washes the last pot, and I worry about what we’ll do after we finish. I’ve only really liked a few guys before. There was Ayden Smith, who I told to piss off. Alex Martin, which ended, you know, at the bottom of a pool. And Leo Gordon, one of the popular guys that Louise hangs out with.
Maybe Dahlia asked Louise to set me up with Leo. I’m not sure. We didn’t even really have a date. We all went out as a group and I said about three words to him, all to do with music. He told me he liked the Clash, so I burned him a few tracks. That’s when Louise suggested I act a little less desperate. It was the fucking Clash, I wanted to yell. It’s not like I gave him Celine Dion.
Dave dries his hands. “It’s quiet. Where’s your dad?”
“I don’t know. He usually visits friends at night.”
“And what do you do?”
“Listen to music, mostly.”
“So put some on.”
“The stereo’s in the living room. Grandpa’s watching TV. My laptop’s in my bedroom.” I mean I’ll go and get it, but Dave follows me. He walks around and looks at my stuff. “Who’s that?” he asks, staring at the picture above my bed.
“The bassist from the Clash. Paul Simonon.”
“He’s smashing his guitar,” Dave says.
“Jimi Hendrix burned his guitar. A Fender Stratocaster.”
“A what?”
“A very cool guitar.”
“Then why’d he burn it?”
“He said you sacrifice the things you love.”
Dave thinks for a bit. “I love my car. I bought an old Hummer I’m doing up in my spare time. No way I’d set fire to it. Would you burn all your CDs?”
“If it meant getting something I wanted more. But that’s a different thing, I guess.”
“You go out to bands, dance?” he asks.
“I’m a pretty shit dancer.”
“So am I. They have these school socials, and I go because Luke and Rose do, but I stand there on the side feeling like an idiot.”
“You could always do the half dance,” I say. “You know, sit and move your hands around.” I choose a song with a kicker beat and give him a little demo. He sits next to me on the bed. “How am I doing?” he asks.
“Almost as good as you are at singing.”
“Lucky I don’t know the words, hey?” He slides into some strangely impressive moves. I don’t tell him about the Fozzie toothbrush in the end. Turns out sitting next to him half dancing is even better than talking. We’re listening to the Stones when Dad puts his head in. I’m sitting on the bed with a guy who’s wearing a black singlet and faded jeans and has a tattoo on his wrist listening to a song about wanting some satisfaction and all Dad says is “Just letting you know I’m home” before he closes the door.
“I better go,” Dave says.
I walk him out, and he gets on his bike. He rides around me a couple of times, half dancing, then grins and takes off up the street.
I walk back inside, half dancing a little myself, and stand outside Dad’s door. I turn off the lights in the hallway and get down on my hands and knees to check if his light’s still on. I want to tell him I went to the falls and see what he says.
“Drop something, Charlie?” Grandpa asks from behind me.
“A while ago,” I say, standing up. “It doesn’t matter.” I kiss him good night. I lie on my bed, staring at the poster of Paul Simonon, wondering how it would feel to be a person who could smash things.
After a while Mum tells me that she and Dad did go to the falls. She tells me it was exciting, like it was for me and Dave. I think about him dancing on the bed, and Mum says, “It was definitely a sugar day, Charlie.” That’s what she always said when things went well for me.
“It was the best sugar day ever,” I tell her, and I sing about it. I sing the kind of song that used to make Dahlia and me laugh. A song in major chords.
Sugar Days
Lazy days
And sweet sun shining
Holding hands would be so fine
And kissing you would be so finer
Would turn my skin and blood to sugar
Would turn my mouth to
Maybe Dahlia asked Louise to set me up with Leo. I’m not sure. We didn’t even really have a date. We all went out as a group and I said about three words to him, all to do with music. He told me he liked the Clash, so I burned him a few tracks. That’s when Louise suggested I act a little less desperate. It was the fucking Clash, I wanted to yell. It’s not like I gave him Celine Dion.
Dave dries his hands. “It’s quiet. Where’s your dad?”
“I don’t know. He usually visits friends at night.”
“And what do you do?”
“Listen to music, mostly.”
“So put some on.”
“The stereo’s in the living room. Grandpa’s watching TV. My laptop’s in my bedroom.” I mean I’ll go and get it, but Dave follows me. He walks around and looks at my stuff. “Who’s that?” he asks, staring at the picture above my bed.
“The bassist from the Clash. Paul Simonon.”
“He’s smashing his guitar,” Dave says.
“Jimi Hendrix burned his guitar. A Fender Stratocaster.”
“A what?”
“A very cool guitar.”
“Then why’d he burn it?”
“He said you sacrifice the things you love.”
Dave thinks for a bit. “I love my car. I bought an old Hummer I’m doing up in my spare time. No way I’d set fire to it. Would you burn all your CDs?”
“If it meant getting something I wanted more. But that’s a different thing, I guess.”
“You go out to bands, dance?” he asks.
“I’m a pretty shit dancer.”
“So am I. They have these school socials, and I go because Luke and Rose do, but I stand there on the side feeling like an idiot.”
“You could always do the half dance,” I say. “You know, sit and move your hands around.” I choose a song with a kicker beat and give him a little demo. He sits next to me on the bed. “How am I doing?” he asks.
“Almost as good as you are at singing.”
“Lucky I don’t know the words, hey?” He slides into some strangely impressive moves. I don’t tell him about the Fozzie toothbrush in the end. Turns out sitting next to him half dancing is even better than talking. We’re listening to the Stones when Dad puts his head in. I’m sitting on the bed with a guy who’s wearing a black singlet and faded jeans and has a tattoo on his wrist listening to a song about wanting some satisfaction and all Dad says is “Just letting you know I’m home” before he closes the door.
“I better go,” Dave says.
I walk him out, and he gets on his bike. He rides around me a couple of times, half dancing, then grins and takes off up the street.
I walk back inside, half dancing a little myself, and stand outside Dad’s door. I turn off the lights in the hallway and get down on my hands and knees to check if his light’s still on. I want to tell him I went to the falls and see what he says.
“Drop something, Charlie?” Grandpa asks from behind me.
“A while ago,” I say, standing up. “It doesn’t matter.” I kiss him good night. I lie on my bed, staring at the poster of Paul Simonon, wondering how it would feel to be a person who could smash things.
After a while Mum tells me that she and Dad did go to the falls. She tells me it was exciting, like it was for me and Dave. I think about him dancing on the bed, and Mum says, “It was definitely a sugar day, Charlie.” That’s what she always said when things went well for me.
“It was the best sugar day ever,” I tell her, and I sing about it. I sing the kind of song that used to make Dahlia and me laugh. A song in major chords.
Sugar Days
Lazy days
And sweet sun shining
Holding hands would be so fine
And kissing you would be so finer
Would turn my skin and blood to sugar
Would turn my mouth to
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