The Beginner's Guide to Living Read Free

with people; on the way back he visited Mom’s grave. He’s in the kitchen, his face grappling for control, when I come in. “Weird, when you think about it. She’ll spend more time in that one place than anywhere else.”
    â€œNow look who’s getting all deep,” I say to smooth the unease of his confession, but all he does is curl his lip, and say, “Prick.”
    Dad saunters in as Adam goes out.
    Dad in one of his talkative moods. “Will.”
    â€œDad.”
    It’s genetic.
    He’s wearing the green sweater Mom gave him last Christmas. He doesn’t like it much—being so tall, he says it makes him look like a tree. We’re all tall, a skyscraper family. At least in that sweater he looks as if he’s got someone taking care of him. Wonder how long that’ll last. “So, whose house are we going to?” I ask.
    â€œRay’s.”
    â€œWho’s Ray?”
    â€œHe was at the wake,” says Dad, heading into the hall.
    I follow. “Don’t remember him.”
    â€œHe was with his wife and daughter.” Dad flattens his hair in the mirror. Mom always did that for him. “I told you about him. He used to go out with your mom.”
    â€œWe’re having dinner with Mom’s ex?”
    They say loss does strange things.
    â€œWell, sort of. He was also a friend of mine.”
    â€œWhy don’t I know them?”
    â€œIt was a long time ago, before you were born.”
    Adam comes in wearing an ironed shirt. He checks out my old jeans and a T-shirt Mom bought me. At least Adam dresses himself. “I’m meeting some friends for dinner.”
    â€œWhat about Ray’s?” Dad asks.
    â€œI’m not coming. I don’t even know them.” Adam rakes his fingers through his hair in front of the hall mirror. He looks at his watch then back at Dad. “Tom Wallace is picking me up in about ten minutes. You remember Tom.”
    â€œYes, I think so. You drive, Will, you need the practice. Not long till you go for your license now.”
    Dad drops the keys into my hands and heads out the front door.
    â€œNice work,” I say, nudging past Adam.
    â€œWhat?” He raises his eyebrows and goes back to realigning his hair, his reflection blocking mine, except for a slice of my head. He is my brother but he is closed to me.
    If I had my notebook I’d write:
    3. Why do some get to live, and others die?
    Ray’s house is yellow. Below the knocker, there’s a sticker, We acknowledge the Wurrundjeri people as the traditional owners of this land . A political front door. They can’t be friends of Dad’s. It opens.
    â€œRay, how are you?”
    â€œGood, thanks, Michael. Come in. And you must be Will,” says Ray, shaking my hand. He’s much thinner than Dad. His gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he’s wearing a black shirt. I manage a smile as he takes us through to the living room. The walls are crowded with paintings and framed posters, the coffee table full of homemade dips and stuff. The whole house has a congested feel.
    â€œSo, Will. Are you still studying?”
    â€œYeah. I’m in Year 12.”
    His ponytail brushing his shoulders, Ray gives Dad a knowing look. “So you’ve got exams coming up soon?”
    â€œMmmm,” I nod, recognizing one of the posters—it’s of the South American guy from that movie, the one where he becomes a revolutionary after crossing the continent on a motorcycle.
    â€œTaryn!” calls out Ray, and she runs in. I can’t believe it; it’s the girl from the dream. The one who wore white to the wake. “You remember Michael, and this is Will.”
    â€œHi,” she says, her tooth resting on her lip.
    â€œHi.” The taste of chocolate in my mouth. I focus on that poster. Che, that’s who he is, Che Guevara, the certainty of his name helping to keep the blood out of my cheeks. But