Chapter 13 #2
‘Well, I went to reorganise your shelves in the pantry, darling, because you had it all configured wrong – you should put your cereals down here, and your tinned goods up here – and then once I moved everything, I realised it’s filthy – no offence, Sabrina, love, I’m sure you do your best – but you need a good deep clean, both of you!
I’ll be done in a jiffy, but Sabrina can make you a cuppa – do you want tea or coffee, darling? ’
I swear she says the whole thing without taking a single breath.
As she goes back to wiping, I mouth, ‘I’m sorry’ at Sabrina, who raises her eyebrows clean through the ceiling.
‘I don’t need a cuppa,’ I say. ‘I’ve got this.’ I take the carton of spearmint milk from my backpack and shake it up.
My mother gives me a withering look that could instantly murder a houseplant. ‘Those drinks are so full of sugar, Zeke. No wonder you’re still so soft around the edges.’
Sabrina’s eyes flash, but I give her a desperate look of please don’t start. The last thing I need is them fighting about whether it’s better to fat-shame me or tell me off for fat-shaming myself.
Sabrina complies, and I see it as a détente between us.
‘Hey,’ I say, vague enough so my parents won’t know it’s the first thing I’ve said to her in over a week.
‘Hey,’ Sabrina says, looking at me sadly. She swallows her smile back onto her face. ‘Anna was just telling me about this Dianella place. Not all it was cracked up to be.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say, my excitement more naked than I intend.
‘Bloody mould on the laundry ceiling,’ my father barks from beneath his Perth Glory cap. I thought he was asleep. ‘And redbacks in the backyard!’
‘It was in worse shape than the photos,’ my mother adds. ‘Very disappointing.’
A glimmer of hope lodges in my chest. ‘Well, no harm in the idea of having a Perth place, but I guess that’s that.’
Unexpectedly, Dad sits up, taking the cap off his face and nodding at me. ‘At least we looked into it,’ he says, which reveals a lot: the pied-à-terre is my mother’s mission, not his. He’d probably rather spend the money on getting some mods done to his Monaro.
My mother scowls. ‘Oh, I’m not giving up that easily! I want my pied-à-terre. I’ll find a place, don’t you worry!’
Once my mother has reassembled Sabrina’s pantry, and the cuppas are ready, we gather in the living room and polite, fluffy conversation fills the house.
We have a theoretically delightful afternoon that has nothing to do with me whatsoever.
It’s mostly my mother talking to Sabrina about Gero people, with occasional input from me and even rarer input from Dad.
I eat two cannoli, say as little as possible, and put on my sweet Mehrabian smile.
When my alarm goes off to take my PrEP, I reach for my Squirtle backpack and forgot I left the zipper open when I took my spearmint milk out.
The new Perth Centurions guernsey I picked up from Jack the other day tumbles onto the carpet in front of everyone.
‘What is that?’ my mother fires immediately, like a sniper in a prison watch tower.
Dad sits up, peering on. ‘Footy shorts?’ he mutters. ‘Who are the Perth Centurions?’
Sabrina frowns at me. ‘Zeke?’
It’s like I’ve outed myself.
I cram the jumper back into my backpack, zipping it up fast. ‘Uh. I’ve been playing footy.’ I stare at the carpet, too scared to look at Dad’s face.
‘Footy?’ Dad says. ‘You?’
‘F-footy?’ my mother repeats, like she’s attempting to pronounce a foreign dialect.
‘Footy,’ I say. ‘I joined a team and I really like it.’
Neither of them hears the last sentence, because they are cackling like maniacs.
‘You, footy?’ Dad laughs, almost incoherent. ‘Oh God, no, Zeke that’s too funny. I can see you waddling around, trying to pick up the ball …’
My mother shrieks with laughter again and they both go hysterical for a bit.
‘Like watching a penguin try to do a running race – ahhh!’ My mother is giggling. She pants dramatically. ‘Oh, my make-up is running, oh …’
‘Seriously, Zeke, what are you? Their water boy?’ Dad asks, sobering up.
‘No, I’m a player.’
‘They must’ve lowered their standards. I’ve never seen you catch a ball.’
‘It’s social footy, Dad,’ I say. ‘AFL Nines. Like seven-a-side soccer that Robbie plays.’
‘Well, yes, but Robbie knows how to kick,’ Dad says. ‘You’re no good at sports.’
‘I’m not, Dad, but I like it anyway,’ I say.
‘You’ll lose interest once the novelty wears off.’
‘I don’t think I will,’ I say. ‘I’ve been watching AFL games all season. I’m eighth in my work footy-tipping comp.’
‘So what? You want a medal? Anyone can do footy tipping. Even kids.’
My chest deflates; my shoulders hunch.
‘Is this because of that guy you were seeing?’ Sabrina asks.
‘He co-founded the footy club,’ I admit. Sabrina frowns, but she holds her tongue. ‘It’s good exercise,’ I add to my parents. ‘Will help me lose some weight. Thought you’d be glad I started playing sports finally.’
‘Too little, too late,’ Dad sighs. ‘This mattered at primary school. Would’ve made you more popular then. Nobody cares if you play football now.’
My mother clicks her tongue. ‘I think you should stop being silly. You’re sensitive and you’ll get injured. You’re good with books. Sports isn’t you.’
I see Sabrina glance at my mother, and with horror, realise they finally have one thing in common. That may be even worse than them being at loggerheads.
I’m saved from the footy talk by my mother grilling me about finding a job, so I redirect the conversation with lies about how great things are at the call centre.
Which is ironic, because I would get ten out of ten for this visit if Carol had recorded it as a work phone call. I never let my frustrations show, I de-escalated conflict by evading it, and my customers were kept happy at all times. I handled myself magnificently.
When my parents leave, I mumble about needing to go to the shops so I can leave at the same time and avoid being alone with Sabrina.
‘Zeke, we are overdue for a chat about – that stuff,’ Sabrina says vaguely, noticing my mother peering at us like a hawk. ‘Can we chat about that … soon?’
A skilled Soviet spy she isn’t.
‘Yeah, definitely,’ I concur, then scramble out of the house with my parents as my human shield.
Dad shakes my hand and heads for the driver’s door, but my mother’s onto it.
‘What was that about?’ she launches as soon as we’re in the driveway. ‘What was Sabrina trying to say that she didn’t want me to know?’
I think on my feet. ‘She doesn’t want me to move out into your investment property,’ I suggest. ‘I think she’ll miss me.’
Not bad. That might give me an excuse to not move into my parents’ new place.
My mothers grins. ‘Aw, darling. That’s easily solved: you can ask her to move into our place with you! Best of both worlds.’
I give a higher-pitched laugh than usual to pass off her suggestion as the best, instead of the worst, of both worlds.
When I park outside Curtis’s house, I get a text message from Robbie: Dad reckons you tried to play footy? Send videos mate, that’ll be the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.
That night is my third training session with Perth Centurions.
Before we start, Jack confirms the details for our upcoming footy trip to Lancelin.
It’s a team-building trip where we’ll do our usual training but also bond as a club.
Jack confirms a big holiday house is booked and he and Brick will sort food.
It will cost about two hundred bucks each.
Although I’m unemployed and homeless and can’t afford it, I say yes. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
We get into training. Brick shows me how to form a love-heart shape with my hands over the footy and how to step into the kick so I put more power in my kicking leg.
Jack shows me how to mark in front of my chest, instead of my current haphazard grabs into space over my head.
Fergus tells me to stop saying ‘Sorry’ every time I do a shit kick.
He says everyone shanks kicks and saying sorry every time makes me a whiny sook.
My first kick after that is terrible, dribbling along the ground. It’s a massive effort to not say sorry, but I ride out the awkwardness. Nothing bad happens. Fergus scrambles, picks the footy up, kicks it to Rogan, and the drill goes on. Nobody cares. Shit happens.
At the end of the goal-kicking drill, I take a few steps, the way Brick taught me, throw the power of my leg into the kick and drop the footy onto my boot.
I kick a goal.
Sure, it’s from a plastic cone fifteen metres directly in front of the posts. But it’s the first time I’ve ever done it, and the elation is next level. I pump my fist and Brick calls out, ‘Good improvement, Zeke! You’re getting it.’
When I get home from training, Ahmed’s cooking something that smells incredible.
‘Take your dirty footy boots off!’ he squawks. ‘Don’t track mud all over my floorboards or you can mop it up yourself!’
Everyone else is in the living room. Charlie’s strumming his guitar; Curtis is waging his lifelong war against paperwork; Rex is watching some true crime show on TV.
I shuffle past Ahmed to grab a Gatorade from the fridge. ‘What smells so good?’
Ahmed bops me on the nose. ‘You’ll like it, Italian boy! Curtis loves my spaghetti bolognese, and it’s his night off from the bar, so I’ve made it for him,’ he says. ‘I’ve made enough for everyone, if you want some.’
I can see chunks of carrot in the sauce, something my family would never do (we’d put in peas) but I don’t mention it. ‘Absolutely starving after footy,’ I tell him. ‘I’d froth that.’
All the other guys in the team say ‘froth’ so I’ve started saying it, too.