Tin Heart by Shivaun Plozza

Author:Shivaun Plozza
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9781760146719
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia

Luis Castillejo, you were a punk. You played drums in a band – The Punkultimates – and even though you didn’t know how to play very well the band didn’t care; they were terrible too. You spiked your hair, not in that year-seven-boy-just-discovering-hair-gel kind of way but in a cute, messy punk-boy way. Your front tooth was chipped from when you tried to impress a girl by jumping into your drum kit. You wore ripped black jeans, pointed black shoes, black t-shirt with holes and a black leather jacket that was two sizes too big. You were planning to grow into it.

My dress sticks to me and I reek of sweat and smoke and spilt beer. But the band is amazing – the best crashing, humming, nerve-jangling noise ever – and dancing is amazing and being high on sugar is amazing and Zan is amazing and letting the crowd push me where it wants is amazing and . . .

Crap.

I yelp and grab Zan’s shoulder.

Because Carmen.

Carmen is here.

Carmen is leaning over the pool table about to take a shot. Carmen is not taking the shot.

Because Carmen has seen me.

And Carmen is staring at me.

My fingers dig hard into Zan’s shoulder and she slaps at my hand until I release her. ‘What is your deal?’

My stomach lurches, a ship on the high seas. ‘She’s here.’

Carmen straightens without taking the shot, squinting at me in that where-do-I-know-you-from way.

‘Isn’t that the point?’ says Zan.

It was the point, yes. The whole damn point. But points are sharp and they hurt when you get caught on them and Carmen waves because she’s worked out who I am.

Breathe. In.

Now out.

I pull Zan along with me as I approach Carmen. In my head I try chanting Mum’s positive affirmations but I end up just repeating: don’t be a weirdo, don’t be a weirdo, don’t be a weirdo.

‘Thought that was you.’ Carmen has to shout because even though Kill the Club have finished their set the music is still ear-splitting, blasting from the speakers.

‘Zan’s a big fan of the band.’ I push Zan in front of me, angling her like a shield.

‘You have good taste,’ Carmen says.

She introduces us to her friends – I forget their names the second she says them. Except for Kari. I remember her and she remembers me. If Zan has a cat’s stare, Kari has a lion’s stare. A lion that just had its tail trod on.

Her nails are the same toffee-apple red as her hair; against the gold-brown of her skin the colour is amazing. She’s wearing black cigarette trousers, a white shirt and a thin black tie.

‘You again,’ Kari says. The ‘Are you stalking us?’ vibe radiates from her like stink lines drawn in the air.

I shrug to hide how that makes me feel. ‘Me again.’

I expect her to turn and give me the literal cold shoulder, but her eyes are drawn to my right, to where Zan has gravitated to stand beside me, and suddenly Kari looks . . . less of a mega-cow?

‘Hi,’ says Zan, offering Kari her hand.

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