The Boyfriend Rivalry by Milana Spencer

26

Liam: Partners

Liam: I know you want time by yourself, but whenever you're ready to talk, please let me know.

Next to the words are two heart emojis and underneath the text bubble is the word delivered. I sent the message to Kennedy a week ago, the night before term two began. She hasn't responded yet. I wonder if she will.

I drop my phone onto my stomach and stare at my bedroom ceiling. All my lights are off except the lava lamp I got when I was 11, which casts the ceiling in lime-green light. I have an old meme from two years ago taped to one arm of the ceiling fan. It's not that funny, but I can't be bothered to pull it down. When the fan turns on, the photo turns into a blurry mix of rainbow ink.

Curtis's bedroom has a ceiling fan too — I forgot I'd been inside Curtis's house, but Kennedy dragged me over once when they first started dating. The summer heat was stifling, and Kennedy and Curtis chatted on his bed while I sat on his desk chair, feeling sticky with sweat and annoyed as hell.

It was the last time Kennedy invited me to hang out with her and Curtis that summer. I complained about Curtis's ceiling fan not working enough and then he retorted back and then we were having an argument and then Kennedy butted in and started talking about the electricity usage of different air conditioners. Then she caught herself and made us all play Uno.

We played five games on Curtis's bed, and Kennedy and Curtis had the comfortable spots leaning against the headboard while I was at the end. I played as if my life depended on beating Curtis. Another thing that annoyed me that afternoon, I remember, was how much Curtis's room smelt like him.

I close my eyes to stop thinking about that. Kennedy. I need to fix the Kennedy issue. I won't make her talk to me before she's ready, but it's excruciating going to school and not talking to her.

Tonight at dinner, Mum and Dad talked about having the Harding family over for dinner. The Hardings have hosted the past two get-togethers, and it's their turn. I protested, saying that Kennedy and I were busy with schoolwork, so it wouldn't be a good idea to host a dinner soon. I think I convinced them. If not, and they invite the Hardings over anyway, Kennedy will just make an excuse not to come.

Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy. How can I make it up to her when she won't talk to me? I guess the only thing I can do is wait, but I've never been patient.

Sick of lying on my bed, but too awake to go to sleep, I grab my laptop and balance it on my lap. I scroll through all several social media sites, but my attention span is too short to get captivated by anything. On a blog post full of upcoming indie concerts in Melbourne, I see an advertisement on the side for stuff on Etsy.

Instead of anime prints or merchandise for my favourite bands, one item advertised is a notebook with an old-looking painting of a woman on it. I click on it.

The Etsy site selling the notebook loads and I read the description. The woman on the notebook is Mary Wollstonecraft, who I'm pretty sure I've heard Kennedy talking about. Kennedy went shopping on my computer last term, which is probably why I'm getting these ads.

Out of curiosity, I look through the other products sold by the Etsy seller. There's a pink handmade mug covered in tiny words and the description tells me it's Julia Gillard's misogyny speech. Sure enough, as soon as I read the writing, I recognise it. I remember a few years ago Kennedy memorised the whole speech and recited it. Not for school or anything, but just for fun. Because she's Kennedy.

I reckon she'd love this mug. And it's a good deal, and I'm supporting a small business. And I know Kennedy's address so I can send it to her.

If Kennedy saw me right now, I know what she'd say. Are you trying to buy my forgiveness? But whatever. I need to feel like I'm doing something about the situation.

*

"… split into pairs and present a short PowerPoint presentation on a theme Hippolytus. You must use textual evidence. This means quotes, but also literary techniques…"

Ms Lipson drones on about the activity, and while I usually pay attention to English — it's my best subject, and the most interesting along with Media — I keep getting distracted.

In this classroom, the tables are arranged into a U with Ms Teacher at the front. The point, Ms Lipson claims, is that we can have better classroom discussions because everyone can see each other. The problem is that everyone can see each other, and since I have this class with Curtis and Kennedy, we're all locked in a battle of avoiding each other's gaze.

I sit at one leg of the U, and Curtis sits at the other, which means I have a perfect view of him. Which makes it very difficult not to stare at him, spinning his pen with his fingers. Kennedy sits at the line of tables at the bottom of the U, between Curtis and me. She's scribbling something in her notebook, but I know she's not writing notes, but drawing either daisies or waves.

"… so let's get started. Time for the random name generator," Ms Lipson announces, turning to her computer.

I groan, and I'm not the only one. Ms Lipson has a sadistic tendency to use an online random name pairing program rather than let us choose our own partners because if we're paired with someone random, we're more likely to do the work. Her laptop screen is cast on the whiteboard behind her, and everyone watches warily as she presses the generate button.

I hope I'm not with someone stupid. Or boring —

The screen loads and my eyes scan the screen to find my name. When I see who I'm with, a spark of ecstatic energy bursts through me, before immediate dread.

I look across the classroom, and Curtis meets my gaze. My eyes move from his to Kennedy's, because for the first time today, I feel her eyes on mine. She looks at me for a beat, wearing no smile, no frown, then turns away.

Ms Lipson writes out the pairs on a second whiteboard and assigns each pair a theme before turning to us. "What are you all waiting for?" Ms Lipson asks, clapping her hands together. "Come on, get going! I want everyone to be finished in, say… twenty-five minutes. Let's go!"

No one else in the classroom shares her enthusiasm and everyone slowly gets up and moves around to join their partner. I stand up and grab a pen from my pencil case, but Curtis is already coming over to me. Okay then, we'll work here.

"Hi," he says when he arrives. He takes the now empty seat at the table beside me.

"Hi," I say.

He spreads his notebook out on the table and clears his throat.

"We're working on the theme of desire and continence. Do you want to make the PowerPoint on your computer, or mine?"

"I'll do it on mine." I take my laptop out of its case and turning it on. "We've already shared notes, so this shouldn't take us that long," I say, thinking of the day during the holidays when we studied on the attic bedroom floor.

I start a new PowerPoint and read off Curtis's notebook as I type, while Curtis flicks through his copy of the play to find quotes. After a few minutes, I lean closer to read a dot point down the bottom of the page. "Your writing is so tiny." I accidentally nudge him with my elbow.

Curtis leans back. "Oh. Yeah."

The back of my neck goes warm. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Because you jerked away from my touch like I was contagious. Which is sort of understandable, because we're at school and Kennedy is in this classroom and I don't know where we stand, but it's still embarrassing.

"No reason," I say, and focus on the computer.

I finish making the presentation soon after that and glance at the time. We still have fifteen minutes to go. I decide to fiddle with the colours to make the PowerPoint more pretty. In my periphery, Curtis flips through the play. I would have thought working on a class activity with Curtis would be more exciting, but we waste the rest of the time making minuscule changes and avoiding looking at each other too much. If Curtis was anyone else, I'd make small talk, but I don't even say something as simple as "how has your day been?" And neither does he.

Ms Lipson announces that it's time to start presenting. I don't pay attention to the presentations, instead wondering if Curtis and I are going to avoid talking for the rest of high school. I don't want it to. I want things to go back to normal, and by normal, I mean the way we were at Lonsdale Bay after we stopped hating each other.

Ms Lipson calls on us, interrupting my thoughts, and I muster up a smile as I walk to the front of the classroom with my laptop and Curtis behind me with his notebook. After I share my screen on the whiteboard, we read out the slides and explain them.

Most of my classmates look bored as we present, and a pair of girls are gossiping under their breath. Kennedy's face is expressionless.

"Well done boys!" Ms Lipson says, clasping her hands together. "How did you put so much into your presentation?" Our presentation went for five minutes when most pairs only went for three.

"We finished early," I say, "so we kept adding to it."

"Wow. And here, I thought you were a chronic procrastinator, Liam," Ms Lipson says with a smile.

"I'm not," I protest, smiling, even though all I want to do is go back to my seat.

"It must be your influence, Curtis," she continues.

Curtis shakes his head. "It was all Liam."

"Well, you worked well together."

Curtis and I glance at each other. Is that our cue to leave the front of the classroom? But Ms Lipson smiles at us expectantly.

"We studied together over the holidays," Curtis adds.

I glance at Kennedy, who's looking down at her notebook, scribbling something with her pen. Even without seeing her face, I know she's mad.

Ms Lipson turns to the class. "Curtis and Liam have shared many thoughtful points, so I hope you were all paying attention."

Curtis and I leave, and we slump into our seats with a sigh of relief.

"Good job," he murmurs, and he flashes his first real smile at me in days.

"You too," I whisper, grinning.

My eyes catch on something over his shoulder, and it's Kennedy, watching us with a frown.

*

"Kennedy," I call, following the short bob of brown hair. She's quick, but I have longer legs and I don't take long to catch up to her.

"Kennedy," I repeat, now close enough that she has no choice but to turn around and meet my eyes. Kennedy might be angry, but she's never petty or immature. She's never pretended I'm not there when I try to talk to her. It's all polite avoidance.

Which makes me embarrassed about how petty I was when she was dating Curtis. So that's another reason I'm a dick.

"Hi, Liam. I should get to my bus…" she gestures at the line of busses on the road that splits through Easton Grammar. Hers is close to the front of the line and the door is open, but only a few students have entered. Most kids wait in groups, only getting on their bus at the last second to extend their socialising.

"I know, I'll be quick. It's just…" I pause. How do I phrase this?

"What?" Kennedy's tone isn't rude, but not friendly either.

"You're my best friend," I begin, and she looks away. "You are," I repeat. "And I'm sorry about English."

She returns my gaze, and it's impossible to read her expression. "It was a random generator. It's not your fault."

"Still. I want you to know that we don't talk. Because, well, I don't want to hurt you. He doesn't either. I hope you know that."

After a moment, she dips her chin. "I thought you hated him."

"I… well."

Now she cocks her head. "But you don't anymore?"

"No."

"So you like him."

"You want the truth?" I ask.

"Of course."

"I do. I really like him," I say.

For a moment, I swear Kennedy's expression softens a bit. The next thing she says shocks me even more. "It's clear Curtis likes you, too. A lot."

I take a step back in surprise but recompose myself. "Why — why do you think that?"

Kennedy shrugs with one shoulder. "It's in the way he looks at you."

"In English today?" Curtis looked grim until the end when he smiled. I open my mouth to protest, but Kennedy knows what I'm about to say before I say it.

"When you're not looking. He looks at you all the time."

I'm shocked, and Kennedy takes it as an opportunity to step back and glance at her bus. When she speaks, her voice changes to polite indifference. "I have to go. Bye, Liam."

"Bye —" I begin, but she's already walking away.