disembark and then he jumps up the stairs. There are other spare seats. I stare out the window, willing him not to sit next to me, but he sits next to me anyway. I have my elbow on the sill and cup my chin in my hand. It’s awkward.
He’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my cheek. Eventually I have to look back.
I give him a half smile and look back out the window.
‘I know you,’ he says.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
‘I’m trying to figure out where from. Did we go to primary together? What’s your name?’
‘You don’t know me,’ I say, quickly.
He shakes his head. ‘No, you look really familiar—even with all that makeup you have on.’
‘I’m a model,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve probably seen me on a billboard.’
That’s your method of making him less interested? Alex asks.
‘Really?’ he asks, wide-eyed. ‘Which one?’
I shrug. ‘Oh, there’s a couple.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let me think what I’ve done recently. One for an insurance company, and there was one for a handbag. You don’t read women’s magazines, do you?’
He laughs. ‘You must make heaps of money,’ he says.
‘I bought myself a car,’ I boast. ‘I’m not old enough to drive it.’
‘What did you get?’
I glance past his head. ‘An Audi. You know the soft top ones? In silver.’
‘Sweet! How much did that set you back?’
I smile enigmatically. I have no idea how much one of those cars would be. I pick a number out of the blue. ‘Fifty thousand.’
‘That’s pretty cheap, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yeah, well, I know people,’ I say, airily.
The bus is slowing. ‘This is my stop,’ he says with regret. ‘But maybe I could call you sometime and we could catch up. I’d love to see your car.’
‘I’m kind of busy with work and everything.’
He throws his bag over his shoulder. ‘I guess I’ll see you on a billboard then.’
The bus pulls up outside an old people’s home and Trevor skips down the steps.
There is a little old man. He’s on the footpath with one of those walkers with wheels. He’s sitting on the seat, pushing with both feet, scooting along backwards, and every few seconds he looks over his shoulder. His face is distorted into a grimace. He’s escaping.
A nurse in a blue uniform comes running out of the gate. She skids to a stop and looks both ways like a cartoon character. She clocks the man and then she’s after him. He sees her, and now he’s going like the clappers, swinging his legs. Scoot, scoot.
Go little old man! Woot, woot! Alex yells out. People from the opposite side of the aisle are standing to see.
I’m smiling and watching the little old man. I don’t see that Trevor is standing right outside the window staring up at me. He’s recognised me. His face is purple.
He’s pointing at me. ‘He’s a…he’s a…’ He is so furious he can’t get the words out. Trevor starts hitting the side of the bus as we pull away.
‘Faggot!’ he shouts. He runs after the bus for a few strides. ‘FAGGOT!’
27
AT HOME I lie on the couch and watch TV.
This afternoon doesn’t matter, does it? As long as I catch my normal train, I may never see Trevor ever again. Everybody at my old school will now think that I’m a faggot, but they already did, so what’s the diff? Right? So why does it make me feel like shit? Why does it make me feel so jittery? Why do I feel like hunkering down?
My mother comes and sits at the end. She lifts up my legs and puts them on her lap. She rubs the bottom of my feet.
‘Someone called Crockett rang for you today,’ she tells me.
I don’t want her to touch me. She has creepy fingers. They trace over my skin like spiders. I resist the urge to shake her off. She’s so needy. She’s like a dog that wants to be patted all the time. I draw my knees up to my chin. She rests her hand on my calf.
Get off! Get off! Get off!
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Ask
He’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my cheek. Eventually I have to look back.
I give him a half smile and look back out the window.
‘I know you,’ he says.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
‘I’m trying to figure out where from. Did we go to primary together? What’s your name?’
‘You don’t know me,’ I say, quickly.
He shakes his head. ‘No, you look really familiar—even with all that makeup you have on.’
‘I’m a model,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve probably seen me on a billboard.’
That’s your method of making him less interested? Alex asks.
‘Really?’ he asks, wide-eyed. ‘Which one?’
I shrug. ‘Oh, there’s a couple.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let me think what I’ve done recently. One for an insurance company, and there was one for a handbag. You don’t read women’s magazines, do you?’
He laughs. ‘You must make heaps of money,’ he says.
‘I bought myself a car,’ I boast. ‘I’m not old enough to drive it.’
‘What did you get?’
I glance past his head. ‘An Audi. You know the soft top ones? In silver.’
‘Sweet! How much did that set you back?’
I smile enigmatically. I have no idea how much one of those cars would be. I pick a number out of the blue. ‘Fifty thousand.’
‘That’s pretty cheap, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yeah, well, I know people,’ I say, airily.
The bus is slowing. ‘This is my stop,’ he says with regret. ‘But maybe I could call you sometime and we could catch up. I’d love to see your car.’
‘I’m kind of busy with work and everything.’
He throws his bag over his shoulder. ‘I guess I’ll see you on a billboard then.’
The bus pulls up outside an old people’s home and Trevor skips down the steps.
There is a little old man. He’s on the footpath with one of those walkers with wheels. He’s sitting on the seat, pushing with both feet, scooting along backwards, and every few seconds he looks over his shoulder. His face is distorted into a grimace. He’s escaping.
A nurse in a blue uniform comes running out of the gate. She skids to a stop and looks both ways like a cartoon character. She clocks the man and then she’s after him. He sees her, and now he’s going like the clappers, swinging his legs. Scoot, scoot.
Go little old man! Woot, woot! Alex yells out. People from the opposite side of the aisle are standing to see.
I’m smiling and watching the little old man. I don’t see that Trevor is standing right outside the window staring up at me. He’s recognised me. His face is purple.
He’s pointing at me. ‘He’s a…he’s a…’ He is so furious he can’t get the words out. Trevor starts hitting the side of the bus as we pull away.
‘Faggot!’ he shouts. He runs after the bus for a few strides. ‘FAGGOT!’
27
AT HOME I lie on the couch and watch TV.
This afternoon doesn’t matter, does it? As long as I catch my normal train, I may never see Trevor ever again. Everybody at my old school will now think that I’m a faggot, but they already did, so what’s the diff? Right? So why does it make me feel like shit? Why does it make me feel so jittery? Why do I feel like hunkering down?
My mother comes and sits at the end. She lifts up my legs and puts them on her lap. She rubs the bottom of my feet.
‘Someone called Crockett rang for you today,’ she tells me.
I don’t want her to touch me. She has creepy fingers. They trace over my skin like spiders. I resist the urge to shake her off. She’s so needy. She’s like a dog that wants to be patted all the time. I draw my knees up to my chin. She rests her hand on my calf.
Get off! Get off! Get off!
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Ask
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