Page 68 of Power Moves
CHAPTER 31
Archie’s not the kind of guy who people easily forget. He’s big. He has a good jaw. He has a bit of a Batman-as-Bruce-Wayne thing going on, in that he’s an athletic guy who wears a lot of suits. He’s also had two successful, moderately high profile careers. I imagine that for many people, meeting Archie is significant—a moment they’ll remember and maybe tell their friends about.
I, on the other hand, never had this moment. Archie and I were never introduced. Instead, we absorbed the knowledge of each other through mutual friends and shared social events. As I floated through my first semester at uni, I somehow learned that he was in the year above me and played rugby. People said he was the best player in the whole university. I saw him often. In the dining hall, the pub, the convenience store where the staff all wore those shirts that saidI slurp for Australia.He was part of the wallpaper of my uni res experience: always there but generally silent, contributing nothingmore than a few reluctant smiles at whatever stupid joke his mates were making.
We never spoke, until the last night of second semester.
The air was hot and sticky. My ballet flats peeled against the beer-soaked floor. The barmat was sweaty under my arm and the suspense of summer lay heavy in the steam that covered the dancefloor. Exams had finished, Christmas was coming and we were all about to move out of our uni res dorms and head home for the break.
We’d made it through the slog of the uni social calendar. We’d conquered the pub crawls, toga nights, foam parties and hungover champagne brunches. We’d watched every inter-residence sports match and cheered at the unsanctioned events too: the boat races, the pub crawl marathon, the famous annual hotdog-eating competition where the master of ceremonies always had to wear an old Sydney 2000 Olympics volunteer uniform that someone found at Vinnies.
After every one of these social occasions, we inevitably ended up at the uni pub. It was a dark, damp building that stank of stale booze and had nondescript black and white photos riveted to the walls because otherwise they’d be stolen by drunken fools. There were cheap beers and vodka sodas, short dresses and a DJ who couldn’t be bribed. It was the only place we’d considered to celebrate our final night of the university year, and on the surface, everything appeared unremarkable. That’s what made it so hard.
I stood at the bar, fidgeting with my phone until a message buzzed in from Jessie.
It’ll be okay, don’t worry. There are so many treatment options.
It took me straight back to the car earlier that day when I’d picked Mum up from the hospital. She’d tried to smile but I could see the fear in her eyes. She explained that the biopsy results were due in tomorrow and then she’d work out the next steps with the oncologist. She chose her words carefully:It’s cancer, but we don’t know how bad it is yet.
It made no sense to me. Mum was the fittest of us all. She looked so strong and beautiful, sitting on the drab grey fabric of my passenger seat, her long legs nestled among the gym bags and empty chip packets in the footwell. Her arms were tanned and strong. In her tennis whites she looked like an angel.
I tried to focus on the road as I drove her from the hospital to the train station, but I braked too early in front of a pedestrian crossing. I took too long to accelerate after a red light turned green. My fingers around the steering wheel felt like misshapen lumps, my feet on the pedals like cumbersome logs. I took a corner too quickly, and the manila folder of documents on Mum’s lap went flying. A flurry of A4 sheets of paper careened over my disgusting, messy car, the pages landing haphazardly, like roofs torn off by a hurricane. The image was seared into my memory: the sheets of paper, my beautiful mum, my revolting car.
I tried to tuck the thought away as the barman arrived at the bar to serve me. ‘Drink?’ he asked.
I squinted at him. Of course I wanted a drink. Why else would I have been there? I wanted to escape. I wanted my throat to burn.
Another message buzzed in my purse. This time it was from Dad.
No, don’t come home. Mum says not to worry.
I felt a presence next to me and when I turned I saw Archie Cohen.
‘Hi,’ he said. He smiled and it shifted the contours of his entire face.
I swung back to face the barman, even more confused than I was before. Why was Archie Cohen saying hi to me? We were not people who said hi to each other.
‘Do. You. Want. A. Drink?’ the barman repeated, enunciating the words as if I were thick.
‘Two vodka sodas, thanks mate,’ said a deep voice. It was Archie—apparently still beside me. When the drinks materialised in front of him, he extended two long fingers and pushed one towards me.
‘What? Why?’ I sputtered.
Archie didn’t reply. He just lifted one shoulder then brought his glass to his lips.
I turned back to the bar, assessing the concoction before me. The clear glass, the fizzing soda, the broken blocks of ice, the pale green wedge of lime.
Another text buzzed in from Dad:Mum says you should celebrate the end of your exams. Distract yourself! We’re going to sort this out.
‘I need a straw and I need a distraction,’ I announced to no one in particular. The barman definitely wasn’t listening.
Archie Cohen held out a paper straw. ‘Did you read theQuarterly Essayon political greenwashing?’ he asked.
‘What the hell?’
‘You want to be a political journalist, right?’
My stomach clenched as I took the paper straw. How did he know that? We weren’t friends. I mean, yes, we were technically in the same broader friendship group, but it was huge and we were at opposite sides of the circle. It wasn’t even a circle, really. It was a giant, shape-shifting amoeba, punctured and bloated in different places depending on the day, and on what had happened at the pub the night before.
