High spirits brings Coral to the fore.
She prized organising school break fun for her troupe. Twister and table tennis at Josh's house provided an initial antidote to the winter school holiday, boredom.
The following day loomed dead. Ahead, later in the week, the promise of light-hearted festivity at Coral's house.
The rain bucketed as I filled in time playing pickup sticks with my younger brother, James, lolling on our lounge room floor.
Our house phone rang, and I answered.
"Get over to Ruby's," Coral gushed through the phone.
"What?"
Surprised, I caught my thoughts as Coral added, "Yes, you heard me correctly. Yeah, Rubes has made the call. She rang me and said, 'My place today.' Luke, get off your couch and get over there."
"Can you pick me up?"
"I'd like to; sorry, Josh and I are squeezing a lift, no spare room. Bye, see you there, if you can make it. Oh, go round to the back, the kitchen entrance, okay."
I knew Ruby's parent's restaurant, as my family had occasional dinners at the well-known venue. Her house above it presented a blank like the brunette's bedroom; its layout never strayed into my thoughts.
I pleaded and promised to do extra household chores until my mum gave in and drove me there. The day was too wet to walk. Lucky for me, my mum liked Ruby's mum. They both belonged to a local, ecumenical women's fellowship. When we arrived, I left my mother's car, uttering repeated thank-yous. Gripping the wheel and the engine running, she stated her afternoon schedule was busy.
She insisted, "Find a lift home," as I closed the car door.
I walked along the service lane beside the restaurant towards the rear kitchen doors. It rained heavier. I knocked and waited, and no one answered. Close to soaked, I decided to go in. I opened the door and heard laughter.
Ruby, Coral, and Josh leaned around a massive bench in a commercial-sized kitchen. The brunette told a joke. Only my bestie acknowledged my arrival as her hands mined, remove that wet jumper.
Other parts of the kitchen bustled, busy organising restaurant lunches. Ruby finished her joke. Josh laughed and slapped his thighs. Coral covered her mouth. I stared blankly, holding a dripping top. The brunette's punchline evaded me. The kitchen impressed me: hanging, shiny copper pots and gleaming stainless-steel benches.
"Righto," the grinning minx instructed, following a snigger, "upstairs before momma returns. She's in the restaurant; quickly follow me before she makes us recite the catechism."
Coral stifled a laugh.
Ruby motioned, and we hiked fast to the stairs along the kitchen side. My bestie whipped my jumper from my dangling hand and hung it over the staircase rail. A long, well-lit hallway stretched at the top of the stairs. Ruby ushered us along the hall. It provided no glimpse of her family life because every door was shut. The brunette opened the last door, and I entered Ruby's lair alongside Josh. In contrast, Coral regularly visited her girlfriend's private space.
The size of Ruby's bedroom generated envy. If I had speculated before I entered her room, I would have said wall-to-wall trophies like Josh's. No brunette trophies were on display. Her room included a clock radio by her sizeable single bed, and a family portrait dominated her side draw. The photo appeared several years old. Everyone in the image posed stiff and formal, Ruby central, splitting her parents. The angle of the bedside frame surprised me. Unlike most bedside photos angling to the bed, this one faced away. Some things always appear the same: her hair in the picture, a ponytail.
Her doona cover provided a burst of colour and excitement in her room—a print of wild brumbies running free. I doubted she chose it—her walls, plain white paint, exposed, bare and unadorned.
Inside her bedroom, I speculated, where were her sailing or horse-riding photos?
I noticed the apparent; she studied hard. I strolled to her executive-sized study table. It was strewn with textbooks: Calculus and Physics, French and Italian primers. I scanned her room, gleaning nuggets of the private Ruby. A boxed shelf next to her built-in wardrobe contained scented candles.
An interest beyond academia and competitive sport, finally, I thought.
Until I remembered, most were likely gifts from Coral. They offered competing smells.
"New candle," inquired Coral, next to me, selecting one and gathering its odour.
"Yes," Ruby said offhand, "It complements the vanilla one you got me last month."
"No dolls," inquired Josh.
He scanned for childhood connections like me, something from her pre-teen years.
"Given away," shrugged Ruby, "And, no sex doll in the closet either. Sorry, Josh."
Her lashes gave my mate a pixie flutter as I was drawn to her books, scattered and piled on her desk.
"Are you reading this," I probed Ruby directly.
I asked after seeing its potent personal dedication. I held her book, the slimmest title, on her desk—a black glossy cover. The volume teetered close to falling off the edge. I pursued the detail, a Penguin classic: Thomas à Kempis The Imitation of Christ. Opening the cover, I lingered, intrigued by the powerful dedication and the bold and flowing handwriting.
'I would rather feel contrition than how to define it. Love, Momma.'
Then and now, I mused, heady and heavy.
Ruby sneered, accompanied by a deft eyelid pull, as she instructed, "Put it back!"
I did so fast, yet I placed it carefully at the side of her study table.
The brunette flung, "It's like your mum pushing you to be a missionary. You won't make it. I won't make a good Catholic girl, either. Let's play cards."
Ruby's barrage intrigued Coral. She asked me to hand her the slim volume. I passed it.
I thought, you bitch, you're not telling Coral to put it back.
Josh disengaged and gazed out the window at the rain. Coral perused the dedication in her own sweet time. When finished, she carefully placed the classic front and centre on her girlfriend's table. The golden girl twisted her hair through her fingers. She waited, expecting Ruby to look at her. Finally, the brunette glanced.
Coral stated, "Rubes, dearest, you're taking the wafer without confession!"
My buddy watched as I did for the brunette's eyes to turn away or her head to dip. Neither happened; she held a steely-eyed resolve. She swished her ponytail before rummaging for a pack of playing cards inside her bedside table.
"Cards," she redirected, turning with her brazen impish grin.