Mikey and I are painting tyres with Tyre Black, which is black stuff that you paint on tyres, amazingly, to make them go black. It sinks into the rubber, it looks like it’ll do nothing, then somehow it makes even the oldest, baldest, most hopeless tyre look brand new. What a miracle product!
I’m still amped after this morning’s conversation with Electra. Of course, I do know that if I tell Trav exactly what happened when I see him, he’ll think I’m an idiot. But when it comes to relationships, I think that everyone does things that are a little odd.
One guy I know walked past a girl’s house six, maybe seven, times on a Saturday afternoon, until the police were called. I think he told them he had amnesia. Or that he’d lost his dog. Actually, he told them both; and that he’d forgotten what the dog’s name was, and what it looked like, and so it turned out to be a very hard dog to find (he doesn’t have a dog). They let him go with a warning – I’m not sure what about. The girl wouldn’t talk to him after that. A wasted afternoon, anyway.
‘Hey, Mikey.’ I keep clear of the Tyre Black, as it’s not the kind of stuff you want to get on your jeans. ‘What was school like where you grew up? Er, there.’ I laugh. ‘Wherever. In Queensland. Or was it South Australia?’
Mikey squeezes the bridge of his nose. But he’s still smiling.
‘Well, primary school was all right. But from then on things got a bit tough, actually.’
I can’t remember that much about primary school, apart from where it was, that Amelia-Anne was on the footy team, and that a jumper of mine was in the Lost Property Box for five years, which was a school record. That’s about it.
‘Why? Did you get into a few fights?’ It’s funny. Mikey and I know we’re not exactly talking about him being gay, we’re talking about the problems it caused him. I think. ‘I mean, you know. Over things.’
‘My fair share.’ Mikey leans against a car, holding a sponge that looks like a big yellow brain. ‘It was weird, though.’ He looks down. ‘Most of the kids who wanted to fight me didn’t even know why. Like, I’d never admitted anythin’, mostly probably because I hardly knew myself. So I dunno how that worked. Except that all the girls loved me. So work that out.’
‘I wish I could,’ I say. ‘It would help a lot.’
Mikey grins, then free-throws his sponge into his bucket as if it were full of memories he’d rather not have.
‘Still, I could fight all right for a pretty boy. And my older brother, Brad, is a born killer.’ Mikey shows me a fist. ‘And no one wanted to tangle with him. Or not more than once.’
That’s the best sort of brother, I reckon. It’d make school a whole lot more peaceful for a lot more people, gay or straight.
‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Mikey says, coming over. ‘That Brad sussed me early on but never said a word. Probably half the time I reckon he didn’t know whether he wanted to belt me, or the other kids. But, I guess because my mum told him to look after me, he did. That was one reason why I took off. To give everyone some peace and quiet. And the old man, too.’
I know how this works. For example, I hate Gretchen, right? But if some guy, let’s say, pushed the boundaries inappropriately, then I’d flatten him without a doubt, and hard.
‘But he must like you,’ I say reasonably. ‘Mustn’t he? Otherwise he wouldn’t have got into the fights. So I’d say he seems pretty cool. A cool guy, anyway,’ I add, as a safety measure.
Mikey looks up at the scrappy old streamers as if there might be some information there, but it seems that there’s not. He looks at me.
‘Nah, he’s not cool with it, Marc. But, hey, blood’s thicker than water. And the one thing he could do for me was fight, so he did. Same goes for the old man. He even belted a bloke down the pub. But everybody in town, apart from a couple of crazy girls, would’ve preferred it if I’d lived somewhere else. So now do you see why I had to take off?’
‘I’m beginning to get the picture.’
We laugh, Mikey as cool as a Hollywood stuntman, knowing more about danger than most people.
‘Look, you know, Marc, it’s just the normal dysfunctional family nightmare.’ He shrugs. ‘But thanks for asking. You did ask, didn’t you?’
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I can’t quite remember.’ I know we’re cool. ‘But I won’t ask if you’ve got a sister. Anyway, hey, d’you want to come to lunch with me and my mate, Trav? We’re just gunna grab a milkshake and roll or something. He’s a funny guy. He’s getting here about twelve.’
Mikey runs a knuckle across his face, leaving a streak of Tyre Black.
‘Yeah, love to. Oops.’ He nods towards the footpath. ‘Incoming. A little old lady who only drives on Sundays. And probably not very well.’
I spot a little old lady dressed in black. She looks like a beetle, waddling towards us up the drive.
‘Good morning,’ Mikey and I say, which is so ridiculous I step back and push Mikey forward, chimney-sweep face and all.
The lady peers up at us crookedly from underneath a little black hat that has a folded edge like a gutter, which might just prove to be a great Feature, Advantage, or Benefit, if it was raining.
‘Good morning to you,’ she says. ‘I’m looking for Mr Marc Jarvis. One of my pupils, a musically gifted girl called Antonella Lockwood, said that he’s very reliable.’
Mikey performs a loop-the-loop with a yellow rag.
‘Madame, this is the ever-reliable Mr Marc Jarvis. So I’ll wish you both a very good morning.’ And with that he slips back in amongst the cars like Robin Hood disappearing into the blackberries. ‘Adieu!’
‘She’s a really nice girl, Antonella,’ I say, which she is. ‘And talented my, er, word. She was telling me about that piano. My, she must be a gun. I mean, she says it’s a lot of fun. You know, all those keys, black and white. I don’t know how she does it. I truly don’t.’
Oh, my God. I’ve turned into a monster.