Read Chapter Two For Free

It was a long way to Auckland.
We’d been on the road for just over an hour before we stopped at Bay View for garage-gourmet pies and overpriced bottles of weak-as-piss flavoured water. Dad refused to take the Ōpōtiki route, which would have had us driving north through Gisborne. He insisted on Napier and Taupō instead, which meant travelling south to go north. Roads were clearly invented by people who hated logic.
The parentals seemed happy enough in the front of the station wagon. Braden and I were wedged in the back, nearly injection-moulded into place by bags and boxes packed so tightly we both needed assistance to get out for a piss.
Was that how it felt to be a Funko Pop?

I was already starting to miss Eric.
Stupid-arsed Eric. Tiny Jack Russell arsehole. Yappy, psychotic, shoe-destroying menace with all of the waha and none of the kaha. I hated her. But I liked her. Not enough to say love. Ugh, no. You lose enough shoes to that little mutt and the only time love comes to mind is when you say, “I loved those shoes, you senile little prick. They were my favourite ones.”
Anyway, I missed the twit, which was genuinely disgusting to admit.

L.A.B’s “Ocean Demon” blasting through my AirPods helped pass the time, especially once we hit Tirau.
Holy shit on a stick. What a town.
Corrugated iron animals everywhere like that was normal. Sheep, rams, dogs. Even the public toilet looked like someone had a vision and nobody stopped them. If I had money, I’d live there. I’d open an op shop, shoot the shit with locals, and waddle my drunk arse home from the pub every night. That sounded like the life for me. Why was I wasting my youth going to university when I could skip straight to my golden years?
Braden laughed at my dream life.
“You wouldn’t last a day in that town, Tee-row.”
He only said it like that to piss me off. He knew how picky I got about correct pronunciation.
I’d last more than a day. I’d last an entire decade. Probably.

We weren’t moving into our halls that night. We were a day early, so we were staying at Mum’s sister’s place in Parnell.
Aunty Myra’s house.
Which meant one more night of pretending rich people were normal.
The houses on Brighton Road were mansions compared to back home. Clean lines, straight edges, glass everywhere, pools, manicured lawns, fancy cars, the list goes on.
I knew I had given my heart to Tirau, but would it really miss me if I changed my mind and chose to settle down with a rich person in Parnell?
Surely not, yeah?
No matter where I walked in Aunty Myra’s house, on one side there were views of yachts on the water, and on another there were hillsides stacked with fancy homes. This was too much for me. I felt like I was in one of those expensive hotels.
Except it wasn’t a hotel. It was my aunt’s five-bedroom megastructure, which somehow made the whole thing worse.
I was sure she had been waiting years to rub it in Mum’s face.
Myra, with her fake smile, nasally voice, shiny necklace, and half-filled glass of red wine, floated around the place like a tour guide, pointing at everything like it came with a price tag.
I could tell by the look on Mum’s face that she didn’t want to be there either.

Braden walked beside Aunty like her little pet. Maybe he was making up for the fact neither she nor her husband had kids. He was too busy with work, and she was too busy keeping up appearances.
I was still surprised Braden didn’t want to live with her.
They were two peas in a pod.
The whole place reeked of privilege.
That stupid word.
The one my classmates used like it explained everything about me. Dad worked at the meat works. Mum was a teacher. We didn’t get everything we wanted. We just kept going. That was enough to count.
I spent half an hour on one of the many balconies in silence with Uncle Gray. He had more money than he knew what to do with, but he was quiet. Hardly talked. He left all of that to Aunty Myra.
He spent most of our time out there puffing away on his expensive cigarettes. I spent most of that time staring at the tennis court and pool behind one of the houses in the distance. Occasionally, noises came out of his mouth that almost sounded like words.
It was up to me to make our time together almost productive.
I asked him how work was.
He made a few grunt sounds and laughed before patting me on the shoulder.
I knew to grin and smile. It was easier than asking him to repeat himself with actual words.
Dad came out to greet us. He got lost trying to figure out which balcony we were on. It was dark by the time he arrived. We all settled into the expensive-looking balcony chairs.
Gray sat opposite Dad. He threw Dad his packet of Zig Zag papers. Then he pulled out a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag and tossed it at him.
They were both smiling like excited teenagers.
Ironic really, when I was the teenager and I wasn’t smiling.
I knew what was coming.
“Son, go and see what the others are up to, eh?”
Which meant, “Fucketh offeth and don’t tell your mothereth.”
I recognised that look.