We only have one compulsory session at footy training this week because of Work Experience, and Trav and I spend most of it kicking for goal. This is because a box of vacuum cleaners fell onto Trav and he has sore ribs. Me, I just wandered down there when Coach Tindale wasn’t looking.
‘So how many were in the box?’ I ask, as the two of us line up at the fifty-metre mark like young guns who can kick the distance, but mostly can’t.
‘None.’ Trav starts his run-up, straight, steady, and way too long. ‘But it was a very high shelf.’
Smack!
The ball flies fast and high, and if it was straight, it’d be a great kick – but it’s not. It sails past the net, over the fence, and lands in someone’s pool.
‘Shit.’ Trav’s face compresses. ‘What happened there?’ He motions to me. ‘C’mon, Jarvy. Give us yours. I’ll nail it this time.’
‘No chance.’ I wave him away. ‘Go get that one. You can swim.’
I start my run-up, looking up from the ball to where the goal posts stand high and white like two frosty aerials.
Boot!
I feel the hard/soft thud of perfect connection, and watch the ball fly to collide with the top of the post as if it was never going to miss.
‘That’s shitful,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I saw that girl again. The one from the movies.’
Trav spits his chewy out. ‘Yeah, the one with no set. I remember.’
‘Well, I ran into her near home.’ No need to over-explain. ‘And hopefully I’ll be seeing her again tomorrow.’ I motion for the kick-out guys to send us a couple of footies, watching them coming our way, spinning. I have to chase mine, but Trav marks his single-handed.
‘This all sounds a bit too successful for you, Jarvy. But I’m listening.’ Trav bounces the ball as we head back to the arc. ‘Why don’t you get her along to watch us play a game one day? Show her your big arms.’
Trav knows I’ve been doing a heap of bicep and tricep work, although I have to say it’s been somewhat unsuccessful; although my veins show up more, so that’s cool. I even bought some power food bars from the health shop, but after about the first fifty, I was kind of over them.
‘I might,’ I say. ‘But she might not like footy. I didn’t ask her.’ Amongst many other things.
‘Marc bloody Jarvis!’
I look around to see Coach Tindale flinging his arms around.
‘Whadda you doin’ kickin’ goals? You should be doin’ drills.’
‘Yeah, Marc.’ Trav gives me a filthy look. ‘You’re not injured.’
I don’t answer Coach Tindale. I just try to look confused.
‘Five laps, Jarvis! Go!’
I jog off toward the boundary line. I don’t care. Tindale can’t count. I’ll do two, blend in with the soccer guys, and that should see me over and out for the rest of the afternoon.
Trav and I walk home. Cars pass in unbroken lines. Peak hour.
‘So what’d this chick have to say for herself?’ Trav hitches his bag over one shoulder so he can put his hands in his pockets. ‘What school’s she go to?’
I can see this direct questioning could get quite tricky.
‘Ah, St Helen’s.’ No need to explain how I found that out.
‘So where’s she live? What street?’
‘Er, I dunno, exactly. I didn’t ask.’ Well, that’s true.
Travis shoots me a look.
‘So what year’s she in, dumb-arse?’
‘I dunn – ’
‘Don’t.’ Trav holds up a warning finger. ‘But if she’s not at one of our games in the next few weeks, I’ll know you’re as soft as everyone thinks you are. Which brings me to my next question.’ Travis waggles the same finger. ‘Are you and me and your boyfriend still gunna do lunch tomorrow?’
I laugh; it’d be good if Mikey came to lunch with us. And it won’t worry Trav, because he would never have asked if it did. I mean, deep down, although he’s hardcore, he’s not as bad as everyone thinks. Once he gave a street kid his jacket. Well, it was Dillon’s jacket, and too small anyway, but he didn’t have to.
‘Yep, still on,’ I say. ‘Come in at twelve. And that Electra Tesselaar, she lives at her coach’s house. It’s somewhere around here. Not too far. Maybe, er, Hawthorn. East. Or South.’
Travis backs off up his street. ‘Her name’s what?’ He stops.
‘Electra Tesselaar.’ I hope I got the second bit right. I think that’s what Belinda said. Now I really do take a step out into unknown territory. ‘I think it’s Dutch.’
‘You made that up,’ Trav says, although he knows I don’t make stuff up about anything. Or not stuff that is important. Or would put anyone’s life in danger. ‘You’re shittin’ me?’
‘I’m not. That’s her name.’ I don’t think I’ll go much further with this today as it probably wouldn’t be particularly helpful. ‘Anyway, I might run into her again tomorrow. I’d say it’s very possible. The way things are going.’
Trav looks at me carefully. ‘Not if she sees you first.’
And that’s a point I guess I need to consider when setting up my athletic rendezvous; perhaps it might help to place a little more emphasis on the Marc E. Jarvis Ninja Element of Surprise. I mean, I wouldn’t hide behind a bush, or drop out of a tree, but I think some place between the visible and invisible might suit me fine.
‘I think you’re dwelling on the negative,’ I tell Trav, drawing on Ms Inglis’s fine use of the English language. ‘This could be the real thing.’
Trav laughs. ‘I doubt it. But hey, you never know.’