This is How We Change the Ending

by Vikki Wakefield

  ‘Too late for what?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘What can I do for you?’

  I place the envelope on her desk. ‘I wanted to give you this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  It might not make much sense—or it might. I don’t know. But if it makes a difference then I’ll be glad I gave it to her. And if it doesn’t, that’ll come as no surprise to me or Owen Kleinig.

  ‘It’s about Owen Kleinig.’

  There it is: a twist to her lips. Distaste.

  ‘What about Owen?’

  ‘Just read it. It’s everything I know and a few things I’ve seen. And something I wrote a while ago about how this place works, just in case it’s not in the procedure manual. Nobody else will tell you so I am. Telling you. So you can—I don’t know—do something.’

  Fuck. I suck at monologues. This is why I should stick to writing things down.

  ‘Okay,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ll read it. Will you come back if I have questions? We might need to put something on record.’ I stand and put the chair back in place ready for the next student.

  ‘I’m not coming back. You can put that on record.’

  I’m ready. My chair is balancing on two legs. I no longer desire to like or to be liked by my oppressors. What’s the worst that could happen?

  I’ve always been at a disadvantage (my second-row desk near the classroom door couldn’t be further from the laptop cart, and why try too hard when the odds are against you?) but now I have the element of surprise. And, over the past few weeks, I’ve been paying attention.

  Mr Reid is a creature of habit: he slips off his shoes under the desk, picks up whichever epic fantasy novel he’s currently reading, puts his feet on the desk and smooths out the crease of the page he’s marked, and then—

  ‘Laptops. Be quick about it.’

  I’m already halfway across the room before anyone else has their chairs away from their desks. I must look like a crazed shopper who’s been camping out for three days, waiting for a sale, willing to crush small children underfoot, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to upset the natural order of things.

  Andrew Brink gets in my way. I shove him aside easily—he’s short and he’s wearing a moon boot.

  Kobe Slater is right next to the cart, as usual. He only has to stand up to be first in line.

  There are still plenty of laptops on the cart. I snatch one and handpass it to Zadie, who, as usual, hasn’t bothered to get out of her seat. She gives me a nervous smile, but she takes it. I dash back and there are still two left, but I leave them for Will and Chris. Instead, I wait until Kobe turns around with three in his arms and I lay the move on him—one I’ve perfected over hours of practice in the Rage Cage with Cooper and Deng—a smooth twist and rip he doesn’t see coming.

  Kobe’s too stunned to react. But the challenge isn’t getting them. It’s keeping them.

  I deal two like playing cards, one to Gurmeet and another to Leila. Kobe taps me on the shoulder, and now I know what Merrick meant by feeling hot breath on his neck. Kobe is blowing like a mad bull.

  Mr Reid is still reading.

  I’m not sure if I’m more terrified or exhilarated. It’s all very undignified, but I’ve rehearsed enough times and the variables can be overcome if we stick to the script.

  Hey, thanks, McKee, Kobe says. Give it up, wanker. He grabs one end of the case and pulls.

  ‘Oi. Wanker.’ Kobe holds out his hand.

  I pull back. ‘No.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Give it up.’

  Ever predictable. Still on track.

  No.

  ‘No.’

  Now the class is quiet and people are catching on. Mr Reid glances up, frowning. If he steps in, it’s a Kobe slam dunk. Here’s the part where Kobe’s supposed to make a vague threat that I can turn into sexual innuendo, but he’s not playing—to make things worse, the case isn’t zipped properly and I can feel the laptop sliding down my thigh.

  ‘You have a tablet,’ I squeak.

  The laptop shoots down my leg, somersaults off my shoe and lands upside down on the floor.

  Kobe smells blood. He rocks back on his heels and holds out his hand again, waiting. ‘Pick it up.’

  I’ve got the works—nausea, shakes, dizziness. We’re way off script and I can’t improvise. On the outside I’m a statue, like Deng said, except the reason I’m not moving is that on the inside I’m curled in a tight ball.

  Fuck. I am an armadillo.

  Benjamin Peros picks up the laptop, lifts my stiff left arm and tucks the laptop underneath. ‘You dropped something, buddy,’ he says, and ruffles my hair.

  Kobe takes a step forward but Will Farnsworth cuts him off. ‘You can have mine.’ Kobe brushes him away, but he insists. ‘It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he says, entirely without context, but it’s more effective than anything I could have written in a script.

  Gurmeet stands. ‘Here. Take mine.’

  Leila catches on. ‘Here, Kobe. You obviously need it more than I do.’

  And Zadie deploys her most perfectly timed long-suffering expression ever. ‘Use your words, Kobe. You only had to ask.’

  He mutters, ‘Forget it,’ and starts to sweat. ‘Anyway, you don’t even go here,’ he says to Peros.

  Peros laughs. ‘I don’t even exist. Say no to the drugs.’

  Just like that, Kobe Slater’s currency is spent and six of us are better off.

  ‘All right, all right, everybody sit down,’ Mr Reid says. ‘Slater, do you need to borrow a pen?’

  Kobe slides into his seat without answering.

  On my way back to my seat—victorious!—I pick up my dropped lines and whisper to Zadie, ‘I’ve seen our futures. None of this will mean anything in a few years. We’re going places.’

  ‘Together?’ she says, her eyebrows raised. ‘I don’t think so.’

  But she’s intrigued. I can tell.

  I wait to speak to Mr Reid after class.

  ‘It’s almost the end of term. You still owe me an essay, McKee.’

  ‘You originally said any form I like.’

  ‘What form are you proposing?’

  ‘Does my dramatic performance count?’

  He sighs and begins marking papers. ‘How was the laptop experience?’

  ‘Disappointing. I couldn’t log in.’ He’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what. ‘I’m up to the part where I fight my enemies. You know—action.’

  ‘I noticed,’ he says.

  ‘I should have punched Slater.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have. You lot make it easier for the powers that be if you’re all killing each other. It matters how you win, McKee.’

  I stare at my feet. ‘I wouldn’t call it a win, exactly.’

  ‘Often the aim of resistance is not victory, but progress.’

  ‘I couldn’t even speak.’

  ‘Mute protest is as good a means as any.’

  ‘Peros had to step in. And Will and the rest.’

  ‘Nobody will take your hand if you don’t reach out.’

  ‘I’m probably going to die later.’

  ‘We’re all going to die, McKee. The question is, do you want a walk-on part in the war? Or a lead role in a cage?’

  He’s messing with me.

  ‘You’re a walking quote generator, Mr Reid.’ I’m trying to make him laugh. It’s not working. I walk back to my desk and D&G pedals past right at that moment. I pick up my bag and shove my things inside. ‘Last year you said something about us surrendering the only weapon we had.’

  He gives the tiniest nod.

  ‘You meant our education, right?’ I’m rewarded with a smile. ‘You should pay attention. This has been a teaching moment.’

  He shakes his head. ‘It was never about me.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering, why did you let me off easy with the board game thing?’

  He puts down his pen and rubs his h
ands over his face. ‘Because I was wrong. I made assumptions and you were right to call me out. I don’t know anything about what it’s like to be you.’

  ‘And why did you leave Saint Monica’s?’

  ‘So I could make a difference,’ he says flatly.

  It’s my cue to tell him he did make a difference, but the words get stuck. It’s like hugging Jake—I know it’s what he needs and what he deserves, but it’s just so hard.

  He supposedly has all the answers, so I give him the next best thing.

  ‘Mr Reid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if, in an alternate reality, my fatal flaw is actually a superpower? Do I ditch the flaw, or find a new reality?’

  He closes his eyes. ‘Thank you, McKee.’

  The truth is, I kind of, possibly, maybe, might be starting to give a shit.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Peros waits for me by my homeroom door after school. In the time it takes to walk to the bus stop, we dissect the Siegfried Sassoon poem we’re supposed to be studying, discuss what we’re doing on the weekend, diss Kobe Slater and swap phone numbers.

  Peros is even more clueless than I was about poetry. I say science is the answer and art is the question, and I tell him about the fire in my belly and that it’s not all shapes in clouds and paint by numbers—and at the end of my monologue he looks even more confused, so I offer to send him a copy of my own analysis to give him some ideas. And when he tells me how hard he’s trying to get decent marks, I have no urge to make fun of him.

  ‘Has Slater come back at you?’ he says.

  ‘Only if you count death stares.’

  ‘He’s not as tough as he acts.’

  ‘Well, he had me fooled.’

  Peros produces a crumpled band flyer. ‘Hey, do you want to come on Saturday? They’re mostly thrash and screaming, but the guitarist’s good.’

  ‘All ages?’

  ‘Karl will get us in. You’ll just need a clean shirt with a collar.’

  It takes me a full ten seconds to realise he’s teasing. ‘Ha-fucking-ha.’

  ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll come.’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Seeya.’

  Another street over, my phone rings. My phone never rings unless it’s Nance. I get a sick feeling before I even look at the screen, but it could be about O so I pick up.

  ‘It’s me.’ Tash.

  ‘Hey. Tell me you’re not calling to say we got busted.’

  ‘Not exactly. Did you hear?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Youth?’

  ‘Did we win?’

  She goes quiet for a moment. ‘Macy has been given a date. June thirtieth. The Freemasons are moving in.’

  I slump down onto someone’s brick letterbox. ‘Who are they? Some family?’

  Tash sniggers.

  ‘Great. I finally do something and it’s all for nothing.’

  Tash yells down the phone. ‘It doesn’t mean we stop.’

  ‘What now? Burn some real houses?’

  Tash makes a gasping sound.

  ‘Are you laughing? How can you laugh about this?’

  ‘The Freemasons aren’t a family. It’s a kind of club.’

  ‘Never heard of them. Anyway, it’s not that funny.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Hey, where are you?’

  ‘Heading home from school.’

  ‘So, are you up for something?’

  I hesitate. ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘Macy says she’ll let us run a stencilling workshop.’

  ‘She knows, doesn’t she?’ Silence. ‘Are you nodding?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot we were on the phone. Yeah, she worked it out.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said we might as well get started because we’re running out of time.’

  ‘Started on what?’

  ‘Training an army, of course.’

  I wave at the grumpy old guy who has the only green lawn on the street. He’s standing on his verandah, surveying the grass. I should slip one of Bob the Lawnmower Guy’s cards in the letterbox—get him closer to breaking even.

  The old man smiles and waves back.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Tash says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know what? I love Macy. I mean I love love her.’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too.’

  ‘So, are we still friends?’

  Something catches in my throat. ‘I don’t really have friends, as such.’

  ‘Perfect. Me neither.’ She hangs up.

  I wish I’d known sooner that everyday conversations on an ordinary day can have an extraordinary effect. Maybe this is what can happen when you yawp at the world instead of yelling down the well.

  —

  When I get home, Nance is bashing plates around in the kitchen. Something smells amazing. O is lying on the couch watching The Lion King on DVD, and Jake’s trying to catch a fart in a plastic cup. Dec’s here, too. Nance is whistling.

  Everything seems normal, but somehow different.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to everyone and no one.

  ‘Naaaate!’

  O is back.

  I go into the kitchen. ‘Youth’s closing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, bub.’

  ‘Want me to dry up?’

  ‘You are ace, Nate McKee.’

  ‘What are you making?’ The flat has never smelled this good.

  ‘It’s lasagne—I think. I’ve never made it before.’ She points to the ceiling. ‘I’m making it for Margie upstairs. Kelly died last night.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s sad. She just went to sleep and never woke up.’

  I wonder if anything I could have done would have made a difference. I guess it doesn’t matter. I didn’t do it.

  I pull a tea towel from the hook inside the cupboard under the sink and pick up a wet plate. Nance isn’t really paying attention to what she’s doing: the plate still has tomato sauce on the bottom. I scrub it away with the tea towel, wondering if Nance has any clue what else is under the sink.

  An odd sound makes us turn around. It takes forever to make sense of what’s happening: Jake is holding the plastic cup over O’s nose and mouth, pressing so hard O’s cheeks are puffed up around the rim and he’s trying to scream and thrash, but it only suctions the cup more tightly to his face. And Dec is laughing, which makes Jake press harder.

  Nance moves first. ‘Jake, let go! He can’t breathe!’

  ‘Lighten the fuck up,’ Dec says. ‘It’s just a cup of cheese.’

  Nance grabs Jake by the arm and wrenches him away. She doesn’t stop there—she yanks his shorts to his knees and delivers a stinging slap to his bare backside.

  Jake wails and hits her across the face.

  Nance reels back and rubs her cheek, shocked, but Otis has taken a deep breath and when he lets it out it’s like a siren going off.

  Jake goes to run away. I catch him by the arm and haul him back. ‘Don’t hit your mother!’ I smack him again, and now he and Nance have matching cheeks.

  Until now, Dec hasn’t stopped laughing.

  For a big guy he moves fast. He shoots Otis a look of such intense hatred, it hurts like he’s kicked me in the guts. He peels my fingers away from Jake’s wrist and bends my hand so far back I have no choice but to kneel on a pile of dry cornflakes Jake spilt at breakfast. The instant agony makes my eyes water. With his free hand, Dec grabs my throat and digs his fingers into my Adam’s apple. He forces my head back until my neck burns and I think I’ll pass out, but Nance grabs his forearm and clubs the side of his face.

  Dec lets go and everything stops.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say, and Nance whispers, ‘Dear God,’ at the exact same time, when neither of us knows the first thing about praying.

  Everyone has been hit, except Otis, who still has an O-shape around his mouth. My legs are jelly. My fight or flight response is on hold—it feels like whatever I do next could spark a
nother chain reaction.

  Jake pulls up his pants and retreats to the bedroom to sulk.

  Dec runs his tongue over his bottom lip as if it’s bleeding, but it isn’t. It’s not even fat.

  Nance quietly gets Dec’s wallet from the kitchen table. She passes it to him. Her face is pale except for Jake’s tiny hand-print on her left cheek. ‘Go,’ she says. ‘I give up.’ She runs to her bedroom and closes the door.

  It’s just me and O and Dec, staring at each other. I’ve finally worked out what’s different: he’s completely straight, and Dec sober is more terrifying than Dec off-his-face any day.

  This is the fallout from Nance’s ultimatum.

  Dec pulls on a T-shirt, picks up his keys and walks past me, swinging his shoes like nothing happened. He stops to bump my clenched fist with his, opens his wallet and slips me a twenty-dollar note and a wink on the way past.

  I accept both because I don’t know what else to do. It feels as if I’ve passed the test.

  I hold it together until he’s gone, until my throat is too choked to breathe and my nose is burning like I’ve snorted paint thinner.

  None of us ever cries together. We all go to different rooms, so no one can see. I slide into the space behind the kitchen door, bite down on my knuckles, press between the bones of my wrist. Someone once told me there’s a pressure point to relieve stress in there, but all it does is make my hand ache.

  I splash my face over the kitchen sink and drink a glass of water.

  Jake is confused. He doesn’t know whether he’s been bad or good. He watches from the doorway, scratches his arm until it bleeds, says nothing until I unlock the front door.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just out. Away from here.’

  I’m confused as well.

  Good things happened today: Slater’s humiliation, Peros’s invitation, Tash’s workshop. Bad things, too. It’s like if you swing the pendulum one way, it’s going to swing just as hard on the way back. Perpetual fucking motion. And I don’t know why, after everything that doesn’t pass for normal in my family, it’s Kelly dying because Margie loved her too much, and O refusing to say Dec’s name because he doesn’t trust him, it’s Jake’s fart in a cup and Dec laughing like it’s all a big joke, that makes me realise this has to stop somewhere.