Start with Prologue
and Chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
THEN
I was all sweaty and out of breath the first time I clapped eyes on Andy. My doubles partner, Guy, and I were slogging it out on the centre grass court – I needed some serious work on my backhand before the under-eighteens pennants season started – when four boys on skateboards entered the bitumen courts behind us.
Whooping it up as they tried out tricks, their noise distracted us from our tennis practice. “Can’t you find somewhere else to do that?” I called through the fence.
“Like in front of a roadtrain?”
The skinniest of the boys skated over, his long brown hair flying behind him. He jumped off his board just before it hit the fence. “Don’t go getting your panties in a bunch,” he said in an American drawl, tilting his head as if trying to get a peek under my sports skirt.
“Oh, a Yank,” I said. “I’ll speak slower so you can understand. Piss off, beat it, take a hike, get lost. Got the message yet?”
“It’s a free world, ain’t it?” The boy squatted down on his skateboard, pushing his black cap out of his eyes. “In fact, I might stay here and watch you and your boyfriend for a while. Don’t mind me, please carry on bending over for the ball.”
“You’re a creep,” I fired back. “And by the way” – I flicked my ponytail over my shoulder – “he’s not my boyfriend.”
Tugging down the hem of my skirt, I nodded to Guy that I was ready for his serve. But as our hit-up continued, I couldn’t get back into my rhythm. I was more than aware that the boy’s eyes were following me. It was most disconcerting – and perhaps a touch flattering.
The rest of the skateboarders had long gone when Guy and I finished up but the boy was still hanging around. He sloped over while I packed up my gear.
“I’m AJ,” he said.
“Kell,” I replied, ignoring his outstretched hand. “What does AJ stand for – American Jerk?”
“Andrew Jovanni. So is it a coincidence that Kell rhymes with hell?”
“Touche.” I couldn’t help but smile. “So Andy – you don’t mind if I call you Andy-?”
“You can call me anything you want, honey. In fact, give me your number so I can call you.”
“Not likely – but I am intrigued, what are you doing all the way Down Under?”
As Andy entertained me with his impressions of Australia, I took in every detail of his face. His Roman nose with a bump on the bridge, the scar cutting through his thick eyebrow, eyes that changed colour from a murky seaweed green to a sparkling emerald depending on the light, the canine tooth that jutted out, the two silver hoops in his left earlobe.
Guy interrupted Andy’s stand-up routine just as he was explaining how he thought everyone here was obsessed with disfigurements, until a cousin informed him “scar none” was actually an Aussie asking “what’s going on?”.
“Kell, I’m heading off to pick up my sister. You okay to get home by yourself?” Guy looked at Andy pointedly.
“I’ll be fine.” I waved Guy off to his car, before heading over to unlock my bike.
As Andy walked me home, pushing my bike with his skateboard balancing on the seat, I discovered his move to Australia was actually no laughing matter. His father had died in a workplace accident the year before so his mother had moved to Perth to be near her sister.
I glanced over at Andy. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were glassy. Even though I had a million questions zipping through my head, I sensed it wasn’t the time to pry. “I’m sorry,” was all I said. Andy nodded, before kicking a loose piece of gravel into a drain.
A year older than me at seventeen, Andy had dropped out of school to help support his mother but he didn’t mind because all he wanted to do was be a musician. With his best friend Gerry, he was in a band called Danger Game back in San Francisco. “I hate being away from the whole scene but ma needs me around right now. Anyway that’s my story. What about you? What do you do when you’re not bashing tennis balls?”
I told Andy about how I was also an only child, raised by a single mum, after my loser of a father up and left before I was born. Last we heard he was in England.
“I never really thought about it like that before,” Andy said. “In a way I was lucky to have sixteen years with my pops. You never even met yours.”
“But then again,” I replied, “what you’ve never known, you’ll never miss.”
When we reached my house, it was like we didn’t know how to say goodbye. So we didn’t.
“Is your ma waiting for you to come in for dinner?” Andy asked, nervously twirling the crucifix on his necklace.
I explained that my mother was a waitress at a Mexican restaurant and worked nights.
“So are you going to ask me in?”
I hesitated for a second before blurting out: “Can you cook?”
He puffed out his chest. “I’m from an Italian family, of course I can. Food is our lifeblood.”
“So why are you so skinny then?”
“I’m not skinny.” Andy flexed a fairly insignificant bicep at me. “I’m built like a rock star – Mick Jagger, Iggy Pop, Kurt Cobain. How many fat frontmen do you know? That’s right, nada.”
“Meatloaf.”
“Okay, apart from Meatloaf.”
“Elvis Presley.”
“He was fine before he hoed into the burgers.”
“Sir Mix-a-lot.”
“Who the hell is he? Now you’re just making them up.”
“Getting back to the topic at hand – if you’re willing to cook tea while I study, you can come in.”
Leaning my bike against the side gate, I unlocked the front door and steered Andy towards the kitchen at the back of the house. “Do you have any specialty dishes?” I called over my shoulder.
“Spaghetti bolognese?” he offered.
I scrunched my nose in distaste. “I don’t eat meat. What about spaghetti with a plain tomato sauce instead?” I tossed him a couple of tomatoes before slamming shut the fridge with my hip.
“Stand aside woman and be prepared to be amazed. You got a stick blender?”
I pointed towards the bottom drawer. Our tiny kitchen was really only a one-person zone. Mum had vowed for years to rip out the wood-vinyl cupboards and orange laminate benchtop to redesign the poky space. But we were still waiting for our lottery win.
I left Andy to whip up our dinner, humming to himself as he chopped up a salad, while I finished a maths worksheet at the dining table.
“What on earth are you doing?” I exclaimed as he flung a strand of spaghetti against the wall next to the fridge.
“Testing to see if it’s ready. You really don’t know much about cooking, do you? It needs a few more minutes.” He sauntered over to flick through my files. “Ninety-five per cent, A-plus, Excellent effort … geez, don’t tell me you’re one of those freakin’ smart kids who’s enrolling in pre-med.”
Over dinner – and it really was the tastiest pasta I’d ever eaten – I explained my plans to become a political reporter after I finished school the following year. Three years for a university degree, then a newspaper cadetship – I had it all mapped out.
“Why don’t you become a music writer? Then you can tour with us and write about how brilliant we are.”
“Standing shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of sweaty music fans ain’t really my scene,” I grimaced.
“Better than hanging out with lame politicians. Hey, can I use your phone? I should let ma know I’ll be late.”
Just after he hung up from speaking with his mother, the phone rang.
“DON’T … answer it.” I trailed off as he picked up.
“Hello … This is Kell’s boyfriend” – he grinned at me – “who’s this?”
I could hear Nikki’s shrieks from where I was standing.
“You want me to tell her what? You’re never speaking to her again? Hang on.” He turned to me. “Your best friend demands to know why she wasn’t told you have a boyfriend.”
“Can you inform her I don’t have a boyfriend – that we only met today.”
“Hey, I’m back. She says she hasn’t told you I’m her boyfriend because we only met this afternoon.”
More shrieks. “She wants to talk to you.” Andy passed me the phone.
“What the heck is going on? Who is this bloke? And what’s he doing at your place?”
“His name’s Andy. He was riding his skateboard at the courts and walked me home for tea.”
I listened to Nikki some more, then looked at Andy coyly. “No, I’m not being held against my will. I don’t need to use our secret codeword because I’m not in any danger.”
“Yet …” Andy said with a devilish smile.
“He’s a musician … seventeen … San Francisco … about my height, long hair, a bit like Andre Agassi’s in fact but darker … I guess you could describe him as sort of cute.”
“She means very cute.” Andy leant on me to speak into the receiver.
“Okay, now she wants to speak with you again.” I passed the phone back. And for the next twenty minutes Andy answered a barrage of questions. I think the only thing she didn’t find out was which brand of toothpaste he used.
* * *
“So has your ma always worked nights?” We were sitting on the couch, with the TV on in the background. Seinfeld. That show always cracked me up. But we were too busy getting to know one another.
“Only the last few years. When I was a little kid, we lived with my Aunt Beth. Then when she moved down south, neighbours looked after me after school until Mum finished work. Once I was old enough to stay by myself she took the job at the restaurant. It’s much better pay on night rates.”
Andy kicked off his battered sneakers. “Can we go to your bedroom?” he asked.
“No, we can’t,” I replied indignantly. “Not if that’s meant as some sort of proposition – like can I come up for coffee.”
“Nah, I just want to see your room. You can tell a lot about a person from their room. Although if coffee is on offer…” He made the quote mark gesture on coffee as a filthy grin spread across his face.
I punched his shoulder, before leading the way to my bedroom.
He fake gasped as he took in the poster on my door. “New Kids on the Block!
There is no way I can hang out with someone who likes them. Wait, tell me, who’s your favourite?”
“Donnie.”
“Hmmm, that might be alright then. Seeing he’s the bad boy. With the teensiest bit of street cred.”
Andy examined a framed photo of me on my first day of school, all pigtails, dimples and missing front teeth. “So you’re smart, sporty, vegetarian …” he said toying with one of my tennis trophies. “I’m feeling a bit out of my league. All I’ve got to offer is ‘sort of cute’.”
“Maybe make that very cute,” I said shyly.
The telephone rang again. I bet that would be Dawn. Nikki would have been straight on to our friend the minute she got off the phone with us.
Neither of us answered it. Instead Andy leant in and brushed his lips against mine.
My first ever kiss. My heart was thumping as he cupped the back of my neck and caressed my hair. Second kiss. Then third. He teased open my mouth with his tongue.
And then I lost count.
And so it became a regular fixture: Andy would start work at six, heaving boxes of fruit and vegetables at a warehouse alongside a family friend. I would go to school, heaving a bag filled with textbooks. By five o’clock he would be at my house, cooking dinner while I did my homework. Sometimes even when Mum didn’t have a shift, Andy would tell her to put her feet up while he cooked for the pair of us.
On paper, Andy was hardly the type of boy you’d want to take home. A long-haired high school dropout who played in a band. But he knew how to turn on the charm and my mum loved him. Plus he could make a mean vegie casserole.
And the truth is, I loved him too. One minute he was this annoying kid on a skateboard and the next he was someone I couldn’t imagine not having in my life.