Chapter 2

My boyfriend's name is Andre, and he's half Spanish and half Romanian, but he's 3rd gen, so it's cool. Still, he has this funny way of saying "pieces" that always cracks me up, and sometimes he smells like Olive Oil when he should smell like mint and aftershave. The thing he likes best about me is my lap top, which is new and has a quad-core processor, and runs vista like a marathon champion.

I won this laptop in a "name the burger" competition at the grill-and-fill in my suburb. It was like the spaz of burgers, burger spaz, two meat, one lettuce, onion, and one-and-half pickle (recession.)

But the really spaz thing about it was, there was no bun on top. Just meat, and dripping sauce, so you could feel like a carnivore, and also original, and also feel less bad about your one-and-half pickle. Me and Liz just pointed, and ordered "that thing" off the menu, well when it came, I was like "it's a fucking convertible." And the manager claps me on the back, and yells to the pizza face employee on the mayonnaise tube "one convertible on the house!" Two weeks later there's a package outside my front door, smelling like pig fat and styrofoam, and it's this quad-core basket of electronic fun.

Andre always looks at me like I'm some kind of chainsaw halloween mass murderer when I use it, him hugging the charger all "blessed is the infant", and accusing me of only using it to play the Sims.

Andre and I met in grade eight, bored as pig shit, picking bits out the Astroturf at a school assembly. Liked a scandal, first thing that clicked about each other, staring under the dull drone of the loud hailer, "students must stand up for adults on busses"(or they'll take you out and shoot you, yeah?).

Instant enemies me and Andre, whisper bitch, double glare, no-you-can't-sit-here, the works. Ended in a food fight, I had potato mash surprise, he had extra beef lasagne. He won. Sent to the principal, dripping in Mrs Smith's very special lasagne special bolognaise sauce. Letters sent home to the 'rents. Mine told me to watch myself, or I'd end up like that Stephen guy off "the bold and the beautiful." His told him that if he was into me, he should just use his words.

God, you should have seen him. Thirteen year old Andre, with his switch blade, ipod, and half-Spanish half-Romanian faux-hawk. "Hey, Jem…You wanna be my girlfriend?" You threw a dripping Italian main at me dipshit.

"I really like you Jem. Wanna be my girlfriend?"

Can't work out now why I said no. But at the time, thirteen, I was only interested in the view-count of my emo poems, and if flats were cooler than cons, and why aren't I older so I can get drunk and screw randoms and be a real person?

Didn't talk much after that Andre and I, weren't really friends, until suddenly we were in collage and were friends, and then friends with benefits, and then dating, and then in an open relationship.

Andre and I under the triangle bridge, jacking wireless internet from the office block right above our heads. Sitting there, him playing counter-strike, me holding a chupa chub like a fag, I decided now would be a great time for a serious conversation.

"When you said open, like, how open did you mean?"

"You got to ask me that shit now?" Bang, bang, bang goes his assault rifle, terrorists bloody and falling.

"Yeah, well, it's my shit, and I want to talk about it."

"It's my shit too, and I don't want to talk about it."

Office freak walks past in giraffe heels and tailored brown thing.

"Like, could you screw her?"

"Yes." Didn't even look up.

Another girl.



Man on his mobile, pinstripes, skinny.

"What about him?"

"Yes. We can both screw whoever we want."

"What about both of us? At the same time?"


But then, after a moment's silence, he looked up.

"You wanna?" Fuck, Andre, Jesus, you're really the biggest prick on the block, your mother drop you on your head or something? Jesus Christ, fuck.