. ‘We’ll have some time on the plane. We should try to memorise our presentation.’ His hand is no longer squeezing my hip, just resting lightly on the small of my back, but I feel like I’m being pressed between the two of them, squeezed until I can’t breathe, until I don’t exist anymore.

I gulp down the wave of claustrophobia and slide out from Jason’s hold, pretending I need to check the lock on my carry-on. ‘Sure. We should do that.’ Is this how it’s going to be? Jason siding with Mum? The two of them pushing me to—

No. Stop. Stop.

‘Good.’ Appeased, Mum gives me a smile. ‘Why don’t you start right now? Your father can prompt you while Jason and I buy everyone some coffee.’ Her words might be phrased like a question, but Mum’s straight back as she leads Jason towards the airport coffee shop is a don’t-bother-arguing explanation mark.

I don’t argue. I seethe on the inside but on the outside I do what she says. I always do what she says.

My hand reaches into the side pocket of my messenger bag where I’ve packed my palm cards, but when I look up at Dad my grip falters. The way his eyes are quietly searching mine, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle he’s been struggling with for way too long … I can’t hold his gaze.

‘Leave the cards, MJ.’ He takes my elbow and guides me to the nearest empty chair of which there are still plenty since our flight isn’t due out for another three hours. We sit facing the window where a carrier taxies into view.

‘I need to ask you something,’ Dad says. ‘This science competition, why are you doing it?’

The question is so unexpected, I bang my wrist on my arm rest when I swivel to face him. ‘What do you mean? You know why I’m doing it. To help secure a place in a top medical program.’ Isn’t that why I’ve been doing anything these past two years? If anyone knows it, it’s Dad. The fact that he’s asked the question … it’s insulting.

He leans closer and puts a hand over the wrist I’ve been absentmindedly rubbing. ‘Let me rephrase that. Do you want to do this science competition?’

I’m momentarily stunned because … where is he going with this? Wherever it is, it can’t be good. ‘Of course.’ But my answer comes with a flicker of hesitation. One my father picks up on. At least that’s what I think the strange downward tug of his lips means.

‘You know, all this time I told myself I was doing the right thing, letting her push you, I mean.’ His gaze lifts across the lounge to where Mum and Jason are waiting for their coffee order. ‘Because I thought you wanted this, and regardless of what others think, her methods get results but …’ He rests both elbows on his knees and rakes long fingers through his hair. I catch a glimpse of the first salt in the pepper. ‘But I’ve been wrong, haven’t I, MJ?’ Eyes a little sad, he looks over at me. ‘It isn’t just Theo who wanted out of the medical degree dream, is it?’

My first reaction is denial. I wrap my arms around my middle to stop the sudden trembling working its way through my core. But it won’t subside. The chance to tell Dad the truth, it’s … I …

‘I want to study genetics.’ I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on a splash of mid-morning sunlight gleaming on the nose of the plane while my heart is free-falling inside my ribcage.

In my peripheral vision his chest rises with a slow breath. ‘She won’t be happy. She’ll argue you’re capable of more.’

‘I want to help people like you.’ Oh god. I’ve done it. I’ve said it.

His breath catches, and I force myself to look at him. ‘I found the letter, Dad. I know about Grandpa Wang’s diagnosis. You should have told us. We have a right to know.’ Because if Dad has the defunct gene, there’s a fifty per cent chance Theo and I have it too. But as frightening as that prospect is, what really scares me is the idea of watching Huntington’s rob my brilliant, gentle father of both his body and his intellect.

Dad runs a shaky hand through his hair. It’s the stress of the conversation that’s responsible for the tremble, nothing else.

Now it’s his gaze that locks on the carrier. ‘Yes.’ The word is stilted, like it’s an effort for him to string the letters together. ‘You do have a right to know. But we decided to spare you until you finished high school.’

‘Finished high school?’ My voice spikes with frustration. ‘How does keeping this from us until we finish school spare us?’ But wait—Theo has already finished school. ‘Does Theo know?’

Dad’s answer is a silent nod. The betrayal—both my father’s and Theo’s—wraps rubber bands around my chest until it hurts to breathe. ‘I don’t believe this.’

He turns to me, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, a strained smile pulling on his lips. ‘I know your life has been all about the pursuit and mastery of knowledge, Mackenzie, but trust me, sometimes ignorance is better.’

Ignorance is better? For the past eighteen years I’ve been pushed to learn, to seek, to know. And now he tells me some things are better off not known? It doesn’t compute. I’ve been in limbo for the past six months. Worrying about him. Worrying about Theo and me. Dammit, I have a right to know.

‘What were your results, Dad?’ I grip my bag strap and hold my breath.

At first I don’t think he’ll answer, but then … ‘I have a reduced penetrance allele.’

Air leaves my lungs in a painful whoosh. He doesn’t need to explain. I’ve done enough research to know this means he may not develop the disease. As for Theo and me, there’s a fifty per cent chance we’ve inherited the HD gene with either reduced or full penetrance. In a way it’s the worst outcome; he’s back to not knowing. He can only wait and see.

Dad takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll understand if you don’t want to be tested. At least not yet. If it weren’t for you and Theo, I’m not sure I would have wanted to know.’

If an answer is there for the knowing why would anyone choose to stay ignorant? Why would anyone deliberately—Wait … ‘Has Theo been tested?’

Dad shakes his head.

‘But he will be, right?’

‘No.’

‘No? But that’s—’

‘His choice.’ He leans in and locks on my disbelieving gaze with his serious one. ‘He doesn’t want to live a life overshadowed by this disease; doesn’t want it dictating his future. And we will respect his decision. Just like we will respect yours.’

My decision. As if there even is a decision. Of course I’ll be tested. It’d be irresponsible not to be. I mean, if I ever want to have children I’ll need to know. And if I test positive for any form of the gene, then any relationship that looks like it might become serious, I’ll need to explain that at best I’m a genetic uncertainty and at worst a walking time bomb.

My gaze lifts to find Mum and Jason on their way back. A cup of coffee in each hand, they’re engrossed in conversation, totally oblivious to the seriousness of the one Dad and I are having.

‘And Mum? How is she coping?’ Because from where I’m sitting she looks too composed, too unaffected.

‘Don’t let her collected exterior fool you,’ Dad says like he’s heard my uncharitable thought. ‘She’s devastated. For me. For us, all of us. She copes by hiding her emotions until she’s alone and thinks no-one can hear her cry. But if the unthinkable happens …’ He lifts his clasped hands and touches his lips to his wedding band before turning to look at me. ‘She’ll be there. Don’t doubt that, MJ. Your mother loves each of us so much.’

My face heats. How does he know? How does he know I have been doubting her? Because what’s stopping a woman who values intellect above all else walking out on a man who might soon lose the very brains that attracted her to him in the first place?

A laugh draws my eyes from Dad’s strangely calm expression over to Jason and Mum. They’re getting on like bacteria in an agar dish. How will he react when I tell him about the genetic train wreck that might be heading my way? Will he stick around? Or will he decide the risk isn’t worth it?

Something bumps my shoulder from behind. I turn to find a woman wrestling a backpack from her shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She repeats the apology with a smile while wiping what looks like chocolate from her child’s face. The little girl can’t be more than five. She’s holding a small purple pony in one hand and looking at me with eyes so very much like Rosie’s.

‘It’s no trouble,’ I say around the sudden lump in my throat. My eyes seek out the flight information screen above the woman’s shoulder. Quarter to nine. Another three hours until Rosie and Luke’s concert. Is he in his garage getting in some last minute practice? Is Rosie with him or is she parked on the couch using Patrick for inspiration?

I give the little girl a smile and turn back around. A plane is taxiing towards the runway.

‘I promised a friend I’d play piano at his concert today.’ I have no idea why I’m telling Dad this. It’s not like anything he says will make me feel better about letting Luke and Rosie down.

‘The drummer?’

I nod. The drummer. The one who turned out to be anything but deadbeat.

Dad’s hand covers mine, fingers gently rubbing at the spot I smacked against the chair. ‘Whatever you decide, MJ, I’ll support you.’

Does he mean getting tested or is he talking about something else? I try to catch his eye but he’s no longer looking at me. He’s getting up, gaze focused on Mum and Jason, who are almost back at the gate.

Whatever I decide. Whatever I decide.

***

‘Here you go. Two sugars, right?’ Jason hands me the takeaway coffee cup. When I spoke to him this morning he was all but busting with nervous energy about the weekend. His excitement hasn’t waned. It wafts off him, as visible as the steam coming off my latte.

‘One actually,’ I say, but he’s not listening. He’s already turned to catch the tail end of whatever Mum is saying.

‘Jason tells me he’s thinking of Sydney University for his medical studies.’ She beams at Jason as she takes a seat next to me. Dad sits on her other side, but Jason remains standing. Probably because sitting down means he won’t have a direct view of his new BFF anymore.

What is wrong with me? I should be glad Jason and Mum are getting along so well. It’s just them being all buddy-buddy has me on edge. The way he takes her side so readily makes me want to slap the palm cards he’s just pulled from his bag out of his hands.

‘It’s always had a great reputation, but talking with your mum …’ He beams back at her and for a moment my coffee starts traveling back up the wrong way. ‘I’m going to put it at the top of my list.’

They both look at me as though it’s my turn to gush. Which is so not going to happen. All unis with medical programs in the country will have to burn to the ground before I step anywhere near Mum’s precious Sydney.

I slowly sip at my coffee, making it clear I’m not going to contribute to this conversation, and trying not to think about what Jason’s desire to study at Sydney might mean for our future.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about any of it. But it’s hard not to when so much is uncertain. So I revert to the only thing that is certain: study.

‘Come on,’ I say to Jason. ‘Let’s start memorising this presentation. Mum and Dad won’t mind.’

Coffee in one hand, I fumble for my palm cards with the other as Jason leads the way to some quieter seats. But when I pull the card stack out, a larger card drops to the floor. On the front there’s some sort of picture with clocks in a desert. At first, it doesn’t look familiar but then—Luke. I shoved his birthday card back in my folder after Sandy’s meltdown a fortnight ago but never really looked closely at the front of it.

I pick it up, open it and sure enough, there’s Luke’s birthday message. Thanks for all your help … appreciate you giving up your time … wish I could have more of it.

Time.

Something nags me about that word. I snap the card closed and look closely at the front. The clocks, they’re drooping. Melting.

Something scratches at the edge of my brain.

A good kiss for me is when time melts and I forget where I am.

Luke’s words come barrelling from a corner of my memory.

I find an inscription that barely registered at the bottom of the card: Salvatore Dali—The Persistence of Memory.

Why don’t you ask Theo about the persistence of memory?

It’s a good thing I’ve drunk half my coffee, because my hands are shaking so badly I’d have spilt most of it on the boarding gate floor if it had been full.

… when time melts and I forget where I am. Time melted for Luke. And even after I told him about Dad and what that might mean for me, he wants more of my time. More of me.

The knowledge grabs at my lungs and squeezes until my eyes sting and the clocks on Luke’s card aren’t just melting but start to blur.

‘MJ, you coming or what?’

I have to blink a few times before my vision clears. ‘Sure. I … yes, coming.’ I force my feet to move but they’re covered in molasses, sticking to the floor with each step. When I finally sit down beside Jason he’s eyeing me with a frown. ‘Are you okay?’

I nod and pull out my palm cards, but when I look at the first one I can only see melting clocks.

Dad’s diagnosis, Rosie’s concert, Luke’s card. It’s all churning inside me, a ball of fire burning the lining of my belly.

Across the aisle, a purple pony gallops along the empty seats, banging into people, prancing through limbs. Jason gulps the rest of his coffee, scrunches the empty cup in his hand and dumps it under his seat. ‘You know what gets me?’ He tips his head at the little girl. ‘All this money pumped into medical research and genetic abnormalities and we still haven’t found a way to fix mistakes.’

Time might never have melted with Jason but at that moment it stops. Dead still. ‘What did you say?’

‘Downs, fragile X, autism. All of the above. Don’t you think it’ll be a great day when we have the knowledge to eradicate all of these genetic imperfections? For the wellbeing of the human genome, of course.’ He turns to me and smiles. And I lean back, scared I’ll cut myself on all the sharp angles. ‘That’s why you like genetics so much, right?’

Blood rushes in my ears until the noise around us is drowned out by the pounding of my heart. All I see is Rosie’s huge smile as Luke gives her the latest movie poster; her determination as she lines up to take down the last standing ten pin; her unquestioning, nonjudgmental acceptance of people. She’s not an imperfection. She’s nothing short of beautiful.

I reach beneath Jason’s seat, pick up his coffee cup and dump it in the bin a couple of metres away. Along with my palm cards.

I am gripping my bag strap so tightly my fingers start tingling. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say loudly enough for both Jason and my parents to hear. ‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’

My mother looks up from the Time magazine she’s reading. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mackenzie. You’ll look unprofessional if you don’t memorise your presentation.’

‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to do the competition anymore.’

‘Are you insane?’ Jason’s out of his seat and following me to where Mum and Dad are now standing. ‘We’re about to board the plane.’

‘Board it without me.’ I grab my carry-on. So does my mother.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Eyes demanding an immediate answer, she juts out her chin. I try to hold on to my resolve but eighteen years of toeing her line sees it slip.

Then I find Dad’s eyes and … Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.

I take a deep breath. ‘Jason can deliver the presentation himself. He doesn’t really need me.’ And I don’t need him. I never did. I can do this by myself. I need to do this for myself. I square my shoulders and prepare to wrestle my mother for my carry-on.

‘He will do no such thing, because you aren’t going anywhere other than on that plane.’ Mum jerks the carry-on away from me. ‘An opportunity like this does not come along every day, Mackenzie, and you will not throw it away. Do you hear me?’

‘Meike.’

Mum ignores my father. ‘Do you know how hard it is to be accepted into a top medical program? Have you any idea how few—’

‘Meike, stop.’

‘Not now, Ben, I’m—’

‘Yes, now!’ Dad’s near-shout stops her rant in its tracks. Dad never shouts.

He pries Mum’s fingers off my luggage and gently but firmly takes her hand in his. ‘Jason, do you feel you can deliver the presentation without MJ there?’

Looking half-annoyed and half-confused, Jason shifts from foot to foot. ‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. In that case, please inform the competition organisers your partner couldn’t make the flight due to—’ Dad glances down at me, his serious expression giving way to one of his gentle smiles, ‘—an unavoidable change in personal circumstances.’

My arms are around his neck the next moment. ‘Thank you,’ is all I manage, because my throat is thickening up.

‘If you leave now you might still make the start of the concert,’ Dad says as he hands me my carry-on.

‘Has everyone gone mad?’ My mother’s shoulders are pulled back in a stance that’s still all battle, but her eyes blink over and over with confusion. ‘She can’t leave. Not now.’

Mum reaches an arm for me, but Dad pulls her back into his side. ‘She can, Meike.’ He loops a firm hold around her waist and puts his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss. ‘And you need to let her go.’

I don’t know what, but there’s something in Dad’s words, because even though the tightness of her lips tells me she isn’t happy, Mum’s shoulders sink and she leans into him. She’s finally—finally—heard him. And maybe me.

Not about to give her a chance to change her mind, I grab my carry-on and head for the exit. A glance at my phone confirms I have three hours. I’ll only need to break the speed limit by ten kilometres or so. It’s worth the risk.

He’s worth the risk.

Luke

Out of Pitch

‘Where do you want this one?’

I turn to find Zac’s head poking over the djembe he’s hauling into the school hall. He’s been helping me set up for—I glance at the clock on the back wall; ten to eleven—for almost an hour. If it weren’t for him it’d take a miracle for this gig to get off the ground by midday. With the screwed-up state my head is in, I’m surprised we’ve managed as much as we have.

‘Towards the back beside the piano.’

Okay, truth is, Zac’s been doing most of the running around, whereas I’ve spent the last twenty minutes stuffing around trying to tune my kit and—ah hell. My fingers fumble one of the drum keys. It slips off the tension rod, landing on the wooden floor with a clang.

‘You all right?’ Zac shoots me a concerned look. One of several today. Not that I’m counting. Just hard to miss, given they’ve become more severe as the day’s worn on.

‘All good.’ I give him a thumbs-up but don’t meet his eyes. The guy’s always seen way too much for my liking.

Stuffing around. Great. Like it’s not bad enough I can’t stop thinking about her, now I’ve got to start thinking like her?

I pick up the drum key and tighten the last of the tension rods, then go through the motions of loosening them while tapping the tom, looking for the right sound.

It’s been just over two weeks since our last tutoring session. Sixteen days since I last saw her. Not that I’m counting. I close my eyes and groan at the ceiling—silently, so Zac doesn’t hear. I’m so counting.

Truth is, I’d give anything to hear her explain AOs and MOs to me one more time, see that nose twitch of hers, hear the spark in her laugh. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve replayed the crazy push-pull of our conversations, I keep going back there. Even though it kills me, my mind keeps dragging me back. I must be a masochist.

But damn I miss her.

‘That’s the last of the drums from the music room. What’s next?’ Zac’s voice pulls me from my pathetic navel gazing.

I look around the stage, trying to focus on the job at hand. ‘Chairs. We need to set them up in a semi-circle.’ We also need to move the piano to the side of the stage, but I’m not going near that until I have to. I’m not that much of a masochist.

Zac disappears into the storage room. When he comes out wheeling a stack of chairs on a trolley, I heave up off the drum throne to help him. The guy’s put up with enough of my moping for one day.

We line up one row of chairs and I head to the storeroom for another. Lift. Position. Adjust. Lift. Position. Adjust. If I focus on the mechanics of what I need to do I almost forget about the funk I’m in. Almost.

‘You know, I’ve been watching you for the past hour and I’ve come to a conclusion,’ Zac says after a while.

I slowly lower the chair in my hands onto the floor but don’t look up at him. Like I said, the guy has always been way too perceptive. I’m not sure I want to have this conversation, but if I don’t give him a response …

‘And what’s that?’ I turn back to the trolley for another chair and so my friend can’t see my reaction when he says what he wants to say.

‘You weren’t anywhere this cut up when it ended with Annie.’

I suck in a breath, let it puff up my cheeks on the way out and turn to face him. ‘Imagine how bad I’d be if there’d actually been something to end.’

Chair legs halfway to the floor, Zac freezes. ‘Are you kidding me? I thought after you brought her up here that weekend … Are you saying you and MJ were never together?’

I shake my head. ‘I got as far as telling her that I wanted us to be but …’

‘She turned you down?’ Zac lowers his chair to the floor and sits. His brow is all bunched when he looks up at me. ‘I don’t get it. I would have bet Dad’s King James she was interested. Sure, both of you toed the “just friends” line but I was definitely picking up a whole other vibe.’

‘So was I.’ I swing my chair in beside his. ‘Guess it wasn’t enough though.’ I wasn’t enough. I rest my elbows on my knees and let my head hang for a bit. The truth of it is physical.

We sit staring at the scratched wood of the stage floor for a while. I wait for Zac to fire his next question, but he stays quiet, and for once, I’m damn thankful for his ability to read people.

Eventually he shifts and I feel his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, man. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.’

I lift my head. ‘Help me get through today, yeah? This is Rosie’s big day. Don’t let me screw it up.’

‘That I can do,’ he says with a nod. I go to stand but he stops me by grabbing my arm. ‘So, in the interest of not letting you screw up, I don’t think that—’ his eyes flick to the piano at the back of the stage before coming to rest on me, ‘—was such a great idea.’

It takes a moment to figure out what he’s getting at, and when I do, a whole new wave of heavy washes over me.

I rub a hand down my face. ‘You think I don’t know that? She offered to step in and I was too … too …’ Ah hell. ‘It’s too late to change anything now. Just help me get through today, okay? I’ll deal with the fallout later.’ When I have the energy to care.

He nods again, slower this time. ‘I’ll do what I can. Let’s get the rest of the chairs.’

He wheels the trolley into the store room and I go to follow, but the hall’s side door opens—and my shoes are suddenly stuck to the floor.

‘Hey.’

I want to wince at Annie’s chirpy voice.

‘You’re early.’

‘I thought we could do a run-through together before the kids arrive.’

Because the three run-throughs we’ve had so far aren’t enough? The moment the thought forms in my head, I hate myself for it. She’s only here to help. Because I said yes when she offered. I need to stop being a dick—even though the naked longing in her eyes confirms Zac’s worry that this was a bad idea.

I take a steadying breath. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, motioning to the piano.

Man, I hope Zac’s got his preacher kid vibe on today; I’m going to need divine intervention.

Out of Time

The moment I pull into the St Patrick’s River High car park, I tear out of the Honda in the direction of the school hall. Thanks to a stupid slow caravan and the sky’s decision to open up and dump what had to be at least 25 per cent of the Pacific Ocean on the highway, I’ve missed the start of the concert. But as annoyed as I am, a part of me is also relieved. I’ve got so much to say to Luke, so many questions to ask, and I don’t have the patience to start only to have to stop so he can go do his drum circle thing on stage. Yes, it’s better I’m late.

By the time I make it under the hall door awning, my hair is plastered to my forehead and annoying rivulets of Pacific Ocean have snuck their way under my coat collar and down the back of my shirt. But I don’t care because the familiar rhythm of Take Five pushes at the closed hall doors and by the sound of it, they’re about a third of the way through the piece. Which means I haven’t missed Rosie’s solo. Not wanting to waste any more time, I shake what rain I can off my coat and slip into the hall.

The noise takes away my breath. Or maybe it’s the sight of Luke. Sitting tall behind his kit, a white tailored shirt doing distracting things to the lean muscles of his arms, he’s completely in control of the beat.

I catch the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth and look around. Thank god it’s dark in here, because my face is suddenly so hot I’d be able to sterilise surgical equipment on my cheeks. Get a grip, MJ. But I can’t. It’s been a fortnight since I’ve seen him and I can’t help but drink him in.

Although it’s almost impossible, I force my eyes away from Luke and scan the faces of all the other enthusiastic drummers on the stage looking for Rosie. The stage lights are so bright they wash all the kids’ faces out, but I know what I’m looking for: the bongos. Rosie plays the bongos. A half bar later I spot her. She’s got her serious bowling face on. I smile; we must be coming close to the improv section.

Trying not to trip over or annoy the people watching the concert from the back of the hall, I shuffle along the back wall. It’s a full house and the hall isn’t all that small, so the turnout is impressive. I might be biased, but as good as Luke is, I doubt all these people are here to see him. They’re here to see their children and brothers and sisters drum up a storm.

It’s too dark to identify anyone in the audience. I scan the heads all the same. Mrs Bains is here somewhere, waiting for her daughter to steal the show.

So am I. I find a good spot up against the wall next to a fire extinguisher. Up on stage the big kid, Solomon I think, takes the first four bars of the improv section. He beats away at his djembe with all he’s got and then it’s Rosie’s turn. I grip my bag strap with both hands. Please let her get it right.

I shouldn’t have worried; she’s owning it. Face split in a this-is-happiness grin, she rides the beat expertly for her four bars. And Luke, his smile so full of love and pride for his baby sister. Yes, this is where I want to be. With each beat Rosie plays, my path becomes clearer.

This is who I want to be.

The feeling of rightness stays with me until the end of the piece when the hall erupts in applause around me. I join in. I’m dying to talk to Luke, dying to see the parakeet green take over his face when he sees I’m here. Dying to tell him how I feel about him—about us.

It’s only when Luke motions for everyone to stand and take a bow that I register another face on the stage. My smile slips. What is she doing here? Considering the way he feels about her, this isn’t his brightest idea. Then again, I did leave him short a piano player and she did offer before I poured water on her enthusiasm and, it’s only one song. It doesn’t mean anything. Except I don’t like the way she grabs his hand as they bow. I’m also not a fan of the way she leans into him once they’re upright. And I could definitely do without him smiling at her because—no. No! He can’t—

Ow! I look down to see what’s just hit my foot and make out the outline of my messenger bag on the floor. The bag strap is dangling from my hand; I’ve tugged so hard I broke the clasp.

But the damage is nothing compared to the burn tearing through me at seeing Annie put her lips on Luke’s like they belong there.

‘Sorry. Excuse me.’ Too many feet. ‘I just— the exit. I need the exit.’ I can’t breathe. I need out. Out.

Finally, I yank the door open and take a rain-soaked breath. The door clicks softly shut behind me. It’s wrong somehow when everything inside me is collapsing, crashing. I need a slam! But there’s no slam. No bang.

No Luke.

The applause inside competes with the downpour and the growing buzz in my head.

No Luke.

I force my feet to move. I don’t bother running; the Honda is on the far side of the car park and I’m already drenched anyway.

No Luke.

My hands, wet and stiff with cold, are shaking, so it takes a moment to find the car keys. And when I find them I don’t climb into the car. I turn my face to the sky instead, making sure every last inch is wet.

That way I’ll have a chance of convincing myself it’s the rain that’s to blame—and not something as pointless as my tears.

Luke

Unsatisfactory Performance

The audience is still standing, applause and whistles flying our way, so I fight hard to keep the shock off my face. As soon as I see the first few bums sink back down onto their seats, I drag Annie side stage.

‘What was that?’ I try to keep a check on my irritation but what the hell?

Cautiously, she looks up at me. ‘The music, the moment, it was like old times, Luke, and I just thought …’

The kids are filing off the stage with their instruments, but we’re well enough out of the way. Still she steps closer.

I step back. ‘Well you thought wrong.’ So wrong that I can’t … I don’t even …

I shove my hands into my hair and resist the temptation to pull. ‘Look, I’m really sorry how things ended. I never meant to hurt you, but this idea you’ve got in your head that we’re getting back together …’ My hands drop to my sides, palms out, pleading for her to understand. ‘It’s not going to happen, Annie.’

The soft gaze—the one she’s been reserving especially for me lately—slips and a hard glint replaces it. But only for a moment. Then her smile is back in place. ‘I know I made mistakes, Luke. And, believe me, I’ve learnt from them. This time I won’t push, I promise.’ She touches my arm and it’s all I can do not to step back some more. ‘There won’t be any talk about the future unless you—’

‘There won’t be any talk about the future, period.’ I shake off her hand and run my own down my face when I see the flash of hurt in her eyes. But I need to get this through to her.

‘Don’t you get it? We were never going to work. We’re too alike.’ Same uni degree, same interest in music, same type B personality and the don’t-rock-the-boat attitude that comes with it.

Annie shakes her head. ‘But that’s a good thing.’

There was a time I once thought the same, but now?

As hard as it is, I meet Annie’s eyes. I need to finish this, need her to understand. ‘We don’t challenge each other, Annie. We’d end up just floating along. At one time I thought floating was enough. But now it’s not. I want to jump into the rapids every once in a while, and feel the rush of fighting the current before it drags me under. And to do that I need someone who’s not afraid to push me off my emotional ledge.’

Someone like MJ. My eyes find the ceiling at the thought, fighting a whole different kind of pull. When I look down, there’s a distinct lack of understanding on Annie’s face.

‘So you want to be with someone you can fight with?’ Annie’s weary tone tells me she thinks I’m a rapid short of a waterfall.

‘It’s got nothing to do with fighting. It’s about someone seeing an ability in you that you can’t see in yourself and encouraging you to act on it.’ Like the ability to complete a Special Ed degree.

Annie’s face scrunches. ‘I can do that.’

Don’t you think that’s too much for someone like you to take on? Annie’s not-so-old words barrel her new ones over.

‘That’s the thing, I don’t think you can.’

‘Luke!’

Rosie. I should be helping the kids make their way to the holding room, not hashing it out with Annie. Some drum circle leader I am.

‘Hey, look at you. You were great!’ I take the bongos from her and pull my baby sister into a hug. Her arms wrap around me the only way Rosie knows how—vice tight. Strangely, it calms me. It always does.

‘Did you see? I got it right!’ She’s so proud of herself she’s bouncing. It puts a smile on my face.

‘I saw.’ Arm around her shoulder, I turn her to join the last of the drum circle gang as they snake their way to the holding room behind the hall. ‘You keep it up and you’ll be leading the group soon.’ She scrunches her nose but grins at the idea.

‘You did beautifully.’ Annie comes in from behind and loops her arm through Rosie’s so my sister is flanked by us. ‘You both did. Actually, the three of us make a great team, don’t you think?’ Annie’s smile might be for Rosie, but her performance is all for me.

I wait until we’re in the holding room and Rosie is out of earshot before I take her by the arm. ‘Annie, you need to let it go.’

‘I’m not giving up on us.’ She smiles at me and, man, I so want to shake her.

‘There is no us anymore.’ My grip tightens and I quickly drop my hand from her arm before I hurt her. Where the hell is Zac? He’s meant to save me from exactly this kind of cockup.

Annie’s smile wavers. She wraps her arms around herself. ‘It’s because of her, isn’t it?’

‘Her?’ But we both know who she means.

‘Theo’s sister.’

‘No.’ Complete lie.

MJ and I might not be together, but if not for my time with her, there’s a good chance Annie’d have better luck wearing me down. Now? I’d rather be alone than float alongside someone until the sameness of it all cancels the both of us out.

Wanting to be done with this conversation, I walk over to the far wall of the room where everyone is stacking their instruments. I add Rosie’s bongos to the pile of smaller drums.

‘Then why not give us another chance?’

Annie and I have never had a fight. Not even the day I broke things off. Tears gathered in her eyes but she just nodded. That was us. Calm. Civil. No waves. No rocking the boat. Right now though, I’m in danger of losing my shit in a spectacular crash-the-vessel-against-the-cliffs fashion.

Fighting to control my breathing, I turn back to her. ‘Annie, you need to realise—’

‘No, you need to realise that if she cared about you, she’d be here.’ Annie’s blazing eyes immediately soften when she sees the truth in the tense lines carving up my face.

She’s right; MJ doesn’t care about me. Not the way I’d hoped.

It takes a moment before I can push past the pain of that little fact and find my voice. ‘MJ might not be here. Doesn’t mean it changes anything for us.’

‘Luke, I … I’m sorry.’ She reaches for me.

‘Don’t.’ I duck away and get busy checking the drums are secured in their racks. I want this day over. Please let this day be over.

‘She was here.’

I look up to see Rosie on the other side of the drum rack. How much did she hear? I don’t want her upset; she’s always liked Annie, even if my patience for my ex is running thin at the moment.

I force a smile. ‘Hey, have you seen Zac? He said he’d meet me back here.’ Some wingman he’s turned out to be.

‘No, but I saw MJ. She was here!’

Rosie’s beaming face … man, it kills me to have to burst her bubble.

I muss her hair to soften the blow of what I have to say. ‘I think you’ve got that wrong. She’s flying out to her science comp today.’ I feel Annie’s eyes on me but refuse to meet her vindicated gaze. ‘That’s why she couldn’t play with us, remember?’ A disappointment Rosie hasn’t quite got over. And one that’s possibly making her hallucinate, because she’s shaking her head like I’ve just told her the sky is green.

‘She was here. Next to the fire extinguisher, that’s where she was standing. I saw her, Luke.’

The leg stomp in her voice has me frowning, and something grips at my gut. ‘Then where is she now?’

‘Gone.’

‘Gone?’

Rosie’s mop of dark hair bobs as she nods. ‘She ran out at the end of our song. Really quickly.’

MJ was here? If she really was, that means she never boarded the plane, which means she’ll miss the science comp, which means …

My mouth is dry. Yeah, what exactly does it mean? ‘You sure it was her, Rosie, not someone else, someone who just looks like her?’ Because if Rosie’s right …

Rosie nods again. ‘I’m sure, Luke.’

Right then I catch sight of Zac making his way across to us. ‘Sorry, got caught talking to—’

I cut him off with a wave. ‘You okay to look out for Rosie until Mum finds her way back here?’

He looks from me to my now grinning sister, and back again. ‘Er, sure. Whatever you need. Mind me asking why?’

I take a deep breath, my lungs daring to fill with hope. ‘I’m driving back to campus. MJ was here.’

Zac’s mouth drops open in a silent ‘ah’. He’s got too much tact to look at Annie.

But I can’t help myself. Despite her stubborn resolve that we get back together, I’m not proud of the tortured look I’ve put on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘But I can’t be who you want me to be.’

I throw a glance Zac’s way, hoping he’ll pick up on my silent plea to do what he can to ease the hurt on Annie’s face.

Then Rosie is pushing me towards the door. ‘Go. And tell her she’ll have to play without bumpers for not saying hello tonight.’

‘I will.’ I plant a kiss on Rosie’s hair through a growing smile and head outside into the rain.

To find a smart, completely clueless, ink-haired little hedgehog of a girl.

Sandy, I Will Cry to Thee

When I was fifteen Mum signed me up for a Young Minds of Science competition. I spent the whole spring holidays researching the uses of stem cells in various fields of medicine—I guess the interest in genetics isn’t all that recent. By then my history of holiday study camps, piano intensives and essay writing workshops meant nobody bothered to ask me along on their trips to the movies or the shops or … well, whatever it is that fifteen-year-olds do during the holidays. I wouldn’t really know.

Preparing for the Young Minds of Science competition kept me busy enough to pretend I didn’t care about my general lack of friends. Now, as I push my Honda through the rain, there’s no pretending—I’d sell my kidney for a friend.

The turnoff for home approaches. I whizz past it, steering the car towards the boarding house. I need my friend, even though I’m well aware things aren’t all that friendly between us at the moment.

When I open our dorm room door, I find Sandy sitting on her bed, study notes strewn around her like her folder had a serious case of gastro.

She looks up and eyes me from dripping head to sodden foot. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her eyes widen at the carry-on I’m dragging to my side of the room. ‘Aren’t you meant to be at your science competition?’

And that’s all it takes. The floodgates open and my eyes produce the other 75 per cent of the Pacific Ocean.

There’s a rustle of papers and a creak of bedsprings. ‘MJ, what’s going on?’

‘I’ve messed it up. All of it.’ I swipe at a fresh wave of tears and—great!—snot. I hate crying. It’s so useless, so unproductive, although this time it might have helped raise the cooler than usual temperature of our dorm room since the birthday card incident.

Feet pad across the floorboards. ‘Here.’ A handful of tissues materialises under my nose.

I give Sandy a grateful, snotty look, take the tissues and blow.

‘Now spill. What’s going on? Is it Jason?’ Her hand brushes my arm. ‘He hasn’t dumped you already, has he?’

I search for the justified vindication in the question but can’t find it. In its place is concern, even though I don’t deserve it.

‘It’s Luke,’ I whisper.

Silence.

‘He’s back with his ex.’ Just saying it out loud starts another teary snot wave and I’m blowing into the tissues again. Hard.

Somewhere over my shoulder, Sandy takes a sharp breath. Here it comes, the you-deserve-your-heart-gouged-out-with-a-potato-peeler tirade she’s got every right of serving me but … nothing. Instead there’s the pad of her feet across the room again, followed by foil crinkling, then ripping. Next I’m staring down at a neat row of Mint Slice biscuits.

I turn to look at her. ‘Should I worry these are laced with laxatives or something?’ Not that her concern doesn’t seem genuine, but I wouldn’t put a little pay back past her.

She snorts. ‘No runs, I promise, but these will dull the pain a bit, make it bearable, at least while the sugar spike lasts.’ She grabs one and takes a bite, her face dissolving into a momentary picture of bliss, and I’m left wondering what Sandy knows about having to dull pain with chocolate-coated biscuits.

She holds the packet out to me. I take one. ‘Now talk,’ she says around a mouthful of chocolate as she pulls me down to sit on my bed.

I swallow what’s left of my Mint Slice bite and angle a cautious glance at her. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this? I mean, with the way you feel about Luke.’

She shrugs and dives into the packet for another minty chocolate hit. ‘I’m a big girl. I’ll get over it. Besides, I’ve been thinking …’ She looks down to brush non-existent crumbs off her leg. When she peers back up at me again, a smile softens her face. ‘It’s stupid to let a guy get between the two of us.’

Relief floods me from my head to my squelchy shoes. ‘Thank you.’ I throw my arms around her. Unlike me, I know, but I’m beyond grateful she’s forgiven me for muscling in on the guy she’s liked for so long.

When we pull apart, she pins my gaze with hers. ‘So what happened?’

I hesitate, but only for a moment. ‘This morning at the airport Jason said something that made me realise I was making a huge mistake. So I drove three hours straight to see Luke, to talk to him, only to find him swapping spit with Polly-Annie.’

‘Polly who?’

‘His ex. He’d moved on.’ My voice cracks and I have to clear my throat before continuing. ‘Which is fair I guess, since I told him it wasn’t going to work between us but that was before I had my life changing rev—’

‘Wait, hold on, Luke asked you out and you turned him down?’ Sandy’s eyes grow wider with each word. So much so, I edge back across the bed a little.

‘Well, yes. Because I didn’t think it could work, what with my mother and Jason and …’

She stares at me, scarily intense. I add another couple of centimetres of distance between us until my spine hits the wall.

‘I’m trying really hard not to hate you right now, but stupid decisions like that aren’t helping your cause,’ Sandy says. ‘You had him and you turned him down? What exactly were you thinking?’ She shakes her head but after a drawn out sigh, she scoots back to join me sitting up against the wall. ‘To ease the pain of that kind of stupidity we’re going to need more than one packet of these.’ She grabs another Mint Slice.

I sniff at her. ‘You’re not making me feel any better.’

Her face pulls into an expression that could pass for either pity or remorse. ‘So, you were saying?’

I heave a sigh of my own. ‘That’s basically it. I have a Luke-not-Jason revelation, ditch the science competition and drive all the way to tell Luke the good news only to find I’m too late.’ My shoulders sag. I reach for another Mint Slice in a futile attempt to fight the sting behind my eyes. I don’t need a fresh round of snot and tears.

Beside me, Sandy chews away in silence. Does the pinched look on her face mean she’s digesting more than just the biscuit? God, I hope so. If there’s one thing the frequent rotation of her preppy North Shore boyfriends is good for, it’s gathering knowledge on how to deal with being dumped. And even though technically Luke didn’t dump me, there’s no denying I’m sitting here, nursing what is essentially my first broken heart. I jolt into sitting straighter and swallow the undeniable truth along with the choc mint mush sticking to the roof of my mouth: Luke broke my heart. Which means that somewhere during the past months I must have opened it up to him.

‘For what it’s worth,’ Sandy finally says, pulling one leg underneath her so she can face me better. ‘I don’t think Luke is the type whose preferences swing depending on who’s available. He’s a stayer. That’s the whole reason I’m—I was—interested in him.’ She gives me a sheepish smile. ‘So he told you he was interested and you turned him down—’ she shakes her head again in disbelief, ‘—but I can’t see him running back to his ex-girlfriend so soon after.’ A frown pulls at the smooth skin between her brows. ‘Are you sure they’re really back together?’

‘I saw what I saw.’ And no amount of mental bleach can erase the crushing image of Polly-Annie’s lips on Luke’s.

Sandy dabs at some crumbs in the biscuit packet. ‘Sometimes what we see on the surface doesn’t reflect what’s going on beneath. And you’re not the sharpest tool in the box when it comes to reading people or situations.’

I should bristle at her words, but it’s hard to when they’re true. Add the well-meaning smile curving her lips and I don’t have it in me to be annoyed. Still, it doesn’t change my conviction that Luke has decided to move on.

‘I can see you’re not convinced,’ Sandy says.

I shake my head.

‘In that case we’ll definitely need another packet of these.’ She rattles the two remaining biscuits in the plastic tray. ‘That and my go-to dump-night movie.’

My hand falters mid-reach for another Mint Slice. She’s endured this heart-shredding torture so often she has a go-to dump-night movie? A sudden wave of sympathy for her rolls through me. And the realisation that I’ve never been a go-to for her on dump night.

She hops off the bed and pulls another Mint Slice packet from one of her dresser drawers, then swipes her laptop off her desk. ‘Have you seen The Princess Bride?’ she asks, plugging her charger into the socket closest to my bed.

‘The Princess Bride? How is a fairy tale meant to make you feel better when you’ve just been dumped?’ A revenge thriller with a high male body count would fit the bill heaps better.

She rolls her eyes at me and the start of a smile tugs at the droopy corners of my mouth.

‘Not just any fairy tale.’ Voice full of conviction like she’s an authority on the subject, she flounces back onto the bed and flips her laptop open. ‘Whenever it ends with one of the preppy guys you think I love to date so much, I watch The Princess Bride.’ She turns to me, a little lost but also fiercely determined somehow. ‘It reminds me not to give up on love.’

My mouth pops open. I’ve never seen this side of Sandy: this vulnerable and slightly bruised part of her that hides behind a polished and confident future-dux-of-the-school exterior. Something I might have noticed earlier if I’d paid attention instead of being so wrapped up in my own drama. A cocktail of shame sets my eyes prickling up all over again. For someone who hates crying I’ve been doing way too much of it in one day.

‘No more bawling.’ Sandy passes me a fresh wad of tissues with one hand as she boots up her computer with the other.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. ‘Thanks.’

Sandy acknowledges the word with a gentle bump of her shoulder against mine. It’s such a relief we’re back to normal, back to being us. This recent fallout has really driven home how much I value her friendship—and how I’ve often taken it for granted.

‘Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this movie, it never gets old,’ she says after a stretch of comfortable silence while we wait for the movie to download. ‘Helps that Westley is edible.’ She nudges my shoulder again, and I take a breath, this one a little deeper than most I’ve taken today.

Losing Luke before I ever really had him is like breathing with a collapsed lung—each inhale measured, laboured, and acutely painful—but I’ll get through it. And maybe, once time has anesthetised the pain to a bearable ache, I’ll brave to ask him for his friendship again. Because as much as it’ll hurt to see him give Annie the smiles I wish were for me, his absence the past two weeks has proven it’s far worse not to see him smile at all.

‘If he’s anywhere as edible as these,’ I say, snatching the last Mint Slice from the packet, ‘then what are you waiting for? Play the damn movie already.’

She grins at me and hits play.

I’m okay. It’ll be okay.

I try to lose myself in the fairy tale; it’s a little corny, but I generally like it.

Until someone pounds on the door.

Sandy pauses the movie. ‘This better not be Lucy asking to borrow my computer again. Last time she chewed up all her weekly data and begged to use mine, I ended up with a search history full of gaming strategy sites.’

But when she opens the door it’s not Lucy. It’s a couple of Year 7s.

‘There’s a guy downstairs who wants to talk to you,’ one says to Sandy, all but bouncing on the spot. Next to her, the other one erupts in a fit of giggles.

Sandy shoots me a frown over her shoulder. She’s definitely not happy about this interruption. ‘Give me a sec while I tell whoever it is that I’m busy, then we’ll get back to the movie.’ She grabs a jumper and follows the girls downstairs.

I use the time she’s gone to swap my damp T-shirt and jeans for a PJ top and trackies. Technically, I’m a visitor here tonight and should head home after the movie, but I can’t face Mum and all her disappointment right now. I’ll call Dad later and ask him to tell the boarding house I’m staying in for the rest of the weekend.

I’ve just settled myself under the bedcovers when Sandy comes back. One brow lifted, her eyes find mine. ‘It’s Luke. He’s just asked me for your address. I’ve told him he can save himself a drive since you’re here.’

My heart skids to a stop then picks up like it’s getting paid by beats per minute. ‘You think I should go talk to him?’

Sandy huffs and gives her head a shake. ‘Yes, MJ. You should definitely go talk to him. Have you learned nothing from the movie? When Prince Charming rocks up at your door, you talk to him!’

Talk to Luke. I should. There’s so much I want to say, but the fear that he may not want to hear it freezes my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Even if he did drive two hours to see me …

Sandy crosses to my bed where my back seems to be glued to the wall behind me. She snaps her laptop shut and shoots me a look filled with a meaning my fuddled brain can’t quite decipher. ‘If I’m right, you won’t be needing to watch this anymore.’ Her lips flirt with a smile even as her eyes flash with warning. ‘And this time don’t screw it up,’ she says with a squeeze of my arm before she grabs her laptop along with the empty packet of Mint Slice and shoos me off my bed with an encouraging smile.

On my way down the stairs, my heart pumps like mad.

Luke is here.

What does that mean? You’d think the oversupply of oxygen to my brain would help me come up with an answer, but my grey matter is nothing but a useless mass of mush.

Luke is here. In the common room, hands shoved deep into his faded jeans, and surrounded by a band of boarders subjecting him to the Boarding House Boy Test.

‘So, Luke—’ Ally glances down at a familiar-looking red clipboard, ‘—tell us about your post Year 12 aspirations.’

‘Teaching,’ Luke says with a proud smile. ‘I’m already in my first year at uni.’

‘An older guy!’ One of the Year 7s whoops from the back of the room, and my face flames.

Ally puts a double tick next to the first question on the clipboard. ‘What about extra-curricular activities?’

‘Drumming,’ I say as I step into the living room. ‘Luke is the best drummer I’ve ever seen.’

Luke’s eyes fix on mine and we stand there—or rather he’s standing and I’m kind of swaying stupidly on the spot, my tongue well and truly glued to the top of my mouth again.

Another tick on the clipboard and Ally snaps it closed. ‘I think we’ve got everything we need.’ She gives me a wink and herds the younger girls down the other end of the room where some of the juniors are playing Balderdash. It doesn’t stop them stealing curious glances our way.

I’m only allowed to talk to Luke here in the common room. No boys allowed in our rooms. I motion for him to move closer to the potted palm in the corner so we can at least pretend to have a bit of privacy.

It’s only been a few hours since I last laid eyes on him but I drink him in. His hair sticks up in spikes like he’s shoved his fingers through it so many times the rain-dampened strands have said ‘stuff it’. The zip on his hoodie is half undone, revealing the rapid up-down, up-down of his chest under a V of white T-shirt. My greedy gaze treks up the naked column of his neck to find a corresponding beat pounding under the skin beside his Adam’s apple. The urge to kiss him there sets off a tingle in my lips.

As though he’s heard my thought, Luke sucks in a sharp breath and I trip into the intense green of his gaze just as his eyes lift from my mouth.

‘What are you doing here?’ I don’t remember moving but I must have, because I’m standing close enough to soak in the warm outward rush of his breath.

His gaze dips briefly to my lips again, then lifts and drops anchor in my eyes. ‘I could ask you the same.’

I frown. ‘I decided to stay at the boarding house tonight.’ I do it all the time. Why would he think that’s weird?

His mouth twitches like it wants to break into a smile but is too afraid of the consequences. ‘And the science comp?’

The science comp. The one that now seems a distant memory. ‘I, um, the science comp, it’s …’ Unimportant compared to you. Something knots and twists inside me, urging me to tell him the words, but a flash of him and Annie holding hands—touching lips—dissolves what I want to say.

I swallow and grasp for another explanation. ‘I realised the comp wasn’t right for me after all.’

‘Why?’ It’s just one quiet word, but his eyes are asking so much more.

I swallow. ‘Because my edges were blurring.’

His smile is the taste of rain breaking a decade long drought. The understanding in his eyes should be no surprise. This is Luke. If anyone understands, it’ll be him.

But then the sunshine slips. ‘How did your parents take it?’

God, my parents. An image of Mum’s horror-filled expression flashes behind my eyes and I grip the hem of my T-shirt. Only the echo of Dad’s words stops me from tearing the cotton to shreds. I take a deep breath. ‘Dad doesn’t like my edges blurring.’

That earns me another smile. ‘Neither do I.’

Then we’re silent again, standing, staring, Luke’s gaze a fiery feather across my features. Laughter from the board game lot as they read out the next round of Balderdash definitions is a distant noise.

‘Rosie saw you,’ he eventually says. ‘At the concert.’

There’s nowhere to hide so I close my eyes. When I brave lifting my lids, Luke’s gaze reaches so deeply into mine, I’m sure he sees all my secrets. ‘Why didn’t you stay?’

Do I tell him? I know what I saw, but if Sandy is right, then him being here might really mean there’s no need for Mint Slice or The Princess Bride. But I know what I saw.

My fingers twist the hem of my shirt. ‘Why are you here?’

Luke shakes his head and tugs my hand from the abused cotton. ‘Why didn’t you stay?’ he asks again, his thumb drawing warm circles into my palm.

‘Rosie might have seen me but I saw you … with Annie.’

‘And?’

And? And? And it killed me! That’s what it did. But I don’t tell him that. ‘And three’s a crowd.’ I’ve heard Sandy say this expression so many times, so I borrow it. I shrug like I’m not crumbling on the inside. ‘I didn’t want to be the third wheel.’ That stupid sting behind my eyes fires up again so I drop my head, an old hot chocolate stain on the carpet near my feet suddenly mighty interesting.

A gentle tug on my hand leaves my toes touching Luke’s. His other hand cups my cheek, lifting my gaze to meet his. ‘What makes you think you would have been the third wheel?’

I open my mouth to say something but Luke’s warm lips wipe away all thought of words. And I no longer care what I think I saw; the only thing I need is the sweet truth of Luke’s mouth on mine.

Then there’s the bone dissolving sweep of his tongue, and the gentle yet desperate grip of his fingers on my scalp as they slide into my hair. My mind whirls, full of lemony pine needles, and I burrow closer, aching to taste more of him, all of him, only him. If our first kiss melted time, this one has me scrambling for my calendar.

The room erupts in hoots and giggles, and—too late—I remember where we are. My face is on fire, but I tug Luke out the door and into the hallway. At least there it’s only Ms Kelso who’ll be watching from behind the reception desk.

Luke tugs me closer and touches his forehead to mine. ‘I should never have taken up Annie’s offer of help. It gave her the wrong idea and—’ He stops, brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, along my hypersensitive lips. ‘I don’t want to talk about Annie. I want to talk about you. About us.’ He dips his head, making sure I can’t avoid his eyes. ‘There is an “us”, isn’t there, MJ?’ The quiver of uncertainty in his voice breaks me.

‘Yes.’ I nod to reassure him. ‘You know, you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.’ Luke’s brow creases in scepticism, so I hurry on. ‘Because you care about people, not their achievements.’ I close the distance between us, press my length against his. ‘It’s a different sort of intelligence.’

His answering smile, the sudden ochre flare in his eyes … oh wow. This moment is worth a thousand science competition wins.

‘Maybe we should wait to start on an “us” until I’ve had the Huntington’s test. That way if you change your mind because it’s all too much …’ It’s painful, but I look him in the eyes so he sees I won’t hold it against him if he chooses to walk away.

Luke simply takes my face in his hands again and holds my gaze. ‘MJ, I’m not going to change my mind because of something you have no control over.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘We’ll deal with whatever comes our way as it lands at our feet. Okay?’

I nod. It’s all I can do. And because his mouth is back on mine, stealing any opportunity for me to tell him I feel the same. At least until Ms Kelso clears her throat and we pull apart—too soon—much too soon, and grin at each other until our faces hurt.

Luke

Second Drum Balm

‘I’m getting better, man.’ Derek gives the high hat one last bash and slides off the drum stool. ‘I can feel it. Feel the rhythm.’

A whole year he’s been coming for lessons but whatever he’s feeling, it’s not the rhythm. I don’t have the heart to tell him though; the guy’s determination is a thing of beauty. Painful on the ears, but a thing of beauty.

I scratch my cheek. How to respond? ‘Yeah, you’ve made headway.’ Not a complete lie. At least now he occasionally gets through a piece without dropping the sticks.

He gives me the thumbs-up, reading way more praise into my statement than there is. ‘I’ve got time to go through another song if you want?’

I glance at the clock on the far wall and shake my head. ‘Can’t. I’ve got another student.’ And I need him out of here before my ‘student’ arrives. A grin splits my face just thinking about the lesson I’ve got planned for her.

A couple minutes later, Derek takes his defective rhythm out the music room door just as MJ bursts in.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She dumps her messenger bag on the floor a step before her arms slide around my neck. She half rises, half pulls my head down for a quick—too quick if you ask me—hello kiss. ‘Professor P wanted to explain all the available options, which took longer than expected, but it looks like all the subjects I did for the Head Start program this year will give me advanced standing for a genetics degree, and since I don’t need to decide on a specialty area until—’ She stops mid-ramble, angles her head back and eyes me suspiciously. ‘What’s with the twitchy lips?’ Her eyes narrow on my growing smile.

We’ve spent all possible waking hours together since the start of the summer holidays, but damn if the spark lit by her new uni plans doesn’t still make me wanna grin.

‘Luke, what?’ she asks again, this time with a tug on my neck meant to jolt me into giving her an answer.

I wind my own arms around her waist and drop a kiss on her nose. ‘I love that you’re happy.’

Her body softens and she smiles up at me. ‘I love that you’re here to share it with me. And speaking of sharing …’ she’s still smiling but there’s another tug on my neck, ‘Straight Distinction, Luke? Why didn’t you call me as soon as you found out?’ Her arms tighten. Another too-quick kiss. Something I’m going to rectify before this ‘lesson’ is over.

‘The marks only came in this afternoon. You were about to talk with the Prof and I knew I’d see you after so …’ I shrug. ‘How’d you find out anyway?’

‘Professor P told me.’

My head jerks back. ‘Doesn’t that go against some privacy of information code or something?’

‘Don’t be mad. The tutoring came up in conversation. I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.’ The vote of confidence in her smile sends warmth skirting down my spine. Or maybe it’s the lazy way her fingers are toying with the hair at my nape. Almost makes me regret that I won’t be doing any more chemistry.

‘He also told me he’s happy to write you a reference in case you need one to help with the application process.’ Her look turns serious. ‘You’ve filled out the Special Ed minor application form for next year, haven’t you?’

‘Emailed it yesterday.’ She’s been at me to do it since she discovered I could swap my science minor for Special Ed, and it would smooth the way into a Masters of Special Education after I graduate. The more we talk about studying something we love, the more she’s got me believing I can do it, even all the post-grad possibilities. It scares the life out of me and gives me a thrill all at the same time. No-one ever said jumping into the rapids would be a swim in a calm ocean.

‘Good.’ I’m rewarded with a smile. ‘What am I learning today then?’ she asks as we head for the drum kit.

I turn to plug my phone into the stereo system—and to hide my grin. ‘Seeing as you’re such a fast learner, I thought we’d give a twelve-eight piece a go.’

She snorts behind me. ‘I’ve had three lessons, Luke. I’m not ready for a twelve-eight piece. Let’s do that soft rock track we did last week.’

I shake my head and make my way over to her. No way is she getting out of this. ‘You keep telling me not to underestimate myself. Walk the talk, sweetheart.’

‘Oh come on!’ She pulls a face. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘It’s twelve-eight but feels like four-four.’

Her expression tells me she’s not convinced.

‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll help you out with this one. Scoot forward.’ It’s a squeeze, but I slide in behind her on the drum stool and pull her back against my chest.

‘Okay. Sure. Because this won’t be distracting at all.’ She squirms in my arms, and man do I deserve a medal for sticking with my plan instead of turning her around and …

I lean in to whisper in her ear, trying hard to ignore the apple and spices scent that’s been filling my dreams for the last two months. ‘You’ll know this one, promise.’

Another snort. ‘Knowing it and being able to play it are two different things,’ she says with a trademark MJ nose twitch. Sitting behind her doesn’t allow me to silence the twitch with a kiss so I settle on a quick peck on her cheek as I slide my hands to cover hers.

I tap her right thigh with my knee. ‘Put your foot on mine.’ Her nose is still twitching but she follows my instruction. ‘You hit the kick on one and three and ride the high hat on the beat.’ My hands and foot guiding hers, I demonstrate. ‘Then add the snare on two and four and …’ Slowly, I pull my foot from the bass pedal and let go of her hands. Her tempo’s a bit wobbly for the first few beats, then I catch her reflection in the window across the room—jaw set, brows drawn; total determination—and a few bars later she’s got it. No surprise there; when MJ sets her mind to something there’s no giving up. Like coming around after Theo’s cinema shift every Monday and watching mindless TV with him so they can spend more time together. Or making sure I’m invited to every one of her family events for the coming year so her parents—make that her mother—get the message that I’m here to stay. My smile tugs at my face and a few places around my heart.

‘Okay. Now with the music.’ I reach over to the stereo and hit play. My chosen track only gets through half a twelve-eight bar of arpeggios before MJ whips around.

‘Are you kidding me?’

The disbelief on her face is priceless. ‘What? Unchained Melody is a classic twelve-eight.’ I bite the inside of my cheek to kill my grin. ‘Come on, sticks up. Kick on one and three.’

She narrows her eyes at me but turns, squares her shoulders and sits up straighter. ‘No funny business,’ she shoots over her shoulder.

‘What, me?’ I’m glad she can’t see my grin.

My hands cover hers. I help her find the rhythm for one-two-three-four-five-six, two-two-three-four-five-six then … fingers slide up her arms … three-two-three-four-five-six … brush away hair from nape … four-two-three-four-five-six … lips taste behind her ear …

‘Luke.’ Her voice is all raspy but my girl is keeping time. Looks like I gotta work harder.

‘Yeah?’ I place an open mouth kiss on that sweet spot where neck meets shoulder.

She fumbles the next bar but recovers. ‘You’re not making this easy.’

‘Why’s that?’ My hands find the hem of her shirt, thumbs stealing across the sliver of her soft stomach.

‘Because your heavy breathing means I can’t hear the song properly.’ Two-two-three-four-five-six.

‘Is that so?’ I suck on her earlobe and—bingo!—she drops a drumstick, turns in my arms and feeds my hunger for her touch.

Cymbal clash lips on mine.

Moonless midnight reaching so damn deep into my soul I gasp at the invasion. It reminds us both that the brain can’t function without the heart.