Nine
It’s gorgeous, it’s light
It’s a stolen kiss at midnight
It’s breathtaking, it’s gentle
It’s the belief so hard it’s metal
What is this? Oh . . . it’s love
‘It’s Love’ from The In-Between
I’m staring out of my bedroom window, thinking about what Ms Harkness said earlier today. My desk overlooks the garden. Mum put it there because it has the best lighting for when I study, but it also provides plenty of distractions.
Our garden is narrow but long, and there’s an oak tree at the end.
The main distraction is that I can see into next door’s garden, which means I spend a lot of time people-watching.
On one side is an older couple, whose children have moved out.
If I have the window open in the summer I can sometimes hear Mrs Chang gossiping on the phone about her daughter, her daughter’s friends and any celebrity online.
On the other side, it’s the Pointers. Or rather, it was the Pointers.
The thought makes my heart ache a bit. I look at their garden, or rather the side of it I can see. There’s a fresh lawn, a pond and—
Ty taking photos of the pond?
Not even with his phone. He has one of those big fancy cameras.
One that actual photographers use. He’s lunging onto the floor, squatting down and peering through the lens.
I’m not sure what he’s looking at. There’s not been any fish in that pond since the Pointers got a new cat and it killed all their expensive carp.
But the way the sun comes from our side of the garden gives his garden an amazing golden-hour look at this time of day.
I watch him there, my laptop open, essay partway written. He stands up, starts looking at the screen at the back of the camera, before turning around and starting to photograph some plants. He moves so slowly, focused on one thing at a time.
Before I know it, I’m heading downstairs to the garden.
As I step outside, I pause. A song is playing, ‘It’s Love’.
One of the songs from Rose Conrad’s latest album.
Did I leave a speaker out here and it’s still attached to my phone?
But I haven’t been out here all day. Mrs Chang is certainly not playing it – I once overheard her calling Rose Conrad ‘salacious’.
Then I realise: Ty is playing it while he’s taking photos.
I walk towards him slowly. Almost like I’m at a safari and I don’t want to disturb an animal in its natural habitat. Too late – the twig has snapped and the antelope rises.
Which is to say, I trip over a basketball and stumble forwards with a yelp.
I get to my feet and pick up the basketball. Ty is looking at me, bemused.
‘I guess this is yours,’ I say, throwing the ball over the fence.
‘It’s Daze’s. He’s trying to learn some new tricks,’ says Ty. He picks up the ball and starts spinning it on his finger, a trick I’ve only seen in a movie. ‘He’s not very good at them yet.’
‘Huh. I thought that trick was CGI every time I’ve seen it,’ I say.
‘Nah, like most things, it’s just practise,’ says Ty. ‘I got very obsessed with learning how to do it, and now Daze is the same.’
‘How about the photography,’ I say, gesturing to his camera. ‘Is this your new obsession?’
He looks down at the camera and laughs. ‘I do get a bit obsessed with things. But I’ve liked photography for a while. And the light here is so good, I had to take a photo of something, you know?’
‘And what about Rose Conrad?’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise you were a fan.’
A stony look passes his face. His guard is now back up.
‘I can be a Rose Conrad fan,’ he says.
‘Sure you can,’ I say, and I know I’m pushing him a little. But he pushed me first, last time. ‘But why are you a Rose Conrad fan?’
He bounces the ball on the ground. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business. Especially if you want to make fun of me.’
‘Woah, what’s this deep dark origin story of how you became a Rose Conrad fan?’ I say. ‘I thought you were going to tell me she is a lyrical genius and the best singer-songwriter of a generation.’
‘And that would be enough for you?’ he says, starting to dribble the ball, not breaking eye contact with me. It feels strangely intense. ‘Because for some reason, as a guy, if someone finds out I like Rose Conrad, I get a grilling about it.’
‘Well, maybe it’s hard to believe she would speak to guys as much as girls.’
‘But wouldn’t you argue her music is universal?’ he says, throwing the ball behind him with one hand and walking closer to the fence. ‘That her songwriting is so good anyone can like it?’
I stutter. I agree with him, but I can’t believe he thinks the same.
‘So there’s no origin story?’ I say. We’re almost face-to-face now by the fence. ‘You just like her for her artistry?’
He laughs, looks away. ‘Oh boy, there is an origin story, I was messing with you. But I don’t think I need to share it with you.’
Bastard. He’s toying with me, messing with what I think.
‘Are you getting ticket codes tomorrow?’ I say. ‘Registration starts at ten.’
‘Oh, I know,’ he says, holding up his phone. ‘I have a calendar reminder and an alarm.’
‘I have three other people helping me,’ I say. ‘Potentially more, if I can round up some people at school who don’t want to go.’
‘Well it must be fun to be so popular,’ he says. ‘Good luck to you.’
And with that he turns around and leaves.
Talk about a sudden exit.