‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Then I hit puberty, and my voice broke.’
My mother’s eyes well up. ‘It did. That’s right. It broke.’ She turns away from me, spotting the snacks on the table, and the fleeting glimpse of emotion is gone. ‘I got you some things from the hospital shop, darling,’ she says breezily. ‘A nice flat white, but they didn’t have sugar packets. And an apple crumble muffin but it’s a bit dry-looking. And something to read while you’re in hospital, of course.’
She plops the coffee cup and muffin on the wheely tray table over my bed, along with the glossy car magazineWheelsI’d assumed was for Dad.
‘Huh?’ I blurt out. ‘That’s – You got that … for me?’
No moreArchiecomics. I’ve finally graduated to car magazines like my father and my brother.
Anna Calogero purses her lips and fixes me with her sharp frown. ‘What are you being funny about, darling? I always bring you something to read!’
Her frown, just for a moment, breaks, and I could swear her face softens into a smile so quick and surreptitious I doubt whether it happened at all.
I stare at the car magazine. The cover says I can look forward to an article about supercharged cars ahead of Bathurst. I don’tthink I’ve ever been less interested in anything in my life, but somehow this is the kindest gift my mother has ever brought me.
‘That’s really good of you, Mum,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
When Siobhan does my obs in the early arvo, my blood is fully saturated with oxygen: ninety-nine per cent.
‘You’re clear to go, sweetheart,’ Siobhan says. ‘Are your parents dropping you home?’
I shake my head. ‘Nah. I have other family picking me up.’
Siobhan beams at me, about to wheel her trolley out into the corridor, then adds, like it’s somehow important to her, ‘It’s really nice to know some of you country boys do find your way, Zeke. Take care of yourself, won’t you?’
She leaves, her face set in a resting smile.
I change into Hammer’s hoodie and footy shorts – both baggy on me – and head outside into broad sunlight, where Charlie’s car is idling in a bus bay, his knuckle-tattooed hand dangling a lit cigarette from the window.
I open the passenger seat and get in beside him. The car smells of tobacco and Monster Energy. Eau de Charlie Roth.
‘Hey, dude,’ Charlie says, eyes flicking over my face. ‘You okay?’
‘Nup,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘Hell no,’ Charlie says. ‘Can’t be fucked talking about it either. I’m fried.’
‘Same.’
‘I don’t wanna be in the house right now. Not while Ahmed’s family’s with him. Feels wrong. I need to forget about it for a bit. You wanna just go for a drive?’
I nod and put my seatbelt on. Charlie hands me his phone to pick a song from Spotify. He never gives up aux cord privileges that easy, not to anyone.
‘Don’t make me regret it,’ he says warningly, driving us up to the pedestrian crossing traffic light, which is red.
I scroll through Spotify and choose the perfect song. An early-2000s Kylie Minogue track starts blaring from Charlie’s speakers, and he bursts out laughing.
‘Reminds me of a wedding I went to once,’ he says. ‘Turn that shit off right now.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, turning the volume up louder. The light goes green. ‘Gun the engine, you massive poofter.’
26
BEST OF YOU
CHARLIE
I let the Kylie song finish, for old times’ sake, but then I revoke Zeke’s music privileges. None of that shit in my car, not when I’m feeling sparse and empty like a meteor blew right through my ribs.
