Markus Zusak - Getting the Girl

S PECIAL THANKS TO A NNA M C F ARLANE AND MY FRIENDS IN N EW Y ORK, FOR THEIR EXPERTISE, CREATIVITY, AND THEIR FAITH IN MY WRITING

Text copyright 2001 by Markus Zusak

All rights reserved. Published by SCHOLASTIC PRESS , a division of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920, by arrangement with Pan Macmillan Australia.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Zusak, Markus. Getting the girl / by Markus Zusak. p. cm. Sequel to: Fighting Ruben Wolfe. Originally published under title: When dogs cry.Sydney : Pan Macmillan Australia, 2001 Summary: Tired of being the underdog, Cameron Wolfe hungers to become something worthwhile and finally finds a girl with whom he can share his words and feelings his popular brother Rubes ex-girlfriend.

ISBN 0-439-38949-6

[1. Brothers Fiction. 2. Self-actualization (Psychology) Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.Z837 Ge 2003 [Fic] dc21 2002011411

First American edition, April 2003

Cover photograph Johner/Photonica

Cover design by David Caplan

e-ISBN 978-0-545-62370-4

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

IT WAS RUBES GIRLS IDEA TO MAKE THE BEER ICE BLOCKS , not mine.

Lets start with that.

It just happened to be me who lost out because of it.

See, Id always thought that at some point Id grow up, but it hadnt happened yet. Its just the way it was.

In all honesty, Id wondered if there would ever come a time when Cameron Wolfe (thats me) would pull himself together. Id seen glimpses of a different me. It was a different me because in those increments of time I thought I actually became a winner.

The truth, however, was painful.

It was a truth that told me with a scratching internal brutality that I was me, and that winning wasnt natural for me. It had to be fought for, in the echoes and trodden footprints of my mind. In a way, I had to scavenge for moments of alrightness.

I touched myself.

A bit.

Okay.

Okay.

A lot.

(There are people whove told me you shouldnt admit that sort of thing too early, on account of the fact that people might get offended. Well, all I can say to that is why the hell not? Why not tell the truth? Otherwise theres no bloody point really, is there?

Is there?)

It was just that I wanted to be touched by a girl someday. I wanted her to not look at me as if I was the filthy, torn, half-smiling, half-scowling underdog who was trying to impress her.

Her fingers.

In my mind, they were always soft, falling down my chest to my stomach. Her nails would be on my legs, just nice, handing shivers to my skin. I imagined it all the time, but refused to believe it was purely a matter of lust. The reason I can say this is that in my daydreams, the hands of the girl would always end up at my heart. Every time. I told myself that thats where I wanted her to touch me.

There was sex, of course.

Nakedness.

Wall to wall, in and out of my thoughts.

But when it was over it was her whispering voice I craved, and a human curled up in my arms. For me, though, it just wasnt a mouthful of reality. I was swallowing visions, and wallowing in my own mind, and feeling like I could happily drown inside a woman.

God, I wanted to.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. Thats what I wanted. Thats what I wanted myself to be.

Yet.

I wasnt.

The only mouthfuls I got were a glance here or there, and my own scattered hopes and visions.

The beer ice blocks.

Of course.

I knew I was forgetting something.

It had been a warm day for winter, though the wind was still cold. The sun was warm, and kind of throbbing.

We were sitting in the backyard, listening to the Sunday afternoon football coverage, and quite frankly, I was looking at the legs, hips, face, and breasts of my brothers latest girlfriend.

The brother in question is Rube (Ruben Wolfe), and in the winter Im talking about, he seemed to have a new girlfriend every few weeks or so. I could hear them sometimes when they were in our room a call or shout or moan or even a whisper of ecstasy. I liked the latest girl from the start, I remember. Her name was nice. Octavia. She was a street performer, and also a nice person, compared with some of the scrubbers Rube had brought home.

We first met her down at the harbor one Saturday afternoon in late autumn. She was playing a harmonica so people would throw money into an old jacket that was sprawled out at her feet. There was a lot of money in it, and Rube and I watched her because she was damn good and could really make that harmonica howl. People would stand around sometimes and clap when she was done. Even Rube and I threw money in at one point, just after an old bloke with a walking stick and just before some Japanese tourists.

Rube looked at her.

She looked at him.

That was usually all it took, because that was Rube. My brother never really had to say or do anything. He just had to stand somewhere or scratch himself or even trip up a gutter and a girl would like him. It was just the way it was, and it was that way with Octavia.

So where y livin these days? Rube had asked her.

I remember the ocean green of her eyes rising then. Down south, in Hurstville. He had her then already. I could tell. You?

And Rube had turned and pointed. You know those crappy streets past Central Station?

She nodded.

Well, thats us. Only Rube could make those crappy streets sound like the best place on earth and with those words, Rube and Octavia had begun.

One of the best things about her was that she actually acknowledged my existence. She didnt look at me as if I was an obstacle stuck between her and Rube. She would always say, Hows it goin, Cam?

The truth is.

Rube never loved any of them.

He never cared about them.

He just wanted each one because she was next, and why not take the next thing if it was better than the last?

Needless to say, Rube and I arent too much alike when it comes to women.

Still.

Id always liked that Octavia.

I liked it when we went inside that day and opened the fridge to see three-day-old soup, a carrot, a green thing, and one VB beer can sitting inside. All three of us bent down and stared.