Corey steps back and lets him in. Behind Corey, sliding doors throw a rhomboid patch of sun onto the lounge carpet. Inside one sunny oblique angle, Corey’s mum is reading on the sofa, her legs curled under her. Accountancy. Adam can make out a yellow Post-it note stapled to the magazine cover. He tugs his jacket off and hands it to Corey, who promptly throws it over a kitchen stool.
‘Adam!’
Like a fern, Mrs Shaw uncurls herself, her smile wide. As she crosses the lounge, Adam takes a minute to consider his mate’s mum. Ever since he’s misplaced his, Adam’s taken more than a passing interest in other people’s mothers. Not in a pervy, Stacy’s Mom kind of way. Just noticing them, whereas before he’d never really bothered.
Mrs Shaw is Chinese, and is slender and attractive. She has the same glossy hair as her son and the same gold-rimmed glasses. Mostly, when Adam’s seen her, she’s been wearing a suit with matching pointy heels—hardly surprising since she’s an accountant—but today she’s dressed in her weekend gear: skinny jeans, a yellow high-necked jumper, and with her feet bare. In a breeze of expensive perfume, she pulls Adam into a bear hug. A tiny bear. She has to stand on tippy toes to do it. Over her head, Adam sees Corey raise his eyebrows. She’s never done that before.
‘It’s been too long, sweetheart. We’ve missed you,’ she says, still clasping Adam’s upper arms as she pulls back. Corey’s dad, Paul, is hovering at the door of his office. He puts his hand out and, gives Adam a vigorous handshake.
‘Adam. Good to see you, fella. Everything good?’ Pulling back his hand, Corey’s dad slips it into his jeans pocket. With the other, he rubs the back of his neck. Nervous. Adam notices Corey’s parents don’t mention Mum. They’re not the only ones. Lots of people, not knowing what to say, have skirted around the subject. It’s as if Mum’s absence has become an entity in itself, a presence, like an amorphous grey blob that grows and grows and threatens to engulf everything. She’s not even here, yet this thing that replaces her demands to be acknowledged. This thing that everyone strives diligently to ignore.
‘Yup. Things’re pretty good,’ Adam says. ‘Considering.’
Corey’s dad winces. Adam recognises the fleeting plea in his eyes. Please, don’t mention your mother. It’s ironic, really. Corey’s dad is a real-life Bob-the-Builder, the man of the moment if your timing belt breaks or your retaining wall needs shoring up before the next deluge. Those sorts of setbacks he’ll haul on his gumboots, roll up his sleeves and pitch in. Adam knows Paul was one of the first volunteer searchers out looking for Mum. But Adam’s current situation is beyond Paul’s ability to fix. In this case, a good adhesive and a couple of wall-plugs won’t suffice.
‘C’mon, Adam,’ Corey urges. ‘We should go up. Kieran’s already here.’ Corey senses the need to make good their escape before Adam flips out.
Upstairs, Corey’s room is much like Adam’s is: school bag biffed in a corner, clothes on the floor, an empty Tim Tam packet on his desk. The layout is a bit odd, though. Because his mum is Chinese, Corey’s furniture has been arranged according to complicated feng shui principles. Corey tried to explain it to Adam once. Apparently, the way most people lay out their bedrooms upsets the flow of positive energy. Causes them to have bad luck. Corey said feng shui helps overcome that negative stuff and creates a harmonious peaceful atmosphere. Adam had said surely it was a bunch of old wives’ tales, but Corey wasn’t convinced. Said there was some scientific evidence that those ‘old wives’ tales’ conformed to certain geomagnetic principles. It’s to do with polarity or something. Anyway, instead of his bed being pushed up against the wall like Adam’s, Corey’s bed is smack in the middle of the room. It’s got a view of the door, but it’s not in line with the door. Side tables on either side are supposed to balance the energy. With feng shui, electrical appliances are a big no-no, which creates a bit of a problem because Corey has an electric piano. Set against the wall between Corey’s piles of musical scores, the piano looks like a keyboard—it has earphones and funky built-in beats—but the keys are weighted. To get round the “no electrical appliances” rule, the piano runs on batteries that Corey recharges periodically. Same with his alarm clock. When Adam had asked about Corey’s computer, Corey just shrugged, saying it’s impossible to get everything perfect. He reckons his lucky red wall should counter any minor inauspicious placements.
Sprawled on Corey’s bed, Kieran is flicking idly through the pages of a glossy magazine.
‘Hey!’ Colouring violently, Corey snatches at the journal. He stashes it in the bottom drawer of his commode under a pile of sweatshirts. ‘You guys!’ But when he turns to face his mates, he’s grinning. Kieran and Adam laugh. Kieran waggles a finger at him.
‘You should know there are no secrets from your mates, Cor-blimey,’ he chastises. ‘And speaking of secrets, Adam, what’s up with you and Skye Wētere? And don’t tell us she’s helping you with your English.’ Resting his chin on his knuckles, he looks expectantly at Adam.
‘She is helping me with English,’ Adam insists. Safely out of the firing line, Corey pulls a small stool out from under the piano and sits down, his back to the instrument.
‘Yeah, don’t keep us in the dark, Adam,’ he says.
‘Details, Adam.’
Adam sighs. Kieran isn’t going to let this go. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he says, flopping on the bed beside Kieran. ‘We went to the video shop and got out the DVD of The Importance of Being Earnest. Then we went back to her place and watched it.’ Kieran sits forward.
‘In her room?’
‘In the lounge. On the sofa.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. We watched the movie.’ Kieran collapses back on the pillows.
‘Exactly how close did you sit?’ Corey asks now.
‘Seven-point-two-six centimetre average separation,’ Adam jokes. ‘Slightly closer at the hip than the knee due to sag in the sofa. What is this anyway? The Spanish Inquisition?’
For some reason, he doesn’t want to share. Not even with Kieran and Corey. It’d been great spending the better part of Friday afternoon snuggled up to Skye on the sofa. Surrounded by the buttery smell of microwave popcorn. Talking about the movie. Following the text open on Skye’s knees. There’d just been the two of them because Skye’s mother was still at work. Each time Skye had pointed the remote to rewind the movie, she’d leaned in towards Adam. It was exquisite. Twice Adam had deliberately pretended not to hear the dialogue so Skye had to rewind bits. And lean over. Afterwards, Skye had asked about his family. They’d even talked a bit about Mum. It was nice. She’d told him about herself, too. How there was just her and Aroha and how she’d never met her dad. Seems he’d shot through before Skye was born. Skye was matter-of-fact about it. Turns out, she’s got heaps of whānau: aunties and cousins who live over in the Waikato. Near Te Awamutu. Skye usually spends a couple of weeks there in the summer holidays...
‘Did you kiss her?’ The question is blunt, even for Kieran.
‘Don’t be an arse.’ But part of him had wanted to. Part of him had desperately wanted to lean in and kiss Skye Wētere.