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: thepied-à-terreis 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 mypied-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, fluffyconversation 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.
