When I peer out of the window, I see my youngest brother, Harley, swinging on the rotary clothesline. I hammer on my window, but he either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to, so I give up. What do I care if the top flies off? Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.
‘I want Mummy,’ Libby pouts.
Turning back to her, I say, ‘Mummy’s at work, OK?’ Our mother will have been ringing up purchases at the supermarket for an hour already. Sometimes I think she likes escaping to work. I crouch down and pull on one of Libby’s pigtails.
‘Let’s all walk together, huh?’ Jack’s been walking Harley and Libby to primary school, because he starts later than me, but if I run I can probably make it.
Smiling, Libby reaches for my hand.
‘OK,’ she says.
After dropping the kids off at primary school, I head to the subway that runs beneath the train tracks. It stinks of urine, and there’s graffiti all over the walls. Some of it is kind of cool, like the giant panda on a skateboard and the round-faced girl with winged flames coming out of her ears. I don’t like the swastika someone has painted on her forehead, though, or the Black Power and Mongrel Mob insignia scrawled from one end to the other.
Today I don’t have time to linger. It’s eight forty already, five minutes until the bell goes, and I’m running. I don’t mind running — my sister Maddy and I always used to clean up at the cross-country at our last school — but my shoes are pinching my feet. In class I kick them off to stop my bones getting deformed, like those Chinese women who used to bind their feet. Mum says I should stop growing, but I’d like to be just a couple of centimetres taller, so I can hit a metre eighty.
The bell’s ringing when I hit the school gates. I slow to a walking pace, running a hand through my Fudge-scented hair. Joe gave the hair wax to me when I left Auckland, because I always used to stick it in my hair when I went to his house and drawl, ‘It smells so gooood.’ It really does.
‘Hey, Hunter.’ Wiremu Wright falls in beside me, his ever-present basketball tucked under his arm. ‘Want to shoot hoops at lunchtime?’
‘Sure,’ I say, before remembering I’ve got other plans. ‘Actually, maybe tomorrow. I g—have judo at lunchtime.’ I’m hoping he hasn’t noticed my stutter avoidance, saying have instead of got. Such a habit, I barely even notice it myself sometimes. At the moment, though, I feel like everyone is analysing every little thing about me. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, new-kid-itis.
Wiremu grins, exposing the gap between his front teeth.
‘Will they teach you to chop a board in half?’ He waves his hands through the air, the ball slipping out from beneath his arm. I catch it on the upward bounce and toss it back to him.
‘No man, that’s karate. Judo’s mostly throws and holds.’
‘Oh, OK. Tomorrow, then. Catch you in English.’ He takes off, bouncing the ball ahead of him. Smiling, I duck through a side door in the main block and jog up the stairs to my Japanese class. Maybe today will be better than I thought.
By the time I walk out of the gym change rooms at lunchtime, half the mats have already been laid out, and there are at least six people hanging around. Two of them are wearing the full judogi, white trousers and a heavy jacket with coloured belts tied around their waists. I’m pleased to see that one belt is blue, the other green. That means I’m the most senior there, apart from the instructor, who’s wearing a black belt. The others are wearing shorts and t-shirts with the high-school logo on the left breast. The instructor, whom I recognise as one of the history teachers, is handing out white jackets and white belts to the newbies.
‘Hey.’ The green belt, a guy with an asymmetric buzz-cut and a square face, smiles at me. ‘You’re new here, right?’ He sticks out his hand. ‘I’m Ethan.’
‘Yeah, hi.’ I’m shaking his hand when the instructor emits a shrill whistle.
‘Right, class. My name’s Colin Leadbetter, for those of you who don’t know me. Let’s start by lining up in belt order.’ He points at me. ‘You first. What’s your name?’
‘B-b-’ Fucking Bs. I shake my head. ‘Hunter.’
‘Hunter, good.’ As I walk to the far left of the mat, I hear Leadbetter telling the newbies how brown belt is one before black belt. I’m hoping that’s impressed everyone enough that they forget my stutter. Especially him.
Him, or he, is Felix Catalan, and he’s standing at the exact opposite end of the mat from me. Why did he help me out with that physics problem the other day? I have no idea, but I’ve been watching him ever since. Felix keeps to himself mostly, but there’s something about him that keeps drawing me in. Maybe it’s the way he smiled at me that day, as if it was something he doesn’t do very often. Maybe it’s his eyes, slate-grey and framed by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy, or the way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating.
Maybe it’s the way I keep catching his eyes on me when I’m sneaking peeks at him — out of the corner of my eye, when I think no one else is watching.
No one, except Felix Catalan.
‘Let’s go, let’s go!’ Leadbetter barks. I join the others in jogging around the mat and doing press-ups and crunches. All the newbies are puffing and looking like they’re going to die, but I’m enjoying myself. Nothing like a surge of adrenaline to wash all the worries out of my head, for a while anyway.
Next we practise break-falling, rolling onto our sides and slapping the mats with our arms. By the time we’ve finished that, it’s half-past twelve, and the acrid scent of sweat is hanging in the air.
Leadbetter nods at me. ‘Can I borrow you for a sec?’
‘Sure.’ I raise my arms, mirroring him. We reach for each other, one hand on each other’s jacket lapel, one on the other’s elbow.
‘Watch,’ Leadbetter tells the class before sweeping my legs out from under me. I break-fall, my right arm outstretched to absorb the impact of my body hitting the mat, and spring back up, grinning.
‘Whoa,’ one of the girls says, and giggles. Felix’s eyes are on me, a divot between his eyebrows, his bottom lip between his teeth.
‘That,’ Leadbetter says, ‘was Osotogari.’ He reaches for me again and demonstrates the technique to the others, step by step. ‘Pull. Step. Sweep. Pull. Step. Sweep.’ Splat, I’m on my back again. Only because I let him, of course.
‘Partner up,’ Leadbetter bellows. ‘You’ve got five minutes. No throwing for white belts, OK?’
‘Want to play?’ Ethan’s standing at my elbow.
I grin at him. ‘Sure.’ After practising the throw a few times each, we start moving around the mat, trying it on with each other — Tai Otoshi, Seoi Nage, Tomoe Nage. We end up wrestling on the mat, practising holds and chokes and arm bars.
‘Have you joined a club yet?’ Ethan asks, releasing me from a shoulder hold. I sit up, massaging the back of my neck.
‘Not yet. Where do you g—hang out?’
Ethan sits back on his heels. ‘The Judo Academy just down the road. You should come along, Sasha goes there too.’ He waves a hand at the girl with the blue belt down the other end of the mat. ‘Hey, I’ve got to duck out now. Might see you on Saturday — senior classes are from two to four. First two sessions are free.’
‘Awesome, I’ll see you there.’ It’s not until I stand up that I realise Felix is only an arm’s length away. He’s lying on his back, his arms stretched above his head, his eyes on the ceiling. His partner, a slender girl with micro-freckles, is chatting to another girl on the other side of the mat.
‘Slacker,’ I tease, moving into his line of gaze. I hold out my hand, smiling. His eyes lock on mine, but he doesn’t smile back. Have I said something wrong? Is he hurt? Faltering, I start to withdraw my hand. That’s when Felix reaches up, grasping my fingers. I put my hand over his and pull him to his feet.
‘You all right?’ I ask. Both of my hands are wrapped around his, but I don’t let go, not straight away.
‘I’m fine,’ he says, staring down at our hands. We’re standing so close that I can dete
ct his scent, sweat and something else — liquorice?
‘See you in physics,’ I say, finally loosening my grasp, because Leadbetter’s clapping his hands, asking us to line up and bow. I’m at one end of the line and Felix at the other, but I can still feel the calluses on his palms, can still hear the way his breathing sped up when I pulled him towards me.
I can’t believe this is happening again.
CHAPTER 3
FELIX: WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE
After dinner on Wednesday evening, I sit in my room, reading about judo on the net. I learn about the order of the belts, white-yellow-orange-green-blue-brown-black. I wonder how long it took Bailey to get to brown belt, where he used to go to school, and whether he’s got any brothers or sisters.
Shaking my head, I shove my computer aside and pick up the book I started reading a few days ago. It’s about Alan Turing, a mathematician and cryptanalyst. Apparently his work on cracking German ciphers shortened World War Two by two years. That would be my dream job, deciphering complex codes that baffled everyone else. Or maybe I could be the person who designs the codes.
This is the sad thing about Turing, though. He was gay, and that was against the law back then. The British authorities did something called chemical castration on him, which is like cutting off a bull’s testicles but with drugs instead. So Turing got mega depressed and killed himself with cyanide. Being different can be dangerous.
I’m not in the mood for reading, though. Sighing, I pluck my favourite minifigure off my windowsill, which is Batman. I’ve seen all the Batman movies at least three times each. If I were a superhero, that’s who I’d choose to be. I don’t care what anyone else says, Christian Bale was the best Batman hands down.
That’s the poster on the wall next to my bed, Christian Bale as Batman sitting in his spectacularly awesome Tumbler Batmobile. In my dreams, I’m Batman hurtling down a mountain road in the Batmobile, the wind whipping through my hair. Or his sidekick Robin, sitting in the passenger seat, Christian Bale’s hand warm on my arm.
I’d die of embarrassment if anyone knew that.
I put Batman down, and walk around my room, picking up and setting down the minifigures lined up on my windowsills, my bookshelves and on top of my chest of drawers — Bart Simpson holding his skateboard, Captain Hook, a gangster and a kickboxer, to name a few. They’re in alphabetical order, and date back to when I was in primary school. Last summer I saved enough from my holiday job as a supermarket trolley boy to buy some of the rare ones, like Elrond from the Lord of the Rings series.
I’ve just picked up the twenty-third minifigure (a space alien with sticky-out eyes) when my phone beeps. Bindi and Coke are the only people outside of my family who message me, so it’s not a big surprise to see the text is from Coke.
Want to come to a party Friday night?
I frown. A party? I can’t think of anything worse than standing around with a bunch of people, trying to make conversation. There are so many other things I’d rather be doing, like reading a Stephen Hawking book, or working out how long it will take me to save for a second-hand electric guitar if I pick up weekend work at the supermarket.
I message back: I’d rather stick forks in my eyes. Thanks anyway.
My phone beeps less than ten seconds later. WTF, I’m inviting you to the PARTY OF THE YEAR.
Scowling, I fire back: No means no.
My phone starts ringing. Scowling, I put it to my ear.
‘I don’t like parties.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Coke’s mouth sounds like it’s full of chips, as usual. ‘You can’t avoid parties for the rest of your life.’
‘Why not? Whose is it anyway?’
Coke’s voice is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Joel Webster’s birthday party. Remember him?’
I sit on my bed, still clutching the space alien.
‘Joel Webster? How’d you get an invite to that?’ Joel is in the year above me at school, and is what Bindi calls an ‘innie’, because he’s part of the in-crowd.
I’m an outie. I don’t belong at an innie party. I don’t belong, full stop.
‘Because,’ Coke says very slowly, like I’m some kind of retard, ‘he’s Krusty’s cousin, and Krusty asked me, and told me to bring a friend. That’s you. Come on, how are you ever going to meet any girls?’
‘I meet girls.’ I bend Space Alien’s legs so that he’s doing the splits. Krusty is some girl Coke met at a concert last year. I’m about to ask him if that means he and Krusty are going out, when he says, ‘Bindi doesn’t count, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘I’m not not telling you anything.’ This conversation is giving me a headache. But obviously Coke isn’t going to shut up unless I give him the answer he wants. ‘OK, fine, I’ll come along. But don’t expect me to stay long.’
‘Great, I’ll pick you up.’ Coke hangs up. I’m tempted to throw Space Alien at the wall, but I don’t want to break him, so I bend his legs back the right way and place him where he belongs, between Snake Charmer and the Spectre.
That’s when I hear raised voices through the wall, my parents hurling words at each other: always the same and not even listening. Not again. I crawl under my duvet with my headphones and listen to the whole American Idiot album, starting with the title track and ending with ‘Whatsername’. When the album finishes, I take off my headphones and turn my head, listening.
The house is silent. At least I think it’s silent, until I hear a noise so faint I have to hold my breath to make it out.
It’s my mother. She’s crying.
Part of me wants to go and hug her, but a bigger part of me doesn’t want to know. Because if I acknowledge what I think is happening, then I’m scared it will come true.
I have a love-hate relationship with school. Physics, chemistry, biology and maths are all good, most of the time. If only English didn’t exist. Why do I have to learn English? I know how to read. I know how to spell, most of the time. But ask me to read a boring-as-hell book and write an essay about it, are you kidding? How’s that going to help the rest of the world?
Our English teacher is Ms Ralph. She’s bendy-skinny like a pipe cleaner, with curly brown hair. The book she’s given us to read is called The Road. It’s about a boy and his father journeying through a wasteland. Every time I try to read it, the inside of my head turns black. So I stopped reading it, and now I’m way behind.
Bailey’s in my English class too. English four times a week and physics four times a week. That’s 50 x 8 = 400 minutes we’re in the same room. But we haven’t said a word to each other since judo yesterday, twenty-two hours and five minutes ago.
I’m sitting next to Molly Riordan at the front of the room. Bailey is sitting at the back of the room, next to Wiremu Wright. Molly wouldn’t have chosen to sit next to me naturally, but she was moved last week because she and her friend Ella were talking too much.
‘I want you all to think about the setting as you move through this novel, and how McCarthy uses it to effect,’ Ms Ralph says. ‘Molly, how do you think a writer can use setting to influence the mood in a story?’
Molly fiddles with the chain around her neck, and wrinkles her nose. She looks like the dolls my grandma collects, with her creamy, unblemished skin and perfectly straight blonde hair.
‘Sometimes you can use the weather,’ she says. ‘Like having thunderstorms when the characters are feeling angry, or black clouds when something scary is about to happen.’
Ms Ralph smiles. ‘That’s right. Can you give me an example of a book you’ve read like that? Felix?’
My heart is a trapped mouse skittering around my chest. Thunderstorms? There were no storms in my book about Turing. I try to cast my mind back to other books I’ve read, but all that comes to mind is a picture book Mum used to read me when I was little.
‘Um, Where the Wild Things Are?’ I blurt. Molly smirks and rolls her eyes past me to where Ella is sitting, by the win
dow. Ella smirks back.
‘That’s a great book,’ Ms Ralph says. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or if she really means it. ‘Tell us how the setting influences the mood in that book, Felix.’
Behind me, someone mutters, ‘Ooh, wild thing.’
Meaningful looks ping between Molly and Ella, grazing across my chest like poison arrows. All I can remember is how the boy and the wild things howled at the moon together. Hell, I can’t even remember the boy’s name.
‘The moon,’ I mumble. Ella laughs out loud.
Ms Ralph frowns at her, and turns back to me.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The moon shining into the room at the start of the book creates a lonely feeling, that’s good.’ I can tell she’s just trying to rescue me, because how did she get that out of moon? ‘That book is about the power of imagination, about how a boy creates an alternative world in which he can control his own destiny.’ She gives me a thoughtful stare, as if she can see straight into the centre of me.
I wish I had an alternative world to escape to right now, preferably one containing Batman and a Tumbler. But all I have is the inside of my head. As soon as Ms Ralph’s eyes move away, I start thinking about numbers, sequences rolling behind my eyes like the credits on a movie.
Until I hear another snigger beside me.
‘Shut up,’ I growl at Molly. Her eyebrows shoot upward, surprise flitting across her china-doll face. That’s when I realise she’s not laughing at me, for once. Behind me, I hear Bailey’s tongue sliding around a syllable he can’t spit out.
‘B-b-b—’
Molly’s lip curls upward. ‘Don’t freak out on me, will you, Felix?’ she murmurs. I clench my fists on top of my thighs, my stomach acid simmering.
Don’t lose it, don’t lose it.
Bailey, flailing around like a fish on a hook, stops trying to say the word starting with ‘b’ and spits out ‘courageous’. I’m trying to figure out why he has so much trouble with some words and not others. Sometimes he’ll say a whole sentence without stuttering at all.
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