4. (skins) i am living underwater - 1/3
i am living underwater | part one
the beginning
a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.
- lao tzu
-
zero:
(2007); chris is 17 and jal is 17
They’re walking in the park one day, their hands barely brushing.
She asks him what it’s like - to disappear. She thinks it’s like a whisper; the journey of a feather in mid-air, a peaceful descent from the heavens onto the earth.
She misses the scrunch of his face as he debates his words, for once. He weighs them in his head. She thinks, for a moment, that perhaps this isn’t her Chris. Perhaps this is future’s Chris. She wonders whether her future self still belongs with him.
“I really fuckin’ hate it, sometimes,” Chris says. His fingers brush against hers for barely a second. He pauses as he looks up at the sky, his eyes darting everywhere but her face. His cheeks are slightly pink. “I always lose my shoes.”
*
one: 2001
chris is 12, chris is 23
The house is quiet when it happens for the first time.
Chris remembers feeling this unbearable ache in the pit of his stomach. He remembers he tried to claw it out of himself, scratching his stomach with blunt fingernails to no end. His room was always too dark. The hallway outside was always too frightening with shadows crawling up the paint stained walls. If Peter was here, he thinks, the shadows would retreat into the crevices of the house, never to be seen. It’d be like the sun, peeking through the clouds on grey, murky days.
His mother lies in bed, wrapped in darkness. She drinks more and more from bottles that used to be hidden on the top shelf of the fridge behind cartons of milk and containers of butter. Now, they sit scattered along her floor and drawers. The fridge shelves are empty.
He sits in his room with the sun scathing across his back from his window. Peter always told him this would get rid of the monsters and protect him when he’s not there to do so. A temporary fix, he used to say.
Chris remembers feeling himself, so solid and so heavy; begin to feel light, like a feather. He felt as though he was losing consciousness as his fingertips began to fade along with the rest of his body in an agonisingly slow process. As the fading swallows him whole, he feels its mouth lightly tickling his skin. He wonders, for a brief second, if this is what it was like for Peter when he disappeared.
Chris materialises somewhere in a cemetery. He recognises it, vaguely. He turns around and sees headstones with names engraved into them, a ‘Margaret Thomason, a beloved mother’ and ‘Jacob Everett’, the blades of grass covering his dedication.
He stumbles towards a thick tree he remembers guarding Peter’s grave from the dark monsters. He stands on weak legs as he looks down at the headstone, the large rectangular hole dug into the earth, empty and waiting. It feels like a vacuum, impatiently waiting for Peter.
“Hey,” he hears, a hand resting on his shoulder. He jumps, turning around to see a taller man behind him. He’s wearing a suit with a bright pink tie. “It’s gonna be okay.” The man kneels down on his knees to level their faces. “I’m Chris.”
Chris blinks, words cling to the tip of his tongue as he feels the light-headedness swirl through his body, his fingertips tingling as they start to fade. This monster takes hold of him despite his protests, just like Peter. “You can’t take him,” he manages as he disappears.
He returns to his house. His feet feel the dampness of the earth cling to his skin like a distant memory. He stands stark naked in his living room.
For the next three months, he finds himself standing in the living room, waiting for Peter to follow him. Despite his calling out to him, he never does.
*
two: 2007
(2007) chris is 17, jal is 17
They walk to the party of some girl Tony’s most likely shagged. The walk is long. Michelle complains about her heels while Chris swallows his comments about walking bare feet as he does not want to endure the lecture of how bare feet on cement is not good for one’s nail polished toes. He glances at Jal, seeing the stern set of her face, and ponders, quickly, about whether he should open his mouth or not. He hasn’t seen her smile today.
He walks behind everyone, with Jal drifting between Maxxie, who is in front of him. Chris thinks about saying a lot of things, like, ‘Jal, how about you go talk to Maxxie about his godawful haircut?’ or ‘Jal, I’m a big kid, despite my choice in pants. I don’t need a babysitter’ or ‘Jal, I know what’s buggin’ you and I’ve got it under control. You’re far too pretty to have stress lines on your face now.’
Jal sticks to him like the good glue he can’t afford. It reminds him, sometimes, of the days where he was smaller, and shorter, and had good sense. In class, when everything was very much black and white and technicolour didn’t exist, he liked cutting ovals from odd bits of paper and sticking them together to create a thick odd circle-like thing that was meant to create the sun. The two halves would still stick together with their partnered pieces of paper, regardless of Tony’s tiny fingers trying to rip them apart.
He thinks to tell her she can leave him alone. The only harm he can do is something he cannot control. He’s practised this conversation many times in his head, usually to his fish, early in the mornings when the sky is yawning. ‘Jal,’ he’d say, ‘sometimes Daisy likes to drive herself’ and she’d say in return, ‘Sure, Chris,’ and she’d hit him upside the head. Hard.
He regrets watching that movie whenever he thinks of these scenarios.
-
They get there, eventually. Tony and Sid set the pace, and that’s one of a snail. The sun has lowered itself from the last time Chris checked. He looks to the pavement to see the incoming darkness stealing away his shadow.
Once inside, they scatter. The glue between Chris and Jal starts to loosen, becoming weaker and weaker with the attractive pull of the spliff for him and the outside patio for her. He tries to keep an eye out for Jal, but she’s lost in the sea of colourful plaid and disco lights.
It happens much sooner than before. He’s in the usual place, some room down the hall that has family photographs hidden away on a bookshelf with a lot of thick volumes of intelligent stuff, when he’s piling the pills in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He keeps a few in his palm, just like the other two guys. One is blonde, with green eyes and a wonky nose, the other has brown hair and a horrific tan. Chris tries to not make eye contact.
He’s popping pills when the world begins to spin. Jal doesn’t understand what is happening but he can hear her fear and confusion and frustration when he shouts “Chris!” She’s following him as he pushes his way through all the people in this house. It’s suddenly too dark, too loud, and everyone is pressing in on him. He feels hot, feels his skin begin to sweat. He manages blindly to get to the bathroom and slams the door shut, turning on the tap and wetting his face.
But, to no avail.
His fingertips fade first, disappearing like waves retreating back into the ocean after they’ve touched the beach. He tries to tear his fingers back, urge the skin to retreat from their disappearing act. It spreads so quickly, like a disease, and he finds himself disappearing into darkness. He only catches a glimpse of it reflected back in the mirror before he’s gone.
He hears Jal, vaguely, yelling through the door.
-
Jal sits with her back against the bathroom door. She feels her spine settle uncomfortably against it, with the carpet underneath her bare legs irritating her skin. She never really understands this.
She tries to hear through the thick door. She hears nothing except the commotion from downstairs. The music is too loud for her taste, the beer, which doesn’t taste like beer, settles too thickly in her throat whenever she drinks it, and her friends are too blind to see through the popping lights to notice that Chris is gone.
Whenever this happens, Jal guards the door to where he’s run off to. She doesn’t really know why she waits. She’s never really been good at it. Jal blames her mother for this. She remembers staying up late when she was younger, by the window of her bedroom, waiting to see her mother’s silhouette appear in the shadows in the darkest hours of the night. She’d wait until she could do it no more, with sleep pushing her eyes closed and the patience out of her. Jal has no patience for Michelle’s antics with Tony. She has no patience for Anwar’s horrible stories about the times he’s slept with some girl, which always turns out to be untrue. Yet, she has patience for this.
Kids trip over her extended legs as she tries to make her feet touch the opposite wall. Aggravation settles into its home in her muscles. Nonetheless, she relaxes against the door.
Chris never says much about it. But, she figures, she’ll wait for him for when he does need to talk.
-
He doesn’t explain it when he comes back, early the next morning. He materialises in a room and finds his way through the lifeless bodies spread out on the floor to the bathroom. He dresses, slowly, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.
Chris finds the kitchen, sees Jal sitting there, a glass of water almost empty in her hands. She’s staring at nothing, holding the glass in her palms.
He approaches her timidly, his hands in his shirt pockets. “Are you alright?”
“I thought ...” Jal says, but stops, taking a sip from her glass. She empties it. “I thought ...” she starts again and looks at him this time. “I don’t know what I think, Chris. What the fuck?”
“I ... travelled,” he says, shrugging. She knows this.
She shakes her head. “It’s how you do it.”
“It’s not like I can fucking control it, Jal. If I could, I’d never do it.”
Jal shakes her head. “No, Chris. You can control it. You can always control it.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, moving to the sink and grabbing a glass from the bench. He fills it to the brim and takes long gulps from it. He puts it down on the bench; half empty, and looks out the window. The sun is glaring hard against all surfaces. He breathes in and out of his nose, hearing Jal tap her fingers against the class before stopping herself. He turns, watching the back of her head. “How you going to get home?” he says, softer.
She shrugs. “Michelle’s fucking gone.” She mutters, “As always.”
“How ‘bout I walk you home, then?”
Jal turns, shifting herself as best she can on the stool. She thinks for a moment then nods. “Alright.”
He takes the glass from her and places it in the sink. “Someone else’s bloody mess to clean up,” he says as an attempt at humour. Jal’s mouth flickers up for a second.
They walk through the throng of bodies, only recognising Anwar’s naked ass. “Trust me,” Chris says, “you don’t want that in your face.” Jal cocks her eyebrow. “What?” Chris’ shoulders raise up high dramatically. “I’m just givin’ you future advice.”
Chris stops at the doorway, peering down at the litter of shoes. “Did you bring a purse or somethin’ to keep your delicates?” he says, looking down at the bags strewn haphazardly over the shoes. “This is horrific security for valuables,” he mutters to himself.
“I keep everything in my pocket, Chris,” Jal mumbles. He stares down at the shoes, wondering where his pair are. He picks out a pair of thongs from underneath a long, leather boot and slips them on. He grimaces at the slime he feels underneath his feet. He watches Jal pull her own shoes out. They’re leopard print flats, the kind of shoes he’s never seen her wear before. They’re more Michelle’s style, if he had to pinpoint. They sit side by side, unharassed, underneath at least, what he estimates to be, two layers of shoes.
“How the fu -” he starts. Jal sighs. He stops.
She slips them on as he moves shoes away from the door. He opens it for her. “I hope you know you’re wearing an endangered animal on your feet.”
“It’s fake, Chris,” she sighs, exasperated.
They walk down the veranda. Chris stops. “Who the fuck’s house is this?”
Chris doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, but they eventually find their way.
-
Jal wants to talk about it. It sits heavily on her tongue for the next week and a half. They’re sitting outside on the grass, after a bullshit lesson of Psychology. The lesson: Chris made eyes at Angie, Angie cried over some P.E. teacher, and Jal learns nothing she hadn’t read in the textbook.
They sit out on the grass in their odd shaped circle. The grass itches at the palms of her hands from where she rests them, brushing the blades back and forth as she waits for something. Anwar’s digging through his bag and Maxxie’s tapping out some rhythm. “You’re awfully unopinionated,” Chris says, nudging her leg with two of his fingers. “Where’s the spitfire?”
Jal narrows her eyes when she looks at him. The uneasy smile on his face wavers, falling off so quickly to be replaced with a strained pull of the mouth. Eventually, she says, “I’m tired.” She pushes herself up off the grass, wiping the few stray blades off her backside, and grabs her bag. Placing the strap over her shoulder, she looks at him. “I’m going to go study, since no one here is talking.”
“What’s up your ass, Jal?” Anwar says, laughing. “We’re just gettin’ started. Melanie’s havin’ a party this Thursday -”
Jal walks off. It doesn’t deter Anwar, or anyone else, from talking. Though she doesn’t hear Chris’ voice in the sea.
-
Jal cools down. Eventually.
Chris notices. A year ago it used to take her a week to calm down. She’d forgive him in her own way by agreeing to meet him early in the morning so he could walk her to college or they’d sit down outside on the grass together, her with her books and him with his spliff.
Now, they’re sitting on the grass. He’s on his stomach and she’s sitting with her legs thrown to the side. She’s picking at grass while he’s flipping through her book. He doesn’t understand why she reads so much. Jal always has textbooks or music books with her, or a tiny little novel hidden somewhere in her bag. He doesn’t understand her need to carry books around. Unless they’re there for her to hit him with.
“So, they don’t have breakfast at Tiffany’s I gather,” he says, more of a statement than a question. The impression he gives is one that he’s read this before. He’s read something on the Internet about it. Apparently it’s a movie and they smoke.
“No,” she throws a blade of grass away. “Not really.” She pauses. “I don’t think so?” her voice rises at the end. She snatches the book from him and quickly scans the pages. Chris is laughing. She laughs around forced lines. “Sod off, you bloody wanker.” She places the book beside her and continues picking at grass.
The air around them feels cooler. It has stopped picking at his skin.
*
Jal has never collected anything in her life besides her father’s posters and anger. It’s tonight that she’ll find herself collecting shoes, and she wonders, later, whether Chris ever knew about this.
They are at a party. They are always at a party, it seems. She hates the taste of the phrase in her mouth. She hates what happens at parties even more. Which is this: They go to a party. They separate. Chris does something. Chris disappears hurriedly to the closest bathroom or deserted room. She follows.
Jal follows Chris into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water and swallows a couple of pills. She doesn’t get a good look at them.
“Chris,” she says from her position behind him. He jumps at her voice. Water spills around them. He’s always had the habit of filling up his glass to the very top. He’s patting himself down when she says, “Do you really think you should be doing that?”
He stops, his hand pausing over his heart. “What?” he blinks. He looks at the glass in his hand, the water spilling down, passing over his thumb and fingers and dripping onto the once immaculate kitchen floor. “I’m doing the usual, Jalander,” he says, grinning.
She frowns. “Chris -”
“It’s a party,” he says, turning around and moving past her. “Have some fun.”
He disappears within five minutes.
-
Jal realises he is gone after ten minutes. It doesn’t sit well in her stomach.
She finds Maxxie near the overbearing speakers. He’s talking to some brown-haired boy. She’s almost touching his shoulder when he looks at her, grinning. “Where’s Chris?” Jal asks.
Maxxie shrugs. “Dunno.”
Jal pushes her way through the throng until she’s in the hallway by the door. It’s a little quieter. The floor is scattered with shoes. Near the middle of the floor, very close to the door, is Chris’ bright yellow shirt and checkered pants.
She moves towards the pile and picks up his clothes, folding them and laying them along her arm. She picks up his shoes.
She slides onto the floor and waits outside the dark den.
*
Chris usually goes when his mother leaves. He’s deduced it to the stress of the questions of when and if she’s coming back and why she’s left in the first place. None of them really get answered.
So when he doesn’t go, after the usual amount of time, which is three days after her ‘goodbye’ note, he sits outside on the stoop with Jal.
“It’s good,” she says, her voice low. “It means you’re probably getting over this thing.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Somethin’ is wrong. I’ve felt it before.”
She pauses. Tentatively, she says, “With Peter?” Chris doesn’t need to respond for her to know the answer. She clears her throat, moving her feet slightly on the steps. The pressure of the weight she has been placing on her ankles disappears. “Why don’t you stay with Tony?”
Chris shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to -”
“Tony suggested it.”
“Since when do you talk to Tony?”
She sighs. “He miscalls me and talks about Sid’s virginity.” She rolls her eyes.
Chris laughs. “C’mon, Jal,” he says, his voice a little lighter. “Why don’t you do us all a favour and pop his cherry?”
Jal frowns, hitting his shoulder. “I’m not a hooker!” She pauses. “Besides, he likes ‘Chelle.”
Chris shakes his head. “Tosser.”
-
He stays with Tony for a week. It’s the amount of time his parents are out of town. And, as it turns out, the amount of time his mother needs.
The week is uneventful. Chris doesn’t remember it, despite the lack of spliff intake. There is college, Angie, the grass, Effy’s double life, Chris feeling more exhausted than ever because of her (he wonders, does she ever sleep?) and the fish.
After college, he goes home to feed the fish. He doesn’t tell anyone that he checks every nook and cranny of the house for his mother.
-
The most exciting moment of his week is sitting at a bus stop with Jal. They do this, sometimes. They wait at the bus stop and fool the driver into thinking that they’re going to board. They never do. Chris doesn’t have enough money for bus fare.
A bus departs as the sun bakes through the shelter’s roof. Jal swings her legs slightly, her feet planted firmly on the ground.
He doesn’t look at her. He watches the road and houses straight on. “My mum’s back,” Chris tells her.
She nods, licking her lips. “That’s good,” she says, although she’s unsure if she believes it. He can feel it in the softness of her tone. She’s less forceful now, trying to implant her beliefs into him. She doesn’t believe his mother is something of permanence in his life. “Are you going back home?”
“Yeah,” Chris scratches the back of his neck. “I got to.”
“No one says you have to,” she says automatically.
He shakes his head, looking at her knees. “Nah, I need to.”
“Alright,” she says. He picks at the ends of his pants. She shrugs, trying to roll the sincerity away when she says, “But you’ve got my number.”
-
Chris does call her.
Ace and Lynton berate each other loudly. She places her hand over her ear and tries to smother them out. “Chris?” she moves out of the kitchen and walks up the stairs hurriedly. “What’s wrong?”
“How do I clean a stain on the carpet? Like, I’ve heard you can rub it into the carpet and it’s there forever and that there’s another way you can avoid that and be an efficient cleaner.”
She pauses in her ascent. “What?”
“I spilt something and I’ve got to clean it up, Jal. Keep up, will ya?”
She looks up to the ceiling, before taking slow steps up the rest of the stairs. She makes her way into her room and shuts the door. “I don’t know how to clean up ... spills. On carpets. Just ... dab it with a wet cloth?”
“See, Jal, that’s amateurish. Real cleaners have all this fancy shit that they use, you know? Like ... products.”
“Yeah?” she laughs. She sits on the edge of her bed. “You want to be a cleaner, now, Chris?”
He shrugs, she can tell. “Maybe.”
“Look, Chris,” she laughs. “I have no fucking clue on how to clean a stain on the carpet professionally. How about you call a helpline or something?”
“Yeah, sure, let me call a fucking helpline Jal. What am I supposed to say? ‘Er, hi, I need some help because if I don’t clean this stain properly I’m going to kill myself?’ Jesus Christ, talk about wasting resources. Could’ve helped poor Sid, you know, with his virginity problem during that. Time badly spent, I say.”
She frowns. “What has that got to do with anything?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Fuckin’ everythin’, yeah? Just ... Sid’s problems are my problems. We’re like ... amigos.”
“I think you need three for that.”
“Yeah, well ...” He sighs, frustrated. “How the fuck am I gonna clean this carpet? What happens if I wanted to enter it into some fucking carpet competition? Like flower competitions. I could’ve won this, you know, and there goes my whole future as a ... an efficient carpet cleaner. And it’s all your fault, so, bear that on your shoulders.”
“Dream big, Chris,” she laughs.
“Yeah, alright. See you later. ‘Night, Jalapeno.”
-
He calls again. If she’s lucky, he calls once a day. The topics range from cupboards to the most effective spider cleaner to challenging her to make her bed quicker than him. She doesn’t let herself think it more than once a day, usually within the early minutes of waking up, that she enjoys this.
Today, he calls in the morning. It’s an hour later than his usual time. Jal looks at her clock before clicking a button on her phone, connecting him to her. “Chris, what do you want this time?” she sighs into the phone. She falls back onto her bed.
“Whatcha wearin’?” he laughs.
*
The good thing is is that Chris hasn’t travelled. Every muscle and nerve in his body has relaxed. The tension has receded out of him like waves returning to the centre of the ocean, leaving the sand alone. Chris doesn’t let himself think it for too long, or more than once a day, but he wonders whether this is the end. Has he stopped travelling?
The bad thing is Jal’s current situation. He doesn’t understand why it’s necessarily ‘bad’, or why she’s fretting over it because shouldn’t she know what to do? Isn’t it written in the DNA of a girl to know what type of dress goes with what event?
He’s followed her into Michelle’s kitchen. The group is in the lounge room, watching some shitty movie Anwar hired from the DVD shop a few streets away.
He places his hands in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He stays by the door, watching her grab a glass from one of the higher cupboards. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. He refrains himself from making a ‘short ass’ comment. “Why so angry, Angry-Boots?” Chris says, smiling with teeth. She really hates that name.
She places the glass on the counter by the sink and turns around. She goes to the fridge and fishes out a bottle of lemonade that’s almost empty. “I have to buy a fucking dress,” Jal says, pouting almost. She fills up her glass, it reaches halfway, and places the empty bottle on the counter near a tiny bin sitting in the corner. When she turns to face him, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest with her brows drawn together.
“Well, then,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better to say. He finds himself wanting to respond to Jal more and more these days. Weird fluttery things are in his stomach. Anwar’s PHD in Wikipedia has him diagnosed with a Vitamin D disorder which requires the amputation of his leg and the transplant of his kidney. All he knows is he really doesn’t like Maxxie’s diagnosis that uses some metaphor with butterflies. He dislikes the little fluttery creatures. He plasters on a big smile as he approaches her, taking a long sip of the flat lemonade from her glass. He elbows Jal in the side, perhaps a little too hard, “You better find one, eh?”
Jal glares at him. “Fuckin’ Michelle’s too busy with Tony.”
“Ah, the tongue trick,” he says before he thinks.
Jal elbows his side. It’s a lot harder than his jab, he thinks.
-
After the movie, they disperse. Tony and Michelle move upstairs as Anwar moves outside to practice his awkward break-dancing and Jal stays in the lounge room, flicking through channels. Maxxie and Chris linger in the kitchen.
Maxxie’s drinking orange juice from a glass when Chris says, “So, I’ve been havin’ these pains, yeah?”
Maxxie has a little trouble swallowing. Chris guesses he wasn’t ready for this - whatever this is. Chris has never been one to acknowledge feelings that weren’t something pertaining to spliff and the need for spliff and his love for spliff. He’d learnt an entire passage from Romeo and Juliet just to simply quote to spliff. Maxxie places the glass down and coughs a little. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.
“Like, fuckin’ heart palpitations or somethin’.”
Maxxie narrows his eyes. “Like your heart is jumping?”
“Yes!” Chris claps. He points at Maxxie, lowering his voice, “That’s bloody it.”
“So ... when do these, er, happen?”
Chris isn’t quick to respond. He looks away from Maxxie, feeling his face burn.
“Oh,” says Maxxie. He’s nodding. “So it’s like that.”
Chris doesn’t know what ‘that’ is, but he does know this is the start to confiding in Maxxie. He does so three times later that day.
*
“So what time are we going to meet up, ‘Chelle?” Michelle looks at her blankly. “For shopping,” she says, annunciating the words.
“You know, Jal,” Michelle says, her eyes skittering to the side. Jal suddenly feels frustration swell in her stomach like the ocean under the hands of a manipulative storm. “I’m awfully busy with Tony this week - you know, with course work and all that - and maybe you could ask someone else?” Michelle says, her voice pitching up slightly in that obvious way of her bullshitting. She cocks her eyebrow slightly, flinching away from Jal slightly.
“Who the fuck am I gonna ask, ‘Chelle? Anwar?” Jal doesn’t say this, but, all Anwar’s concerned about is how much a dress can expose her tits.
Michelle shrugs. “What about Maxxie?”
“Just because Maxxie’s gay doesn’t mean he’s any good at picking out clothes,” Jal says. She sighs. “You know, I was really looking forward to this, ‘Chelle.”
Michelle laughs. “Sure, Jal. You, plus me, and shopping never equals enjoyment, especially for you.”
-
Jal thumps her fist against his door. He opens, eyes shut and his hair askew.
Jal looks at him and hesitates slightly before asking, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Me?” he points to himself and looks around. There’s no one in the house. His mother has gone to work or gone down to the pub or something that she usually does. Jal hasn’t met her enough times, nor heard about her enough, to know who Mrs Miles is. “Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “nothin’.”
“You’re taking me shopping,” she says. “I’m sick of waiting for fucking Michelle.”
“Oh, because Tony’s fu -” He yelps as she pulls him down the few steps in front of his house. “Alrighty,” he says, grinning, his voice suddenly alive and missing its sleepy slur. “I always knew you wanted me this bad -”
She slams the gate behind her. He walks into it.
-
“So,” Chris swallows. “Why do you need a dress?”
“To fucking wear, Chris.” Jal grabs his wrist and pulls him into a store.
“Oh,” he rolls his eyes, causing Jal to scowl. He tries to pep his voice up, “Right.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s for Ace and Lynton’s party. They’ve finally gotten their act together and gotten some gigs at some clubs without Dad’s silver tongue.”
“Oh, really! Well, tell them I say congrats.” She rolls her eyes. She picks out a blue dress and holds it against herself. Chris’ eyebrows scrunch. “Really?”
Jal exhales. “It’s green.”
“I think you’re mistaken Jal,” he says, grabbing the dress. He looks at it more closely, as if to see whether there’s any green thread visible in it. He figures, since he’s a bloke, he’s got some sort of colour-blind disorder when it comes to dresses. “It’s blue.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You know, if you keep doin’ that, your face will be permanently stuck like that if you get caught in particularly nasty wind.”
“I don’t think it applies to my eyes, Chris.”
He pauses for a few seconds. “No,” he says, finally, his finger on his chin. “I’m pretty sure it does.”
He’s pretty sure Jal blindly tears the dresses off the rack in a fit to get away from him. He doesn’t know why she just doesn’t ask Sidney. He’s much more fitting to the type of being the escort on these little missions, in Chris’ opinion. Although, he remembers vaguely about Sid and Tony blabbering on about one of Sid’s escapades in regards to dress shopping and that just increasing the idea of Michelle perceiving him as anything but a rival for her affections. Chris is pretty sure he’s written some sort of essay on this for Psychology.
“So,” she says, turning to him, snapping him from his thoughts. “Which one do I end up wearing?” She stands there, with her hands sitting on her hips with dresses spouting out from them. She’s acting like he knows everything, which boots his confidence and fattens his head, but confuses him in the process. He hasn’t been travelling much over the past years. It only happens sporadically, like Anwar scoring a girl.
Chris blinks. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “You travel, Chris. You travel to the future, yeah?”
“Er,” he blinks, “not too far into it. No.”
Jal shakes her head, looking at the racks. “You’re hopeless,” she mumbles.
“But,” Chris points, clicking his fingers, “what I do know is that, er, you look good in a nice colour, like ... like ...” he’s searching the racks and pulls out a black dress. “Like this.” From what he sees of it, it’s nice, with a nice, v-neck that’s more Jal’s style, and it rests at the knees, he suspects, when he holds it up to her frame.
She swats him away, returning to the rack. He sees her eyes flickering to the dress, as if assessing it. “Black is a shade, Chris.”
“Well, isn’t that just bullying to the highest degree.” He thrusts the dress at her, watching her as she inspects it. “You know, Jal, I expected much more from you. You’re attitude is appalling.”
She laughs. “It’s alright, Chris.”
“’Alright’? Seriously? Are you calling my dress ... finding ... private detective work ‘alright’? Jesus, remind me to never ask you for a reference on my character. You’d just say ‘Chris is alright, his arse is alright, you know, he’s just alright’.”
“Alright,” she laughs. “I get your point.”
“See, this ‘alright’ business is startin’ to catch on like the fuckin’ plague.”
*
(1998) ; chris is 17, peter is 11
It’s almost Christmas.
He winds up in a park, as always, whenever he visits Peter. He remembers it used to be Peter’s favourite place. Every day, after school, they’d go to the park as they waited for Mum to come back home. She’d always come home twenty minutes after they did, finding them in the park.
He stands behind a tree, feeling his body still riding the waves of the travel. They don’t dissipate as they usually do. He knows this trip is going to be short. When he looks up into the shadows of the tree branches, he sees the old Christmas lights hanging loosely from the lower branches. The lights aren’t on yet. They’ll cease being seen shining brightly in the night as the years pass by.
He sees Peter, and himself, playing in the sandbox. Peter’s trying to build a castle while Chris keeps smashing it down with his fists. He’s laughing as Peter scowls. He sees their mother in the distance, approaching them. Her frame looks fuller, brighter, if possible, and she’s smiling, laughing as Chris claps his hands and yells out to her.
The wind brushes his fingertips forcefully, although, when he remembers later, there was none. As his fingers fade and the rest of his limbs follow, Chris tries to remember the last time he heard his mother laugh.
When he materialises back home, he can’t remember a single time at all.
He walks to her room, passing the kitchen and the tangled Christmas lights piled up in the corner. He was going to hang them up on the house, or line the pathway to the door, later in the day. When he reaches her door, the darkness of her room envelopes him, ridding the light that owns the hallway; he doesn’t need a light to know his mother is in bed.
“Where’d you go?” she slurs with sleep.
“I saw him,” he says quietly. He tries to spot her in the darkness. “I saw Peter. He’s happy.”
“He’s gone,” she moans over and over to herself, her words like blades cutting across his skin. Chris stares at the spot where he hears her voice fading, frowning as the darkness of the room drowns out her words.
He walks out the door and makes his way to the park.
*
three: 2008
“Mum’s gone,” Chris says. In his hand is an envelope. It’s a little thicker than the other ones. It feels heavier in his hand, like it’s made from lead. He places it down onto the table.
“She’s coming back, right?” Maxxie folds the tablecloth. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “she always comes back after a few days. Yeah?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man,” he closes the envelope and places it on the table, pressing his palm heavily against it. “Maybe not this time.”
-
She doesn’t come back after her usual two week escape.
Maxxie follows him as he walks into the living room. Chris closes a window, listening for the thump sound to tell him that it is locked. He’s developed a habit of locking all the doors and windows when he leaves and when he’s at home. The only time he opens the window is if he’s in the room.
Maxxie sits down on the lounge. “So, where are you staying?”
Chris shrugs, double checking the window is securely locked. He doesn’t face Maxxie when he says, “Dunno, man.”
He sits down on the couch, near the end. They end up watching cartoons for the rest of the day.
-
Jal offers him a place to stay. He doesn’t think to take her up on it. Her father resembles an axe murderer from one of the late movies that air on the television in the early hours of the morning. Chris doesn’t need to take Psychology to know Mr Fazer doesn’t like him at all.
He ends up at Angie’s, somehow. She’s the ‘x’ marked on the pirate map. The blur of their tentative relationship sends Chris swirling with dizziness; he can’t remember how he got from Point A to Point B to the ‘x’. He isn’t able to recall how they end up where they are, but he isn’t shy when he says he likes it.
He stays with her for a month before he finds the hidden treasure.
*
Chris likes the guy-walks-into-the-bar jokes.
A horse walked into a bar, and the bartender said, "How come the long face?
A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel hanging from his belt. The bartender asks, “What’s that for?” The pirate responds, “Aarr, it’s driving me nuts.”
Two guys walks into a bar, the third one ducks.
A guy walks into a bus -
-
Chris sits by Jal in the hospital. “You know how people ask ‘Where were you when Diana died?’?”
Jal hums, keeping her eyes to the floor. Her shoes are dirty.
“Well, I never know. When someone asks me ‘Where were you when Tony -’”
“Chris,” Jal says, touching his wrist. “Tony isn’t going to -”
“Oh no,” Chris says, shaking his head. He tries to release his wrist from her light grasp but she tightens her hold. “Everyone who comes here ends up dead, sooner or later.”
“Chris -”
He shoots up, their hands disconnecting. “I’m gonna go get a bag of chips. You want some?”
Jal shakes her head. Chris disappears down the hall.
*
(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18
Chris materialises in the changing rooms of the public pool. He remembers it vaguely, having learnt how to do the basic strokes of dog paddle when he was a kid.
He searches through all the bags and open lockers in hopes of clothes. All he finds are small children’s clothes. Eventually, in what he thinks is some office, he finds some gear the staff wear. It’s a horrid bright yellow, brighter than any shade he’s ever owned, and some board shorts that make him feel more exposed than the time he wore a dress without any underwear on.
He walks out, although timidly. He’s never dressed up this horrendously before on one of his travels. He can hear a lesson being taught with kids screaming in hysterics and in laughter, clashing together so hideously like cats screeching in the rain. Instantly, he spots Tony. He’s struggling, sort of. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before. He seems more confident in the movement of his arms and the kick of his legs. Mr Stonem looks happier, prouder of Tony’s progress.
He tries to place this moment in time but comes up blank.
He makes his way out of the pool area, hopefully unseen by the Stonems. Near the food, he finds the table he once sat at with Tony. He sits at one in the corner. The one thing he’s learnt, so far, is to stay out of sight. It’s like one of those Marty McFly things, where you shouldn’t be in the same room as your past or future self because, lets be frank, you’ll fuck something up. And if Chris’ only purpose in life is one thing, it’s to do just that - not purposefully, though.
He tries to listen for some inkling of what time he’s in, what place. He’s unsure if Tony’s the Tony he thinks he’s come to. He can still hear the screams of the kids from here, overcrowding his thoughts. He’s got a nervewracking headache.
Eventually, the lesson ends. Tony’s near him within ten minutes after the screams end. He’s at the counter, buying a tuna sandwich. Chris tries not to stare at Tony as he tries to place him. He watches him thank the lady behind the counter, offer her a friendly smile, and sit down at the table he once sat across from him.
He gives it one second of a thought before he moves and sits across from Tony.
Tony looks startled.
“Hi, Tony,” Chris says, albeit a little hesitantly. He’s never encountered a Tony where he wasn’t aware of his comings and goings. It’s always been other people he seems to gravitate towards in his journeys. He’s unsure if this will be his first.
“You’re exceptionally older,” Tony says, instantly ridding Chris of his thoughts. He wonders if Tony ever not knows about this. “Travelling doesn’t seem to be doing you any good ... facially.”
“Well, they haven’t invented travelling anti-wrinkle cream yet, Tone.”
Tony smiles, taking a bite of his sandwich. Chris ignores the rumble of his stomach, placing his hands on the arm rests of the silver seat. His burning palms sting against the chilled metal. “So,” Tony sits up straighter. “Why are you here?”
“Have no clue,” Chris shrugs. “Just ... come here.”
Tony nods. “I know I’m irresistible.”
Chris rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate.”
“Tuna sandwich?” Tony thrusts the sandwich container at him. He shakes his head. Tony shrugs, “Your loss.”
Chris blinks.
“You alright, Chris?”
He nods. “Yeah,” he says, struggling to swallow. “I’m just ... going.”
He disappears.
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18
He goes to the swimming pool.
“Chris,” Tony gestures to the empty seat across from him. He’s eating another tuna sandwich. “You’re old.”
“You keep telling me, mate,” Chris says, sitting.
“Sandwich?” Tony asks, pushing the container close to Chris.
“Nah thanks. Can’t travel on a full stomach.”
“Does it get better?”
“What does?”
Tony shrugs, looking down at himself.
Chris slaps his shoulder. “All in due time, mate.”
Tony smiles. “When are you leaving?”
Chris shrugs. “Probably not for a while.”
Tony nods. “Well, mate, you got any cards? I’m going to slay you in some poker.”
*
“Where do you go, man?” Anwar says. “I’d go to Las Vegas. Smack in the middle of a strip club, yeah?”
Chris shrugs. “Never been out of the fucking country, man.” “One time I got excited that I was in Australia but I woke up in the bloody zoo.”
Chris points his cigarette at Maxxie. “Now, listen here, you lot.” “Never trust a fuckin’ kangaroo.” He puts the cigarette in his mouth. “They’re like women.” Jal’s brow immediately scrunches, though she’s laughing.
*
(2008) chris is 18, tony is 18
It’s the day of the bus crash.
Chris is too late.
*
four: 2009
(2009) chris is 19, tony is 19
“Why do you keep travelling?” Tony asks as he eats a tuna sandwich. He pushes the sandwich container closer to him, hinting he should take the other piece. Chris doesn’t, despite the slight rumble of his stomach. He’s tired of taking things from his friends. Tony looks up at him from his sandwich. “Do you know?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man. Jus’ happens.”
“Really,” he states. “You have no clue how it happens?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not a clue.”
Tony shrugs. “Maybe you do something. Maybe it’s like ... vertigo. You go near flashing lights and something in you snaps and you travel.”
Chris shrugs. “Maybe there is no reason.”
*
five: 2010
chris is 20, jal is 20
There are five moments Chris remembers distinctly in 2010:
Un: He learnt French.
Deux: He learnt that if you cannot find a turban to hide drugs in, Sid’s ass should never be a back-up option.
Trois: He learnt that he really likes seeing Angie naked.
Quatre: He learnt that Jal looks good in her ‘green’ dress.
Cinq: He learnt that Jal was his beginning.
Not specifically in that order.
*
Un: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20
“What would be one thing you’d change about yourself?” Michelle says, lying flat on her stomach. Jal picks at the grass as Chris taps his chin with his finger.
“I’d smoke cigars,” he says.
Michelle laughs. “That’s not an answer.”
“You asked what I wanted. I want a cigar.”
“What about you, Jal?”
She shrugs. “I want to be a musician.”
Chris rips some blades and throws them at her. “That’s nothin’ new.”
Jal shrugs. “Well, I dunno. I’d pick better friends,” she laughs as Chris throws more grass her way. Dirt, from some of the roots, clings to her clothes. She brushes it off.
“Well, I change my answer,” Chris says, sitting up straighter. “I’d learn French. It reels in the ladies.”
Anwar laughs. “I wouldn’t change anythin’. Just give myself more girls.”
Jal narrows her eyes. “You’d have to have girls to begin with.”
Chris throws more grass at her. “Be nice,” he says, laughing. “Anwar has many girls. In his dreams.”
Michelle clears her throat, brushing some of the loose grass blades Chris has placed on her legs off her pants. “What about you, Max?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. I’d probably own a motorbike. Y’know, so one of us would have a method of transportation. My legs ache from all the walkin’.”
“You do need it, though,” Chris laughs.
“I dunno what I’d want,” says Sid. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Probably get rid of these glasses. Have, like, night vision. Be some sort of superhero.”
Chris pulls at the lapels of his jacket, his fingers itching for the grass. He says, “Don’t go near any spiders, yeah, Sid? You’ll die. Not grow powers.” Sid rolls his eyes.
“What about you, ‘Chelle?” Jal says.
She shrugs. “Tony,” she says quietly. She glances to a space in their little circle. “I’d have him be with me that night.”
Chris looks down. Jal reaches out and slides her arm along Michelle’s shoulders.
“You’re so selfless,” Anwar says, “you’d make a hot superhero.”
Jal narrows her eyes and shakes her head. Chris yanks out some grass, pegging it at Anwar’s face.
-
“Mademoiselle,” Chris gives her a packet of chips. “Je suis, chips.”
Jal takes the packet from him. She opens it, offering him the chips inside. He fishes a few out of the packet, popping them noisily into his mouth. “You know you just said your name is chips?”
“Puck,” he says.
“Why are you learning French, anyway?” Jal scrunches up the packet, opening it again to see the large chips in crumbles.
Chris shrugs. “To woo the ladies. There’s fierce competition out there.”
Jal laughs. “Like who?”
“The Shakespeare nerds. I hear girls eat that shit up. The only way to beat them is to French ‘em.”
“Chris.”
He fishes for more chips in the packet. “Why do you turn them into crumbs? You do know there’s more air in the packet than chips, yeah?”
Jal rolls her eyes. “I like turning them into crumbs,” she says, shrugging. “It’s something to do.”
“Something to do,” Chris mutters. “You know, instead of turning perfectly fine chips into dust, you could be helping me learn French. You know Jal,” he says, fishing for more chips. He piles them in his palm and picks up a few at a time. “You wouldn’t make a good superhero. You’d make an excellent villain. Like Catwoman.”
“Catwoman -”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his hands. Some of the chips fall to the floor. “But you’d look good in latex, is all I’m saying.”
Jal throws the packet of chips at him, laughing.
*
Trois: (2010) chris is 20
What he learns quickly with Angie is that she takes incredibly long showers. He doesn’t have the patience to wait for her to get out. He’s got college and bus stop meetings and walking to do during his day, when he’s not with her. His time with her has been growing drastically. His time without her diminishing.
So he slides out of the bed, leaving the sheets a mess. He walks into her bathroom; slides open the shower door, and steps in. He remembers the first time he did this, Angie shrieked, telling him she was naked and made it out to be the biggest deal in the world. In response, he had laughed, saying, “I’ve already seen the goods”, accompanied it with a shrug, and ever since then, things have moved on from there.
Chris never knew he would be capable of learning a lesson within a lesson. But what he also learns, and later forgets, is that living with Angie is “fuckin’ ace”.
*
Quatre: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20
Ace and Lynton’s gig isn’t all that bad. The club is nice. The drinks are even better. But he doesn’t understand why, of all things, they’re sitting down in the furthest corner, trying to talk over the music. Chris’ legs want him to get up and jump. Jal’s missing from their group. Michelle suggests they sit and wait for her. “After all,” she says, “we are her guests.” She looks pointedly at Tony, who is currently suffering from Wandering Eye Syndrome.
Jal slides onto the booth next to Maxxie. The dress is a strapless red dress that ends at her knees. It doesn’t expose nor cover too much. Chris had been adamant that she buy a blue dress that had a v-neck that dipped dangerously low.
“Nice dress,” Anwar says, staring straight at her chest.
Jal rolls her eyes and slaps him upside the head. “Thanks, Muslim Boy.”
Chris nods his head to the beat. “Nice party.”
Jal cocks her eyebrow. “I’ll tell Ace and Lynton you said that, yeah?” She doesn’t sound impressed.
Michelle looks at her. She tries to keep Tony in her grasp but he manages to slip away. So does Anwar and Maxxie. “I thought you were getting a green dress.”
“I told her,” Chris says, “to fuck the environment.”
Jal frowns. “Are you drunk?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, just drunk on anti-environmentalism.” He looks at Michelle. “Where’s your arm piece?”
Michelle narrows her eyes at him and slides out of the booth. She goes in search of Tony.
“That wasn’t nice.”
Chris shrugs. “Fuck it. I’m a bitch. What are you gonna do?”
Jal rolls her eyes. “You better fuckin’ dance with me. And not ditch me. I hate Lynton’s friends.” She says, sliding out of the booth and starts walking to where Ace and Lynton are holding a small concert. Chris slides out ungracefully, following her.
*
Cinq: (2018) chris is 20, jal is 28
He ends up outside a small house. It is homey, with two steps leading up to a veranda bordered by a ledge. The lawn is green and the grass blades are short and evenly cut.
When he walks up to the front, there are clothes sitting on a swinging chair. A piece of paper lays on the neat pile. Chris, it says in familiar writing. He quickly dresses in the slacks and business shirt. As he’s doing up the buttons of the shirt, he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns and sees Jal with paper bags in her hands. Chris has never seen her look so stunned before.
She walks up to him, slowly at first, and places the bags on the ledge. She envelopes him in a hug and he buries his face, hopefully inconspicuously, into her neck. Her hands snake up his neck, leaving a light ticklish path beneath her fingers, until she reaches his cheeks and settles her palms against them like the sun on his face. She pulls away and she pulls his face to hers, mouth to mouth like two palms when they press to pray. “I’ve missed you,” he hears murmured against his mouth, imprinted within the lines of his lips for what he thinks is forever.
Within moments, when there’s a breath between their mouths, he disappears.
part two
masterpost | i | ii | iii
the beginning
a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.
- lao tzu
-
zero:
(2007); chris is 17 and jal is 17
They’re walking in the park one day, their hands barely brushing.
She asks him what it’s like - to disappear. She thinks it’s like a whisper; the journey of a feather in mid-air, a peaceful descent from the heavens onto the earth.
She misses the scrunch of his face as he debates his words, for once. He weighs them in his head. She thinks, for a moment, that perhaps this isn’t her Chris. Perhaps this is future’s Chris. She wonders whether her future self still belongs with him.
“I really fuckin’ hate it, sometimes,” Chris says. His fingers brush against hers for barely a second. He pauses as he looks up at the sky, his eyes darting everywhere but her face. His cheeks are slightly pink. “I always lose my shoes.”
*
one: 2001
chris is 12, chris is 23
The house is quiet when it happens for the first time.
Chris remembers feeling this unbearable ache in the pit of his stomach. He remembers he tried to claw it out of himself, scratching his stomach with blunt fingernails to no end. His room was always too dark. The hallway outside was always too frightening with shadows crawling up the paint stained walls. If Peter was here, he thinks, the shadows would retreat into the crevices of the house, never to be seen. It’d be like the sun, peeking through the clouds on grey, murky days.
His mother lies in bed, wrapped in darkness. She drinks more and more from bottles that used to be hidden on the top shelf of the fridge behind cartons of milk and containers of butter. Now, they sit scattered along her floor and drawers. The fridge shelves are empty.
He sits in his room with the sun scathing across his back from his window. Peter always told him this would get rid of the monsters and protect him when he’s not there to do so. A temporary fix, he used to say.
Chris remembers feeling himself, so solid and so heavy; begin to feel light, like a feather. He felt as though he was losing consciousness as his fingertips began to fade along with the rest of his body in an agonisingly slow process. As the fading swallows him whole, he feels its mouth lightly tickling his skin. He wonders, for a brief second, if this is what it was like for Peter when he disappeared.
Chris materialises somewhere in a cemetery. He recognises it, vaguely. He turns around and sees headstones with names engraved into them, a ‘Margaret Thomason, a beloved mother’ and ‘Jacob Everett’, the blades of grass covering his dedication.
He stumbles towards a thick tree he remembers guarding Peter’s grave from the dark monsters. He stands on weak legs as he looks down at the headstone, the large rectangular hole dug into the earth, empty and waiting. It feels like a vacuum, impatiently waiting for Peter.
“Hey,” he hears, a hand resting on his shoulder. He jumps, turning around to see a taller man behind him. He’s wearing a suit with a bright pink tie. “It’s gonna be okay.” The man kneels down on his knees to level their faces. “I’m Chris.”
Chris blinks, words cling to the tip of his tongue as he feels the light-headedness swirl through his body, his fingertips tingling as they start to fade. This monster takes hold of him despite his protests, just like Peter. “You can’t take him,” he manages as he disappears.
He returns to his house. His feet feel the dampness of the earth cling to his skin like a distant memory. He stands stark naked in his living room.
For the next three months, he finds himself standing in the living room, waiting for Peter to follow him. Despite his calling out to him, he never does.
*
two: 2007
(2007) chris is 17, jal is 17
They walk to the party of some girl Tony’s most likely shagged. The walk is long. Michelle complains about her heels while Chris swallows his comments about walking bare feet as he does not want to endure the lecture of how bare feet on cement is not good for one’s nail polished toes. He glances at Jal, seeing the stern set of her face, and ponders, quickly, about whether he should open his mouth or not. He hasn’t seen her smile today.
He walks behind everyone, with Jal drifting between Maxxie, who is in front of him. Chris thinks about saying a lot of things, like, ‘Jal, how about you go talk to Maxxie about his godawful haircut?’ or ‘Jal, I’m a big kid, despite my choice in pants. I don’t need a babysitter’ or ‘Jal, I know what’s buggin’ you and I’ve got it under control. You’re far too pretty to have stress lines on your face now.’
Jal sticks to him like the good glue he can’t afford. It reminds him, sometimes, of the days where he was smaller, and shorter, and had good sense. In class, when everything was very much black and white and technicolour didn’t exist, he liked cutting ovals from odd bits of paper and sticking them together to create a thick odd circle-like thing that was meant to create the sun. The two halves would still stick together with their partnered pieces of paper, regardless of Tony’s tiny fingers trying to rip them apart.
He thinks to tell her she can leave him alone. The only harm he can do is something he cannot control. He’s practised this conversation many times in his head, usually to his fish, early in the mornings when the sky is yawning. ‘Jal,’ he’d say, ‘sometimes Daisy likes to drive herself’ and she’d say in return, ‘Sure, Chris,’ and she’d hit him upside the head. Hard.
He regrets watching that movie whenever he thinks of these scenarios.
-
They get there, eventually. Tony and Sid set the pace, and that’s one of a snail. The sun has lowered itself from the last time Chris checked. He looks to the pavement to see the incoming darkness stealing away his shadow.
Once inside, they scatter. The glue between Chris and Jal starts to loosen, becoming weaker and weaker with the attractive pull of the spliff for him and the outside patio for her. He tries to keep an eye out for Jal, but she’s lost in the sea of colourful plaid and disco lights.
It happens much sooner than before. He’s in the usual place, some room down the hall that has family photographs hidden away on a bookshelf with a lot of thick volumes of intelligent stuff, when he’s piling the pills in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He keeps a few in his palm, just like the other two guys. One is blonde, with green eyes and a wonky nose, the other has brown hair and a horrific tan. Chris tries to not make eye contact.
He’s popping pills when the world begins to spin. Jal doesn’t understand what is happening but he can hear her fear and confusion and frustration when he shouts “Chris!” She’s following him as he pushes his way through all the people in this house. It’s suddenly too dark, too loud, and everyone is pressing in on him. He feels hot, feels his skin begin to sweat. He manages blindly to get to the bathroom and slams the door shut, turning on the tap and wetting his face.
But, to no avail.
His fingertips fade first, disappearing like waves retreating back into the ocean after they’ve touched the beach. He tries to tear his fingers back, urge the skin to retreat from their disappearing act. It spreads so quickly, like a disease, and he finds himself disappearing into darkness. He only catches a glimpse of it reflected back in the mirror before he’s gone.
He hears Jal, vaguely, yelling through the door.
-
Jal sits with her back against the bathroom door. She feels her spine settle uncomfortably against it, with the carpet underneath her bare legs irritating her skin. She never really understands this.
She tries to hear through the thick door. She hears nothing except the commotion from downstairs. The music is too loud for her taste, the beer, which doesn’t taste like beer, settles too thickly in her throat whenever she drinks it, and her friends are too blind to see through the popping lights to notice that Chris is gone.
Whenever this happens, Jal guards the door to where he’s run off to. She doesn’t really know why she waits. She’s never really been good at it. Jal blames her mother for this. She remembers staying up late when she was younger, by the window of her bedroom, waiting to see her mother’s silhouette appear in the shadows in the darkest hours of the night. She’d wait until she could do it no more, with sleep pushing her eyes closed and the patience out of her. Jal has no patience for Michelle’s antics with Tony. She has no patience for Anwar’s horrible stories about the times he’s slept with some girl, which always turns out to be untrue. Yet, she has patience for this.
Kids trip over her extended legs as she tries to make her feet touch the opposite wall. Aggravation settles into its home in her muscles. Nonetheless, she relaxes against the door.
Chris never says much about it. But, she figures, she’ll wait for him for when he does need to talk.
-
He doesn’t explain it when he comes back, early the next morning. He materialises in a room and finds his way through the lifeless bodies spread out on the floor to the bathroom. He dresses, slowly, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.
Chris finds the kitchen, sees Jal sitting there, a glass of water almost empty in her hands. She’s staring at nothing, holding the glass in her palms.
He approaches her timidly, his hands in his shirt pockets. “Are you alright?”
“I thought ...” Jal says, but stops, taking a sip from her glass. She empties it. “I thought ...” she starts again and looks at him this time. “I don’t know what I think, Chris. What the fuck?”
“I ... travelled,” he says, shrugging. She knows this.
She shakes her head. “It’s how you do it.”
“It’s not like I can fucking control it, Jal. If I could, I’d never do it.”
Jal shakes her head. “No, Chris. You can control it. You can always control it.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, moving to the sink and grabbing a glass from the bench. He fills it to the brim and takes long gulps from it. He puts it down on the bench; half empty, and looks out the window. The sun is glaring hard against all surfaces. He breathes in and out of his nose, hearing Jal tap her fingers against the class before stopping herself. He turns, watching the back of her head. “How you going to get home?” he says, softer.
She shrugs. “Michelle’s fucking gone.” She mutters, “As always.”
“How ‘bout I walk you home, then?”
Jal turns, shifting herself as best she can on the stool. She thinks for a moment then nods. “Alright.”
He takes the glass from her and places it in the sink. “Someone else’s bloody mess to clean up,” he says as an attempt at humour. Jal’s mouth flickers up for a second.
They walk through the throng of bodies, only recognising Anwar’s naked ass. “Trust me,” Chris says, “you don’t want that in your face.” Jal cocks her eyebrow. “What?” Chris’ shoulders raise up high dramatically. “I’m just givin’ you future advice.”
Chris stops at the doorway, peering down at the litter of shoes. “Did you bring a purse or somethin’ to keep your delicates?” he says, looking down at the bags strewn haphazardly over the shoes. “This is horrific security for valuables,” he mutters to himself.
“I keep everything in my pocket, Chris,” Jal mumbles. He stares down at the shoes, wondering where his pair are. He picks out a pair of thongs from underneath a long, leather boot and slips them on. He grimaces at the slime he feels underneath his feet. He watches Jal pull her own shoes out. They’re leopard print flats, the kind of shoes he’s never seen her wear before. They’re more Michelle’s style, if he had to pinpoint. They sit side by side, unharassed, underneath at least, what he estimates to be, two layers of shoes.
“How the fu -” he starts. Jal sighs. He stops.
She slips them on as he moves shoes away from the door. He opens it for her. “I hope you know you’re wearing an endangered animal on your feet.”
“It’s fake, Chris,” she sighs, exasperated.
They walk down the veranda. Chris stops. “Who the fuck’s house is this?”
Chris doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, but they eventually find their way.
-
Jal wants to talk about it. It sits heavily on her tongue for the next week and a half. They’re sitting outside on the grass, after a bullshit lesson of Psychology. The lesson: Chris made eyes at Angie, Angie cried over some P.E. teacher, and Jal learns nothing she hadn’t read in the textbook.
They sit out on the grass in their odd shaped circle. The grass itches at the palms of her hands from where she rests them, brushing the blades back and forth as she waits for something. Anwar’s digging through his bag and Maxxie’s tapping out some rhythm. “You’re awfully unopinionated,” Chris says, nudging her leg with two of his fingers. “Where’s the spitfire?”
Jal narrows her eyes when she looks at him. The uneasy smile on his face wavers, falling off so quickly to be replaced with a strained pull of the mouth. Eventually, she says, “I’m tired.” She pushes herself up off the grass, wiping the few stray blades off her backside, and grabs her bag. Placing the strap over her shoulder, she looks at him. “I’m going to go study, since no one here is talking.”
“What’s up your ass, Jal?” Anwar says, laughing. “We’re just gettin’ started. Melanie’s havin’ a party this Thursday -”
Jal walks off. It doesn’t deter Anwar, or anyone else, from talking. Though she doesn’t hear Chris’ voice in the sea.
-
Jal cools down. Eventually.
Chris notices. A year ago it used to take her a week to calm down. She’d forgive him in her own way by agreeing to meet him early in the morning so he could walk her to college or they’d sit down outside on the grass together, her with her books and him with his spliff.
Now, they’re sitting on the grass. He’s on his stomach and she’s sitting with her legs thrown to the side. She’s picking at grass while he’s flipping through her book. He doesn’t understand why she reads so much. Jal always has textbooks or music books with her, or a tiny little novel hidden somewhere in her bag. He doesn’t understand her need to carry books around. Unless they’re there for her to hit him with.
“So, they don’t have breakfast at Tiffany’s I gather,” he says, more of a statement than a question. The impression he gives is one that he’s read this before. He’s read something on the Internet about it. Apparently it’s a movie and they smoke.
“No,” she throws a blade of grass away. “Not really.” She pauses. “I don’t think so?” her voice rises at the end. She snatches the book from him and quickly scans the pages. Chris is laughing. She laughs around forced lines. “Sod off, you bloody wanker.” She places the book beside her and continues picking at grass.
The air around them feels cooler. It has stopped picking at his skin.
*
Jal has never collected anything in her life besides her father’s posters and anger. It’s tonight that she’ll find herself collecting shoes, and she wonders, later, whether Chris ever knew about this.
They are at a party. They are always at a party, it seems. She hates the taste of the phrase in her mouth. She hates what happens at parties even more. Which is this: They go to a party. They separate. Chris does something. Chris disappears hurriedly to the closest bathroom or deserted room. She follows.
Jal follows Chris into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water and swallows a couple of pills. She doesn’t get a good look at them.
“Chris,” she says from her position behind him. He jumps at her voice. Water spills around them. He’s always had the habit of filling up his glass to the very top. He’s patting himself down when she says, “Do you really think you should be doing that?”
He stops, his hand pausing over his heart. “What?” he blinks. He looks at the glass in his hand, the water spilling down, passing over his thumb and fingers and dripping onto the once immaculate kitchen floor. “I’m doing the usual, Jalander,” he says, grinning.
She frowns. “Chris -”
“It’s a party,” he says, turning around and moving past her. “Have some fun.”
He disappears within five minutes.
-
Jal realises he is gone after ten minutes. It doesn’t sit well in her stomach.
She finds Maxxie near the overbearing speakers. He’s talking to some brown-haired boy. She’s almost touching his shoulder when he looks at her, grinning. “Where’s Chris?” Jal asks.
Maxxie shrugs. “Dunno.”
Jal pushes her way through the throng until she’s in the hallway by the door. It’s a little quieter. The floor is scattered with shoes. Near the middle of the floor, very close to the door, is Chris’ bright yellow shirt and checkered pants.
She moves towards the pile and picks up his clothes, folding them and laying them along her arm. She picks up his shoes.
She slides onto the floor and waits outside the dark den.
*
Chris usually goes when his mother leaves. He’s deduced it to the stress of the questions of when and if she’s coming back and why she’s left in the first place. None of them really get answered.
So when he doesn’t go, after the usual amount of time, which is three days after her ‘goodbye’ note, he sits outside on the stoop with Jal.
“It’s good,” she says, her voice low. “It means you’re probably getting over this thing.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Somethin’ is wrong. I’ve felt it before.”
She pauses. Tentatively, she says, “With Peter?” Chris doesn’t need to respond for her to know the answer. She clears her throat, moving her feet slightly on the steps. The pressure of the weight she has been placing on her ankles disappears. “Why don’t you stay with Tony?”
Chris shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to -”
“Tony suggested it.”
“Since when do you talk to Tony?”
She sighs. “He miscalls me and talks about Sid’s virginity.” She rolls her eyes.
Chris laughs. “C’mon, Jal,” he says, his voice a little lighter. “Why don’t you do us all a favour and pop his cherry?”
Jal frowns, hitting his shoulder. “I’m not a hooker!” She pauses. “Besides, he likes ‘Chelle.”
Chris shakes his head. “Tosser.”
-
He stays with Tony for a week. It’s the amount of time his parents are out of town. And, as it turns out, the amount of time his mother needs.
The week is uneventful. Chris doesn’t remember it, despite the lack of spliff intake. There is college, Angie, the grass, Effy’s double life, Chris feeling more exhausted than ever because of her (he wonders, does she ever sleep?) and the fish.
After college, he goes home to feed the fish. He doesn’t tell anyone that he checks every nook and cranny of the house for his mother.
-
The most exciting moment of his week is sitting at a bus stop with Jal. They do this, sometimes. They wait at the bus stop and fool the driver into thinking that they’re going to board. They never do. Chris doesn’t have enough money for bus fare.
A bus departs as the sun bakes through the shelter’s roof. Jal swings her legs slightly, her feet planted firmly on the ground.
He doesn’t look at her. He watches the road and houses straight on. “My mum’s back,” Chris tells her.
She nods, licking her lips. “That’s good,” she says, although she’s unsure if she believes it. He can feel it in the softness of her tone. She’s less forceful now, trying to implant her beliefs into him. She doesn’t believe his mother is something of permanence in his life. “Are you going back home?”
“Yeah,” Chris scratches the back of his neck. “I got to.”
“No one says you have to,” she says automatically.
He shakes his head, looking at her knees. “Nah, I need to.”
“Alright,” she says. He picks at the ends of his pants. She shrugs, trying to roll the sincerity away when she says, “But you’ve got my number.”
-
Chris does call her.
Ace and Lynton berate each other loudly. She places her hand over her ear and tries to smother them out. “Chris?” she moves out of the kitchen and walks up the stairs hurriedly. “What’s wrong?”
“How do I clean a stain on the carpet? Like, I’ve heard you can rub it into the carpet and it’s there forever and that there’s another way you can avoid that and be an efficient cleaner.”
She pauses in her ascent. “What?”
“I spilt something and I’ve got to clean it up, Jal. Keep up, will ya?”
She looks up to the ceiling, before taking slow steps up the rest of the stairs. She makes her way into her room and shuts the door. “I don’t know how to clean up ... spills. On carpets. Just ... dab it with a wet cloth?”
“See, Jal, that’s amateurish. Real cleaners have all this fancy shit that they use, you know? Like ... products.”
“Yeah?” she laughs. She sits on the edge of her bed. “You want to be a cleaner, now, Chris?”
He shrugs, she can tell. “Maybe.”
“Look, Chris,” she laughs. “I have no fucking clue on how to clean a stain on the carpet professionally. How about you call a helpline or something?”
“Yeah, sure, let me call a fucking helpline Jal. What am I supposed to say? ‘Er, hi, I need some help because if I don’t clean this stain properly I’m going to kill myself?’ Jesus Christ, talk about wasting resources. Could’ve helped poor Sid, you know, with his virginity problem during that. Time badly spent, I say.”
She frowns. “What has that got to do with anything?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Fuckin’ everythin’, yeah? Just ... Sid’s problems are my problems. We’re like ... amigos.”
“I think you need three for that.”
“Yeah, well ...” He sighs, frustrated. “How the fuck am I gonna clean this carpet? What happens if I wanted to enter it into some fucking carpet competition? Like flower competitions. I could’ve won this, you know, and there goes my whole future as a ... an efficient carpet cleaner. And it’s all your fault, so, bear that on your shoulders.”
“Dream big, Chris,” she laughs.
“Yeah, alright. See you later. ‘Night, Jalapeno.”
-
He calls again. If she’s lucky, he calls once a day. The topics range from cupboards to the most effective spider cleaner to challenging her to make her bed quicker than him. She doesn’t let herself think it more than once a day, usually within the early minutes of waking up, that she enjoys this.
Today, he calls in the morning. It’s an hour later than his usual time. Jal looks at her clock before clicking a button on her phone, connecting him to her. “Chris, what do you want this time?” she sighs into the phone. She falls back onto her bed.
“Whatcha wearin’?” he laughs.
*
The good thing is is that Chris hasn’t travelled. Every muscle and nerve in his body has relaxed. The tension has receded out of him like waves returning to the centre of the ocean, leaving the sand alone. Chris doesn’t let himself think it for too long, or more than once a day, but he wonders whether this is the end. Has he stopped travelling?
The bad thing is Jal’s current situation. He doesn’t understand why it’s necessarily ‘bad’, or why she’s fretting over it because shouldn’t she know what to do? Isn’t it written in the DNA of a girl to know what type of dress goes with what event?
He’s followed her into Michelle’s kitchen. The group is in the lounge room, watching some shitty movie Anwar hired from the DVD shop a few streets away.
He places his hands in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He stays by the door, watching her grab a glass from one of the higher cupboards. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. He refrains himself from making a ‘short ass’ comment. “Why so angry, Angry-Boots?” Chris says, smiling with teeth. She really hates that name.
She places the glass on the counter by the sink and turns around. She goes to the fridge and fishes out a bottle of lemonade that’s almost empty. “I have to buy a fucking dress,” Jal says, pouting almost. She fills up her glass, it reaches halfway, and places the empty bottle on the counter near a tiny bin sitting in the corner. When she turns to face him, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest with her brows drawn together.
“Well, then,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better to say. He finds himself wanting to respond to Jal more and more these days. Weird fluttery things are in his stomach. Anwar’s PHD in Wikipedia has him diagnosed with a Vitamin D disorder which requires the amputation of his leg and the transplant of his kidney. All he knows is he really doesn’t like Maxxie’s diagnosis that uses some metaphor with butterflies. He dislikes the little fluttery creatures. He plasters on a big smile as he approaches her, taking a long sip of the flat lemonade from her glass. He elbows Jal in the side, perhaps a little too hard, “You better find one, eh?”
Jal glares at him. “Fuckin’ Michelle’s too busy with Tony.”
“Ah, the tongue trick,” he says before he thinks.
Jal elbows his side. It’s a lot harder than his jab, he thinks.
-
After the movie, they disperse. Tony and Michelle move upstairs as Anwar moves outside to practice his awkward break-dancing and Jal stays in the lounge room, flicking through channels. Maxxie and Chris linger in the kitchen.
Maxxie’s drinking orange juice from a glass when Chris says, “So, I’ve been havin’ these pains, yeah?”
Maxxie has a little trouble swallowing. Chris guesses he wasn’t ready for this - whatever this is. Chris has never been one to acknowledge feelings that weren’t something pertaining to spliff and the need for spliff and his love for spliff. He’d learnt an entire passage from Romeo and Juliet just to simply quote to spliff. Maxxie places the glass down and coughs a little. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.
“Like, fuckin’ heart palpitations or somethin’.”
Maxxie narrows his eyes. “Like your heart is jumping?”
“Yes!” Chris claps. He points at Maxxie, lowering his voice, “That’s bloody it.”
“So ... when do these, er, happen?”
Chris isn’t quick to respond. He looks away from Maxxie, feeling his face burn.
“Oh,” says Maxxie. He’s nodding. “So it’s like that.”
Chris doesn’t know what ‘that’ is, but he does know this is the start to confiding in Maxxie. He does so three times later that day.
*
“So what time are we going to meet up, ‘Chelle?” Michelle looks at her blankly. “For shopping,” she says, annunciating the words.
“You know, Jal,” Michelle says, her eyes skittering to the side. Jal suddenly feels frustration swell in her stomach like the ocean under the hands of a manipulative storm. “I’m awfully busy with Tony this week - you know, with course work and all that - and maybe you could ask someone else?” Michelle says, her voice pitching up slightly in that obvious way of her bullshitting. She cocks her eyebrow slightly, flinching away from Jal slightly.
“Who the fuck am I gonna ask, ‘Chelle? Anwar?” Jal doesn’t say this, but, all Anwar’s concerned about is how much a dress can expose her tits.
Michelle shrugs. “What about Maxxie?”
“Just because Maxxie’s gay doesn’t mean he’s any good at picking out clothes,” Jal says. She sighs. “You know, I was really looking forward to this, ‘Chelle.”
Michelle laughs. “Sure, Jal. You, plus me, and shopping never equals enjoyment, especially for you.”
-
Jal thumps her fist against his door. He opens, eyes shut and his hair askew.
Jal looks at him and hesitates slightly before asking, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Me?” he points to himself and looks around. There’s no one in the house. His mother has gone to work or gone down to the pub or something that she usually does. Jal hasn’t met her enough times, nor heard about her enough, to know who Mrs Miles is. “Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “nothin’.”
“You’re taking me shopping,” she says. “I’m sick of waiting for fucking Michelle.”
“Oh, because Tony’s fu -” He yelps as she pulls him down the few steps in front of his house. “Alrighty,” he says, grinning, his voice suddenly alive and missing its sleepy slur. “I always knew you wanted me this bad -”
She slams the gate behind her. He walks into it.
-
“So,” Chris swallows. “Why do you need a dress?”
“To fucking wear, Chris.” Jal grabs his wrist and pulls him into a store.
“Oh,” he rolls his eyes, causing Jal to scowl. He tries to pep his voice up, “Right.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s for Ace and Lynton’s party. They’ve finally gotten their act together and gotten some gigs at some clubs without Dad’s silver tongue.”
“Oh, really! Well, tell them I say congrats.” She rolls her eyes. She picks out a blue dress and holds it against herself. Chris’ eyebrows scrunch. “Really?”
Jal exhales. “It’s green.”
“I think you’re mistaken Jal,” he says, grabbing the dress. He looks at it more closely, as if to see whether there’s any green thread visible in it. He figures, since he’s a bloke, he’s got some sort of colour-blind disorder when it comes to dresses. “It’s blue.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You know, if you keep doin’ that, your face will be permanently stuck like that if you get caught in particularly nasty wind.”
“I don’t think it applies to my eyes, Chris.”
He pauses for a few seconds. “No,” he says, finally, his finger on his chin. “I’m pretty sure it does.”
He’s pretty sure Jal blindly tears the dresses off the rack in a fit to get away from him. He doesn’t know why she just doesn’t ask Sidney. He’s much more fitting to the type of being the escort on these little missions, in Chris’ opinion. Although, he remembers vaguely about Sid and Tony blabbering on about one of Sid’s escapades in regards to dress shopping and that just increasing the idea of Michelle perceiving him as anything but a rival for her affections. Chris is pretty sure he’s written some sort of essay on this for Psychology.
“So,” she says, turning to him, snapping him from his thoughts. “Which one do I end up wearing?” She stands there, with her hands sitting on her hips with dresses spouting out from them. She’s acting like he knows everything, which boots his confidence and fattens his head, but confuses him in the process. He hasn’t been travelling much over the past years. It only happens sporadically, like Anwar scoring a girl.
Chris blinks. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “You travel, Chris. You travel to the future, yeah?”
“Er,” he blinks, “not too far into it. No.”
Jal shakes her head, looking at the racks. “You’re hopeless,” she mumbles.
“But,” Chris points, clicking his fingers, “what I do know is that, er, you look good in a nice colour, like ... like ...” he’s searching the racks and pulls out a black dress. “Like this.” From what he sees of it, it’s nice, with a nice, v-neck that’s more Jal’s style, and it rests at the knees, he suspects, when he holds it up to her frame.
She swats him away, returning to the rack. He sees her eyes flickering to the dress, as if assessing it. “Black is a shade, Chris.”
“Well, isn’t that just bullying to the highest degree.” He thrusts the dress at her, watching her as she inspects it. “You know, Jal, I expected much more from you. You’re attitude is appalling.”
She laughs. “It’s alright, Chris.”
“’Alright’? Seriously? Are you calling my dress ... finding ... private detective work ‘alright’? Jesus, remind me to never ask you for a reference on my character. You’d just say ‘Chris is alright, his arse is alright, you know, he’s just alright’.”
“Alright,” she laughs. “I get your point.”
“See, this ‘alright’ business is startin’ to catch on like the fuckin’ plague.”
*
(1998) ; chris is 17, peter is 11
It’s almost Christmas.
He winds up in a park, as always, whenever he visits Peter. He remembers it used to be Peter’s favourite place. Every day, after school, they’d go to the park as they waited for Mum to come back home. She’d always come home twenty minutes after they did, finding them in the park.
He stands behind a tree, feeling his body still riding the waves of the travel. They don’t dissipate as they usually do. He knows this trip is going to be short. When he looks up into the shadows of the tree branches, he sees the old Christmas lights hanging loosely from the lower branches. The lights aren’t on yet. They’ll cease being seen shining brightly in the night as the years pass by.
He sees Peter, and himself, playing in the sandbox. Peter’s trying to build a castle while Chris keeps smashing it down with his fists. He’s laughing as Peter scowls. He sees their mother in the distance, approaching them. Her frame looks fuller, brighter, if possible, and she’s smiling, laughing as Chris claps his hands and yells out to her.
The wind brushes his fingertips forcefully, although, when he remembers later, there was none. As his fingers fade and the rest of his limbs follow, Chris tries to remember the last time he heard his mother laugh.
When he materialises back home, he can’t remember a single time at all.
He walks to her room, passing the kitchen and the tangled Christmas lights piled up in the corner. He was going to hang them up on the house, or line the pathway to the door, later in the day. When he reaches her door, the darkness of her room envelopes him, ridding the light that owns the hallway; he doesn’t need a light to know his mother is in bed.
“Where’d you go?” she slurs with sleep.
“I saw him,” he says quietly. He tries to spot her in the darkness. “I saw Peter. He’s happy.”
“He’s gone,” she moans over and over to herself, her words like blades cutting across his skin. Chris stares at the spot where he hears her voice fading, frowning as the darkness of the room drowns out her words.
He walks out the door and makes his way to the park.
*
three: 2008
“Mum’s gone,” Chris says. In his hand is an envelope. It’s a little thicker than the other ones. It feels heavier in his hand, like it’s made from lead. He places it down onto the table.
“She’s coming back, right?” Maxxie folds the tablecloth. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “she always comes back after a few days. Yeah?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man,” he closes the envelope and places it on the table, pressing his palm heavily against it. “Maybe not this time.”
-
She doesn’t come back after her usual two week escape.
Maxxie follows him as he walks into the living room. Chris closes a window, listening for the thump sound to tell him that it is locked. He’s developed a habit of locking all the doors and windows when he leaves and when he’s at home. The only time he opens the window is if he’s in the room.
Maxxie sits down on the lounge. “So, where are you staying?”
Chris shrugs, double checking the window is securely locked. He doesn’t face Maxxie when he says, “Dunno, man.”
He sits down on the couch, near the end. They end up watching cartoons for the rest of the day.
-
Jal offers him a place to stay. He doesn’t think to take her up on it. Her father resembles an axe murderer from one of the late movies that air on the television in the early hours of the morning. Chris doesn’t need to take Psychology to know Mr Fazer doesn’t like him at all.
He ends up at Angie’s, somehow. She’s the ‘x’ marked on the pirate map. The blur of their tentative relationship sends Chris swirling with dizziness; he can’t remember how he got from Point A to Point B to the ‘x’. He isn’t able to recall how they end up where they are, but he isn’t shy when he says he likes it.
He stays with her for a month before he finds the hidden treasure.
*
Chris likes the guy-walks-into-the-bar jokes.
A horse walked into a bar, and the bartender said, "How come the long face?
A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel hanging from his belt. The bartender asks, “What’s that for?” The pirate responds, “Aarr, it’s driving me nuts.”
Two guys walks into a bar, the third one ducks.
A guy walks into a bus -
-
Chris sits by Jal in the hospital. “You know how people ask ‘Where were you when Diana died?’?”
Jal hums, keeping her eyes to the floor. Her shoes are dirty.
“Well, I never know. When someone asks me ‘Where were you when Tony -’”
“Chris,” Jal says, touching his wrist. “Tony isn’t going to -”
“Oh no,” Chris says, shaking his head. He tries to release his wrist from her light grasp but she tightens her hold. “Everyone who comes here ends up dead, sooner or later.”
“Chris -”
He shoots up, their hands disconnecting. “I’m gonna go get a bag of chips. You want some?”
Jal shakes her head. Chris disappears down the hall.
*
(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18
Chris materialises in the changing rooms of the public pool. He remembers it vaguely, having learnt how to do the basic strokes of dog paddle when he was a kid.
He searches through all the bags and open lockers in hopes of clothes. All he finds are small children’s clothes. Eventually, in what he thinks is some office, he finds some gear the staff wear. It’s a horrid bright yellow, brighter than any shade he’s ever owned, and some board shorts that make him feel more exposed than the time he wore a dress without any underwear on.
He walks out, although timidly. He’s never dressed up this horrendously before on one of his travels. He can hear a lesson being taught with kids screaming in hysterics and in laughter, clashing together so hideously like cats screeching in the rain. Instantly, he spots Tony. He’s struggling, sort of. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before. He seems more confident in the movement of his arms and the kick of his legs. Mr Stonem looks happier, prouder of Tony’s progress.
He tries to place this moment in time but comes up blank.
He makes his way out of the pool area, hopefully unseen by the Stonems. Near the food, he finds the table he once sat at with Tony. He sits at one in the corner. The one thing he’s learnt, so far, is to stay out of sight. It’s like one of those Marty McFly things, where you shouldn’t be in the same room as your past or future self because, lets be frank, you’ll fuck something up. And if Chris’ only purpose in life is one thing, it’s to do just that - not purposefully, though.
He tries to listen for some inkling of what time he’s in, what place. He’s unsure if Tony’s the Tony he thinks he’s come to. He can still hear the screams of the kids from here, overcrowding his thoughts. He’s got a nervewracking headache.
Eventually, the lesson ends. Tony’s near him within ten minutes after the screams end. He’s at the counter, buying a tuna sandwich. Chris tries not to stare at Tony as he tries to place him. He watches him thank the lady behind the counter, offer her a friendly smile, and sit down at the table he once sat across from him.
He gives it one second of a thought before he moves and sits across from Tony.
Tony looks startled.
“Hi, Tony,” Chris says, albeit a little hesitantly. He’s never encountered a Tony where he wasn’t aware of his comings and goings. It’s always been other people he seems to gravitate towards in his journeys. He’s unsure if this will be his first.
“You’re exceptionally older,” Tony says, instantly ridding Chris of his thoughts. He wonders if Tony ever not knows about this. “Travelling doesn’t seem to be doing you any good ... facially.”
“Well, they haven’t invented travelling anti-wrinkle cream yet, Tone.”
Tony smiles, taking a bite of his sandwich. Chris ignores the rumble of his stomach, placing his hands on the arm rests of the silver seat. His burning palms sting against the chilled metal. “So,” Tony sits up straighter. “Why are you here?”
“Have no clue,” Chris shrugs. “Just ... come here.”
Tony nods. “I know I’m irresistible.”
Chris rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate.”
“Tuna sandwich?” Tony thrusts the sandwich container at him. He shakes his head. Tony shrugs, “Your loss.”
Chris blinks.
“You alright, Chris?”
He nods. “Yeah,” he says, struggling to swallow. “I’m just ... going.”
He disappears.
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18
He goes to the swimming pool.
“Chris,” Tony gestures to the empty seat across from him. He’s eating another tuna sandwich. “You’re old.”
“You keep telling me, mate,” Chris says, sitting.
“Sandwich?” Tony asks, pushing the container close to Chris.
“Nah thanks. Can’t travel on a full stomach.”
“Does it get better?”
“What does?”
Tony shrugs, looking down at himself.
Chris slaps his shoulder. “All in due time, mate.”
Tony smiles. “When are you leaving?”
Chris shrugs. “Probably not for a while.”
Tony nods. “Well, mate, you got any cards? I’m going to slay you in some poker.”
*
“Where do you go, man?” Anwar says. “I’d go to Las Vegas. Smack in the middle of a strip club, yeah?”
Chris shrugs. “Never been out of the fucking country, man.” “One time I got excited that I was in Australia but I woke up in the bloody zoo.”
Chris points his cigarette at Maxxie. “Now, listen here, you lot.” “Never trust a fuckin’ kangaroo.” He puts the cigarette in his mouth. “They’re like women.” Jal’s brow immediately scrunches, though she’s laughing.
*
(2008) chris is 18, tony is 18
It’s the day of the bus crash.
Chris is too late.
*
four: 2009
(2009) chris is 19, tony is 19
“Why do you keep travelling?” Tony asks as he eats a tuna sandwich. He pushes the sandwich container closer to him, hinting he should take the other piece. Chris doesn’t, despite the slight rumble of his stomach. He’s tired of taking things from his friends. Tony looks up at him from his sandwich. “Do you know?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man. Jus’ happens.”
“Really,” he states. “You have no clue how it happens?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not a clue.”
Tony shrugs. “Maybe you do something. Maybe it’s like ... vertigo. You go near flashing lights and something in you snaps and you travel.”
Chris shrugs. “Maybe there is no reason.”
*
five: 2010
chris is 20, jal is 20
There are five moments Chris remembers distinctly in 2010:
Un: He learnt French.
Deux: He learnt that if you cannot find a turban to hide drugs in, Sid’s ass should never be a back-up option.
Trois: He learnt that he really likes seeing Angie naked.
Quatre: He learnt that Jal looks good in her ‘green’ dress.
Cinq: He learnt that Jal was his beginning.
Not specifically in that order.
*
Un: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20
“What would be one thing you’d change about yourself?” Michelle says, lying flat on her stomach. Jal picks at the grass as Chris taps his chin with his finger.
“I’d smoke cigars,” he says.
Michelle laughs. “That’s not an answer.”
“You asked what I wanted. I want a cigar.”
“What about you, Jal?”
She shrugs. “I want to be a musician.”
Chris rips some blades and throws them at her. “That’s nothin’ new.”
Jal shrugs. “Well, I dunno. I’d pick better friends,” she laughs as Chris throws more grass her way. Dirt, from some of the roots, clings to her clothes. She brushes it off.
“Well, I change my answer,” Chris says, sitting up straighter. “I’d learn French. It reels in the ladies.”
Anwar laughs. “I wouldn’t change anythin’. Just give myself more girls.”
Jal narrows her eyes. “You’d have to have girls to begin with.”
Chris throws more grass at her. “Be nice,” he says, laughing. “Anwar has many girls. In his dreams.”
Michelle clears her throat, brushing some of the loose grass blades Chris has placed on her legs off her pants. “What about you, Max?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. I’d probably own a motorbike. Y’know, so one of us would have a method of transportation. My legs ache from all the walkin’.”
“You do need it, though,” Chris laughs.
“I dunno what I’d want,” says Sid. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Probably get rid of these glasses. Have, like, night vision. Be some sort of superhero.”
Chris pulls at the lapels of his jacket, his fingers itching for the grass. He says, “Don’t go near any spiders, yeah, Sid? You’ll die. Not grow powers.” Sid rolls his eyes.
“What about you, ‘Chelle?” Jal says.
She shrugs. “Tony,” she says quietly. She glances to a space in their little circle. “I’d have him be with me that night.”
Chris looks down. Jal reaches out and slides her arm along Michelle’s shoulders.
“You’re so selfless,” Anwar says, “you’d make a hot superhero.”
Jal narrows her eyes and shakes her head. Chris yanks out some grass, pegging it at Anwar’s face.
-
“Mademoiselle,” Chris gives her a packet of chips. “Je suis, chips.”
Jal takes the packet from him. She opens it, offering him the chips inside. He fishes a few out of the packet, popping them noisily into his mouth. “You know you just said your name is chips?”
“Puck,” he says.
“Why are you learning French, anyway?” Jal scrunches up the packet, opening it again to see the large chips in crumbles.
Chris shrugs. “To woo the ladies. There’s fierce competition out there.”
Jal laughs. “Like who?”
“The Shakespeare nerds. I hear girls eat that shit up. The only way to beat them is to French ‘em.”
“Chris.”
He fishes for more chips in the packet. “Why do you turn them into crumbs? You do know there’s more air in the packet than chips, yeah?”
Jal rolls her eyes. “I like turning them into crumbs,” she says, shrugging. “It’s something to do.”
“Something to do,” Chris mutters. “You know, instead of turning perfectly fine chips into dust, you could be helping me learn French. You know Jal,” he says, fishing for more chips. He piles them in his palm and picks up a few at a time. “You wouldn’t make a good superhero. You’d make an excellent villain. Like Catwoman.”
“Catwoman -”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his hands. Some of the chips fall to the floor. “But you’d look good in latex, is all I’m saying.”
Jal throws the packet of chips at him, laughing.
*
Trois: (2010) chris is 20
What he learns quickly with Angie is that she takes incredibly long showers. He doesn’t have the patience to wait for her to get out. He’s got college and bus stop meetings and walking to do during his day, when he’s not with her. His time with her has been growing drastically. His time without her diminishing.
So he slides out of the bed, leaving the sheets a mess. He walks into her bathroom; slides open the shower door, and steps in. He remembers the first time he did this, Angie shrieked, telling him she was naked and made it out to be the biggest deal in the world. In response, he had laughed, saying, “I’ve already seen the goods”, accompanied it with a shrug, and ever since then, things have moved on from there.
Chris never knew he would be capable of learning a lesson within a lesson. But what he also learns, and later forgets, is that living with Angie is “fuckin’ ace”.
*
Quatre: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20
Ace and Lynton’s gig isn’t all that bad. The club is nice. The drinks are even better. But he doesn’t understand why, of all things, they’re sitting down in the furthest corner, trying to talk over the music. Chris’ legs want him to get up and jump. Jal’s missing from their group. Michelle suggests they sit and wait for her. “After all,” she says, “we are her guests.” She looks pointedly at Tony, who is currently suffering from Wandering Eye Syndrome.
Jal slides onto the booth next to Maxxie. The dress is a strapless red dress that ends at her knees. It doesn’t expose nor cover too much. Chris had been adamant that she buy a blue dress that had a v-neck that dipped dangerously low.
“Nice dress,” Anwar says, staring straight at her chest.
Jal rolls her eyes and slaps him upside the head. “Thanks, Muslim Boy.”
Chris nods his head to the beat. “Nice party.”
Jal cocks her eyebrow. “I’ll tell Ace and Lynton you said that, yeah?” She doesn’t sound impressed.
Michelle looks at her. She tries to keep Tony in her grasp but he manages to slip away. So does Anwar and Maxxie. “I thought you were getting a green dress.”
“I told her,” Chris says, “to fuck the environment.”
Jal frowns. “Are you drunk?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, just drunk on anti-environmentalism.” He looks at Michelle. “Where’s your arm piece?”
Michelle narrows her eyes at him and slides out of the booth. She goes in search of Tony.
“That wasn’t nice.”
Chris shrugs. “Fuck it. I’m a bitch. What are you gonna do?”
Jal rolls her eyes. “You better fuckin’ dance with me. And not ditch me. I hate Lynton’s friends.” She says, sliding out of the booth and starts walking to where Ace and Lynton are holding a small concert. Chris slides out ungracefully, following her.
*
Cinq: (2018) chris is 20, jal is 28
He ends up outside a small house. It is homey, with two steps leading up to a veranda bordered by a ledge. The lawn is green and the grass blades are short and evenly cut.
When he walks up to the front, there are clothes sitting on a swinging chair. A piece of paper lays on the neat pile. Chris, it says in familiar writing. He quickly dresses in the slacks and business shirt. As he’s doing up the buttons of the shirt, he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns and sees Jal with paper bags in her hands. Chris has never seen her look so stunned before.
She walks up to him, slowly at first, and places the bags on the ledge. She envelopes him in a hug and he buries his face, hopefully inconspicuously, into her neck. Her hands snake up his neck, leaving a light ticklish path beneath her fingers, until she reaches his cheeks and settles her palms against them like the sun on his face. She pulls away and she pulls his face to hers, mouth to mouth like two palms when they press to pray. “I’ve missed you,” he hears murmured against his mouth, imprinted within the lines of his lips for what he thinks is forever.
Within moments, when there’s a breath between their mouths, he disappears.
part two
masterpost | i | ii | iii