Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair Page 5

  “I like your arms”

  Annabel, give in. Just admit it

  I’m your kind of guy

  I’m perfect, OK.

  What can you find to fault

  “but about your nose hair, Jack . . .”

  The right reasons

  I’ve been sitting here

  trying to think of the one thing in my life

  that will give it sense,

  like they do in Hollywood movies

  and after ninety minutes of formula

  you get a happy family

  with blonde children

  and the wife always looks younger than she should

  and the hero looks older

  and the credits roll happily ever after

  while Annabel and I walk along Narrowneck Road

  knowing her parents are away

  but I’m still thinking of this one thing

  and all I get is

  a nine-year-old boy

  ducking wild plovers dive-bombing the schoolyard

  thinking

  “what if they hit my eye”

  or a twelve-year-old

  riding beside the train tracks

  looking for bits of human left

  after the train smash

  “what if I find some skin

  what if I find some skin”.

  At fourteen, I’m standing in a pack of boys

  waiting for the ball

  so we can avoid bashing heads

  and for once it comes my way

  and I dive full-length to meet it

  “what if I meet someone’s boot

  what if I meet someone’s boot”

  but I’m lucky, I score,

  and no one has to mention fear for another week

  or until now

  when Annabel and I are in bed together

  and I thought football and death

  and blindness and parents and school

  and alcohol and unlicensed cars

  were scary

  and you move one arm under my body

  and your skin is not hard like

  the gloss of magazines

  or cold like the railroad metal

  or brittle like the beak of a dead plover

  and I’m thinking as our bodies meet

  that I’ll remember this forever

  and I just hope

  it’s for all the right reasons.

  The bike ride

  Annabel has the bottle

  I carry maps and food

  I’m scared of getting lost

  she wants to cycle aimless

  she pedals like a caged mouse

  she checks her watch

  she feels her pulse

  she ties the knot of her hair

  tight against her neck

  she smiles for me to lead

  I strain to follow the curve of her road

  I hear the birds chorus

  to witness such clatter

  I am leaning over the handlebars

  my shoes pull hard on the pedals

  I breathe her scent with the headwind

  She rests her thigh on the seat

  turns to wait for me

  we ride double-file

  we hold hands

  swing to keep balance

  she tells me stories

  I tell jokes

  we suck water from the bottle as we ride

  we stop

  kiss with our mouths full

  we blow water into each other’s mouth

  she smiles

  I can feel the crease of her lips

  We are in love with this bike ride.

  Monday, the last before holidays

  Monday, the last before holidays

  Ezra and I walk to school

  his plaster off, the skin still white

  he tells me his father is moving out

  later I watch him smile all through Maths.

  Monday, the last before holidays

  I see Annabel walk up to a bunch of guys

  heckling this Year 8 girl

  and punch the biggest guy

  hard, cracking his smile

  she walks away with the girl

  and the school holds its breath

  I write in my diary

  never cross Annabel

  never cross Annabel.

  Monday, the last before holidays

  rumour has it that

  two Science teachers are to marry

  and honeymoon at Surfers

  this confirms our suspicions

  that teachers like bank tellers

  and public servants

  in-breed with immunity.

  Monday, the last before holidays

  the Principal tells a joke during Assembly

  and everyone laughs

  not because it was funny

  or his timing was right

  or even that we understood it

  but, after all,

  it was

  Monday, the last before holidays.

  Ms Curling

  Ms Curling and I had a talk recently

  not about my late essay

  or laughing in class

  or even my excuse for a uniform

  we had a talk about sex

  sex and AIDS

  sex and babies

  sex and Annabel

  it was very interesting

  watching my favourite teacher

  tell me stuff I already knew

  and squirm with embarrassment

  Ms Curling looks very attractive

  when embarrassed

  particularly when I asked her about Annabel

  how did she know?

  was she taught this at University?

  was there a subject called

  “STUDENTS HAVING SEX — how to find out”?

  did she get top marks?

  so we skipped Annabel

  and discussed condoms

  I said I liked orange ones

  and we ended our talk, in laughter.

  Ms Curling and I sat together sometimes after that

  I told her about the hut near Megalong Creek

  about my Dad not coming home

  about Desiree

  Ms Curling said she’d like to meet my Dad

  I said he was too old for her

  I didn’t know there were teachers like her

  I thought the years of exposure to Year 9

  dried them out,

  made them brittle, hard.

  she was OK

  maybe I would let her meet my Dad . . .

  I’m sure the ghost would approve.

  Annabel kisses

  Annabel kisses like the wind whistling

  through the wattle

  Annabel kisses like a prayer I said

  at the age of nine

  I couldn’t open my eyes for hours

  Annabel kisses and our fireplace glows

  Annabel kisses and the nuns at St Rita’s

  turn their heads

  Annabel kisses as the dogs bark

  Annabel kisses on October 6th

  all afternoon

  two days before my birthday

  Annabel kisses and even the ghost is silent

  Annabel kisses with red lipstick

  and her hand softly

  on my wrist

  Annabel kisses and I think of toothpaste

  the 1992 Grand Final

  and the beach on a family holiday

  Annabel kisses with her eyes open

  Annabel kisses in her black dress

  with silver buttons

  Annabel kisses with a sharp intake

  of breath

  Annabel kisses me

  Annabel kisses me

  and I kiss back.

  It’s easy

  It’s easy to tell your Mum

  you’re in love

  with the guy from up the road

  and that you and him

  made love in your bed w
ith the birthday sheets

  when they were on holidays last weekend.

  It’s easy to ask for a second helping of guilt

  and misplaced trust

  as you share tea

  with two spoons of tears

  and a dash of broken promises.

  It’s easy to invite Jack for dinner

  with the family

  and feel his hand under the table

  while you watch your Mum

  reach for the carving knife

  as Jack asks for a second helping.

  It’s easy to see the fear

  in your Dad’s eyes

  as he struggles to make sense

  of camping trips and story books

  and Girl Guide meetings every Thursday

  and his pride when I won the high jump

  on his forty-fifth birthday

  and tonight he looks at Jack

  like he looks at his car when it won’t start

  it’s easy

  easy as kissing your childhood goodbye.

  37 lines

  She is the reason I walk home from school

  the long way

  She talks all breath and throat

  She keeps my picture on the wall

  next to a STOP sign

  She says poetry books make good weapons

  She says I look like a movie star

  I say Keanu Reeves

  she says, no, Roger Rabbit.

  She listens to Madonna and Opera at the same time

  She spoons sugar in her coffee

  but refuses to stir

  She wears Egyptian sandals in summer

  I float down her Nile

  She knocks at my door and shouts

  “Police. Open Up.”

  She wears black stockings with red flowers

  She wears black stockings with Baxter boots

  She wears black stockings

  I follow her step

  She eats with a fork

  stays afraid of the knife

  She kisses me in front of my Dad

  we all look out the window

  She rides a bicycle like a threat

  She says Maths teachers were born

  with glasses and bad haircuts

  She likes Science

  but refuses to cut up the frog

  She clenches her fist

  as we walk past McDonalds

  She is waiting

  here

  now

  She says love is like a shadow

  that scares you awake

  She refuses to say more.

  Telling the ghost

  I’m going to tell the ghost to stay away

  I don’t know how I’m going to do it

  but

  I am going to

  how long do you need a ghost for?

  how long is Dad going to

  say I look like you

  carry your photo in his wallet

  mention you every night over dinner

  I’ll be seventeen in two weeks time

  Annabel and I are having a private party

  in the hut

  and then I’m coming home to Dad and Desiree, and

  dinner.

  At midnight, I’m going to tell the ghost

  no more visits

  it’s not that I don’t need her

  or want her to stay

  I’m just too old to believe in it any more

  seven years of talking to myself

  seven years of listening

  and hearing a fading echo

  of a Mother I loved, and still do.

  I’ll just tell her straight

  blow a kiss

  smile (definitely won’t cry)

  and get on with this life.

  I’ve decided it’s time

  I’ve got more than a memory

  I see my Mother

  in my face

  in Desiree’s hair, and her hands,

  in what we do in this world.

  I know she’ll understand

  it’s time

  I definitely won’t cry

  at least

  not until she’s gone.

  Echoes

  I woke early, dressed

  climbed out the window

  and sat on our roof

  to watch the morning

  I could hear the gang-gangs

  welcoming the day

  I knew I had a full hour

  to sit here, and wait.

  For the first time in my life

  I’m waiting for NOTHING to happen.

  I’m seventeen

  I’ve cut my nose hair

  dressed in clothes my sister would approve of

  I’ve washed the childhood from my eyes

  I’m sitting on this roof

  and I’m happy because all I can see

  are trees, the rising mist,

  the orange cliffs

  and our cubbyhouse, still standing.

  I know in one hour my Dad will wake

  and cast his eyes to her photo

  and he’ll know what his day lacks

  before he’s had a chance to change it.

  He needs his ghost

  whispering through the house

  arranging the days into sequence.

  I climb down from the roof

  and walk around our yard.

  I am alone

  the only ghost I hear is the wind

  I walk along Narrowneck Road

  past Annabel’s house

  down to the Landslide Cliff

  and for the last time

  I shout the ghost’s name

  and turn

  without waiting for the echo.

  Steven Herrick is one of Australia’s most popular poets. His books for teens include Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair; A Place Like This; and The Simple Gift.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Simon Pulse edition March 2004

  Copyright © 1996 by Steven Herrick

  Published by arrangement with University of Queensland Press

  Originally published in Australia in 1996 as Love, Ghosts and Nose Hair by University of Queensland Press

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2003110835

  ISBN 0-689-86710-7 (Simon Pulse pbk.)

  ISBN: 9780-6898-6710-1 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-2170-2 (eBook)