Crossing the Line Read Free

boyfriend, and even if I didn’t, I’d rather suck on a lemon than go anywhere near that gross face of his!’
    So perhaps she’s not gay at all – maybe she just likes me . . .
    The other girls also give the boy heaps, and he racks off as fast as his skinny legs will let him. Maya, who sits to my left, is the quietest and the most conservative of the group – the opposite of Greta. No studs or rings, no off-the-wall hairstyle. She shares her sandwiches with me because, in my anxiety about the new school, I forgot to pack lunch or bring any money. The others are friendly, too. One offers to give me a spare textbook, while another promises to photocopy English literature notes so I’ll be up to speed. I feel completely at ease with them all and can’t believe my good luck. At the same time, a small voice is nagging at the back of my mind, telling me not to get too involved. So many times I’ve been in relationships that break down. It’s hard to trust. Still, what matters is the moment, and the moment, for now, is good.

3

    W hile the rest of the world is asleep, I hop onto Matt’s bike – which he said to borrow anytime – and head off. I love this time of the day before people intrude with their busyness and the air is fresh. The streets are deserted as I cycle through suburbia until I come to the pool: beaches on both sides of it stretching golden and unbroken to the next headlands.
    I have the water all to myself. In I step, cautiously, gasping and heart thudding, toes, ankle, shins, thighs, ever deeper. Head under . . . Oh! It’s freezing!
    And then I launch into the first lap, gliding away from the world. As I swim, light flickers to create washes of watercolour swirling in arcs of cellophane greens and silvers. The world below my goggled face is a repetition of concrete and lichen. As I follow a crack that runs the length of the pool my body ceases to exist. Vaguely I’m aware that behind me the water churns as I glide forward, arms rotating, over and through, over and through, on and on.
    Now there is nothing within me but peace.
    When my body tires and I’m almost out of breath, I become aware of others moving around the pool, on the blocks, beside me in the water. That’s when the magic ends.

    Amy’s at the breakfast table, head poised over the Saturday newspaper, circling ads in the classifieds.
    ‘Not looking for a new place, I hope?’ I squat beside her with a bowl of muesli.
    ‘No.’ She looks up. ‘Garage sales. I love them. Ever been to one?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Matt makes fun of me, but half the stuff in our place I bought way cheap at sales.’
    She points out a couple of chairs, the curtains, a stack of CDs, a print on the wall.
    ‘I’m just about to go. Wanna come?’
    Before long we’re in Amy’s VW bug, roaring down streets. She speeds like she’s out to win a Grand Prix, takes corners on two wheels, swears and honks at other drivers.
    ‘This your car?’ I ask, wondering how she can afford one on the youth allowance.
    ‘A friend’s,’ she says.
    Curious, I dig deeper. ‘How old are you, Amy?’
    ‘Old enough.’
    ‘Yeah, sure. But are you old enough to have a licence?’
    ‘You know what?’ she says. ‘There’s too much red tape in this world. Why do I need a licence? I can drive. Look at me. I’m doing fine, aren’t I?’
    Suddenly she swerves to avoid a pedestrian, just missing him.
    ‘See?’ She grins. ‘Only a top driver could have got out of that.’
    At the first stop we check out tables chocka with all sorts of junk. Nothing much interests me, but Amy’s stockpiling – glassware, cutlery, a crimson scarf, an astrology book (no back cover), cute ornaments . . .
    ‘Look at this!’ she keeps exclaiming.
    When it comes to buying, she’s a mistress of the barter.
    ‘Fifteen dollars.’
    ‘Are you kidding me?’
    ‘All right – ten. But I won’t go any lower.’
    ‘That’s a rip-off – see you later.’
    ‘Wait.’ Deep sigh. ‘What’s your