Kiss Kill Read online

  Copyright © Jeni Mawter, 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This ebook or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Really Blue Books Pty Ltd in 2012

  45 Jasper Street, Noble Park, Victoria, 3174, Australia

  ISBN 978-0-9872606-1-8

  www.reallybluebooks.com

  Kiss Kill is a story that demands a new way of telling.

  eTurnal grAttitude …

  to Sarah Bailey of Really Blue Books …

  and to all who share my vision.

  move beyond

  (Jeni)

  If you hear yourself saying, ‘She’s perfect. She’s as good as it gets.’

  RUN.

  Run for your life.

  Do not look back. Keep running. Cross continents if you have to.

  GO!

  Senior School Timetable

  Term 1

  First day in senior school and we’re hit with a double period of philosophy.

  The study of philosophy involves the study of current and perennial questions about human existence and thought.

  That’s what it says on the board above Ms Potika’s head as she rabbits on about morality and happiness and reality and religion. What is it with this school? Seems we’re part of a ‘new curriculum’. Philosophy for the masses. Supposed to teach us how to think, how to become better human beings. How can we become better human beings when it’s eight o’clock in the morning and we’re brain dead? Whoever made this timetable should be shot. This first module sounds so suss. The one on ‘Self Concept’. The one where I’m going to learn about myself as a human being. I don’t need philosophy to know I’m a human being.

  Ms Potika’s set us up with an assignment. She calls it a philosophical analysis of non-philosophical material. We’ve got to collect this material from as wide a range of sources as we like. Thoughts, discussions, novels, poems, plays, there’s no limit to what we can choose. Internet stuff, films, even cartoons or pamphlets or text messages.

  “There is no limit on the length or intellectual level of this source material,” says Ms Potika, which makes me feel heaps better, “because personal reflection on anything is the start of philosophical analysis.” All Ms Potika’s attempts to make this assignment seem doable are undone when she adds, “Think of it like a diary.”

  “I don’t do diaries,” I say under my breath, but way too loud, knowing every boy in this room is thinking the same as me.

  “It’s not a diary.” Ms Potika takes a step towards me. “It’s a mind-body journal. A way of helping you to see how you function in the universe.”

  “I already know how I function. I don’t need to keep a journal.”

  Ms Potika exhales, with a slight whistle to the left nostril as she collects her thoughts.

  “This is so random.” Not sure who said this but I fully agree with him.

  Ms Potika smiles, enjoying the link of randomness and thoughts. “From randomness comes observation, critical examination, imagination, then judgement.” She smiles wider. “Random’s good in philosophy.”

  “So this random collection of snatch-and-grabs will help me make sense of my life?”

  Ms Potika nods so hard her breasts bounce. “Exactly.”

  I want them to bounce again. “So what you’re saying is that for someone like me whose life is totally hectic, out of this chaos will come calm and wisdom and understanding?”

  Boiiiing. Boiiiing.

  I smile. I’ve just made my first observation …

  All this meaning of life stuff sets me off in the opposite direction. To get a grip on life you’ve got to get a grip on death.

  Death by Breast

  Sometimes, I wonder how I’ll die. Will I know when it’s happening? Or will it hit me from behind? If you read the headlines, a boy my age is meant to wrap himself around a tree or throw himself off a cliff. I don’t want to die a senseless death, like having car jump starters clamped to my nipples or by a foreign object entering an orifice.

  If I have to go I wouldn’t mind an accident ‒ something quick and lethal ‒ an elephant steps on your head, anaesthetic machine fails, poison dart. I’m not into those long and lingering deaths, the kind that you can see coming in freeze frame, like cancer or AIDs or starvation. Not that I’ll get a choice, mind you, but that long, lingering thing doesn’t turn me on. Even if it means I get my family weeping around my bed and as much fried chicken as I can handle, I’d rather not see it coming.

  Am I sick for thinking about this? I mean, if you believe the newspapers I’m going to die ancient, from a heart attack or a stroke. Or the obesity epidemic.

  Here lies Mat.

  Fat.

  But I don’t want to believe the papers. I want to die from something exotic, something that people will remember me by. Nothing crazy, mind you, like swallowing a toothpick and dying from peritonitis, and nothing piss weak either ‒ no mozzie bite or a stubbed toe is going to wipe me out. Imagine that on your tombstone!

  Dedicated to Mat, with the anger management problems

  Lost his temper

  Kicked the bed

  Infection raged

  Now he’s dead.

  I like the idea of a rattlesnake assassin ‒ that whole man versus nature thing ‒ or freezing to death on top of Mount Everest. Can’t say death by poison ivy or deadly nightshade does much for me, but I do have to admit, Bog Man got it right. Still making headlines 2000 years later.

  People say that drowning is a pleasant sort of death. Lured by the great white light. But I ask you, when you hear of a submarine going down and being trapped with diminishing oxygen, why don’t those people swim out? Maybe they know that death by drowning isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  I reckon spontaneous combustion is a bit suss. I’ll say one word on that. Photoshop.

  What I don’t want to do is be blown to bits by some suicide bomber. If there ever was a psycho they’re it. Belt bombs, car bombs, shoe bombs, parcel bombs. The list is endless. I don’t want to be taken down for some other bastard’s agenda. Won’t be long before we’re seeing ice-cream bombs, or wheelchair bombs, or bra bombs.

  Some of my mates say that cirrhosis looks good ‒ death by continuous and excessive amounts of alcohol, but I reckon death by sex is the goer. Can you die from having sex? Not that weird autoerotic bondage stuff (101 uses for a dog collar), but “death from overexertion”. I wonder what they’d put on the list of ‘Causes of Death’ in the autopsy department?

  Death by Viagra.

  Death from overstimulation.

  Death from excessive use of a long object.

  I look up at my bedroom ceiling and make another observation.

  I’ve got it! The perfect death for me. Choking, asphyxiating, crush injury, it doesn’t matter. The idea of dying buried between a pair of the softest, bounciest, boulder-like breasts is good enough for me.

  Death by breast.

  Everyone Needs a Wingman

  She’s new to our school and she’s hot. Ferrari Enzo kind of hot. When she cruised through that gate this morning, every head turned ‒ not just the boys’ but the girls’ too. The coolest hot chick I’d ever seen. Definitely a ‘top down on a summer’s day’ kind of girl.

  Perfect.

  I signalled to Jonno to check her out then noticed that there was already a river of drool down his shirt.

  Scanning the playground I could see our sports teacher, Mr V (with the unpronounceable surname which I swear sounds like “viking pellets are good to eat”), putting on his sunnies for what could only be amounting to a seri
ous case of perving. Old Colin, the maintenance man, was having massive problems removing a garbage bin lid with his knees. Even Mrs Constant, the reception lady, was staring so intently that she failed to notice a bird had shat on the front of her dress.

  The new girl stopped to study the school map. It was long enough for the other girls to step up the action.

  I watched Steph Green on her approach, a Toyota Camry compared to the new girl’s Ferrari, and waited. Steph was walking with the dignity of a Dalai Lama yet the precision of an MQ-9 Reaper ‒ reconnaissance her objective, but at the same time secure in her killer strike capacity.

  I nudged Jonno to stop him drooling and returned to the scene before me.

  The new girl turned and stared, with a look on her face that was frosty friendly. I didn’t blame her. If Steph was zeroing in on me like that I’d freeze too. Several steps back came Steph’s support crew, ready to suppress the enemy should she emerge in command. There was Kate, Colonel to Steph’s General; Ali, who I’d put as First Lieutenant; next came Char as Sergeant and up the rear came Romy and Mel, Airmen First Class. These were the popular chicks, the chicks everyone sucked up to but nobody liked. Jonno and I called them The Gossip Gestapo. Never to their faces.

  The new girl flicked her hair (oh, to be a strand on her face) then smiled, and said in a voice all raspy like a World War II fighter plane, “Hi. I’m Elle.”

  Steph didn’t answer. She did that drop-gaze thing that us boys are always getting in trouble for, taking her time. I wondered if she’d stalled at those breasts like I had, soft and curvy and bouncy, imagining her bum as a perfect match.

  I was in love. The thing I liked about Elle, the thing that made her stand out (apart from the obvious), was the fact that she took it ‒ didn’t tear-up or look away like most girls would. And her response was priceless. She crossed her arms, eye-balled Steph and with a smile that could create a new planet asked, “You into girls?”

  There was a millisecond of silence, a fraction of time for the universe to suck that comment back up, and then an eruption that put Mount Vesuvius to shame. The whole school cracked up, the whole school except Steph and her crew. We laughed and laughed. One look at Steph’s face and we laughed some more. We laughed for all the times that she had laughed at others, for all the tittering and giggling that went on behind people’s backs, for the stupid smirking and whispering. We laughed ‘cause she’d turned the colour of molten metal.

  “Only joking,” said Elle, and shrugged an apology of sorts.

  But a shrug wasn’t going to repair the damage. Not even an invite to The Red Eye Devils would repair that damage. As Steph flounced away, Elle tried once again. “Hey, I was only …” But the flouncing continued, all the way to the science block and through the door.

  Elle hesitated, and as I watched she looked up. Not just up, she looked up, up, up then her eyes stopped on me. Me! I dipped my head for a hello, so cool, so eloquent, then broke into a coughing fit ‘cause I could feel myself blush.

  “Talk to her,” said Jonno, giving me a shove that made my shoe clip the bin and turned me into a tap-dancing fool. The fact that Old Colin caught me and stopped me going head-first into the bin only added to my embarrassment. But what was even worse was when I finally had the guts to meet her gaze, she’d moved ten metres across the playground.

  “Go after her,” hissed Jonno.

  I shrugged out of Old Colin’s grip and pushed Jonno in frustration. “She’s going to think I’m an idiot.”

  Jonno grinned. “She won’t be the first.”

  Looking back, I have to admit my track record sucks. There was that awkward lunge with Tessa that made her scream and run out of the movie. Not only did I look like Lionel Loser walking out of a love story on my own, but to top it off I never found Tess. Then there was what has fondly become known as the ‘cock and balls’ incident. I wasn’t touching myself up, but I was dressed in this too-tight suit for a formal and when Lianne’s mum caught me trying to rearrange my package in front of the bedroom mirror, she went ballistic. Called me a perverted, depraved, disgusting young man and chucked me out. That was so unfair. Occasional adjustments are a necessity. I’d like to see her pack an extra make-up bag into a suitcase that’s already full.

  And finally, there was my big date with Clare. Planned it for days ‒ weeks ‒ months. Now, I’m not a particularly fussy sort of guy. I don’t expect a girl to go all out for a date, but I do expect them to turn up. If they turn up and don’t reek of BO or wee, I’m on easy street. Basically, I’ll accept anything. When Clare stood me up I felt like a big fat nothing.

  So you see, Jonno was right, and because he was right I didn’t go after Elle. I could feel this slow burn of anger at the humiliation of it all, the frustration, but instead of exploding I did the next best thing: kicked the bin and sent it flying, scoring a detention from Mrs Constant and a warning that next time there’d be a letter home to my mother.

  In less than five minutes, Elle had had a skirmish with the Gossip Gestapo and got me on detention. Here was a girl who would take no prisoners.

  After recess, double period of maths, went slower than a snake digesting a rabbit. Who cared about quadratics or polynomials? The clock had stopped, time stood still, and in the background was the persistent drone of Ms Nguyen’s voice. Didn’t Einstein say if you travel at the speed of light, time stops? Anaesthetics are the same. It reminded me of this operation I had on my foot last year. When you’re out to it, in anaesthesia land, time has no meaning. I woke up feeling as though I’d never been asleep. With the of Ms Nguyen’s voice I had the same sensation of waking up from the anaesthetic.

  By the time the bell went for lunch, I felt like my brain was still travelling at the speed of light.

  “Guess what?!”

  When a seventy kilo mass jumps out and hollers “guess what” and your brain is travelling at the speed of light, your brain hits inertia and slams into your skull. “Huh?”

  “She’s in my maths class.”

  “Who?” I had to wait for the grey matter to stop hoola-hooping before it clicked. “You mean the new girl?”

  “Elle.”

  Life was so unfair. Why wasn’t I a crack shot at maths?

  “Elle Taylor.”

  So that was her name: Elle Taylor. I wondered if the Elle stood for Ellie, or Ella or Eleanor. Or maybe it was something more exotic, like Elke or Electra. I know a girl called Electra, only it’s an Elektra with a ‘k’. Total opposite to her name, a real dimwit. Wanted to know how many people were killed in the Big Bang. I hoped Elle wasn’t like her.

  “Here she comes!” said Jonno.

  “I’d kill to call her over,” I said.

  “Go on, then. Do it.”

  “You call her over. She’s in your maths class.”

  Jonno got this dreamy look on his face, like all his features were out of focus. “She wants to be an astrophysicist.”

  “An astro what?” The only thing I could think of was Astro Boy, the original manga.

  “Someone who studies astronomy and the physics of the universe.”

  I whistled. “If anyone could be a Miss Universe, it’d be her.”

  Jonno shook his head and muttered, “You’re hopeless.”

  “If you’re such a hotshot, why don’t you ask her over then?”

  “Not my type,” said Jonno. “Besides, Nadia would kill me.”

  Jonno and Nadia have been going out ever since fifth grade when he gave her a pebble and she gave him a kiss. The kisses are more expensive these days but he’s still with her.

  I watched as Elle walked across the playground. She didn’t strut or stroll. She had this deliberate kind of walk, placing each foot with a sense of purpose as if she knew where she was going. She reminded me of a catwalk model, confident of conquering the runway. I wondered where she was going. I wished I had the guts to call her over, walk up and say “hi”, sit at her feet and pant, but I didn’t. I just stood like a dweeb, aware that I didn’t brush
my hair this morning and that egg and tomato sauce sandwiches can be lethal to a school shirt, not to mention the breath.

  So what’s so hard about making the first move? What’s the worst that can happen? I immediately answered my own questions. I’ll get rejected. All my romantic dreams will be crushed. I’d never be able to look her in the face again. And then she’d tell some other girls which would mean I couldn’t look at them either. Jonno would stop being my mate because I was such a loser. I’d become withdrawn and develop a permanent hunch. The school would contact my mum to tell her they were concerned. Mum would send me to her brother’s place in Bogan Gate and he was born without thumbs …

  I had so much to lose.

  When Luke Harrington bowled her up with his congealed grin and his aviators pushed up on his head, it was more than I could bear. Unlike me, he was tall, tall and tanned. He’d had so many workouts in the surf in the holidays he’d morphed into mutant muscle man. I cursed the six weeks working in my uncle’s warehouse that had left me looking like a glow-in-the-dark snowman, even if it did mean I had more than four figures in my bank account so technically I could be described as one hell of a rich snowman. I clenched my gut and felt my sixteen-pack bulge under my shirt, cursing inwardly, Blast the eighty kilo club.

  The eighty kilo club has a captain and membership of one. I have this theory: chicks don’t go for guys who weigh more than eighty kilos. I mean, they want the skinny ones, the ones they can mother, er, smother. The ones that look good in pink or mauve, who look (and I’m adding quote marks) ‒ ‘sensitive’. But because of genetics and a fondness for brown lemonade, I’m captain of the club.

  I caught sight of Luke and Elle laughing together and every sphincter contracted. It was total body recoil. I felt vacuum-packed, no room for even a heartbeat. I felt desolate, knowing that even though I was madly in love, I would never do anything about it.