Bugs Page 5

  I grab my twenty from a wooden box on my bookcase – a ‘jewellery’ box, I guess it would be if I had any. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

  Stone Cold walks ahead of me; I close and lock doors as I go. I’m fiddling with the lock on the back door when she says ‘It’s like they’re staring at me. Creepy,’ and there’s Sarge sitting directly opposite us and Kēhua is sitting on top of the fence and they are; they’re staring us down, staking claim to their territory.

  I open the back gate for Stone Cold: ‘Bye, creeps.’ Awesome, she doesn’t have the sense to shut up; that’s gonna be handy.

  It’s already getting dark when we walk into town. I mean the shops, because our place is pretty much in town already. We’re walking down Scannell Street and a voice behind us goes: ‘Step you out for those shoes,’ and I’m thinking Oh great, now big mouth over here will say something stupid and we will actually have to fight. But Stone Cold looks pretty freaked out; she’s closed her eyes and is whispering, ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.’

  It looks like I’ll have to be the hero, so I turn around …

  ‘Fuck you, Jez.’

  ‘You were shitting yourself.’

  ‘I was not.’ I hit his arm hard because I was. Stone Cold is just a giggling mess. Jez puts his arms around us, but I shrug it off because I’m pissed with his dumb joke.

  ‘Where are you ladies off to?’

  ‘Bugs needs a SIM card for her phone.’

  ‘You got a phone?’ I give Jez the phone. ‘Far …’

  ‘I gave it to her.’

  ‘You got one for me too?’

  Stone Cold looks at me and then the phone like she’s dying to let him keep it. I take the phone from Jez. ‘You already have one.’ Stone Cold looks relieved.

  ‘But not as flash as that.’

  ‘You’d just lose it anyway.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t. I’m careful with my shit.’

  ‘Oh, like your skateboard, your school books, your shoes …’

  And suddenly we’re not all jokey jokey ha ha any more. ‘I didn’t lose them, B.’

  It’s cold. I shove my hands into my pockets and Stone Cold wraps her arms tighter around her chest.

  ‘You should have a jacket,’ Jez says to her.

  ‘I’m OK.’ She’s sort of shivering but I can’t tell if it’s real or if she’s milking it. Whatever it is, it works: Jez takes off his jacket, his Second XV jacket that he worked so hard to fundraise for, and gives it to her.

  ‘I’m hot from practice anyway.’

  ‘Thanks.’ And she’s one of those simpering girls from high school romances – bleugh.

  Thank God we’re in town; the bright lights make romance difficult. I duck into the nearest dairy while the two of them talk outside. I grab a SIM and a top–up, handing my twenty over, and I look at them laughing together, like they have a real connection.

  Outside, Stone Cold takes the phone and SIM from me and sets it up. She texts herself and Jez so they’ve got my number.

  Jez looks at his phone and laughs with her. I try to join in, but Stone Cold has deleted the sent message.

  ‘Ladies, I’ve gotta go.’ Jez is jogging on the spot; I bet he regrets giving her that jacket now.

  ‘See ya.’ Stone Cold checks out his butt as he jogs away. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Home. I’ve got to finish my homework.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be such a swot, Bugs. Ha! Bug swat!’

  God she’s annoying.

  ‘Since you’re no fun I guess I’ll ring Mum and have her pick me up.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  ‘What? You’re just going to leave me out here alone? I could get raped.’

  ‘Outside a dairy? You’ll be fine.’ I wave the phone at her. ‘Text me if you get in trouble.’

  ‘Oh yeah, great plan, I’ll just ask the rapist to wait while I text my friend.’

  Damn. She said it again, and now I feel kind of obligated, kind of like if she says it enough it must be true. So I wait with her and listen to her wonder what it means that Jez gave her his jacket – you were cold and he’s cool – and what her next move should be and if she should keep the jacket – no, it’s his jacket – and blah, blah, blah until thank God Shelley pulls up in a big fuck-off four-wheel drive.

  ‘Can I drive you home, Bugs?’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m not far away.’ For some reason I don’t want her to see my house.

  ‘Get in, Bugs. What kind of mother would I be if I let you walk home in the dark?’

  I hop in the back and Stone Cold navigates her mum through the mean streets of home. We pull up outside my house with a jerk, as if the car doesn’t believe that people actually live here either. But Shelley doesn’t say anything but goodbye, and I say thanks and shut the car door with a heavy clunk and vroom! They’ve gone.

  Shit. Mum’s home. Her car is in the driveway. I put my hand on the bonnet like they do in crime shows – Still warm; she must have just got in.

  Sarge greets me with a little bark as I open the back gate, as if to ask Are you alone?

  ‘Yup. All by myself, Sarge, all by myself.’

  I open the back door. The kitchen is full of steam from the big pot of boiling water on the stove. Mum’s cooking pasta or something. There mustn’t have been any leftovers from the hotel’s restaurant today. Mum’s still got her uniform on – a crisp white shirt tucked into a straight, black skirt. She’s taken off her jacket and the colourful scarf that she usually has tied in a bow around her neck – With a Suzanne Clip! – she always says, and laughs even though I can’t see a joke in it. Her black hair is still in the twist she put it in this morning and the fake pearl earrings are still in her ears. She’s still got her pantyhose on but her black leather heels have been kicked off on the floor in the lounge. I pick them up and take them to her room. I pull her slippers from her wardrobe and give them to her before she ruins her pantyhose on the strip of metal that separates the kitchen lino from the carpet in the lounge.

  ‘You’re home late for a school night. What about your homework?’

  ‘It did it in my free period.’ Lies.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘At a friend’s …’ Double lies.

  ‘With Jez? You know I don’t like you walking across the control gate bridge at night.’

  ‘No, you know he had practice. I have other friends, you know …’ She kind of snorts at me like I’ve told a joke. Loser. Nice, that’s what Mum thinks of me.

  ‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry.’ I hold up the phone. ‘You can call me.’

  ‘Where did you get this from?’

  ‘I told you, a friend.’

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘Char-MAINE.’ God, I’ve been hanging with her too long – I’m beginning to sound like her.

  ‘Charmaine who?’

  ‘Fox.’

  Mum looks at me. ‘What’s with the attitude Bugs?’

  Oh, that’s rich. ‘I don’t have the attitude. You do.’

  ‘What?’ It’s funny how much can be said in one syllable; she says what but she means: Be careful girl, I’ve had a long day and the last thing I need is this.

  But I’m pissed too, so fuck what happens next. ‘Accusing me. A friend gave me a present.’

  ‘A girl you’ve known for what? Five minutes, gives you a phone worth hundreds …’

  ‘She didn’t need it any more.’

  ‘So she just gives it away? Really, Bugs?’

  ‘Just say it.’

  ‘I didn’t bring you up to lie and steal …’

  ‘I didn’t steal … I’ve never stolen anything in my life.’ Those other things don’t count at this moment, OK? ‘I may have fucked up your life, Mum, but I’m not a fuck-up.’

  She looks at me and I decide that I’ll try one of Stone Cold’s chin tilts, which is kind of hard to pull off when you’re the same height as your opponent.

  BRIIING!

  It could be the start of Roun
d 2 but in reality it’s just the kitchen timer. Mum turns away, picks up the pot of boiling pasta and dumps it into a colander in the sink. The steam gathers on the ceiling like storm clouds do in the movies. Mum stirs the pasta into a tomato sauce, scoops some onto a plate and slides it to me.

  ‘Eat.’

  Like she can shut me up with food. ‘I’m not hungry.’ I’m starving.

  ‘You didn’t fuck up my life, Bugs.’ Like working six days a week in a hotel to pay for a shoebox house isn’t fucked up. ‘But I won’t let you ruin yours. Give me the phone.’

  She doesn’t believe me, and I’m just so frustrated and angry and upset that I can’t say anything. She holds out her hand for the phone and I’m powerless. I’m a five-year-old kid who doesn’t want to share, so her mother takes her toy and gives it away to teach her a lesson. I give her the phone, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry, so I go to my room and flop on the bed.

  But she won’t let me get away. She stands outside my door going through my contacts, and calls Stone Cold.

  ‘No, this isn’t Bugs, Charmaine. It’s her mother. I was hoping to speak to your mother, please.’ Mum has her ‘top-of-the-KiwiHost-course-for-customer-service’ voice on. ‘Hello, Mrs Fox? Shelley. This is Bugs’ mum, Nikki. It’s nice talk to you too. Yes, she did get in safely. I’m just calling to ask about the phone Bugs brought home. She says that Charmaine gave it to her …’

  I can tell from the mmmms and the uh-huhs that my mum is pissed that she’s wrong. So wrong. I reckon she wishes I had stolen it just so she could be right, so she wouldn’t have to apologise.

  Kēhua crawls down from my windowsill and licks my face. I try to push her away, but she loves the taste of salt on my cheeks. I put her on the floor and she runs out of the room. Lucky cat.

  ‘OK, sorry to disturb you. Yes, we should meet up sometime. Thank you.’

  Mum hangs up the phone and leans in my door frame. I turn over and face the wall.

  She comes in and sits on my bed. I shuffle over; not to give her room, just to get away from her. I don’t want her to touch me, to try and hug me like everything is OK. Because it’s not.

  She keeps her distance though. She talks, but it’s like it’s not to me but the room. ‘You know I’m trying to do the best for you Bugs, eh?’

  Then she puts the phone on my pillow and stands up.

  Nothing. No – I’m sorry Bugs, I should’ve believed you Bugs – just a lame excuse.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’ She sounds, I don’t know, hopeful.

  ‘Shut the door.’

  She leaves and the door shuts out the light from the rest of the house. And I’m hungry, and angry, and empty, and alone.

  4

  The glass of the windowpane feels cool against my cheek, and if I close my eyes the world comes to a halt for just a little bit.

  ‘If you’re going to spew, can you crack the window and do it outside?’ Jez has followed me into his room. I flap my hand at him, which means: I’m OK, you should go back to the party. But Jez sits on his bed and chucks a rugby ball up and down, up and down – thump, thump, thump.

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘I told you not to mix your drinks.’ Smug bastard puts the ball down and sips his beer. He offers it to me and I turn away from him – thwack! Against the window.

  Jez gets up and checks me. He opens the window and makes me lean out of it. He closes the door, which quietens the music to a throb, throb. At least I think it’s the music; it could be the blood pulsing in my head.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Not yet, B. You think your mum would be stoked to see you like this? I’ll walk you home later.’

  ‘She’s not at home. It’s Saturday, she’s doing a double shift.’

  ‘You can’t walk by yourself.’

  ‘You just want to keep an eye on the Cock.’

  ‘Yeah, that too.’

  ‘The Cock’ is not a gay thing or anything. He’s the latest boyfriend. Jez’s mum is one of those chicks that can’t handle it on her own. I reckon that’s why her and my mum don’t really get along, because my mum is still staunch without a boyfriend. I mean, they don’t bitch slap each other or anything; they just kind of tolerate each other for Jez’s sake. I hate to say this, but I kind of agree with Mum. Some of the guys that come through this place, man, they’re just not worth it. I reckon it’s better to be alone then to put up with some of the shit they do. Not that Jez’s mum is alone; she’s got Jez.

  So anyway, the Cock is a cock, and thinks just because he’s spading Jez’s mum that he gets a say in Jez’s life. And he has this dumb-arse nickname – Havoc – which me and Jez pronounce ha-VOCK because he’s a cock, a cock, a cock.

  That’s all he’s good for, eh, Jez?

  Ew Bugs, that’s my mum you’re talking about; I don’t wanna think about it.

  And sometimes when he’s had a few shit can get out of hand, so that’s why Jez stays and why he’s been sipping the same beer while I got wasted.

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  Jez throws me a bottle of drink. I miss it and it hits the wall with a bang. I pick up the plastic bottle and drink the sickly sweet blue shit. The rugby heads guzzle this because they’ve been suckered in by those ads that say the All Blacks drink this stuff. Like you can become a champion by drinking sugar water. I guess everyone is looking for a magic potion. I don’t know if it’s the electrolytes or isotopes or whatever, but it does make me feel a bit better, so I get up and sit with Jez on the bed. I try to snuggle into him, but he pulls away, holding his ribs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I took a big hit in the game.’ I hope that’s true. ‘If you had been there you would’ve seen it.’

  Ow. Who’s prodding who in the ribs now?

  Jez’s bed is hard up against the corner of the room. I shuffle around so that I am cradled by the two walls; I can see his face now. Jez doesn’t look at me though, he just keeps looking ahead.

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘Yeah, sleeping.’

  ‘Whatever. Stone Cold’s cheering not enough for you?’ I pretend to shake my pom-poms and make ju-ju lips at him. He doesn’t even turn around.

  ‘She wasn’t there.’

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘Skiing,’ he says, like it’s something actual people do.

  ‘Oh. I wondered why she wasn’t here.’

  ‘Like I’d invite her to this.’

  I know what he means. If my place was a revelation for her then this place would be a total mind fuck. Jez lives in a flat, one unit in a block of five. He lives in the middle. I lay my hand on the wall at the head of his bed. Through this wall is someone else’s place: only a ruler length away. They’d be calling noise control if they weren’t already at the party. The other flats are empty except in summer, when the landlord rents them out for the holidays. But who would want to holiday here? The flats were built back when they didn’t care who lived on the other side of the river. Then the town got all flash and people wanted river views; people wanted to be close to the harbour. I guess if these places were built now they’d be all sleek concrete boxes, not the hodgepodge of peeling weatherboard and concrete block that they are. Can you imagine Stone Cold here? She’d snap her neck from looking down at us all: the filth! The squalor! The people! And as much as I love Jez, it does stink of boy in here. But this is how people live – not like the magazine life she’s stuck in.

  I love Jez’s room. My mum would freak if I did this to my walls – not that I would because I don’t have the talent to pull it off. He’s filled the walls with our names, and thoughts, and silly little pictures all drawn in thick black Vivid. He lets other people draw too – which explains the many pictures of penises that his teammates seem to be obsessed with. I drew a couple of lopsided bunnies when I was trying out my tag. I tried to cross them out but Jez wouldn’t let me. He said because they make him smile, they’re a little bit of me in his room. Beside
s, it’s his room, at least for now. He’s promised the landlord that he’ll paint the room when they move out, but I think that’s a shame. Because this room is our history. Near me is an early Jez, a picture from back when he’d draw like they do in cartoons; you know, girls with big boobs and guys with big … swords. Down by the mirror there’s some new stuff, a series of Jez’s eyes – happy, sad and angry. It’s strange to see Jez angry; I think that’s the only record of it. But it’s just art. It doesn’t mean anything, does it?

  Jez should have taken art. I wanted him to, the art teacher wanted him to. But instead Jez is taking all the classes that he reckons will get him a job as soon as he leaves school. I want to tell him that hospo is not a career; just look at my mum. But I reckon he has looked. He’s seen my mum and how hard she’s worked and what she’s worked for and he wants it for himself. Maybe he thinks that if he can get a job then his mum won’t need those guys any more, that he will be enough.

  But he could be more than that.

  I guess because she’s had to Jez’s mum really knows how to stretch a dollar. Sometimes stretching that dollar means a skateboard is sold, school books are bought a fortnight after class starts and shoes just have to last until the end of term. I never eat at their place – it’s like she’s totting up what I’ve had in her head and she’ll present me with an invoice at the end. Sometimes I joke with Jez that his mum could be an accountant. Everything comes down to the dollar for her; especially, I reckon, her son.

  Jez says I’m too hard on her, that she’s doing the best she can. But is she though? Is she? Because I reckon her ‘best’ would be making damn sure that her kid was going to have a better life than she does, recognising his talent and encouraging it, not letting him waste his life here. The really sad thing is that she has no idea how much her boy is worth.

  Harsh, Bugs, harsh.

  Fuck me. So here I am with my head tilted back looking down my nose at Jez’s life. Maybe Jez sees me like I see Stone Cold – a prissy little tourist, out sightseeing, believing I know how he lives because I’ve visited a few times. But I don’t know what it’s really like here.