The Brink, page 6
No more weird thoughts, I tell my brain. Just be fucken normal.
Easier said than done. So I try to replace the weird thoughts I have about Jared with some normal thoughts. I think about Chelsea. And Savannah.
And Aisha, that night at Jessie Stone’s pool party last summer.
I was amped up, four beers deep, when I rocked up to Jessie’s parents’ house in Floreat—silver BMW in the garage and a kitchen with a fridge that makes its own ice and talks in a voice like Siri. The infinity pool out the back was sick: trippy lights under the water, tiki torches lit up around the deck, making it feel like we were at a party in Hawaii or some shit.
The girls were all in bikinis by the pool—Taylor, Valentina, Kaiya, Jessie, Aisha, Phoebe.
Us boys—Jared, Fezza, Jack, Ryan and me—cracked cold ones and cheered ‘Froffies!’ to the sky, then scull scull scull until the brutal headfuck fizz set in. Best feeling in the world.
And drunk, horny, scoping out the girls, I said to Jared, ‘Mate, tonight’s the night.’ There was a goddamn lion in my chest and that lion had to roar.
I got my arm around Aisha in the hot tub later that night, and she didn’t move it. My arms slid over her back. She laughed at my jokes. Her hand stroked my leg under the water. Everything was hot and wet. I got a goofy smile as she traced her hand higher, grazed my balls, asked if I wanted to see the spare room where she was sleeping over that night.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I stuck my tongue down her throat, my hands reaching for her massive tits, cupping them, grabbing them, squeezing them. Everything was hot: our tongues, steaming skin, her warm palm around my dick, tugging to get me hard.
Aisha sprawled on the bed and there she was, this beautiful chick spread out before me, huge brown tits on display with those enormous nipples you could barely fit in your mouth.
I got inside her, feeling the best pressure on all sides.
Up and down, thrust thrust thrust, working hard to make my fuse blow.
And when it did, I fell down beside her, panting, done.
Aisha stroked my neck but I didn’t stroke anything of hers in return. She tried to pull me back onto her body, tried to guide my fingers to her pussy, but I pulled back. I wanted to get the hell away from her.
I stared at the ceiling fan, listening to the boys outside shouting as they did bombies into the pool.
For some reason, the lion didn’t roar.
The memory of Aisha stings the most. My first and greatest disappointment.
She asked me to go out with her, and I was like, Nah, can’t we just be fuck buddies?
So she got pissed off and started the rumour that all I wanted chicks for was sex, which is mostly true.
And the rumour about me having the clap, which isn’t.
Credit where credit’s due, but: thanks to Aisha, my fictional gonorrhoea has kept me girlfriend-free since then. A rumour is all it takes to bring someone down. One rumour, one word, and everything changes.
Jared’s more pissed off about it than me. He reckons since I’ve got a good rig and I’m good at sports, girls should be chucking themselves at me. I think it reflects badly on him that I’m single. I don’t mind. Aisha. Savannah. Chelsea. The memories that should make me happy just make me want to run away.
Because there’s something wrong with you, dipshit.
As I zip up after the world’s longest pee, I look over the beach, and that’s when I see a ragged dude with blond dreadlocks darting through the shadows between the shacks, holding the biggest knife I’ve ever seen.
And he’s headed for Kaiya.
Something shudders in my skull, like when you chuck a car into fifth gear straight from second. I barrel down the dune as the Troopy finally bursts free from the sand drift, Jared at the wheel, a bright yellow strap connecting it to the Hilux.
‘He’s got a knife!’ I shout, sprinting straight past them and down the track.
‘Who’s got a knife?’ Leonardo cries.
‘Some guy. At the shacks.’
‘Then shouldn’t we be running the other way?’ Val cries.
‘Kaiya’s down there.’
I kick off my thongs and sprint down the track, dunes and bushes whipping past me. When I get onto the beach, the guy is holding a machete up like he’s threatening Kaiya.
‘Oi!’ It’s a completely meaningless word, but I want to distract him, divert his attention. I want this guy to know there’s more of us.
It works. He and Kaiya both look up. Engines roar behind me: the Hilux is tearing down the track, followed by the Troopy.
‘I’ll tell you what I told her,’ the machete guy says, once I’m within earshot. ‘We don’t want leavers here. Pack up and piss off.’ He points the machete at me. ‘I won’t be as nice if I have to ask again.’
I swallow and, as I try to think of the right thing to say to defuse the situation, the Hilux’s horn blares in a deliberate, musical pattern behind me.
The dude’s eyes dart past me to the ute and, unexpectedly, a grin spreads over his face. ‘Well, fuck me dead. It’s Stihlsy’s boy.’
Ryan jerks the handbrake on and leaps out of the Hilux. ‘Maxy. How’s it goin’, brother?’
The guy lowers the machete, and meets Ryan with an enthusiastic bro-hug. ‘Mini Stihlsy! Not so mini anymore. You eighteen yet? Not that it matters. You been sinkin’ piss since you was twelve, I reckon.’
I breathe out and glance at Kaiya, who looks like she’s about to burst into smoke. ‘You okay?’
‘I’ve been better,’ she manages, leaning against the side of the shack as her eyelids flicker shut with relief.
Ryan and the machete bloke yarn about drinking and fishing and summertimes like they’re old mates, while the rest of us stare on. My heart’s slowing down. I remind myself some people in the bush carry weapons; it doesn’t mean the bloke’s a psycho killer. My uncle used to work up on a station near Meekatharra and he always had a hunting knife. That said, I never saw him hunt anything with it. He only whipped it out at four in the morning around a patio table when he was off his face and wanted to let someone know he could slit their throat.
You know, the knife thing might be common, but I dunno if it’s normal.
‘This place is like a ghost town,’ Ryan says. ‘Where is everyone, Maxy?’
‘Big piss-up last night, up the coast near Indigo. I came back first. Rest of ’em just gettin’ back now, ay. Ah, here’s trouble.’
As he speaks, a parade of four-wheel drives trundles down a track behind the shacks, some of them utes, their trays loaded with dirt bikes or jet skis. Some of them are honking. ‘Heyyy, it’s Stihlsy’s boy.’
Ryan’s dad is a popular bloke out here.
‘Okay, guys, listen up,’ Ryan says. ‘Maxy’s gonna let us stay.’
‘Name’s Max,’ the guy says, dropping the machete onto an esky lid. ‘But everyone calls me Machete Max. Guess why.’
I laugh, but I’m the only one.
‘We’re a tight community here. Don’t want trouble. We’ve had years of the government tryin’ to shut us down every chance they get, so we don’t like school leavers coming in and causing drama. But this boy’s old man is a top bloke. We got a lot of time for him.’
‘Dad started the “Save Brink” campaign,’ Ryan explains. ‘He got fifty thousand signatures. Got the premier to back down.’
Ryan never misses a chance to boast about how influential his father is. He’s convinced his dad will help him become premier one day. His dad is, too.
‘Stihlsy saved our arses,’ Machete Max says. ‘We all live here on the mainland, but there’s a few shacks on the island, one of them’s Stihlsy’s. Youse can use it for the week. Couple of other shacks there you can hire if you want. And the best part—’ He lowers his voice like a used-car salesman offering us a dodgy discount. ‘There’s nobody else on the island right now. Your own island. Free livin’. Dream come true, ay?’
Sounds exciting, like anything could happen. Even things that aren’t supposed to.
‘Done deal,’ Ryan says, going to shake his hand.
‘Hang on,’ Val interrupts. ‘Shouldn’t we all get a say?’
Max makes a sour face. ‘Well, sorree, princess, for being so mean as to make you a one-time offer we never make for anyone else.’ He glances at Ryan. ‘Hurry it up.’
He heads to the porch of a nearby shack and cracks a beer while waiting for us to decide.
Everyone gets out of the cars. The ten of us huddle as more four-wheel drives turn up. The locals give us the stink eye until they spot Ryan, and then their whole vibe changes.
Ryan, Taylor, Jack and Jessie are all keen on staying at Brink Island. Val, Jared, Kaiya and Leonardo—especially Leonardo—want to do the big party at Dunsborough. Brayden’s not allowed a vote because he’s not part of our school group and has essentially gatecrashed, which is kinda mean, but he goes along with it.
‘There’s no power,’ Leonardo says. ‘No running water…’ His voice is like mist; the second it’s out of his body, it disappears.
‘Do you always have to be such a pussy?’ Jared says.
Leonardo winces.
‘Grow a pair, mate,’ Jared adds, sneering.
‘Tie-breaker, Mase,’ Ryan says. ‘All up to you.’
They look expectantly at me. All I can think about is what Machete Max said. Free living.
‘Having our own island for a week is pretty baller, right?’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’
Machete Max comes back, beer in hand. ‘So, lemme lay down the law. We only have three rules for visitors.
‘One, you have to be self-sufficient—no coming to us for any little thing you need.
‘Two, in an emergency, if real shit goes down—bushfire, cyclone, whatever—follow our instructions. If we tell you to do something, you do it.
‘And three,’ he says, with an aggro Clint Eastwood get-off-my-lawn look, ‘Don’t cause any trouble.’
7
LEONARDO
Machete Max takes us to Brink Island in a boat. I don’t know what type of boat it is, but it’s bigger than a dinghy. Like, a medium-sized fishing boat, dirty and strewn with wet ropes and holey Hot Tuna jumpers that smell like seaweed. Jared and Ryan would probably know the name for this boat. I’m probably the only guy here who doesn’t. I hope nobody asks me or I’ll look like an idiot again.
The ten of us pile in with all our eskies, backpacks, duffel bags and surfboards. The others are throwing out Teens-on-Spring-Break vibes, talking shit and kicking wet sand at each other and laughing like it’s a school excursion where they’ve snuck away from the teachers. I stay quiet. I know I’m the awkward pity invite and it stops me from starting a conversation or looking anyone in the eye. When I’m around these people, my brain is always scrambling like a fighter jet at DEFCON 1: anticipating the incoming missiles of Val’s insults, Mason’s violence, Jared’s cold shoulder.
Actually, my brain isn’t any quieter around my old group of Hien, Stefan and Sidd either. We have shared interests but they’re always quick and ruthless in the way they pile on me about not getting the rules of D&D. And not being able to commit to sleepovers without clearing it with my mother, even after I’d turned eighteen. And the way I use my hands when I talk, ’cause I’m Italian. ‘It’s less Italian, more sorta…gay.’ I mean, that could just be banter among mates when it’s balanced by nice stuff. But when literally everything your mates say to you is insulting, I’m not sure that’s banter anymore.
Sometimes, I think I don’t have any real friends. If I passed Hien in the corridor of a university, and waved to him, would he wave back, or ghost me like Jared did at the swimming carnival? I think a true friend is someone you know would wave back, regardless of who they were with. Nobody in my life fits that description. And that doesn’t bother me as much as it should, because I’ve only spent a few hours around people and I already feel exhausted. I want to hide in a toilet cubicle and scroll on my phone for a whole hour. Maybe a toilet cubicle is a weird refuge of choice, but bedrooms get invaded by parents. Nobody has ever burst in while I’m doing a poo. At least, not yet.
Having a panic attack hasn’t helped on the exhaustion front. I’m clammy. I feel like I just ran a cross-country. On the upside, I probably won’t have another attack for a while now. And the benefit of not having any friends here is that nobody asks me about it. There was just Kaiya’s brief ‘Feeling better now?’ when she asked for her water bottle back.
The others are talking about the locals we saw returning to the shack settlement in their four-wheel drives as we left.
‘Toothless bogans,’ Jared says. ‘What sort of human trash lives in a place like this? Probably dole bludgers. Bet they’re not paying land tax or whatever.’
‘They’re nice enough to let us stay on the island,’ Taylor says, patting Ryan’s arm, which has tensed up: the exact reaction Jared was trying to provoke.
‘All sorts come out to Brink, mate,’ Ryan says stiffly. ‘Lots of people getting away from the city for a bit. Good people. You calling me and Dad bogans?’
Jared smirks. ‘Hey, mate, oh, nah, I didn’t mean you, ay.’
Jared is such a coward. He’ll rile someone up, then deny them the satisfaction of admitting what he’s done.
‘Just saying the ones who live here look a bit rough, don’t they? Like FIFO scum, but worse. Oh.’ I feel the knife twist in my back as he looks at me. ‘Sorry, Leonardo. No offence.’
I’d love to tell him offence has been taken. I’d love to tell him I think he and his dad are corporate scum. But what I’d love to say and what I do say almost never match up.
Instead, I say, ‘No worries.’ I even force a chuckle.
Is this how they see me? The bogan kid? Mason doesn’t cop that, even though he’s an Emu Export-swilling, footy-obsessed meathead whose Dad works FIFO. I guess Mason’s a cashed-up bogan and I’m the garden variety type. But my family isn’t proper bogan, really. To me, true bogans live in Midland or Butler and do burnouts in souped-up utes, and smoke cigarettes and drink Woodstock bourbon and go to the speedway and shout at each other in the street. My family doesn’t do that. My family doesn’t do anything. Mum was always cleaning and organising. Dad drinks in front of the TV watching the footy or the V8 Supercars or goes to the pub. The word bogan is too loud and exciting for us. We’re just poor and boring.
Mason shuffles over to where I’m sitting in the boat. I brace for a punch, but he grabs the nearest esky in both hands and lifts it up and down in a short set of bicep curls, prompted by nobody and nothing. There’s a vacant but satisfied smirk on his face; his bicep veins bulge. I hate him for being strong and muscly. Desired by the girls. Envied by the guys. Too dumb to be anxious. Too dumb to be anything but who he is.
Maybe I don’t hate him. Maybe I want to be like him.
Maybe I’m deathly jealous.
‘Piss off!’ Val shrieks nearby, punching Jared’s shoulder. She turns to Kaiya. ‘Jared’s being a fuckboy.’
‘You say that like it’s news,’ Kaiya quips.
I accidentally snort.
‘What’s so funny, Jetpilot?’ Val says.
‘Nothing. Sorry.’
‘I saw some of the locals here have jet skis. You gonna teach us how to ride them?’
I’ve never regretted a snort more. ‘No.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because I don’t know how to…’
‘So why do you wear brands that have nothing to do with you? Trying to be cool for once? Seems to me you’re a big poser, Leo.’
‘Leonardo,’ I say.
‘So what did Jared do?’ Kaiya interrupts, enough to distract Valentina into a tirade about Jared. ‘Apart from that stunt in the Troopy where he nearly got us all killed—what a psycho…’
Kaiya changed the subject out of mercy, and I want to thank her, but she avoids eye contact.
I shuffle away from them and look out at what I’ve been avoiding the whole boat trip so far: the sea. The boat’s chugging through it and, objectively, it’s beautiful: sunlight shimmering on the bright turquoise water of the strait, fine refreshing sea spray misting on my skin.
Just enjoy this, I command my brain. It’s nice. You’re on a goddamn holiday.
As usual, my brain doesn’t listen. I think of the boat capsizing without warning; how deep the water might be; how I’d struggle to find my feet; how I could drown here and nobody would be able to save me. I would die, die, die.
I hate that water scares me so much, because I used to love swimming.
When I was a kid, I couldn’t run fast or jump high, but I could carve the water up. If you’d been assessing me for swimming on a school report I would’ve got an A. And I wasn’t just good at swimming—I loved it: the immersion of my whole body into the water; the way I could glide effortlessly. Being underwater felt like diving into my own world—the noise of everyone else was muted, even inaudible, and all that mattered was my own breath, my own eyes, swimming wherever and however I wanted to.
And then the fucking year-seven swimming carnival changed everything.
I was put in the hundred-metre freestyle against a bunch of jocks, including Mason. It was far enough into the year that my geek coffin was sealed: I was too book smart, too well-behaved, too unwilling to swear. So as we were all lining up to the starting blocks, I heard Mason nudge Jack next to him and mutter something about how at least they could be sure I’d be coming dead last. They laughed and pointed—nothing I didn’t deal with daily—but amid the usual burn of humiliation, I felt a streak of aggression and power, which was rare for me. A flash of testosterone in my blood: You pricks don’t know I’m actually a gun swimmer. Watch me, I’ll beat youse all.
I was more fired up than I’d ever been. At the starting gun’s pop, I launched like a rocket-propelled grenade.
And it worked. Somehow, at the start, I was ahead of Jack and even Mason.
I was in the lead. Number one. Me.
