Sixteen
I SKIPPED SCHOOL on Friday and went to Manly with Jacob Coote.
When I think of it now, cutting in a St. Martha’s school uniform was pretty stupid, but I was so caught up with seeing him that I didn’t care. He was waiting for me by the quay and I felt as if I was going to be sick when I saw him. I mean, he’s the first guy who’s ever passed the test, because usually when I like a guy I get instantly turned off when he likes me back.
But when he winked at me, my heart melted.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” he said, lighting a cigarette and putting an arm around my shoulders.
“I didn’t think you would either.”
He paid for my ferry ticket and I allowed him to because I didn’t want to get into an argument about me paying for myself just yet.
It was the most glorious day. Sometimes there are these beautiful days in the middle of winter, and Friday was one of them. The sun caressed our faces. People were walking around looking happy and street entertainers were singing and dancing along the pier.
It was the most beautiful day of my life.
To give you a rundown on Jacob is very hard. Sometimes he speaks really stupidly and doesn’t know what I’m talking about, and other times he speaks really well, and I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
Sometimes he’s a tough guy and I can imagine him bashing someone’s head in, and other times he’s this real nice sensitive guy who smiles at babies and helps old women across the street. He smokes dope, drinks and I think he sleeps with a lot of girls, but on the other hand he really loves his family and has respect for people.
He looks like a grot sometimes because of his hair and earring and wild look, but when he smiles it’s warm and sincere. Never ever fake.
For lunch we sat on the beach and ate fish-and-chips off butcher paper.
“Mum used to bring me down to the beach when I was a kid,” he said, leaning back on the sand with his hands behind his head.
“We used to go to the beach every Boxing Day with my grandmother’s relatives,” I told him, laughing at the memory. “Ever seen those big Italian families at a beach picnic? It’s not your typical sausage on the barbecue. It’s the spaghetti leftovers from the day before, schnitzel, eggplant and all these other fancy things. I used to envy the Aussie kids who had a piece of meat between their bread.”
“And the Aussie kids with the piece of meat between their bread probably envied you.”
“Of course. Grass on the other side, et cetera,” I agreed.
I lay back on the sand next to him, silence reigning for a while.
“Do you miss your mum a lot?”
“Yep,” he said, closing his eyes. “I mean, it’s been a while, but sometimes I think of her. I think my sister Rebecca misses her the most because she’s a girl and they used to talk all the time.”
“How old is Rebecca?”
“Twenty-four, I think. She’s married to Darren, who’s just bought the garage he’s been working in for the last couple of years and they’ve just had a baby. She used to work at the university library and had a completely black wardrobe. My father hated it.”
I laughed, thinking of my mother. “So it’s just your dad and you at home?”
“Most of the time. Dad’s girlfriend Eileen stays over a lot and looks after us because we’re hopeless with the food and cleaning and all.”
“Are they engaged?”
“God, no. Why should they be?”
I looked at him and shrugged.
“I suppose it’s the different cultures. I mean, Italians don’t live with a guy unless they’re rebel Italians in the first place.”
“Was your mother a rebel Italian?”
“My mother was a naive Italian. She didn’t have me just to make a statement. She had me because . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t even know, but in those days you didn’t do things like she did.”
“How about if she was married and her husband died, would she live with a guy or marry him?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Want to know the truth?” I murmured. “Most Italians who’re older, just say in their forties or fifties, they don’t remarry, unless they’re men of course. Men can’t do without.”
“Without what?”
“Without everything. But women, God, no. People would talk. They’d say that she didn’t wait long enough, or she’s making a fool of herself. An Italian woman has to wear black for ages. It’s not a written law or anything, but if she doesn’t, people will talk. If she gets involved with a man within a year people say that she’s a sex maniac. It’s all rather political, mourning is.
There are rules.”
“Bloody hell, you’re all weird. What would you do?”
“Me? I’d like to be a rebel Italian. I’d like to shock everyone and tell them to stick their rules and regulations. If anyone ever died, I’d wear bright colors to the funeral and laugh the loudest. But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I looked at him and wondered if he understood.
“Because I have no father. Because if I did all those things, hypocrites would shake their heads smugly and say, ‘See, I told you she couldn’t amount to anything.’ They’re waiting for me to make an error so they can compare me and my mother.”
“But what’s the big deal? Everyone has babies without being married these days. Everyone lives together and gets remarried,” he said, turning on his side.
I shook my head. “I can’t explain it to you. I can’t even explain it to myself. We live in the same country, but we’re different. What’s taboo for Italians isn’t taboo for Australians. People just talk, and if it doesn’t hurt you, it hurts your mother or your grandmother or someone you care about.”
“I’d hate them all. I’d hate to be Italian.”
“No.” I smiled, looking at him. “You can’t hate what you’re part of. What you are. I resent it most of the time, curse it always, but it’ll be part of me till the day I die. I used to wish when I was young that my mother had made a mistake and that my father wasn’t the son of an Italian, but an Australian.
So I could be part of the ‘in crowd,’ you know. So if you said, ‘Let’s go away for the weekend,’ I could say, ‘Hey, sure thing.’ But there is this spot inside of me that will always be Italian. I can’t explain it in any other way.”
“And your dad?”
“I met him for the first time a couple of months ago. I’m working with him at the moment.”
“No joke?” he asked incredulously.
I shook my head.
“He’s a barrister, and although I didn’t want to, I like him a lot. He’s honest and not a hypocrite and I sometimes want to hate him for what he
did to my mother, but it’d be stupid to hate someone for something they did eighteen years ago. I mean, you could change heaps, couldn’t you?”
He leaned over and kissed me quickly.
“What was that for?” I asked, embarrassed, but laughing.
“I like the way you talk. I like the way you think. So much passion behind those eyes. So much to say.”
I shrugged.
“A lot makes me angry. Maybe angrier than most because of the so- called sin surrounding my birth. So much pointing and talking.”
“We used to make fun of you, you know?”
“Oh, great. Confession time,” I groaned.
“This was years back when we had community week and you had to get up there and say what your school was doing,” he said, pulling me down to lie with him. “I know now that beauty is skin deep and all that shit.”
I looked at him incredulously.
“Meaning I’m still ugly but you’re getting accustomed to my face?”
“I’ve grown accustomed to you,” he said, looking down at my body.
“You’re just not what I’m used to.”
“Well, I’m so sorry, Jacob,” I said in a mock submissive tone. “I’ll try hard. I promise to be the type you go out with. Please give me another chance.”
“And you’ve got the biggest mouth I’ve ever met.”
“Lovely. Why am I lying on the beach with a boy who’s insulting me?”
“Because you’re attracted to me sexually.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He leaned forward and kissed me.
When I think of it, it was my first passionate kiss. Paul Sambero kissed me in Year Eight, with no tongue contact whatsoever, but Jacob’s tongue went straight in before I could think of anything else and I was so worried because I didn’t know what to do.
Jacob, when kissing me, has a habit of putting his hands all over my face and he even pushed up my glasses so I was half blind, but who needs eyes when kissing? I loved it. No dramatics like in the romance novels, but different. Intimate, because part of him was inside part of me. Tasting someone’s breath is so spiritual.
Fifteen minutes later I was an expert. That’s all you need. I think I was even getting the upper hand, which is very simple with a guy. Anything seems to turn them on.
It was difficult to get any further than that because we were on a public beach and I was scared we’d be seen by someone I knew, so we took the ferry back and as I sat with my head against him and listened to his heart beat, I felt that I would never be closer to another human being again.
I felt so in touch with him. I had never felt like that before. Jacob Coote knew who I was. I didn’t have to impress him with clever conversation or anything. Maybe I just had to educate him a bit, just like he had to educate me.
We kissed again on Circular Quay and he said he’d call me. I waved and walked to the chambers, wanting to tell Michael all about it, but I knew I couldn’t.
I’m in love.
I don’t want to be in love with Jacob Coote. I want to be in love with John Barton and have people look upon me with envy, but John doesn’t
make me feel like this. I’m beginning to realize that things don’t turn out the way you want them to.
And sometimes, when they don’t, they can turn out just a little bit better.
