The party’s been going for a while. The street is full of cars. When Adam steps inside, the bass beat is thumping so loud his heart keeps time.
Doof. Doof. Doof. Doof.
He peers about. Nice place. It figures. Ants’ parents are both dentists. In the red glow, Adam makes out about twenty people, mostly girls, milling about, drinks in hand. No adults, though. Ants’ parents are visiting his sister in Auckland: she’s just dropped another sprog.
Suddenly, Kieran is there. He throws an arm around Adam’s shoulders and shouts into his ear: ‘Mate. You made it.’ His breath smells pleasantly of beer.
Adam gives him an exaggerated nod. This noise, it’s easier.
‘Corey?’ he mouths.
Kieran disengages his arm and points to a computer nook normally concealed behind a bi-fold door. Half inside the cupboard, Corey and Mikey are bent over an iPad, studying the screen. Checking out Ants’ playlist, Adam guesses.
Kieran puts his hand on Adam’s shoulder, dragging Adam’s attention back. Shouting again, he says, ‘I think I’m gonna say hello to Felicity.’
Frowning, Adam shakes his head. ‘Leave it. She’s Mikey’s girl now.’
‘Yes, but a girl’s allowed to change her mind, isn’t she?’ Kieran winks at Adam, then peels away towards Felicity. Adam makes a grab for his sweatshirt, but Kieran is out of reach. Adam shrugs. Let him try. Adam’s got enough going on without worrying about Kieran.
Who else is here? Adam recognises Jase, Callum and one or two others from the track team. The other guys here must be Ants’ surfie mates. Ants is mad on surfing. Loves his board so much, he probably wears the same wax. He’s in most of Adam’s classes, but his attendance is dependent on the morning surf report. If the announcer says the waves are the business at Raglan, then Ants’ll pull a sickie that day. The Attendance Officer hasn’t caught on yet. This is Ants’ second year at Y13. Adam reckons the probability of his seeing out the year is as likely as a holiday without homework.
Adam sees Skye on the other side of the room. She gives him a little wave, but she doesn’t come over. She’s with the girls: Donna and Lauren, and Ants’ girlfriend Tayla. They’re all gathered together around a window seat. Adam wishes Skye wouldn’t just wave. He wishes she’d walk across the room and slip her hand in his, as if she were his girlfriend. He stares at her hard. Willing her to do it. But her head is bent towards Lauren’s and she’s laughing at something her friend is saying, not paying him any attention. Adam had been starting to hope they could have something, him and Skye. But when Adam stops to think about it, what’ve they shared really? A few rides home. An afternoon on the sofa. A band-aid and a bowl of popcorn.
Fuck, even Adam’s old man has better luck with women.
Adam goes to the marble counter and tears open a Steinie. Downs it. Grabs another and prises off the top. There’s no shortage of booze. Ants had a pre-pay system set up. Twenty bucks a head, and they would get it in on your behalf. Adam downs another mouthful. It tastes fantastic. Cold and hopsy. Yeah, fantastic.
‘You okay, mate?’ Corey shouts, giving Adam the thumbs up.
Adam takes another swallow, then tips his bottle at Corey, grinning. ‘Never better.’ Bags of chips form a pile on the counter—the extent of Ants’ catering. Corey rips open a bag and offers it to Adam. Thrusting his hand in, Adam snatches up a handful. He stuffs them in his mouth. Storming out like that, he hasn’t had any dinner. He nudges Corey to hold the bag out again and helps himself to another handful. Corey makes a pointing motion, indicating that Adam should meet him outside. Clutching a couple of full bottles to his chest, Adam follows him. Outside, the music dulls to a rumble. The air is sharp. Ants and a few others are standing around a heat lamp, smoking.
‘So, how’d they get the booze?’ Adam asks Corey. His ears are ringing.
‘Mikey’s brother helped,’ Corey explains. ‘Slipped Mikey his driver’s licence for the afternoon.’ Adam nods, takes another swig of his beer. Makes sense. Two years older, Mikey’s brother is a dead ringer for his younger sibling. Corey goes on. ‘The way Mikey told it, the guys at the liquor outlet looked at him, took a quick gawp at his ID and waved him through. Then Jared—talk about über-audacious—he picked up four cartons at the supermarket. The shift supervisor knew him from school. She didn’t bat an eyelid.’
Corey and Adam amble over and sit on the BBQ table, their feet on the bench. They discuss the likelihood of Kieran getting Felicity back. Corey says unlikely. Adam says risky. Adam finishes his fourth Steinie, then helps himself to a can from a carton on the table. This party was a good idea. He hasn’t been here long and already he’s starting to feel better.
Ants peels away from the group under the heat lamp.
‘Here, Adam, have one of these,’ he says.
‘What?’ Adam says blankly.
‘This.’ Ants is holding out something on the flat of his palm. A joint. Mary-Jane.
‘Hey, c’mon Ants,’ Corey intercedes quietly. ‘You know, Adam doesn’t do that stuff. No reflection on you guys, or anything. It’s a personal choice.’
‘Then why not let him make the choice himself?’ Ants says.
Up until now, Adam has sworn off weed for four reasons:
1. He’s an athlete.
2. He never has enough money.
3. He’s been moving cars around at the yard ever since he was big enough to see over a steering wheel. If, as a direct result of being a dope-head, he were to cause even the slightest scratch to a new vehicle, Dad would go off his head and Adam would find himself grounded for the remainder of his natural life.
4. The stuff scares him to hell.
Adam considers his reasons. Firstly, it’s true an athlete’s body is a temple and should be free from artificial additives. But marijuana’s a herb, right? So it’s got to be natural. Secondly, the stuff on offer here is free. He should think of it as a party favour. Thirdly, he won’t be seen dead at the yard any time soon, given that Mar-i-lyn is there. Dad doesn’t exactly have the moral high-ground right now. That just leaves his fourth reason. And the thing is, when Adam came up with his list of reasons for not taking dope, Mum had been safely at home. She wasn’t missing, possibly raped, murdered or even worse. Just thinking about what might’ve happened, what might still be happening to Mum, is way, way scarier than a pathetic little joint.
‘Go on, man. Take it,’ Ants coaxes. Adam takes the spliff. He’s about to light up when someone tugs at his arm.
It’s Skye.
‘You don’t need that, Adam. It isn’t going to make things any better,’ she says.
‘Yeah, but it can’t make ‘em any worse, can it?’ Ants answers for him.
‘C’mon, Adam,’ Corey says, frowning at Ants. ‘Let’s go in. See what Kieran’s up to.’
Twirling the joint in his fingers, Adam ignores his friends.
‘Adam, don’t,’ Skye pleads.
‘Who are you? His fucking mother?’ one of the surfers asks.
‘That’s not funny,’ Skye says. She’s right. It’s not. In fact, it pisses Adam off. No one is supposed to mention his mother. Don’t they realise he’s trying to forget?
‘Geez, Skye,’ Ants says. ‘Just chill. It’s no big deal.’
Skye’s eyes are blazing, but Adam turns away. He’s with Ants. What’s the big deal? Everybody does it these days. Maybe it’ll take the edge off, help him forget.
‘Adam, please don’t,’ Skye says again.
‘It’s okay.’ Adam shrugs her off. ‘It’s just one.’
As far as Adam’s concerned, this party is just kicking off.
Later, Adam’s not sure how much later, there’s some sort of altercation going on.
‘Don’t give him any more. Can’t you see it’s not helping?’ Skye facing off against Ants and his surfie mates? Funny! She’s so tiny. Red light triangulates off the ceiling. Someone needs to tell Ants this music is giving him a headache.
‘It’s just a bit of fun, Skye. Lighten up, will ya?’ Is that Ants’ voice? A surfer mate? Adam can’t tell. There’s too much noise. Adam’s head throbs. He has a feeling he was going to say something but he’s forgotten what. Raised voices now. Arguing.
‘S’okay, Skye,’ Adam says, but the sound is hollow, spacy, not like him at all.
Next thing, he’s being half-dragged, supported by Corey and Kieran on either side. He’s in the back seat of someone’s car. Hey, that guy looks like Corey’s dad. Oncoming lights. Shit! Adam puts his arm up to shield his face.
Then he’s on his knees, chucking in a toilet.
Skye’s there, looking worried, washing his face with a facecloth.
Whose shirt is this? Oh shit, he’s got sick on it.
He hears Mrs Shaw saying she’ll make up a bed, telling Corey he’ll have to drive Skye home. Adam imagines Corey looking awkward. He wants to say there’s no need, he’ll take Skye home, but the words are lost in a clench of nausea.
Skye again. Kissing his forehead. Her breath soft on his face. Is she going? Has she gone? Why does everyone leave him without saying goodbye?
Then later, he’s on his knees in the toilet again, vomiting.
Corey’s dad is saying, ‘There you go, fella. Let it all out. You’ll feel better.’
But Adam doesn’t feel better, and on Saturday when he wakes up, Mum is still missing.
Saturday night. I’m here at home and I’m over it. Not the hangover. I’m not over that. My head still feels like shite, like I’ve been steam-rollered.
No, it’s this situation I’m over.
Do you hear me, Mum?
Time’s up.
Joke’s over.
I’ve learned my lesson. Dad’s learned his lesson. We GET that you’re mad at us. But all this protracted waiting around while you make us suffer for our sins is pissing me off big time. No, I take that back. I’m bloody furious. I mean who the hell do you think you are, anyway? I’ll tell you, shall I? You’re an adult with adult responsibilities. And here’s a news flash for you, Mum: adults do not run away when things are less than peachy. They stick around, face the music, work things out. So your life sucks? So you knew about Dad fooling around with Marilyn? Get over it. No one ever said life was all sunshine and roses. I’ve been patient, Mum. I’ve waited. But I’m telling you now, enough is enough. You need to come home NOW!
I lie on my back and listen, straining for the sound of Mum’s key in the door, but there’s only the normal night sounds: the tap in the bathroom still dripping, Dad snoring along the hall, the tickle of her hebe against the side of the house and my own pulse roaring in my ears.
Now, please!
I half-expect her to slip into my room. She’ll take the two steps across to where I’m lying, quietly with only the faintest scuff of her slippers on the carpet, and a wisp of her hair will tickle my face as she stoops to kiss me. If I open my eyes quickly, I’ll see her!
An orange standby light winks, telling me my computer is still on.
Twisting, I bury my face in my pillow; whisper into the weave of the fabric.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.