Free Black Teeth by Zane Lovitt Page A

the men’s room last night and Hugh’s story today, and how I’ve never told anyone before that my father was alive because I never wanted anyone to steal away the daydream that one day I would meet him and then I’d be a real boy .
    ‘Look, Marnie,’ I say, lowering my voice. She’s always had terrific posture, but now she goes rigid, like she’s expecting bad news. My lips part, my vocal cords squeeze together to initiate the first word of the first sentence of my confession—
    My phone rings.
    It doesn’t recognise the number, just displays it dumbly onscreen. I recognise it though, gape at it for a few stupefied seconds, then look to Marnie for help. She thinks I’m asking permission to take the call and says, ‘Go ahead,’ with no idea of the consequences. I have to answer and so I do.
    ‘Hello?’
    No coughing this time, just a sharp rasp in my ear.
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘ Where are you? ’
    ‘I’m getting a pizza, Glen. What do you want?’
    ‘ Prove it. Prove you’re not outside my house right now .’

13
    Tonight is late closing at Doncaster Shoppingtown so it’s weirdly busy, which is good, makes me feel safe. Wrapped in layers of warmth I shiver at the people wearing T-shirts and tank tops, resign myself to the fact that my fear of the common cold is greater than theirs. When I catch my ghost in a store window I think of the little boy at the courthouse on Monday: all bundled up, going home with his mother…
    In the food court half the eateries are closed but the other half do a slow trade. I suppose it’s the movie crowd that comes hungry, intermittently: young couples feeding soft serve to each other; lonely men scoffing cheap dinners; screaming children hopped up on their own exhaustion.
    I drop into a wonky metal seat and remove my beanie.
    Marnie must have heard Tyan’s bluster from across the table. I’d forgotten he had my number and here he was with more accusation in his voice than even last night. My instinct was to hang up and be done with him. But pride had a point to make. I was no longer the guileless doormat he’d met yesterday.
    ‘I’m sorry?’ I said, calm.
    ‘That was you. Just now. Behind my house.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘That was not me.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘In Kensington. A restaurant.’
    ‘Put a waitress on the phone.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Put a waitress on the bloody phone!’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘ Do it or I’ll know it was you .’
    Suddenly I realise how hungry I am. I trudge across to a Portuguese fast food stand and buy a chicken burger, smear my face with mayonnaise and lettuce and eat and wait. I hadn’t so much as ordered a pizza before Tyan called. When I held out my phone to the waiter behind me and said, ‘Someone needs to talk to you,’ Marnie’s eyes were two big pizzas, wide and confused.
    And the teenage waiter, with his gelled hair and shiny face, he said, ‘What?’
    ‘Someone needs to talk to you real quick.’ I tried to seem apologetic.
    The waiter wiped his hand on his apron and took the phone.
    ‘Hello?’
    Silence. Then he said, ‘Spatafina’s.’
    His unibrow formed a deep V on his forehead like a highly inconvenienced Klingon warship. He said, ‘Anderson Street. Yeah. 91 Anderson Street, Kensington.’
    How I explained this to Marnie is: I didn’t look at Marnie.
    The boy said, ‘Around nine on weekdays. Fridays and Saturdays it’s later. Sundays we’re closed. Yeah. Sundays we’re closed.’
    Then Tyan said something that made this kid laugh with his whole body, mouth wide and teeth out like a psychopathic puppet. New information: Glen Tyan can make a person laugh. It flooded me with jealousy.
    The waiter said, ‘Well I wouldn’t know anything about that… All right…Cheers, mate.’
    He waved the phone at me and I received it, still emitting apology-vibes, but the boy forgot me instantly and slouched away. I put the phone to my ear.
    ‘Satisfied?’
    ‘Come and see