We scratch stuff down on paper – goals, thoughts, etc. – and feed it to the fire. (Ged swears if we ever tell anyone he participates in something so naff, he’ll kill us and sell us on eBay as free-range mince.)
We dump our stuff down far enough from the rising tide that it won’t get washed away, and Ged and Vince walk off to collect firewood. I set the chairs in a semicircle while Len and Harrison fan out the snacks on the lid of the esky. Gummy worms, Cheezels, Tim Tams, potato chips.
Lastly, Harrison holds up a sad-looking, crushed packet of Arrowroot biscuits. Not even the good kind – the no-name brand.
‘Ugh. Seriously, Ged?’ He tosses them aside.
‘Isn’t this like the third time he’s done that?’ Len smirks.
‘Ah well,’ I say indulgently. ‘At least he remembered.’
Vince and Ged return with armfuls of driftwood.
‘Chuck us the matches, then,’ Vince grunts, dropping the logs down.
I clear my throat guiltily. I knew I’d forgotten something this morning, besides how to shave like a regular human. ‘Er, about that …’
Vince looks up sharply. ‘Chrissake.’
‘Relax. I’ve got this,’ Ged says, bending down over the stack of wood and whacking two rocks together. Nothing happens.
‘Nice try, First Man.’ Harrison laughs.
Ged tries again, with no luck. The light is starting to fade by the time Len steps in and puts him out of his misery. He squats down and leans back on his knees for a couple of seconds before a flame catches.
Ged folds his arms across his chest. ‘What are you, a Scouts leader?’
‘He was, actually,’ I say. ‘He was a total Mussolini. Power went to his head.’
‘It’s not my fault you couldn’t pass the bushcraft badge,’ Len says calmly, standing up and brushing the sand off his knees. The fire makes a satisfying crackling noise as it starts to lick the wood.
‘Bushcraft badge. That sounds intriguing,’ Ged says.
‘Literal bush, you knob,’ I say. ‘You had to pitch a tent and stuff.’
‘Which Hamlet – despite his best efforts – failed at, dismally,’ Len adds.
‘I pitched that thing fifteen times. You couldn’t have given me the badge out of pity?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ Len’s mouth twitches. ‘Those pictures of you sulking in a mess of tarp are some of the most treasured from my childhood.’
‘Enough camping talk,’ Vince commands. ‘Being this far out in nature is effort enough for me; don’t make me vom with your wholesome young escapades.’
(Vince can’t even cut someone off at a roundabout, but we respect his right to a brooding emo façade.)
Once the fire is established, we sit and rip open the various packets of food. Len and I select soft drinks, and the others crack the caps off ciders.
Vince’s got one of those portable speakers, which he plugs into his bulky iPod classic. The soft keening of Dashboard Confessional ekes out across the sand.
Night comes over us slowly, and there’s a lengthy pink-stripped sunset to ponder before the fire builds enough for The Ritual. I pull my notebook out of my bag and tear pieces of paper for everyone.
‘Can’t believe you guys still do this,’ Vince says, but when I look over he’s filling the page with looping sentences.
I read somewhere that the ancients thought there was power in writing something down then burning it, and the idea kind of stuck.
We usually write our goals for the term. Last year, I wrote a lot of dross about better grades and getting school captain, spending more time with my family, etc. The last two terms I’ve kept it similar, and also (rather optimistically) added the postscript lose virginity?
Needless to say, not even the flames of intention have that kind of power.
I hesitate over what to write this time. Family – check. My grades are okay, even if I don’t entirely know what I’m going to do with them. ‘Figure out life direction’ feels too broad, and also vaguely terrifying.
I peek at Len’s for inspiration. He’s only written two words, underlined in thick black strokes: Tell him.
I look from the page to his face, which is taut with concentration. He covers it when he’s done, hunching his shoulders like it’s a proper secret.
We’ve never had secrets. Sometimes I wish we did, especially when he reminds me about my childhood crush on Howl Jenkins Pendragon (the book version, because I thought his magic was cool).
So.
Tell who what?
Ged interrupts my train of thought by triumphantly tossing his page into the fire. He hasn’t bothered to fold it – I can see the words Hilton and formal and Jess.
Jessica Fitzpatrick is the uncontested Most Beautiful Girl at St Adele’s. His goal for this term is even more far-fetched than mine last term.
Vince throws his in next, looking proportionately bored.
I quickly write keep looking for ‘it’ and toss it in after Harrison’s. The great ‘it’ feels as noble a pursuit as any, even if it’s a bit twee.
Len goes last, folding the paper over and over until it’s a speck in his hand. He chews his lip, the way he does when he’s nervous, which he almost never is. I watch the fire swallow the folded paper in one breath.
Vince pretends to cast a spell. ‘So mote it be.’
‘Dude,’ Ged says. ‘Do not mock The Ritual. The Ritual gave me my first kiss, my first B-minus in biology, my car.’
‘The Ritual didn’t do that,’ Vince scoffs. ‘That’s chance.’
‘Shh,’ Ged hisses. He gestures to the flames. ‘She’ll hear you.’
Harrison scrunches his face. ‘Stop bringing up your first kiss already.’
‘WHY?’ Ged demands, spreading his arms out. ‘I’m not ashamed of it.’
‘Well, Casey is—’ Harrison starts.
‘Look. Your sister and I had a beautiful moment of comfort and discovery together, and if that threatens you—’
‘Oh my God, no,’ Harrison begs, covering his ears.
For a while the sky’s almost big enough to cancel out everything else. But then it starts to get cold, and it’s a school night, so we head back to the car.
I sit up front again, thinking and watching Len carefully.
‘You good?’
His grey eyes flick over to me, irritated. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
But he’s weird all the way home, quiet and distant.
Tell who what?
4
The familiar routine of school, study, sleep, repeat settles over me like an old jumper.
Ems isn’t wrong about this term being intense. There are only ninety boys in our graduating class, so they push us pretty hard academically. Labels are assigned in year eight, and once you’ve been given your role, there’s really no choice but to perform.
For English this term, our task is to turn a key scene from Gatsby into a play script. I try not to be too dispirited when Ms Hartnett pairs me with Vince, who I know for a fact hasn’t read the book. Or any book that isn’t a graphic novel.
‘I want you to challenge yourselves,’ Ms H says, clasping her hands together. She’s my favourite teacher – she talks about books in a way that makes even Ged listen. Mostly.
(She’s also a massive improvement on the teacher we had last year – an ancient ex-alum who wrote Henry’s imagination is almost as big as his boots on my report card.)
‘Find something in Fitzgerald’s writing that speaks to you,’ Ms H continues. ‘The real you, not just the one that other people see. Tap into that, and use it to transform the scene into something new.’
Vince catches my eye and mimes dry-retching. We pair off to brainstorm. Ged is texting under the desk; I watch, wistfully, as Len draws up an intricate mind map for their group.
‘I don�
��t know why we even study classics anymore,’ Vince says, chipping black polish off his thumbnail and looking disinterested. ‘They’re so tired and overdone.’
‘Because they’re classic,’ I say patiently. ‘They tell us something about the broader human experience.’
‘I still don’t see why we can’t just watch the film.’
‘We did. It was the black and white one.’
He looks up, disgusted. ‘That was it? No wonder the ruddy book’s so unpopular.’
‘It’s Fitzgerald’s seminal work.’
Vince tilts back in his blue plastic chair. ‘Ooh, lookit – we’ve got the dictionary out.’
‘I can’t help it if you’ve only got the vocab of a cat’s arse,’ I hiss.
‘Having some deep intellectual debates over there, boys?’ Ms Hartnett calls.
‘Er, yeah!’ I reply.
Vince snorts. ‘No, we’re not, you tosser.’
‘We would be, if you’d drop your dark prince persona for five seconds and actually do some schoolwork!’
‘Whoa.’ He holds up a pale hand. ‘That’s Night King to you, mate. And, no, d’you know what? I don’t think I will. It’s not as if you’re gonna let me anywhere near this assignment anyway.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just that you tend to micromanage in group situations.’
‘“Micromanage”?’
He tilts his head. ‘Well, it’s kind of like how you’ve got a micropenis, only—’
I punch his arm.
‘Henry!’ Ms Hartnett chides from across the room. ‘Violence is never the answer.’
Friday afternoon is debating club. Len’s a member too, despite being apathetic towards it at best. We meet by the lockers after sixth period to grab bulk Violet Crumbles and salt and vinegar chips from the vending machine.
Our headquarters is the senior drama room in S block at the back of campus, nicknamed ‘shit block’ because neither the structure nor the décor have been updated since it was built in the seventies – it’s all yellow walls, brown carpet and musty blackboards.
We drag the desks into a semicircle facing the front of the room. I love debating – the structure, the passive aggression, the chance to use words that’d make my friends kick me in the groin if I dropped them in conversation.
Mum made me start when I was in primary school to combat a fear of public speaking, and it’s like clockwork to me now. We won the cup last year; I think that’s part of why the Sniffer let me have school captain.
The team trickles in slowly: Harrison, Martin, Eamon Matthews and Ben Cunningham. Our numbers have severely dwindled since the hockey team moved their training to the same day and time in a move against Eamon for quitting last season.
I position myself on the stage and pull on a powdered Shakespearean wig I found in the prop closet. Len watches me but says nothing, this having always been well within the realm of things I do.
‘So, I thought we could start off with our practice topic from over the holidays: did Henry the Eighth love any of his wives?’
‘Nobody’s-interested-in-that-except-you,’ Ben coughs.
(Ben doesn’t actually debate; he’s here at the request of the faculty because he’s failing English. And not bitter at all.)
‘So we’re all delivering an argument in one sentence. Want to start us off, Ben?’ I eye him meaningfully.
He blanches. ‘Er – nah. You’re right.’
‘Go on, man,’ Len says. ‘You seem to have a lot of thoughts.’
‘Uh,’ Ben starts, scratching his head. ‘Well. The first one – Kath whoever.’
‘Catherine of Aragon,’ I supply.
‘Yeah,’ Ben says. ‘Her. She was kind of like wife goals. He totally screwed her over cause he was mad he couldn’t make a son.’
I tap my chin. ‘Hmm. Anyone else have any thoughts?’
‘I read a great paper on that recently!’ Martin says.
I stare hard at the popcorn ceiling to avoid throwing my Violet Crumble at him.
‘Apparently he had some sort of disease that made him unable to beget male offspring.’
‘Snooze,’ Ben says. ‘Let’s talk about the hot one.’
‘Her name was Anne Boleyn,’ Martin snaps.
‘I think she was a bad-ass,’ Eamon pipes up suddenly. ‘That’s why he fell for her, or whatever.’
Eamon dated Emilia briefly, earlier in the year. She won’t tell me why they broke up, but, looking at him now, I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t entirely mutual.
‘Couldn’t you also say Anne just wanted power?’ I point out.
‘But she waited for him for ages,’ Eamon argues.
‘Does waiting so long kind of negate how much she could have loved him?’ I counter.
It’s Len who answers. ‘Maybe she waited because she loved him.’
I look over at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
His cheeks fizz with colour. ‘Just, like … if you look at the early letters – they were connected, on a personal intellectual level, even when they weren’t together romantically. Isn’t that what loving someone is?’
Len never really says much in the meetings. We all stare at him for a moment in shock.
Ben finally speaks. ‘He fully chopped off her head though, so it’s kind of irrelevant.’
Len rubs his hair in silence, leaning back in his seat.
‘To be fair,’ I back him up, ‘that last part was probably due to the syphilis.’
We speed through the remaining wives, and then it’s almost time to go.
‘Okay, we didn’t really do a proper mock today,’ I finish. ‘So let’s try to be a bit more organised next time. And just before you go—’
‘Hamlet, you do realise you’re not our mother. We can leave whenever we want.’
‘Yes, thank you, Harrison. My cervix and I thank the good Lord for that fact every day. But we do need to talk about finals coming up, so can the team stay back, please?’
Once it’s just Martin, Harrison, Len and me left, I announce dramatically, ‘We have been given our topic.’
‘For finals? Is it bad?’ Harrison tries to read my face.
‘Not … exactly,’ I say, and look down at the sheet I printed out over the holidays. ‘It’s: spouses should have to testify against each other in court.’
‘Ooh!’ Martin sits up excitedly. ‘I like it. Spousal privilege is ridiculous.’
Len’s watching me. ‘What side are we though?’
‘That’s kind of the thing.’
Harrison grimaces. ‘We’re on negative again, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Oh, fantastic,’ Martin spits. ‘How the hell do we argue a moral negative for that?’
‘Look, I get that it’s a bit—’
‘Shit,’ Harrison finishes. ‘Yeah.’
‘But we can still win – we just have to rally and find our angle! So, um … thinking hats on for next week, okay?’
Martin and Harrison grumble away.
I pull off the wig and put it back where I found it, trying not to think about the colony of head lice I’ve no doubt invited into my life. Len helps me put the desks back where they belong, and we lock up behind us.
Amber light spills into our eyes when we step outside. This far up the back of campus, we’re surrounded by scrub. Ancient gum trees that look like they’ve seen some serious shit over the years are silhouetted grey against the cornflower sky.
The walk to our cars is too quiet for me. I say the first thing that pops into my head. ‘Who were you talking about?’
Len looks up – there’s sun all over him. ‘Huh?’
‘Back there.’
‘What about it?’
‘Just kind of sounded like you were—’
&n
bsp; ‘A better debater than Ben Cunningham?’
I snort, grabbing my keys from my pocket as the Pissar comes into view. ‘Yeah. That’s exactly it.’
Len hoists his bag over his shoulder, blinking under scattered light to look at me. ‘Empty words, captain.’
‘I’m full of those. Just ask Martin.’
‘You’re full of something.’
I clutch my side theatrically. ‘Et tu, Brute?’
‘Et me.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘And my car’s this way.’ He walks down to the other end of the car park, pulling his tie off as he goes.
When I get home, Mum is sitting at the kitchen table in a work outfit with the phone clutched to her ear. I can tell from the stiffness in her spine and the wheel of cheese she’s contemplating (she’s lactose intolerant) that it’s somebody she hates.
‘Of course. I understand,’ she says, voice clipped. ‘I will. Thank you.’ She hangs up the phone and reaches out to squeeze me around the waist. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine. Who was that?’
Mum cuts off a giant slab of brie. ‘Ham’s school.’
Ham goes to the alternative primary school two suburbs over, where the kids sit on beanbags and engage in soft play rather than bullying.
‘He’s been internally suspended.’
My eyes widen. ‘They do that?’
She shrugs around her mouthful of cracker and cheese. ‘Apparently.’
I sit down across from her and let my bag slip to the floor. ‘What happened?’
She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. ‘His teacher doesn’t like him. She wants him to repeat a year. He lashed out when she mentioned it.’
I’ve heard a lot about the oddly dictatorial Ms Scarfe. Dad calls her ‘Ms Arse’ because she had a go at Mum at the parent–teacher interviews about her not being involved enough in school life.
‘Well,’ I say to Mum. ‘You did name him Hamish Hamlet. That’s kind of asking for him to be at least a little screwed up, isn’t it?’
It’s a cheap shot, but it works.
Her face crumples into an almost-laugh and she swats my arm. ‘It sounded poetic at the time! I didn’t realise he’d be—’
‘Ham Ham?’
She shakes her head. ‘I ruined his life, didn’t I? That witch is right. I should be around more.’
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