6
I ’M sipping a coffee on the balcony with my English notes and the newspaper, blue highlighter in hand, when I hear the heavy tread of work boots on the stairs behind me.
‘Global warming or drowning children?’ I say over my shoulder.
‘Well, they’re both pretty messed up, aren’t they?’
I spin so fast I probably have whiplash.
There, right on my balcony, is Paul GD Lightwood, looking like he’s just stepped off the pages of a surfing magazine.
It hurts to look at him, and not just because of the glare.
His board shorts are green camouflage and he’s wearing a black t-shirt with a surf logo right in the middle of his chest. He’s passing a pair of sunglasses between his hands.
‘Hey, Cat.’ He smiles, just quickly, flashing teeth that look as expensive as mine, then looks down at his hands.
As I squint against the sun, I’m painfully aware that he wouldn’t be mistaking me for a surf model, not by a long shot.
While I’ve spent the last half an hour multitasking while circling articles and mentally debating the merit of global issues, I’ve also been squeezing the hell out of a crop of pimples on my chin, including its centrepiece, a flaming, throbbing volcano.
It’s so big that even though I know it’s not physically possible I swear I can practically see it in my peripheral vision.
My pyjama pants are covered with fluffy kittens and sit below my hips, not from any sense of style, but because they’re hung with age.
Last year, when they were rising up my shins, I cut them into shorts, and have since picked at the loose threads, so an uneven, unravelled hemline sits across my upper thighs.
I’ve paired them with a singlet top that was Dad’s and has long since lost its shape after spending many an hour stretched over my knees.
To top off this ensemble, my hair is a big, tangled knot on top of my head with my pen stuck through the bun.
The ultimate horror of horrors? My bra is a world away, abandoned on my bedroom floor.
Paul takes the chair to my left, sitting at the table as if he’s been here a million times. He leans back, surveying the view which, thank the sea gods, isn’t me.
‘I’ve always wondered about what you could see from up here,’ he says. ‘This is such an incredible house. Any chance of one of those?’ He nods at my chest.
The captain of the Senior Debating Team finds herself speechless.
‘Or a water, whatever’s easier.’
‘What? Yes, coffee’s not a problem.’ Thank you sweet baby cheesus. I’ve remembered how to speak.
I rise from my seat and pause, a clammy hand on the kitchen door. ‘Um, how do you take it?’
‘Stock standard,’ he says. I look at him with a blank stare. ‘White with one.’
‘Ah, okay,’ I say. ‘Be right back.’
I fire up the coffee machine and bolt upstairs into my bedroom.
I should get dressed. But would that look like I’m trying too hard?
I wriggle into my bra and pull on some denim shorts and a singlet that has never belonged to my father.
I run my finger over my teeth and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
Using my fingertips I go over my eyebrows, smoothing them down.
In the kitchen, I hover over the coffee machine.
My stomach reminds me with a deep growl that I haven’t had breakfast. I open the fridge and find a bowl of mashed avocado. My mother is the actual best.
I slice up some ciabatta and take it outside with two plates and the avocado. The second I put it on the table it feels completely over-elaborate, but Paul starts loading up a plate, piling bread with avocado.
‘This is awesome,’ he says. ‘I haven’t had breakfast.’
The coffee machine beeps and I go back inside. When I return with two coffees, he’s put two pieces of avocado bread on my plate. I place a mug before him.
‘Thanks, babe.’ His eyes widen. ‘Sorry, I mean, Cat, I mean thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, babe .’ The word on my tongue makes me shrivel with cringe. ‘Dad isn’t here, he’s gone for a walk with my mum, but I don’t think he’ll be long.’ I peer into my coffee cup like I’m reading a fortune, and the steam fogs my glasses.
‘It’s all good,’ Paul says. ‘I don’t mind waiting, not when you’re feeding me like this.’
‘Don’t get used to it. I’m not your waitress while you’re working here.’
‘We’ll see,’ he flashes me that grin again. ‘What’s all this then?’ He nods his head at my scribbles and takes another bite.
‘It’s for school.’
‘Aren’t you on holidays?’
‘I’m going into Year Twelve next year. Well, this year, now. I can’t believe that in ten months I’ll be all done.’ I look into his sunglasses to where his eyes should be. It’s unnerving that I can’t see where he’s looking.
‘Ten months? Is that all?’
‘Yep. Look, I have a countdown.’ I hold up my phone, the lockscreen showing the months, weeks, days and hours until the last official day of school.
‘You’re on a countdown?’ he says. ‘And you have homework, now? Don’t you need some down time?’
‘You sound like my mum,’ I say. ‘I’ll worry about work life balance next year when it’s all behind me.’
‘That’s a first.’
‘What?’
‘Sounding like a mother. What subjects are you doing?’
I tell him, and he whistles.
‘My highest level of achievement was veggie maths,’ he says. ‘Do they still call it that?’
‘Not at my school,’ I say, ‘we’re a little more evolved.’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘But you can’t talk. Aren’t you about to work the entire summer? Where’s your work life balance?’
‘I need a new car,’ he shrugs. ‘I have a good excuse.’
‘You don’t think smashing Year Twelve is a good excuse?’
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’
I take a piece of ciabatta. At least if my mouth is full, I can’t speak.
‘What were you saying when I got here? Global warming or kids who can’t swim?’
I swallow. ‘Asylum seekers. Kids and their families drowning for the chance of a better life. It’s for English,’ I shrug. ‘It’s a yearlong assessment, following an issue of our choice. I’m thinking that or global warming, the melting of the polar caps and all that.’
‘Why don’t you do plastic in the ocean?’ he asks. ‘Something that means something.’
‘People fleeing persecution doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He runs his hand across his hair, cut short against his scalp. ‘You really like making me look like a deadshit, don’t you? I’m just trying to chat with you.’
‘I’m not making you do anything.’ My face is hot, mind racing. Have I lost the ability to have a conversation without being snarky? The gum leaves shimmer, their silver undersides flashing. The silence stretches. I take a slug of water, more to occupy my hands than to quench any thirst.
‘Stop! It’s mine!’ The sound of squabbling kids reaches the balcony.
Grateful for the distraction, I peer down to the street.
Through the gap in the trees, I see children playing in the street in front of a holiday house.
Mum and Dad are at the foot of our driveway, talking to some temporary neighbours.
Dad looks up and sees me, or sees us, more specifically.
He nudges Mum who stares, eyes wide. She waves distractedly at the neighbours and yanks Dad by the hand up the stairs behind her.
Paul takes off his glasses and stands as my parents approach. He introduces himself, shaking both of their hands. Mum’s eyes dart between me and the walking surfer god on our balcony. Wow, Mum. Smooth.
‘Another coffee, Paul?’ Mum says, composing herself into the ever-accommodating Italian host.
‘We’ve just had one,’ I say.
‘Is your name Paul?’ Dad says to me, his head tilted. ‘Paul, would you like a coffee? Some water?’
‘I’m actually okay, but thank you,’ says Paul.
‘I need one desperately,’ says Mum. ‘Lovely to meet you, Paul. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Cat, would you make us a coffee and get some water too, please, darling. Mick? Grab the plans.’ She shoots her do not challenge me face in my direction. I leave the door open so I can listen.
‘So, the two of you are going to spend your holidays from working as builders to work as builders,’ says Mum, taking a seat. She gestures for Paul to sit down. ‘Are you sure you’re happy to start this soon, Paul? You don’t want another week or so?’
‘No, it’s all good, Mrs Kelty.’ He sits and shifts forward in his seat. ‘I’m actually stoked. I’ve always wanted to work on a place like this.’
‘It’s Angela,’ she says. ‘We’re really happy to have you on board. It’s a big job and Mick can’t do it on his own.’
‘Man, I love this house, so I hope I do you proud! So, what are we looking at?’ Paul nods at the plans Dad’s spread across the table. I wouldn’t mind a look too, so I hand Mum her coffee and put a water glass in front of Paul. He thanks me, smiling, before returning his gaze to the plans.
‘It’s the subterranean level. We always knew that we’d use this space down the track, and so these plans, this reno, is what Angela intended all along,’ says Dad.
It’s the first I’ve heard of it, this plan to renovate our house.
Dad explains to Paul that they’ll turn the space under the house, between our garage and the hill behind it, into a bedroom, living room and bathroom for Nonna, basically a built-in granny flat.
He’s also including a cellar in the project and we’re all under strict instructions to call the reno exactly that, so Nonna doesn’t get wind of Mum and Dad’s plan to ‘future proof’ her life.
‘What? So Nonna doesn’t even know about this?’ I say. ‘Why the rush? Does it really have to happen now?’
‘Cat, you can see Nonna’s going to need us more and more. We need everything set up in case she can’t stay at home anymore,’ says Mum. ‘Unless you want her to share your bedroom if she needs to?’
‘Nonna will outlive the zombie apocalypse,’ I say, and Paul laughs. ‘I just don’t see why it has to happen this summer when there’s already so much going on.’
‘You’re a smart girl, Cat. You’ll handle it,’ Dad says. ‘So, Paul, you in?’
‘Absolutely.’ Paul nods, as enthusiastic as a golden retriever going for walkies. ‘Bring it!’
‘Shall we do a quick tour?’ Mum clasps her hands and a grin breaks across her face.
‘Let’s do it.’ Paul stands and pushes his chair back in under the table.
‘Let me just finish this,’ Dad nods at his coffee. ‘Cat, can you show Paul inside? I’ll meet you downstairs.’
‘Okay, so we’re here, this is the top.’ I take a deep breath and tell myself this is decidedly not weird, flinging my hands around like a tour guide as I show Paul my house.
‘We’re basically four levels because of the hill, right?
This first one is the kitchen and dining room and laundry.
’ He follows me down into the living room.
‘Those steps down there? That’s the parentals’ room, and if you turn to your right?
That’s me and my brothers.’ I point to what Dad calls the nosebleed section, the corridor that runs the length of our living room with our three bedrooms and the bathroom we share which is the bane of my existence.
‘Man, this is a nice house,’ Paul whistles. He turns slowly. ‘So, what, it’s two, four, six stairs to each level?’
‘And the twenty-two from the garage to the balcony,’ I say.
‘It’s one thing we’re not short of.’ Between the stairs all over my house, the stairs up and down to the beach, the stairs at school and the stairs to get on the freakin’ bus, all I do, all day, every day, is climb stairs.
Some days I get to the car, ready for school and realise I’ve left something in my bedroom, so back up I go.
How don’t I have the knees of a geriatric?
Funnily enough, the stairs are the only things Nonna doesn’t whine about when she comes over.
She’ll spend an hour having a go at me about my hair, having a crack at Mum about working too hard, telling Dad off about not growing veggies, but she plows up and down the stairs without a murmur.
‘I can’t believe I get to work on this house.’ Paul grins, looking around like he’s casing the place.
‘Hey, Paul,’ Dad calls us from the balcony. ‘Do you mind if we take a rain check? Angela has to go pick up her mother and I have to go get the boys.’
‘Yeah, that’s sweet,’ Paul says. I follow him out to the balcony. ‘I have a few things to do at home for the old man, but before you go, can Cat come to a party at the Gap with me tonight?’
‘Well, you’ll have to ask Cat,’ says Dad. Three pairs of eyes turn to me, one set almost doing cartoon-style loops out of the owner’s skull. No prizes for guessing who.
‘I don’t know.’ I gesture vaguely at my notes on the table. ‘I need to finish all this.’
‘Cat, you have all summer.’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You can have a night off.’
‘Come on, Cat, it’ll be fun,’ says Paul. ‘A bit of work life balance for both of us, what do you think?’
‘Um, yeah, sure.’ I’m as articulate as ever.
‘I’ll pick you up around eight-thirty?’
‘It’s okay, I’ll meet you there.’
‘No, Cat, you won’t be wandering along the beach alone in the dark,’ says Dad.
I could punch him.
‘So, I’ll see you here at eight-thirty,’ says Paul. ‘What time do you need her home?’
‘Midnight,’ says Dad.
‘One thirty,’ Mum counters.
Paul laughs. ‘Shall we meet in the middle and go for one?’
‘One is fine,’ says Mum, and now it’s Dad’s turn to receive her do not challenge me face.
‘See you tonight, Cat, and thanks for breakfast. Nice to meet you, Mrs Kelty, I mean Angela.’ He shakes their hands again, kisses me on the cheek – kisses me – and then he disappears down the stairs.
‘You didn’t tell me your new chippie is a model,’ says Mum.
‘Funny,’ says Dad. ‘He’s not just a pretty face, so I hear. Good guy. Smart. Truckloads of initiative. Works for Jaz Smith.’
‘Wow, what a looker,’ says Mum. ‘And Cat? A chippy, just like your old Dad.’
‘Who’s old?’ says Dad. ‘And here’s me thinking I’d have to watch Cat with the hired help.’ He pulls Mum down onto his lap. ‘So, the ladies still love the tradies, hey?’
‘We sure do, don’t we, Cat?’ She snuggles him.
I roll my eyes and leave them to it. Apparently, I have a party to go to tonight, and a demon in the form of a pimple to exorcise.