Shit.
8
Noah: The Pool House
Friday afternoon, Henry and I step off the bus at his stop in Victoria Park. Unlike Heller Lake, Victoria Park is on the edges of Easton, with sprawling blocks and old-fashioned homes. We walk on the footpath past the homes with long driveways lined with trees.
It’s quieter out here. Some homes have farms with chickens or horses, and I can hear the animals in the distance. Henry talks about Declan’s brother, Craig, who’s on a gap year and always hosts parties. I half-listen, focusing on the deepness of Henry’s voice.
We walk up the Cross family driveway. Their home has a wrap-around porch, and the garden is filled with native flowers — Henry’s dad is obsessed with gardening. My parents are too busy to deal with our garden, so we have a plain lawn and three trees.
“No cars in the driveway,” Henry comments. “It’s as I thought. My entire family’s out.”
“What a coincidence.” I grin as I follow him inside.
I know Henry’s home as well as my own. In the kitchen, the fridge is always covered with photos, strange-looking magnets and handwritten notes. There’s a vase of flowers in every room, and a piano in the lounge room. Henry — like the rest of his family — can play, but he refuses to do so in front of an audience. I don’t know why he’s embarrassed about it.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Henry says, sliding his school bag off his back and dumping it at the front door.
“Water, thanks,” I say, taking my school bag too.
Henry pours two cups of cold water and hands one to me, our fingers brushing. A shock of electricity runs through my veins at the contact. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Maybe it’s not because we’re together. But if we were dating, I still doubt I’ll get used to it.
“Are you okay?” Henry asks.
I’ve stiffened and force my body to relax. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been off all week.”
I force a smile. “I’m fine. Now, are you going to make me an avocado toastie or what?”
Henry narrows his eyes once more, to let me know he doesn’t believe me but lets me off the hook. “I’m not your servant,” he grumbles, moving towards the kitchen.
“But you are my host.”
“The next time I go to your house, I’m going to ask for your fanciest and most extravagant pasta.” Henry pulls out ingredients from the fridge.
“We should have that in the freezer.” I take the avocado and a knife from the drawer.
“You don’t have to do that, Noah. You’re my guest.”
“Too bad.”
Henry slices the cheese while I spread out the avocado on the bread, and we pop them into the sandwich press.
Last year, before our first kiss, I’d read into every little action to figure out whether Henry liked me too. He’d make me the same avocado toasties he’d made for years, but he’d cut them into quarters instead of halves, and I’d wonder whether it meant something. I was so pathetic.
Sometimes I was more confused — when there almost seemed to be hope. When we sat on the porch drinking beers, talking about girls and he’d say that I had no trouble dating because I was hot. Did guys tell their guy friends they were hot? The boys would comment when someone looked good, but did it mean something different this time?
Then there were the times our knees touched. I wouldn’t move my leg away for obvious reasons, but Henry wouldn’t either.
Or the times he told me about his wet dreams. But they’d always featured women.
The light on the sandwich press changes to green. I take plates from a cabinet and pass them to Henry, who cuts the sandwiches to four equal triangles.
At least I don’t have to worry about whether Henry is attracted to me these days. But now my mind is crowded up with other worries.
We sit at the kitchen bench on the rustic wooden stools and eat. “How did you go on that Psych test yesterday?” Henry asks after swallowing a bite.
