Flea’s parents were away that weekend, so Flea organised a party.
It said a lot about Flea’s parents that they were prepared to trust him, at just fifteen years old, to have a party while they were away, without trashing the whole house. But, perhaps, it actually said more about Flea. He was very mature for his age.
They had plenty to drink at the party. Three days after Fizzer and Tupai had been to see Coca-Cola Amatil in Mt Wellington, a courier van had turned up at Fizzer’s home. The courier-guy had unloaded three large boxes, which had turned out to contain cans and cans and cans of Coke, along with Sprite, and quite a few cans of Fanta. Cases of them. There was a box of collectible Coca-Cola badges and a short note from Harry Truman too, which said simply, ‘Thanks’.
It’s a funny age to have a party, fifteen. You’re too old for party games and kids’ stuff like that. But you’re a bit too self-conscious to dance. So they sat around and talked, and told rude jokes, except Tupai.
Tupai wasn’t especially tall, and his shoulders were broad like the harbour bridge. But for all that, he could dance like Michael Jackson. Jenny was quite a dancer too, and it wasn’t long before Tupai and Jenny were boogying away in the centre of the room to some band who’d just had a hit record.
A bunch of the girls who’d been invited were dancing too. There was Cherie, whose dad owned a brewery, a small boutique one in the city; Johanna and Christiana, exchange students from Switzerland who were identical twins and even blinked at the same time; Kelly, who bussed to school each day from Orewa, about an hour’s ride, because her mum was a fan of international supermodel Rachel Hunter and wanted Kelly to go to the same school Rachel had been to. There was Lynne who wanted to be an opera singer, Annette who wanted to play representative hockey, and Erica, who Tupai had admired from a distance since the beginning of time. (About six months.) Erica was Scottish, blonde, with her hair cut short in a trendy shaggy style, and she had a delightful light burr of an accent. She had a fair complexion that looked at odds with the healthy tans the rest of them sported, and her eyelashes naturally curled around her eyes without any assistance from make-up or machinery. But she does not have any part to play in this story so that’s enough about her.
She was lovely though.
The rest of them just kind of hung out and watched the dancers, especially Phil, who didn’t take his eyes off Tupai and Jenny the entire time. Everyone agreed it was a great party, at least until the school seniors turned up with a keg of beer.
The party was for Fizzer, and everybody knew that, but nobody said anything about it. In the space of a few weeks Fizzer’s world had been destroyed, then recreated. They were celebrating his spirit, his very essence, which had returned redoubled. But there was no way of saying that without sounding like a dork, so nobody said anything.
The party was at Flea’s place because that was easily the best place for it. Jason had a rumpus room in his house but it was filled with cane and the frames of wicker chairs that his mum used in her hobby/craft business. Tupai’s place was in a very rough part of town, and Fizzer lived with his dad in a caravan on the overgrown edge of a motor camp, down by an inlet of the upper harbour that was filled with mud and mangroves and smelled like a sewer when the tide was out. Not exactly party central.
There was a knock on the double glass ranch-sliders which led to the small courtyard and English cottage garden outside.
It was the first of their two unexpected visitors that evening (not counting the sixth formers with the keg of beer). A huge man, with a grin to match, impeccably dressed in dark trousers and a casual dress jacket, with a white t-shirt underneath.
‘Henry!’ Flea exclaimed, and they shook hands warmly, with two hands, the way guys do when they really want to hug each other but know it’s not cool.
‘Come in,’ Flea said, after shaking hands for a very long time.
Henry had been Flea’s best mate the year he had played Rugby League professionally, and many said it was their combination of skills that had won the Premiership for their team.
‘Hi, Jason, Tupai, Fizzer.’
Two years, and he still remembered their names.
‘Hey, Henry!’
‘How’s the Spitfire?’
Fizzer laughed. Henry was talking about a secret playground they’d once shown him. A place called the Lost Park that the city council had forgotten existed.
‘It’s gone. The whole park is gone. I think the council must have found it on a map. They’re building an apartment block there now.’
Henry laughed too, and Flea. None of them really knew why they laughed about it. It was one of the last vestiges of their childhood. Flattened under the bulldozers of city developers. It wasn’t really funny; it was a tragedy. Maybe that’s why they laughed.
Henry grabbed a Coke and settled into a corner with Flea for a bit of a catch up. A few of the others sat in a circle around them, awed by the presence of such a big rugby league star, although, when you thought about it, he was no more famous than Flea.
Phil had brought his drums. As a drummer he was a good singer. As a singer, he probably would be better off playing guitar. And he couldn’t play guitar at all. He wanted to form a band, and wanted Fizzer (harmonica) and Tupai (guitar) to be in it, along with James McDonald (bass guitar), brother of the lovely, Scottish object of Tupai’s unrequited affection: Erica McDonald.
Both Tupai and Fizzer had been trying to avoid getting involved in a band with Phil, but he had talked them into having a few practices together.
Phil went out to get his drums from the car, but when he came back carrying his snares, he had unwanted company: a bunch of yahoos from the senior school, who always seemed to turn up at parties and then invite their friends over. One time at Hamish Knox’s place so many had turned up, using their mobile phones to text their friends, who then turned up and texted their friends, that it turned into a near riot and the police had to be called, with the Eagle police helicopter and their riot helmets, long batons and other assorted equipment for the purpose of dispersing rioters.
There were two car loads this night, but Flea saw them coming and met them at the door. Tupai had also seen them, and he was right alongside Flea when they arrived.
Henry looked up with interest, but no obvious concern. Most of the dancers were still dancing, and the party was still going on all around them.
Flea was firm. ‘Sorry, guys, invitation only.’
One of them made a disparaging remark, and the others laughed.
Tupai said, ‘Another night, eh?’
They were a bit wary of Tupai. His reputation had grown with the number of fights that he’d got into, and the number of bloodied noses and black eyes he’d left in his wake. The ‘strongest kid in school’ reputation that had seemed like so much fun at primary school had turned into ‘the toughest kid in school’ reputation at secondary school, and all the other kids, including seniors, who thought they deserved to hold that title, were always lining up to have a go at Tupai.
Big mistake. Tupai had never lost a fight in his life. At the age of fourteen, he had been attacked by two seventh formers at the same time and had left them bloodied and crying.
But there were at least eight of the gate-crashers hanging around outside the ranch-sliders, standing on plants, generally making a right nuisance of themselves and trying to get inside.
Fizzer and Jason joined their friends at the door.
‘Look out, your mum’s arrived,’ the closest one sneered, who seemed to be some kind of ring-leader. ‘And your girlfriend too. What beautiful hair.’
Fizzer was growing his hair long and had it tied back in a short ponytail.
Tupai visibly bristled at the slur but said calmly, ‘You don’t want to gatecrash this party, guys.’
‘Actually, we do. That’s why we’re standing in this stupid, ugly garden waiting for you to get out of the way.’
The guy’s name was Carl. He was large and podgy with horrible acne. Even his mates called him ‘crater-face’ behind his back, and to those in the junior school he was known as ‘the thing from the swamp’.
His attitude seemed to match his acne.
Tupai never lost his cool, not for one second. He said, ‘This is a junior school party. It’s just a bunch of kids sitting around drinking soft drink and playing party games. You don’t want to come in here, you’ll never live it down.’
There was a murmuring from crater-face’s mates.
Tupai resumed his softly spoken speech. ‘I heard there was a party at Mike Shanaghan’s tonight. That’s where all the cool people are.’
That was all it took. There was a short, muttered conference amongst the hydrangeas and fuchsias, then they were gone. Not even a backward glance or departing repartee. The kid who had never lost a fight was learning how to avoid them.
As if he had been waiting for them to leave, a tall, slim man stepped into the pool of light in the courtyard as the seniors drifted away, trampling across the lawn. He had broad shoulders like a swimmer. He smiled warmly at Tupai then his eyes settled on Fizzer.
‘Hi, Fraser,’ he said. ‘I rang your place, your dad told me where you were.’
Tupai seemed stunned to see the man. Fizzer seemed, almost (just almost), not to be surprised.
‘Hi, Mr Truman,’ Fizzer said. ‘Guys, this is Harry Truman, from Coca-Cola.’
They all stepped outside then, as the music was too loud in the room for easy conversation.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your party,’ Harry said, ‘but a very tricky problem has developed at our head office in Atlanta.’ He paused and looked seriously at Fizzer. ‘Do you have a passport?’
Fizzer shook his head.
Later that evening, against all odds, Erica McDonald asked Tupai to dance.