This is How We Change the Ending

by Vikki Wakefield

  I stop in front of him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Go away,’ he says.

  His voice is deeper than I expected. He stares past me and makes a half turn.

  ‘Look, I didn’t—’

  His eyes flicker my way. ‘I’m all good.’

  ‘Okay. Whatever.’

  Jesus. The kid is as stubborn as Merrick, and with the same masochistic tendencies. I wander back to the bench near the library entrance. He’s still standing there looking at his feet when I see his nemeses approaching.

  Rat grabs him by the arm. Pug points to the walkway, and Owen goes along with it.

  I get the feeling he has done this before.

  I back up to the partition and lean against it, so I can see through the slats. Owen puts his bag down. He stands facing the wall, hands behind his head, legs apart, as if he’s about to be frisked. It’s so B-grade. They’re stealing his money.

  I check if there’s a duty teacher within range, but they’re probably all on their way back to class.

  ‘Hurry up. Bell’s about to go,’ Rat says.

  Owen just shrugs, his hands still interlocked on top of his head. Pug gives him a shove, then plunges a hand into the left pocket of Owen’s pants. He comes up empty and jabs the back of Owen’s neck with his elbow. Then he goes for the right pocket—and I know what’s coming.

  Pug pulls his hand back like he’s been bitten.

  ‘What?’ Rat says.

  And while the sneer is still on Rat’s face, Owen turns, reaches into his pocket, grabs a handful of pulp and rubs it in his face.

  Rat staggers back, spitting chunks of mashed fruit, and Pug leans down to help him up.

  The bell goes. Owen grabs his bag and takes off, darting between students and disappearing faster than the other two can gather their wits.

  His timing is magnificent.

  One small act of defiance that will probably cost him for the rest of his school days.

  When I get home from school Nance and the boys aren’t there. Dec’s out in the yard and the back door is wide open. I can hear the whine of a whipper-snipper and the flat reeks of petrol.

  This has only ever happened once before. Dec’s so paranoid about getting busted, our flat looks like nobody lives here most of the time. It can only mean the Housing Trust is forcing an inspection. This is a catastrophe.

  Our backyard measures about nine by six metres. It’s the biggest one in the block—just enough room for a washing line, a metre-wide strip of broken concrete, and a patch of weeds. The flat backs onto the alley. Our rear fence has been buckled by a thousand kickings, so Dec made it higher by screwing extra panels around the top. There’s still no privacy because Margie upstairs can see straight into the yard from her kitchen and bedroom windows, but Nance won’t let the boys play in the yard anyway. The weeds haven’t been cut for as long as I can remember, and there’s a deadly carpet of three-corner jacks underneath. Nance thinks she once saw a brown snake.

  I drop my bag on the kitchen table and go outside.

  Dec’s hacking the weeds. He’s only wearing jocks and his shoulders are sunburnt, his massive muscles slick with sweat and dirt. The eagle wings tattooed across his lats seem to flap when he flexes.

  He cuts the motor. ‘Don’t you ever check your fucken phone?’

  I pull it out of my pocket. I’ve missed three calls and two texts. ‘I was at school. It was on silent.’ And nobody ever calls me, least of all my old man. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re fixing up the yard. Nance won’t be back for another few hours.’ He points to two large rolls of what looks like carpet near the door. ‘Get your skates on.’

  ‘Have we got an inspection?’

  He winks. ‘Nah. I just wanted to surprise my girl.’

  Now this is an alternate reality: Dec, sober, industrious, planning a surprise.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Appointment for O. In the city.’

  I get changed into shorts and a tank and fill up a water bottle. It’s not too hot outside, but the sun’s brutal. I have a roll-on sunscreen in my bag that I got from school (which I now know was a charitable donation). When I twist off the cap I discover it’s dried up, so I pull on a Cavs cap instead.

  Dec’s doing pull-ups on the washing line. He drops down and points to the piles of hacked weeds. ‘Pick them up and chuck them over the fence.’

  ‘You can’t just dump it.’

  ‘Hey, Greenpeace!’ He taps his finger on his temple. ‘It’s organic—it’ll break down.’ He goes inside and returns with two open beers. ‘Get that into you.’

  I take one swig and stand the bottle in the shade. If he makes me drink it all now I’ll probably spew. But he hasn’t noticed—he’s checking out my legs.

  ‘We’ve gotta get you on the protein, mate. I weighed ninety at your age. Shit, I was benching a hundred.’

  ‘I’m built for speed and grace,’ I say.

  ‘You’re built like a fucken whippet. Like your old lady.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ I grab an armful of weeds and haul them to the fence. He watches as I try to launch them over the top, but the breeze brings them back down on my head. I sneeze. Now I’m itchy as hell.

  ‘Has she called you?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  Dec is lengthening the string on the whipper-snipper. ‘What’re those birds that lay eggs in other birds’ nests, then fuck off and the other birds have to bring them up?’

  ‘Cuckoos.’

  ‘I knew you’d know,’ he says.

  Wait for it.

  ‘What good does learning stuff like that do you? Nothin’.’

  ‘It means we get to have this fascinating conversation.’

  ‘You’ve got a mouth like hers, too.’

  I scrape together another armful. This time I kick an old milk crate over to the fence, upend it with my foot, and stand on top so I can get some leverage. I do this five times until most of the cut weeds are gone, while Dec finishes his beer in silence.

  He has no idea how to connect with me. None. I think of Owen Kleinig and his pathetic attempt to fight back today. That’s kind of what I do, too—score enough points that I don’t feel completely hopeless, but not enough to stop it happening. My mouth versus Dec’s muscle—no contest. That blows Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s theory. At least Owen Kleinig wasn’t afraid to get physical.

  Dec’s still watching me.

  ‘Are we gonna finish this?’ I say.

  He snaps to attention. ‘Yeah.’

  He revs the whipper-snipper and gets to work on the last section of weeds. I use a broken plastic rake to scrape them into a pile and ditch them over the fence.

  On the final round, my foot goes through the rotten crate and Dec has to smash it with a hammer to get it off. My eyes are red and swollen and I have a gash on my shin. Dec looks like he’s burned a couple of kilos off his gut already. We’re both running with sweat.

  ‘Right. Give me a hand with this.’ He heaves one of the rolls near the door into the middle of the yard.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fake turf.’

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘From The Man.’

  The Man is a mythical figure, like the grandparents—we never see him, but occasionally he provides us with bountiful gifts. I think The Man is closely related to the truck that always has things falling off it.

  I wrap my arms around the second roll of turf, but I can only drag it a few inches at a time before I have to stop and shake the deadness out of my biceps.

  ‘Jesus Christ on a fucken bike,’ Dec mutters. He pushes me aside, squats and jerks the roll of turf onto his shoulder.

  I thought we’d have to do something about the uneven ground, but he just puts the turf down at one end of the yard, kicks it and rolls it out like a carpet, right on top of the stalks and divots and stones. We stomp it down. I guess it’ll stop the weeds from coming back. I have to admit it looks pretty good,
like a bumpy indoor cricket pitch.

  Dec gets himself another beer. He stares pointedly at mine, gone warm where the sun has overtaken the shade.

  I pick it up and take a sip. It’s foul.

  ‘Are you gonna throw another plate at me?’ I wouldn’t call it a smile, but he shows his teeth.

  ‘I didn’t throw them. I dropped them.’

  ‘Right.’ He shakes his head. ‘You never did appreciate anything I gave you, did you?’

  I find a cool spot on the steps and sit down to keep my legs from shaking. ‘I do. I do appreciate everything.’

  ‘Entitled little shit.’

  ‘I’ll be out of your hair in another couple of years.’

  I wait for the explosion, but it doesn’t come. Unpredictability is one of his many talents.

  ‘See this?’ Dec lifts his arm and points to the dagger-and-snake tattoo on his ribs. ‘Look close.’

  I’ve always wondered about it. But if it means sticking my face in his armpit, I’ll pass.

  ‘See the dagger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That used to be your mum’s name. Angela. It was a bastard to cover up. And these—’he points to our names, one by one—‘hurt like a bitch. Now, you’re gonna grow up and leave home like we all do, but I’ll tell you, if you’re fixing to never come back for a beer with your old man after I’ve put food in your belly and kept a roof over your head your whole life, I’ll come after you and put you out of your fucking misery myself. I’ll erase you. You got that?’

  I nod because there’s nothing else to do.

  ‘I did ten times better than my old man and don’t you forget it. I love my kids.’

  I nod again.

  He grabs me in a headlock, putting just enough pressure on my windpipe to make my eyes water.

  ‘Let go.’ I pretend I’m laughing. I give him a limp slap on his chest.

  ‘Come on, kid.’ The pressure increases. ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘Dec, let go,’ I wheeze, and he does let go. Blood rushes in my ears. I reel away and bash my head on the metal handrail.

  He gives the top of my head a rub and says, ‘You’re all right. Come on, I want to show you something.’ He gets up and opens the screen door. ‘Move your arse. Before Nance gets back.’

  I follow him inside, still hyped and dizzy.

  Dec’s kneeling on the kitchen floor beside the cupboard under the sink. He jerks his head. ‘Come here. Look at this.’

  I kneel next to him. He pushes my head down and twists my neck. There’s a bundle of something wrapped in newspaper and taped to the underside of the sink. I can only see it if I put my head and shoulders inside the cupboard.

  ‘That’s insurance,’ he says. ‘I’m showing you because you’re blood, and I trust you. Blood is everything. If someone comes through that door and I’m not here—’he points—‘this is the first thing you take. Okay?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The first thing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Before he closes the cupboard, he grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger. Whatever he sees in my expression must reassure him. He gives me a light punch on the arm and winks.

  It’s a test. There’s always a test.

  SEVENTEEN

  Double English, part two. Mr Reid allows snacks during double lessons, and I’m enjoying a half-decent coffee from the seniors’ kitchen and the extraordinary sense of wellbeing that comes from finishing an assignment on time.

  I won’t be in his firing line today.

  Mr Reid is walking around the classroom rattling a bag of dice. ‘I hope you all remembered to bring your board games. For the second half of our exercise you’ll be working in pairs. Find a partner, please.’

  I thought we were just handing them in, not sharing them. It’s one thing to spar with Mr Reid privately—it’s another to do it in front of the whole class.

  I feel instantly sick.

  Everyone else has had their default pairings sorted since the beginning of the year. There’s an odd number in the class, so I usually wait for Mr Reid to direct me to make up a threesome. That way I can avoid choosing, or acknowledging I have not been chosen.

  ‘Three absent today,’ Reid says. ‘Hurry up, McKee.’

  I look around. Three absentees means we’re at even numbers. The rest of the class are already seated in pairs, which leaves me and Benjamin Peros, who has never spoken a word to me in his life.

  He is, thankfully, awake.

  I pick up my stuff and shift to Peros’s desk at the back.

  Peros has only two distinct body languages—slumped and asleep, or dazed and confused—but he seems about as thrilled to be working with me as I am about working with him. He has nothing on his desk apart from a water bottle and a pencil case.

  ‘What are we supposed to be doing?’ he says.

  ‘He’s going to make us play our board games.’ I unroll my piece of paper and use his bottle and pencil case to hold it down. ‘You don’t even go here. I don’t think it matters if you do the work or not.’

  He frowns. ‘Of course it matters.’ He pulls a cylinder from under the desk and pops off the cap. His board game is laminated.

  Mr Reid drops two dice on Peros’s desk and continues. ‘You’ll play each other’s game to see if it’s winnable. At the end you’ll use your extra Post-its to add notes if you believe there’s an obstacle or pathway your partner has overlooked. Consider anything about your own circumstances—past, present and future—that you would change to improve your chances of success.’

  What would I change? Shit, I don’t even need three wishes. I’d change me. Circumstances are too complicated.

  I still can’t believe Peros laminated his work. ‘But you’re always asleep.’

  He speaks slowly, as if I might not be very smart. ‘I work afternoons. I’m tired. So what?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The wool plant.’

  ‘I just don’t get why you’re even here.’

  Peros rolls his eyes so hard I think he’s having a seizure.

  ‘And I don’t get why we’re playing with dice either.’

  ‘So?’ he says.

  ‘So, if this is supposed to be a realistic goal, there should be no element of chance.’

  He slaps his forehead. ‘Look, let’s get this over with. Do you want to play yours or mine first?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He unrolls his board game and lays it on top of mine. He has printed labels, and he’s coloured them to match the squares on the board. That’s an A for presentation right there, but the most impressive thing is his goal: Benjamin Peros wants to work for Aerospace.

  ‘Hey, that’s cool,’ I say. ‘What do we use as a game piece?’

  He sighs and pulls a twenty-cent piece from his pocket. ‘Go.’

  I roll the dice.

  A six and a five. I skip past pass Year Eleven, obtain school leaving certificate, and apply to the RAAF. Then I roll a double six, and with the next roll I hit the longest ladder and shoot straight up to complete degree in Engineering. After that it’s pretty much all over. I didn’t land on a single snake.

  ‘Congratulations! You’re an aeronautical engineer.’ I hold up my hand for a high five.

  ‘You were just lucky,’ he says, ignoring it.

  ‘Precisely.’ I write a Post-It and stick it to his game board. ‘You forgot to enrolin highschool. Other than that it’s fail-proof.’

  ‘I am enrolled. They haven’t decided whether I need to go back and finish Year Ten, so for now I’m just turning up. I don’t want to fall even further behind.’

  ‘Why’d you drop out?’

  ‘I was expelled.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Making a ninja star in Tech.’

  I slap the table. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that.’

  ‘Yeah. I pushed for them to drop the expulsion—technically I smuggled a weapon out, not in, and at the time ther
e was no rule against it.’ He points to my creased game board. ‘My turn to play.’

  I know what’s about to happen and I’m already embarrassed. For him and for me.

  ‘That’s your goal? A job?’ he says.

  ‘I was gonna put driver’s licence but I need a job first.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Any kind.’

  Peros rolls the dice. Two fours. He moves eight spaces. ‘Wait. Where are the ladders?’

  ‘There aren’t any.’

  He rolls a two and a three, hits a snake and goes back to the beginning. ‘I see where this is going.’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, I didn’t know we were going to play for real.’

  He says nothing—just keeps rolling the dice, moving the coin, and making wheeeee noises each time the game piece has to go back to the start. He makes no comment about my obstacles and setbacks, even when he lands on missed email, no wi-fi, or couldn’t get to interview, no bus fare or I don’t own a shirt.

  ‘There has to be a way to win.’

  ‘There is. But it’ll take a while.’

  He rolls again. ‘But why do you want to fail?’ He seems genuinely interested.

  ‘I don’t want to. This is just how it is. He said it had to be a realistic goal—I’ve just added realistic obstacles.’

  ‘No, I mean why not just do the assignment the way he asked you to, and take the pass?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be real.’

  Mr Reid clicks his fingers. ‘All right. Let’s get to know some of our peers’ goals.’

  I stare out the window. I didn’t see D&G ride past today. I need to pee. I’m still having trouble believing Benjamin Peros laminated his work. I wonder what happened to his ninja star. Anything to avoid having to think about what I’ll say if Mr Reid asks me to explain myself in front of the whole class. It’s not the objective that’s embarrassing—it’s the stuff that prevents me reaching my goal.

  ‘Raise your hand if you have achieved the objective.’

  Everyone. Except Peros.

  ‘Did you all complete your critiques?’

  Everyone except Peros. Again.

  Mr Reid checks a few games, asks some questions, makes several comments, then heads over to our desk. ‘What’s the problem here?’