7
Ten Minutes of Fun
I hesitate on the front porch when I realise it has started to pour with rain and I don’t have an umbrella and the nearest tram stop is a seven-minute walk. I have to leave though. You cannot return after a dramatic storm out. I hover in the doorway, considering what to do.
Alex walks past me, shoving his feet into thongs.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he says.
‘A lift where?’
‘Wherever you’re going.’
‘I could live on the other side of the city for all you know.’
‘I know it’s not far. You’re here way too often for it to be miles away.’
I frown at him and cross my arms. ‘I’m not here that much.’
‘The offer disappears in ten seconds.’
He runs out into the rain, shouting over his shoulder. ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three—’
‘Okay, I’m coming!’ I yell, as I run out into the rain behind him.
I open the passenger door, throw myself into the car and tell him my address. He pulls out into the street and we fall into silence. Normally I’m good with silence, but this feels like very pointed ‘we are two people with nothing to say to each other’ silence, which is the most stressful silence after ‘I am mad at you’ silence.
After a few blocks, I lean forward and try to turn on the radio, and Alex looks at me.
‘It’s broken.’
I clutch my hands together in my lap as if I am in prayer. I kind of am in prayer, if prayer involves chanting please, please, please, please, please, please, please think of something to say in your mind while a trickle of sweat rolls into your bra.
‘You’re going to have to start directing me soon,’ Alex says.
‘Keep going straight. I’ll tell you when to turn.’
I wish I could pull out my phone and pretend to text someone right now, but that would be unbearably rude. I need something for my hands to do. I slip them under my thighs. Think back to that top ten tips article, Natalie. Ask him engaging questions about himself.
‘So where do you work?’ I ask. (I know where he works, but he doesn’t know I know this.)
‘Hide Out. It’s a sort of fancy pub.’
‘Do you love it?’ I picture him in a kind of movie montage, showing off by flipping bottles and catching them, chopping carrots really fast, chatting and joking with the wait staff, looking at a perfectly arranged plate of food with deep satisfaction. (I know nothing about pubs or cooking.)
‘No. I kind of hate it, actually.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘My boss is the worst, the hours are long, there’s lots of yelling, and my feet hurt.’ He turns and smiles at me as he says all this, but the smile looks a little bit pained.
‘But everyone thinks you’re cool for working there, right?’
‘My friends do until I tell them I can’t get them free drinks.’
‘Oh.’
‘Nah, it’s not that bad. But I thought I would love working in a pub, and I don’t.’
‘You seem like the kind of person who would love working in a pub.’
‘What kind of person is that?’
‘A person who likes to be out, doing things, talking to people.’
‘I do like to be out doing things and talking to people.’
‘I like to be home, not doing things, talking to no one.’
He laughs. ‘I thought you had fun at the party last night.’
‘I did. I had at least ten minutes of fun.’
‘Which ten minutes?’
‘When Owen peed in front of me.’
‘Of course.’
I decide to be brave. ‘I also liked the part when we talked,’ I say, and then feel excruciatingly embarrassed the second the words have left my mouth.
‘Me too,’ he says, which surprises me. And makes my heart speed up.
We look at each other, then away again, quickly.
‘Turn here,’ I say.
‘What? Here? Right here?’
‘Yes.’
‘A little warning next time.’
‘That was plenty of warning.’
‘I almost missed it.’
‘Because you were slow to react.’
‘My reaction times are faster than average. It’s proven.’
‘By who?’
‘My soccer coach.’
‘When did he tell you that?’
‘Right before our under-11s grand final.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Well, no, but we came close. It was a very proud moment in my sporting history.’
‘It’s this one here.’
‘With the white fence?’
‘No. A bit further. With the wooden fence. I was giving you extra warning.’
He makes a face at me and pulls up in front of my house.
I could ask him to come in. I should ask him to come in. I am an adult now (sort of, kind of, not really). Deep breath. I could do this. But if I ask him in then he would see inside my house. I need days to prepare for the idea of a guy coming into my house. Weeks if we’re talking about my bedroom. Months if the guy in question is Alex.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ he says. There’s a beat of silence, and I very slowly undo my seatbelt, trying to give him time to say something else.
‘All right, then. Goodbye, Natalie.’ He makes eye contact as he says my name and it makes me flustered. I turn and open the car door with a little too much force, and it swings wide, slipping out of my hand, and banging into a light pole right next to us.
‘Oh, my god,’ I say.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I’ve scratched your car,’ I say, leaping out to look at the door.
‘It’s Mum’s car.’
‘That’s worse.’
‘I know.’
I squat down and look at the door. It doesn’t look scratched.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Alex says.
‘I feel so bad.’
‘If it’s scratched, I’ll tell Mum I did it,’ Alex says.
‘No, tell her it was me.’
‘Yeah, that’s a better plan, she’s less likely to yell at you.’
‘No, I’ve changed my mind, don’t tell her it was me.’ I must maintain my status as Mariella’s favourite.
‘I backed into the garbage bins the other day. It’s fine. She has three more sons who will be driving this car. It has many scratches in its future. Especially with Zach behind the wheel.’
Zach is an especially terrible driver, even worse than me. He got pulled over by police when he was on his L-plates for going too slow, which is now one of his family’s favourite stories.
‘I think it’s okay,’ I say, standing up.
‘Good.’
‘Okay, I’m going now.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I walk to my gate and then turn back. He’s sitting in the car. He hasn’t started it. He winds down his window and waves me back to him.
‘You can text me next time you need a ride, if you want.’
I have no idea what he means. ‘Are you an Uber driver on the side?’