Can't Beat the Chemistry Page 11

  ‘You’re doing well,’ I say, collecting the pages of loose-leaf notes that have somehow ended up peppering the entire kitchen table.

  ‘Thanks to you.’ He smiles, a slow-motion transformation from crinkles of concentration to open gratitude. And far more mesmerising than any twirling pen. That kitten burrows deeper into my chest, making it difficult to take a decent breath.

  My phone buzzes and I startle. It’s the intrusion I need to tear my eyes from the look-twice parakeet green.

  I check the caller ID and breathe a sigh of relief; it’s not my mother.

  I press the talk icon. ‘Hey, Theo.’

  ‘How’s the cram session going?’

  ‘Better than expected.’ I ignore Luke’s raised eyebrow and get up, moving into the hallway so I can talk without disturbing him and Rosie.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Next time give me a bit more warning when you’re planning to use me as your weekend alibi. Mum called five minutes after you.’ Checking up on me? Why am I not surprised? ‘I told her you were at the library. That kept her happy for a bit, but I’d ring her today if I were you or else she might get suss.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  ‘So how’d you like the bowling?’

  Theo’s question throws me. ‘How did you know we went bowling?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Luke takes Rosie bowling every Saturday.’

  And again I’m reminded of how little I know about my own brother.

  ‘It was all right, I guess.’ Actually, once Luke put up the bumpers and my balls weren’t swallowed by the gutter, it was kind of … fun.

  ‘Rosie’s something else, isn’t she? Man, can that girl bowl! And if that doesn’t knock you over, the sheer force of her enthusiasm will.’ There’s no mistaking the fond tone for Luke’s baby sister in Theo’s voice. A tone he used to use when he spoke about me. A tone I haven’t heard for … I can’t even remember how long. I rub the heel of my hand over my chest where that stupid tightening has started up again.

  ‘What movie did she make you watch?’ he asks.

  ‘Ghost.’

  He chuckles. ‘Yeah, had to sit through that four times. Pure torture. Don’t know how Luke does it over and over again.’

  ‘He’s surprisingly patient.’ And gentle. And protective. And a whole heap of other things I have no business thinking about Luke.

  ‘Sandy’s into him, isn’t she?’

  Sandy. Into Luke.

  I frown. ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

  Theo laughs. ‘It’s not half obvious. The couple of times she’s been over here, she’s made eyes at him. I know these things, which means I gotta ask: You sure you’re spending the weekend at his only to help him study?’

  Why else would I give up my time if not to help him—oh. Oh!

  ‘Yes, I’m sure!’ Louder than intended, my retort fills the hallway. I crane my neck for a peek into the kitchen where my gaze collides with Luke’s concerned one. I offer him a quick nothing-to-worry-about smile, then back down the hallway into his room and shut the door behind me.

  ‘Easy, Macca. You know I won’t tell Mum.’

  ‘Dammit, Theo, it’s not like that!’ I sink down onto Luke’s bed and can’t help a snort at the irony. ‘His make-up test is Monday and he needs this cram weekend to pass.’

  It’s the truth, but my fingers twist in the folds of Luke’s doona like I’m telling a lie.

  ‘Kay.’ There’s a pause. ‘But if you’re, you know, into him, that’s cool because—’

  ‘Theo!’

  ‘Macca!’

  I huff at my brother’s stubborn persistence. ‘I’m Luke’s tutor. He’s my student. That’s all.’ And maybe—hopefully—also my friend. I’m no expert, but I’m fairly certain only a friend would sacrifice his pride in a game of ten pin bowling.

  ‘You sure? Because he’s one of the good guys.’

  My fingers still. Theo is right; Luke is one of the good guys. If yesterday’s drum circle lesson didn’t prove it, then today’s bowling session did. The way he’s all about other people, about making them feel good about themselves, even at his own expense—Luke Bains is very much one of the good guys.

  I grab a fistful of comforter. ‘He’d never be interested in me that way.’ Wait? And I’m thinking about this because?

  ‘Why not? So you’re a little rough around the edges socially, but other than that …’ I can almost hear him shrug a shoulder. ‘Why wouldn’t he be interested?’

  ‘I’m not exactly a compatible partner.’ I shake my head. MJ to brain. Shut up already! Because why am I even going there? Especially when any train of thought travelling in that direction has the potential to wreck my still shaky relationship with Sandy and derail my carefully laid plans with Jason.

  ‘And who exactly would be compatible with him?’ Theo asks.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me. He’s your roommate.’ Even as I say it, I roll my eyes. Because I’m not interested in the answer.

  ‘I could see him with Sandy.’

  Sandy. With Luke. My gaze finds its way over to the family snapshot on Luke’s desk. Suddenly the thought of Sandy and Luke together squeezes my stomach.

  I clutch the comforter tighter in my fist. ‘Um, I’ve got to go. I should help clean up after dinner.’ I wince at the lie; Luke and Rosie have already done it. Being a house guest, I wasn’t allowed to help.

  ‘Sure. Say hi to Mrs Bains and Rosie for me, will ya? And give Mum a call.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, even though speaking with Mum is the last thing I want to do right now. But when I hang up, I dial her mobile. It goes to voicemail. The universe must be taking pity on me.

  ‘Hey Mum—’ I inject forced enthusiasm into the voice message, ‘—just thought I’d let you know Jason and I are making some great headway. I showed him the article you suggested. I’ll call later. Bye.’

  When I get back into the kitchen, Mrs Bains is wrapping a sandwich in cling wrap. It’s close to seven but her fresh pair of nurses’ scrubs is a reminder her working day has yet to start.

  She greets me with a smile. ‘I hear you were subjected to Rosie’s Patrick Swayze obsession last night.’

  A snort comes from Luke’s end of the kitchen table. ‘Don’t make it sound like Rosie’s the only one afflicted in this household.’

  His comment earns him a grin from his sister and a glare from his mother, but when Mrs Bains looks back my way, she winks. ‘Nothing wrong with a little Swayze swooning, now is there, MJ?’

  ‘Um, I guess not,’ I say even as my cheeks heat, because, well, how else do I reply? The woman has been kind enough to put me up for the weekend.

  ‘I hope the three of you haven’t been slaving over your books all day,’ she says, slipping the sandwich into an oversized tote bag.

  Rosie looks up from her maths equations. ‘We took MJ bowling. Luke needed bumpers.’

  ‘Really?’

  The frown in the nurse’s voice has my eyes narrowing on her son.

  Attention fixed firmly on the chemistry notes in front of him, he shrugs. ‘I was off my game.’

  Off his game, eh? The way his mother’s eyebrows climb towards the ceiling finally proves the guy is lying. The thing is, I’m not entirely sure what to make of this revelation.

  Mrs Bains loops her tote over one shoulder and turns back to me. ‘Don’t let Rosie rope you into any more Patrick Swayze movies if you don’t want to watch them, MJ.’ She bends to kiss Rosie on the head. ‘Although Point Break really is worth a look. Lots of tanned and toned bad boys on surfboards.’ She winks at Rosie, then turns to me with a sheepish smile.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Luke shake his head in disgust or embarrassment. Or both.

  Mrs Bains must have seen him too, because she grabs one of his shoulders for a squeeze. ‘Now, don’t be like that. We’re all al
lowed our little obsessions. Rosie and I have Patrick, and you have Kit.’

  ‘Kit?’ I don’t remember him mentioning anyone called Kit. Then again, it’s not like he knows me well enough to share his obsessions with.

  ‘His drum kit,’ Rosie says with a goofy grin. She closes her maths book and jumps up from her seat. ‘All done. I’m going to watch Point Break.’ She looks at me, eyes wide and expectant.

  ‘I’ll, um, give it a miss tonight,’ I say. She opens her mouth, but then she glances her mother’s way, shrugs and tears out of the kitchen, presumably in search of Patrick and his surfboard.

  I snag Luke’s gaze. ‘You’ve named your drum kit?’ My question comes out half ‘aw’ and half ‘huh?’, because I can’t decide if the whole thing is cute or creepy.

  Luke crosses his arms and sucks his cheeks in just short of a pout. ‘What’s the big deal? Other guys name their cars. I name my drum kit. Got a problem with that?’

  I shake my head at the same time as I bite down on a grin, because despite his defensive words, Luke’s face is quickly turning an interesting shade of red.

  A glance at Mrs Bains shows I’m not the only one suppressing the giggles.

  She gives Luke’s shoulder a there-there pat. ‘Don’t spend the whole weekend on schoolwork. Make sure to have some fun.’ She’s halfway to the kitchen door when she stops and turns back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, Leon called earlier. Crossroads needs a drummer tomorrow morning. I told him you’re available.’

  All the heated embarrassment from a moment ago drains from Luke’s face, along with any other colour his skin might normally hold. ‘Mum, but I … it’s the first Sunday of the month.’

  Mrs Bains’ smile is pinched, as though she’s pushing it through a wall of pain. I don’t understand the expression—my mother has never looked at me like that.

  ‘It’s been six months, Luke. You can’t avoid her forever.’ Her eyes flood with kindness, and Luke swallows, Adam’s apple scraping along the taut muscles of his throat. Something passes between them and he nods, although the air around him sags with reluctance.

  Mrs Bains gives him that pinched smile again, and suddenly I understand her expression. It’s the look a mother gives her child when she’d do anything humanly possible to take away his pain.

  By the time the click of the front door closing behind Mrs Bains echoes down the hallway, I’m bursting with questions. What happened six months ago? More importantly, who is the her Luke wants to avoid?

  I open my mouth, but Luke’s eyes flare at me. They might be green, but they’re blinking stop, not go. For once, my rusty people radar goes off and I opt for something safer.

  ‘So, now you do have a gig this weekend.’ I make sure my tone is light, my smile curious, so he doesn’t think I’m taking a shot at him.

  He huffs out a humourless laugh. ‘I wouldn’t call it a gig.’

  ‘But you said … oh, okay, a session recording then.’ I have to admit, after Friday’s drum circle session, the idea of listening to him drum during a recording is … intriguing.

  Luke pushes his chair back and stands. He shakes his head—a resigned gesture. ‘Not a session recording.’

  I’m confused, both at his unexpected responses and my bizarre disappointment that I won’t see him drum at a recording.

  ‘But your mum said this band—’ What was it again? Cross-, Cross-, ‘—Crossroads needs a drummer tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not a band, MJ.’ He flashes me that humourless smile again. ‘Crossroads is a church.’

  Luke

  Crossroads

  Not one question—not a single one—passes MJ’s lips. To say I’m surprised by her restraint is an understatement; the little hedgehog has never been backward in putting an awkward foot forward, especially one destined to end up in her mouth. But, miracle of miracles, she keeps her mouth shut. Well, not exactly. Those cymbal clash lips of hers are gaping, just a little. Not an open-wide-and-say-ah kind of gape, but enough for me to spot the burning questions on the tip of her tongue.

  At this point I don’t really care if it’s shock or courtesy keeping MJ from bombarding me with the full force of her curiosity. I just grab the reprieve along with my chem notes and push my chair back from the table.

  ‘I’m beat.’ Not a complete lie. Mum’s announcement about volunteering my drum services for tomorrow morning has sucked all the energy out of me. Right now I just want to head for a cave, preferably one with a drum kit in it.

  ‘Think I’ll hit some skins for a bit then crash in Mum’s room until Rosie goes to bed.’ I only make it as far as the kitchen door before my manners smack me up the side of the head and force me to turn back to my about-to-be neglected house guest.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Please, God, let her not mind. I can’t do friendly tonight. Not even sure I can do civil. I’ll make it up to her tomorrow. If I survive the morning.

  MJ shakes her head before she finds some words. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll, um … work on my English essay and do some assignment reading.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea.’ That makes me feel a little less guilty. ‘And you don’t have to come tomorrow.’ Because something tells me church might be even more out of MJ’s comfort zone than the bowling alley. And I’m not sure I want her there to add to all the inevitable awkwardness. ‘I can drop you at the library on the way, or you can stay here, whichever you want.’

  She blinks at me and nods, and I hightail it into the garage. It’s late but a couple years back, Zac helped me line the walls with soundproof insulation, so the neighbours wouldn’t complain when I felt the need for the beat at weird hours of the night or morning.

  Tonight it’s a good thing the walls are full of sound absorbent padding because I don’t hold back. I need the beat to calm me, ground me, anchor me.

  So I can face Annie tomorrow morning.

  ***

  Today won’t be the first time I’ll be seeing my ex since Christmas break. We were both at Jason and Holland’s wedding. A week after the breakup. Like the timing wasn’t shitty enough, but a wedding? I sat through the whole thing, painfully aware of her eyes on my stiff-as-a-church-pew back. It would have been bearable if her gaze had been boring bullet holes between my shoulder blades. But no, that’s not Annie. And even though I’m not known to run from a ball-shrivelling situation, the crushed look on Annie’s face had me backing out the door as soon as the minister said ‘man and wife’. I might be resigned to finally facing my ex—doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to revisiting that hurt locker though.

  To add to my problems, MJ’s miraculous ceasefire is reaching an end. I’ve been waiting for the inquisition since I almost choked on my cereal when she told me she wanted to come along to Crossroads this morning. In all fairness, she deserves to be cut some slack; she left me alone to wrestle my Annie demons last night, even though it must have killed her not to bombard me with her burning questions.

  I’m backing the station wagon out of the driveway when the inquisition starts. ‘So, the church thing. Is that something you’ve always done?’

  ‘For most of the past thirteen years.’ I slide the car into drive and head down our deserted street. ‘One of Mum’s nursing friends asked her to come along after Dad left.’

  MJ nods. The absent father thing won’t be any surprise to her. She’s sharp enough to pick up there’s been no mention of a Mr Bains all weekend.

  ‘How old was Rosie when your dad left?’ she asks.

  I take a quick peek at the empty backseat in the rear-view mirror, glad Rosie caught a lift with the Wilsons and their daughter this morning. ‘Two. He’d put up with the developmental delays for long enough, he’d said.’

  MJ’s eyes widen. ‘But that’s … that’s …’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’ There are no words. None that should be spoken in public anyway. ‘The moment my father found out there was a hig
h chance of Downs he wanted Mum to abort. She wouldn’t hear of it. When Rosie was born ... well ... Rosie ... he wasn’t happy. He found a job on the other side of the country and left a week after Rosie’s second birthday.’ Bad enough the self-righteous bastard had one kid that didn’t live up to his expectations. ‘His monthly child support cheque is the extent of our contact with him.’

  I pull to a stop at a red light and force my fingers to flex, run them up and down the coolness of the steering wheel in an attempt to douse my flare of useless anger. ‘The Crossroads community was there for Mum when she needed it most. We’ve been going most Sundays since.’ Except me on the first Sunday of the month after last Christmas Eve, that is.

  The light flicks to green and I turn into the intersection.

  MJ’s eyes meet mine. ‘So you don’t have a problem with Theo being gay?’

  Whoa! ‘Because I go to church?’

  ‘Yes. You know, the whole Sodom and Gomorrah thing.’

  ‘You’re really rolling out the stereotypes here.’

  She crosses her arms. ‘Well, stereotypes wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t some truth to them.’

  Yeah, like the drugged-up drummer stereotype. I flick her a sharp look. My unspoken words must be scrawled somewhere in my expression, because she shifts restlessly in her seat.

  ‘Statistics don’t lie. Look at the same-sex marriage vote. Church-going people generally have a problem with same-sex relationships.’

  ‘What, like Asian people generally have no road sense?’

  Her mouth drops open, retort gathering on her tongue, but she swallows whatever she was about to say and scrunches her nose instead. Luke one—MJ nil. I allow myself a small victory smile in her general direction. ‘And no, I don’t have a problem with Theo being gay, obviously.’

  ‘But that’s not the case with most churchies, is it?’

  Churchies? I suck in a slow breath. It really ticks me off the way she’s constantly trying to box me into some category. ‘I thought we were talking about me? Or are we back to generalising about the entire church-going population?’