In French

Background: Duck & Polly spend a typical afternoon together. This forms the chapter 'Doing it French' in the book DLC01

There are two main sports in the senior quad - which is the terribly formal & mathematically incorrect name for the basketball court & surrounds that the seniors ‘own’ in the sense of it being in their area. We do play basketball, at least on a half-court, & we play soccer, using the basket posts as goal posts. Mum much prefers I play the former, because the latter tears the fuck out of my shoes.

The rules for basketball are simple. Score. Nobody keeps score, but somebody is always aware of who hasn’t been scoring. It’s kind of like all things involving teenage boys, I guess. The more you score, the more popular you become, & the more you score. I’m not talking about ball sports. Yes I am. I’m not talking about basketball, anyway.

To score, you have to be noticed doing so by the girls, otherwise it simply doesn’t count. This, apparently, is one of the most important life lessons a Catholic education can give you. They are definitely not going to teach you how to stick a condom on a zucchini. You find that out through trial & error. Errors make more Catholics. Everybody wins.

We play a type of basketball that has become known as Duck-duck-bang, in my honour, basically because I seem to be the only one who’s gotten the hang of it. It goes like this:

• I get the ball (usually by mistake)

• Someone indicates that they are open to receive it (“Duck!”)

• I perceive that I have a clear shot at the hoop & everyone else realises my mistake (“duck!”)

• I throw the ball with such force that it rebounds from the backboard without going anywhere near the hoop - sorry, we don’t have a net (“bang!”)

• Everyone else cheers

Like I said, it’s a simple game, & I don’t understand why no-one else plays it that way.

This is often succeeded by JB (likeliest leader of the pack) putting a hand on my shoulder & saying something asinine like “I could teach you how to throw with two hands.” Give it five minutes of forgetfulness, & we start over.

The thing about scoring is that it only matters if you give a fuck. I don’t. Polly’s right here, tormenting Ray by pretending to throw the ball in his face before a pretty good lob from the three-point-line. Not only am I unlikely to impress her, but I’m not going to have sex with her while her father is armed & dangerous. Pickle’s in the junior school & I think I’d best wait until she’s 16 before I try anything too suspect there. Any other girl is just canon fodder. You take aim & see what you hit. No, that’s not crass - aside from Wendy & a few of her swot friends, I’m not putting myself out there to get my end in, & they really couldn’t care less about basketball. Unfortunately, they’re also not fans of Rugby, which explains why I’ve not been close enough to Wendy’s delightfully freckled face to play connect the dots. Poetry is my only way forward there. Again, not going to happen on the court. It happens when courtly. Then you get to courting. You only hope that you avoid going to court in the end (paternity suit).

“Hey, wake up! We’re losing.”

Polly’s just head-butted me. I’d say ‘playfully’, but she’s serious. I told you someone was keeping score. I didn’t even think we were on the same team. Plenty of guys make that mistake with Pol - thinking she’s on their side. Can we do sexual persuasion jokes yet? I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be liberated or just offended. Polly is definitely not a lesbian! She probably wishes she was, because her life would be simpler - even if there’s probably no other lesbian around. I have my doubts, but … oh! I can count teachers. Yes, we have one. Oh, Mrs Percy! We all know you were never married. It’s not just the way your focus is on skirt length that gives you away. The trick, of course, is to hitch your skirt up (I am told) so that it becomes the length fit for a tart, not fit for burial. You do the hitching when ‘the Purse’ (I kid you not) has already passed by. You’re good for the rest of the lunch break, then. The only other time you need a full length is if you’re sitting on the grass cross-legged & you want to show some modicum of decency (& not show too much of anything else). That’s optional, mind.

Pol’s slumped against my back for a breather. I think she’s mistaken me for a tree, because I seem to be rooted in the middle of the court.

“Fuck, I’m sweaty.”

Is she suggesting, perhaps, that I would be, too, if I was actually contributing? Or simply that she’s glowing a delightful pink … no, she’s just sweaty. It’s a bit icky, to be honest. I’d at least want some other bodily fluids involved to get to this amount of moisture rubbed against me.

“Take me home, Duck. I’m done.”

What, & miss the manic minutes remaining before the bell goes? Afternoon roll-call. Let’s refer to it by the proper name: afternoon nap-time. Pol’s leaning on me like she’s done a hammy or something, so we’re going to the shade, apparently - that being the sliver of shade by the mural wall.

“Are we doing French?”

Seriously woman, do I need to raise an eyebrow at such a suggestion? In exchange for the eyebrow, I get a sweaty hand behind my head & her sweaty brow rubbed against mine. There’s a smile, too, & that almost makes it worth it. Nobody would call Pol pretty, as such, but she is self-assured, & that makes up for a lot when some of the girls are too shy to show some cleavage. One more button! Please! Of course, I mean one less, but you know what I mean.

There’s the bell. We probably could have taken the tree-shade down to the room.

“Well?”

“En français.”

“Allons-nous en classe - fuckya?”

I think there’s something wrong with this - I’m supposed to be getting the sexy French Tutor, not be the Tutor sex slave. Obviously, I’m not her sex slave, as such - at least not physically …because it’s just not on offer.

“Oui, vous avez besoin de la pratique.”

“Sure.”

She groped for my hand, worked out that mine’s as sweaty as hers, & dropped it.

St Antony is waiting for the slow-pokes. He’s patient. He has to be. We have ten minutes to dedicate to calling off twenty names. Tony does it by counting heads & asking who’s missing. Genius. Unfortunately, said genius decided that leaves five minutes for each of us to take turns at describing the life of a Saint. Kill me now. Let me join their Host.

No-no-no! Not Treacle! God, he’s going to get us all sent to hell, or worse, in detention. He came close when he called St Patrick the Patron Saint of Engineers, & argued the case (rather than giving details of the Saint). Can he top that? Sure - it’s Treacle the Magnificent.

“St Isidore of Seville is considered the patron saint of people who work with computers …”

He droned on delightfully for five minutes. Nap time. That’s the problem, because you tend to miss how he can get us all into trouble while we’re asleep. Someone should monitor his output for trigger words. He’d do it himself, I’m sure.

… & we’re done.

“Well done that boy.”

I kid you not. That’s Tony’s thing. I’m sure he knows everyone in the school by name, but it’s always ‘that boy’ or ‘that girl’ & everyone knows exactly who he’s talking about. The weird thing is, he can’t be more than 30? 35?

“So, why is he the Patron Saint of Software Developers et cetera?” (pronounced in full, if that is possible).

“FIIK, Sir.”

You did not!

“What’s that?”

“I have no idea, Sir - all my research turned up nothing to indicate he was any more than a scholar - brilliant, pro-learning - but nothing to do with technology & millenia before it was necessary.”

“Well, there you go, then.”

Indeed. Thank you linesmen, thank you ball boys. Where’s that bell?

You do not stand until Tony does. It’s the rule. He stood, eventually - some of us have lives, you know!

JB collared me on the way out. Because Polly-hot-stuff dawdled, we’d been late taking the last few seats, & they were apart.

“French?”

“No thanks, I just ate.”

“Well, there you go, then.”

Fuck me! Are you trying to out-Treacle Treacle? You do not do bad impressions only metres from the door.

I got a fist-thump in the back. I was not choking.

“Oi! My job!”

Polly caught up & poked JB in the kidneys.

“I was saving that for him.”

“Not saving yourself, then?”

You do know how to live dangerously, don’t you, JB?

She gave him such a look! Of course, it was play. She laughed first, though, which means he thought he might have gone just a little over the line. Everyone knows her father has her on a short leash. Everyone knows that she & I … get around. Most of the guys wouldn’t mind a crack at her, but they’re seriously shit-scared. She knows this. She might be sexually frustrated, but she knows she’s frustrating a lot of guys, too. That’s her only solace (apart from anything she gets up to in the privacy of her room).

“Take my bag.”

That was not a request. That was Pol showing who’s boss. That’s what makes her sexy. JB took her bag & shrugged. She took my arm & strolled. After a bit, she took his arm, too, because he had his bag over his shoulder & hers in that hand.

French. The less said, the better. I could almost hear Polly’s sigh of relief when the bell rang to finish us off. We weren’t doing anything too exciting, but it’s a fear thing for her. It’s a win if she doesn’t have to learn something new.

Pol’s doing French because it sounded easier than, say, anything that might be useful. JB’s doing French because he had a gap in his schedule that French fit into. I’m doing French because I actually like it, pour ce que cela vaut.

Then it’s home we go. JB has his car, & we have bikes. Car park it is. When I say ‘car park’, I actually mean a designated area of dust that we’ve been allotted for the half-dozen or so of us with wheels.

“Did you ride?”

Why are you asking me? I get here before you, & my yellow bug is always parked in the same spot to maximise the chance of shade before I stick my delicate bot-bot on the cracked leather of a crumbling seat. Unless you’re suggesting it wasn’t there …

“Fuck me! Look at you!”

Damn her eyes! She got me again. That’s twice this term.

“That’s twice by my count.”

Yeah, thanks, JB - but who’s counting, right?

Ray’s giving his cheery wave from the court. He lives up the street from JB, so they car-pool. Ray gets a lift in the car, JB gets to swim in their pool.

“Going home?” Polly asked as we put our helmets on.

“Anything better on offer?”

“You wish!” but she winked anyway.

“Come back to mine - Mum’ll do you a brownie to die for.”

“No euphemisms, huh?”

“She doesn’t know how to cook euphemisms. Sounds a bit foreign.”

Running joke. Mum might make the most stupendous Italian meals, but she likes to bake, too, & she loves to find ‘interesting’ stuff to make. It doesn’t have to be complex when she hears about it, but it will be by the time she makes the first batch. Only family get to try the first batch, just in case. No-one must know of Mamma’s failures - on pain of being cut-off from supply.

She’d found out about brownies. No-one was specifically hiding them from her, but she’d just seen brown squares & thought they were chocolate something, which is not interesting. She saw one out in the open, from the side, a few weeks ago, saw the layers, saw the structure, & got intrigued.

“What is this you call?”

You can tell she was excited, because her grammar goes out the window. Sometimes, she gets downright Yoda.

“It’s just a f… brownie, Mrs Malone.”

“You have recipe?” (She might have said ‘Recipe you have?’, but I wasn’t there.)

“Sure - it’s straight out of the <insert supermarket> cookbook.”

“I will get. I buy this.”

That brownie sat there all afternoon quivering in fear while Mum made her own. Da knew what was happening & cancelled all of his appointments - whatever old men do in the afternoon: lawn bowls, whatever. When Mum was done, she was ready to be critiqued …

Sorry, just got to take a laugh break here. You never critique my mum’s cooking. You are allowed to murmur, drool, exclaim, die of pleasure (without actually orgasming), but you cannot, under any circumstances, offer constructive criticism or even imply that you would have done if it wasn’t for the fact that you’d like to eat again some day.

So, Mum put the bought brownie & the made one side by side, having cut each in half. Again, there’s no mystery here which is which. You may as well leave the blindfold off & use the real cola cans, because you are not allowed to make mistakes! Da tasted each - one bite. He ruminated. You might even expect him to spit each out after rolling it around in his mouth, but that’s a definite no-no. Then he made the pronouncement.

“Ah.”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to stop me from having a second one of yours, aren’t you?”

“Ho yes.”

Mum had put so much good shit into hers - & Da knew it from taste - that he simply would not be allowed to eat the damn things without inciting a heart-attack, or worse, ulcers. Ulcers are much worse because they let you live with the pain of knowing you can’t eat anything Mum cooks ever again.

So, two motorbikes arrived at my place. No matter how noisy mine is, the second one is obvious because it’s tuned to sing ‘Ave Maria’ (Da’s words). Everyone in the house knows Pol’s with me. That’s probably just Mum, though, to be honest. The kettle’s on. I hope there’s brownies left - or Mum’s cooked another batch, which is just as likely. She’ll get sick of them in a week or two. She does cycles.

“Mamma!” as we get to the back door.

“Si, è accesa.”

Of course the kettle’s on.

“Ciao, Mamma.”

I’ve gotten her down to one kiss on the cheek after school. I thought it was a close thing when I became the last still in high school, but we’re both coping with separation anxiety as well as can be expected.

“Polly, you are too thin still. Sit.”

Mum let go of the poor starving Pol & pushed her at a chair. Pol loves coming here. Her mum’s been dead a long time, apparently, so I’m happy to share mine.

“Posso sedermi anch'io?”

She waved a knife at my nonsense. Oops. I forgot she’d be armed for cutting.

“This one I call …”

“The Brownie!” we chorused at her.

It doesn’t matter how many times we tell her: introducing the food is superfluous when half the street have already asked what you’ve been cooking.

“Ricci!” she smiled at us.

One reasonably-sized piece each - but Pol’s got a bigger bit. Hang on - she’s a girl! That’s not fair! I even live here!

“Have you been naughty?” Pol asked, doing her own size estimations & smiling at me.

“Pah! Sempre!” as Mum made tea.

I still don’t understand why Mum feels comfortable speaking Italian at Pol. Pol’s French is bad enough, but she’s never studied Italian.

Anyway, that’s the best way to start an afternoon. You can’t do homework on an empty stomach.

Speaking of …

“You haven’t started your French essay yet, have you?”

“En français?”

“Oui.”

“Non.”

Snort of tea. Cow. She got me again.

“When she is due?”

We’re not talking about the cow, but the essay, I suspect. I know the date it’s due. What’s today? I’m not going to panic, because mine’s nearly done.

“Friday?”

“F … f … Merde!”

“Is for this you study?”

“Yeah - Pol, I think you might like a little help?” 

I don’t know why I framed it as a question. It was definitely an observation.

“F … f … Oui.”

Mum cut off two smaller pieces of brownie ‘for the road’ & we headed out to the sitting room. Big coffee table. No-one will get too disturbed at us muttering in French from either end. We could do it in my room, but that’s too crowded & cluttered with Shaughan’s shit all over the desk as often as not. He’s a pig.

But that’s how it came about that Polly actually passed French. That assignment was worth heaps, & she pulled a 6 out of 10, which convinced everyone she wasn’t a complete time waster - even her. She pulled her socks up (figuratively - there’s no way any girl would be caught with their socks pulled up literally - even for the Purse) & got a non-embarrassing HSC mark. Sure, she forgot it all within weeks of the final exam - I know, because I teased her about it constantly - but she didn’t feel bad about it then.

Bonus points, she could continually tell people how I taught her fuckin’ French. Winner.