Chapter One

I know a lot about Joel Masten. I know that he holds his breath and makes a wish whenever he drives over a bridge. I know that he kissed Erin in the fourth grade, and again in the ninth. I know that his favourite colour is purple, but he’d never tell. I know that he’s lying when he says he hasn’t cried since he was twelve, and I know that he hates knee-high socks and fingerless gloves. I know that autumn is his favourite season, that he prefers fettuccini to spaghetti, and I know that he wants to settle down and own his own house by the time he’s 28. I know that he wants to be a kindergarten teacher, but he’ll tell you he’d rather be a lawyer because it’s what his mother wants. I know that he prefers to sleep with socks on. I know that he has three freckles arranged in the shape of a triangle on his left thumb, and a birthmark under his right a*s cheek that looks like a donut. I know that tropical is his favourite icy-pole flavour and, given the choice, he’ll almost always choose the red slushy over blue. I know that he likes Jim Beam but not Jack Daniels, and that he prefers his bourbons straight, not mixed. I know that he doesn’t believe in God or heaven, but prefers the concept of reincarnation. I know that he hates moths almost as much as he hates spiders, but he’ll get angry if you ever go out of your way to kill either one of them. I know an awful lot about Joel Masten, and you’d better believe he knows an awful lot about me, too.

Joel lives next door. Not the house beside us, the house in front of us. 33A. Our house, 33B, is nestled from view behind Joel’s and only accessible by a long driveway that on first glance looks as it belongs to the front house. We’re separated by a fence that runs along the length of the driveway, and a fence that cuts through a grassed area that serves as Joel’s backyard and our front yard. Our houses are structurally identical; two small but open three by twos with tiny bathrooms and large living areas. It’d be fair to say our families are also structurally similar in the sense we’re both essentially fatherless �"but apart from structure, our homes and families are both entirely different. While the Masten household boasts a clean and well maintained front, a trimmed and tailored garden, plain bench-tops and spotless carpets, little 33B stands in a stark comparison. My mother, Joanne, budding interior and exterior decorator, has inarguably had a lot to do with the appearance of our little townhouse. The walls are painted terracotta orange and the windowsills and trimmings are a bright, clean white. Arranged in a jumble along the front porch �" an addition she added herself, without council approval �" are an assortment of brightly coloured pots overflowing with ferns and flowers alike. Wind chimes dangle from hastily nailed-in hooks along the front of the house, creating a symphony of chimes that continue all through the night. Their song is never an unwelcome one.
Our welcome mat is a woven pattern of green and red, and alongside it sits two blue gumboots filled with yellow and white flowers. The front door, which is painted white with green and red detailing in correlation with the mat, opens into a large kitchen.

The kitchen is undoubtedly one of my favourite rooms in the house; little jars and tiny pots filled with cactuses and bonsais sit amongst Joanne’s largely green collection of kitchen appliances, and the cupboard doors are painted with images of nature from her own hand. Its green themed décor creates a warm and inviting atmosphere, and while my mother’s innovation may seem like a decorating disaster to some, I am in love with it. It’s unique and risqué and warm, all of the things Joel’s home lacks.

Joel’s mother, Lorraine, is cold and judgemental. Her house, with its neatness and simplicity, suggests the exact word I’d use to describe her; dull. She’s looked down at my mother for as long as I can remember, scowled at our overflowing gardens and crinkled her nose at the incense she regularly burns. A prude, is what my mother would say, an old cow with no imagination or sense of humour. “It’s no wonder Joel’s always over here,” she often tittered, usually after an unwelcome but excruciatingly polite visit from Lorraine. “That woman has about as much charisma as a dead fish.”

Despite the tension and disparity between our two families, every second Friday is steak night. Joanne hauls out the old barbeque and a rickety collapsible table, and everyone gathers in our backyard for hotdogs and steak and hot chips. Tonight is no exception.
I’m helping Joanne �" she refuses to be called ‘mum’ �" set out plates and cutlery when Joel arrives. His hair is freshly wet from showering and he carries a basket full of freshly baked rolls. Joanne receives them gratefully, sparing no pleasantries. She truly does love Joel; as much as her own son, I’d guess.
Joel grins at her, displaying the deep dimples in his cheeks. “Mum’ll be over in a minute with the kids,” he tells her, taking the plates from her hands and completing their dispersal around the table. “Noah’s in trouble with school again so she’s pretty crabby.” He says, almost apologetically. Joanne just laughs.
“Oh, she’ll be fine. We’ll get a couple of wines into her and I’m sure she’ll loosen up real good.” She grins back at us mischievously, and if it wasn’t for the faint creases around her eyes and mouth, I’d be sure she was sixteen again. Her smile is infectious; I can’t help but grin back.

***

After making a hasty escape from dinner preparations, Joel and I find ourselves back up on the roof. Well; it wasn’t entirely part of the roof, but instead, a wooden ledge we’d constructed some months ago that fit around the incline of the roof and created a two by two area that was safe and inarguably a lot easier than navigating the roof unaided. It was accessible by means of a ladder and a series of wooden planks bolted in at regular intervals that paved the way up to the ledge, which was sheltered and obscured from prying eyes by an overhanging tree. From a vantage point outside the house, the wooden structure is completely hidden. Joanne had had no qualms over the idea; instead, she had suggested it. Unauthorised alterations were no fear of Joanne’s, and she’d helped us with the construction herself.
Joel and I sit in an easy silence as the sky darkens around us and the wind picks up. The indistinguishable bubble of chatter from the table below fills our ears as the rest of our families prepare dinner. It’s a welcome sound, one that fills me with happiness and nostalgia. We do not move, however, until the night is black and the street is quiet. By then the food is done and Lorraine is drunk, both welcome alternatives. In the meantime, we talk.
“Do you think you’ll remember this moment, a few months from now?” Joel asks. In the dimming light I see him turn back to face me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I mean, this exact moment. You know, with the night and the sounds and your thoughts �"all of it.” I wonder vaguely where Joel gets these questions from, but do not dwell on it. I’ve come well accustomed to Joel’s questions. I’ve heard them all; from the “Why did your dad leave you?” to the “Do you think there’s another me in an alternative universe?” and I’ve long ago disregarded all reservations for answering them.
“Well, yeah, probably. Now that you’ve asked.”
With the fading light as my cover, I take the time to observe him. His skin is fair but his hair is a rich brown, and I wouldn’t be able to find any other word to describe it but strong. Its thick and the colour is solid, all the way through. It falls in soft waves over one side of his forehead, and he’s got it short on the sides. His eyelashes are long and dark enough to make me curse nature for its cruel injustices and my own eyelashes, which are blonde and currently mascara-clad. He has wide, kind, intuitive eyes, that I swear are brown but sometimes look green. I think he could be really handsome if it wasn’t for his nose, which is too large for his face. But his jaw is square and his build is strong, so it suits him just fine.
Sometimes I wonder what being with Joel would be like. Not just sexually; those thoughts just come and go and they’re never made of much substance. As a couple though, however hard I try, I can’t get the idea to fit �" it’s like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that are totally incongruent. I guess he’s thought about it too, but it seems like the only thing we’re not comfortable discussing; something that I’m sure we’re both grateful for.
“How was school?” I ask, not to change the subject but because I’m generally interested. School is the only part of my life I don’t get to share with Joel. He goes to an all boy’s private school, where his mother has a place on the board.
Joel yawns. “Bullshit, that’s what it is.”
I laugh. “Yeah? Go on then, tell me about it.”
He clears his throat and sits up straight, acquiring an expression of mock sternness. “Mister Masten, your socks are too short!” He cries, stabbing a finger at me as he speaks. “Your tie isn’t tied properly, Masten! Your shirt is not tucked in, and where is your hat?” Joel rolls his eyes and drops his hand. “It’s stupid and petty. My mum’s wasting her money sending me there.” Despite the annoyance on his face, his eyes gleam with amusement. I laugh along with him, knowing with certainty that this exact moment, with the waning day and the happy thoughts in my head, will be one that I remember.