by Darren Groth
‘It’s so different over there, isn’t it?’ says Nina. ‘I mean, for a country that’s got a lot in common with us, there’s a heap of things that make it – I don’t know – foreign. Exotic, even.’ She scoops rice into her bowl and returns the dish to the centre of the table. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you, Munro.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why Australia? Was there something that made you want to come? Or someone?’
I set aside my chopsticks and wipe my mouth with a napkin. Possible answers wheel through my mind. The trip as a poor substitute for Evie’s aspirations? Nonstarter. A need to escape home for a while? Makes my parents sound like assholes – definitely not the case. A throwaway line about Down Under being a prime destination for every Canadian? That was Evie’s dream, not mine.
There is one other option, something of a last resort. I suspect it will shut down any similar questions in future. I look around the restaurant. Too bad it has to be said in public.
Maybe you should tell the Hydes everything this time.
Maybe you should leave me the fuck alone.
‘Evie had this teacher – Mr Adams, from Australia. Brisbane, actually. She loved being in his class. She learned a lot with him – so many things that would’ve helped her live a full and happy life. She was thankful for everything he did. And, on the day my sister died, so was I.’
A small gasp escapes Nina’s mouth.
‘Evie and Mr Adams were walking over to the library. Coming out of English class, Evie had said she wasn’t feeling great, so Mr Adams was holding her hand. He noticed the blue colour of her lips was darker than usual. As they passed by the World War II honour board, Evie stumbled. Mr Adams said “oopsie-doodles” and kept his grip, preventing a crash into the wall. He was about to suggest a visit to First-aid when Evie stumbled again. The second time was different. She was real heavy, as if invisible hands were pushing her to the ground. She dropped and the weight was too much for him.’
A group of fifteen at the large table in the centre of the restaurant start singing ‘Happy Birthday’. The Hydes aren’t distracted, all three lean slightly forward in their seats. Nina is teary, her eyes and the tip of her nose shaded red. Geordie mops his brow. Rowan has his arms folded, as if the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees. My throat is tight, but it doesn’t stop the stream of words.
‘Evie hit a drinking fountain with her shoulder, twisted and ended up on her right side. The group of students walking behind her – Grade 12s – almost tripped over her. Mr Adams told them to stand back and got down on his knees. He turned Evie over. She looked like she was napping. She looked like she was dreaming.’
Wow, you know so much about what happened, Munro! It’s like you were looking over Mr Adams’ shoulder!
Shut up.
‘Mr Adams worked on her for ten minutes. Chest compressions, occasional breaths. He didn’t stop, not when the crowd gathered, not when the shouting and the crying started, not when one of the school captains fainted. He didn’t stop when the first-aid officer arrived with a defibrillator. He kept going. He kept going when it was obvious he should give up. He still had his hands interlocked, ready for compression, when the paramedics took her away in the ambulance.’
I cough, a raspy hack into the crook of my elbow. Over at the birthday table they’ve broken out the sparklers.
‘Mr Adams,’ I conclude, ‘is the reason I wanted to come here.’
LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!
Amid the hand-wringing and the tissue-clutching, both Nina and Rowan zero in on Geordie. If he’s aware of their attention, he doesn’t let on. He pulls on the collar of his dress shirt and splits the silence.
‘He did his best, Mr Adams. That’s all you can do. I hope he understands that.’ He presses on his forehead for a few seconds then releases a breath, the sound like a hand pump inflating a bike tyre. ‘Do you want to track him down, Munro? Is that what you’re hoping to do?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not here to find Mr Adams, sir, but I do want to find his spirit. I think I’ve found some of it already in this family.’
This acts as a reboot. Nina goes to the washroom ‘for repairs’; on the way back she high-fives the birthday boy at the centre table. Geordie teaches me a few verses of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, assuring me the ‘jolly swagman’ wasn’t at all jolly but a very poor decision-maker. Rowan recounts the school day, rating my performance a nine out of ten, the loss of a mark due to my ill-advised wish for some Frank’s RedHot Sauce to put on my Oz Burger. By the time dessert is done and the bill is paid, the Hyde computer is back to normal, the Maddux blue screen of death now gone.
Mum and Dad
You’ll be pleased to know I survived my first week at Sussex State High. It’s not as different as I’d hoped. I guess school is school, no matter what part of the world you’re in. It was an okay week, though. I will go back again next week.
I met the counsellor (guidance, not crisis). She gave me the lowdown on everything. They’re big on volunteering here – you have to do fifty hours in first semester of Grade 11. Not sure where I’ll go at this stage.
Rowan invited me to do one of those escape-room puzzles with his friends next weekend. He says the place has an old Brisbane asylum set-up for one of the rooms. You and Dad are probably hoping I don’t get out. I don’t blame you.
How’s the campaign shaping up? Did the film shoot go okay? I’ll keep an eye out for it on the website.
Ciao for now.
M
Ringing. A FaceTime call. It’s 6 am, Vancouver time. Lou, perennial morning person, is on the other end.
‘Yo, Munrovia! Awesome to see you, bud! How’s the land of Silverchair?’
A pang of homesickness hits. Ah, Louis Erasmus and his stacks of retro grunge vinyls, all those tracks laid down before we were born. When I told him I was doing the exchange, he quoted one of the songs in his collection – something about me looking California and him feeling Minnesota. He held a hand to his chest as he said it, much like he’s doing now.
‘Friendly,’ I reply. ‘They like the accent.’
‘Maybe they’re mistaking you for Ryan Gosling.’
‘For sure. He’s got the same chicken legs and ponytail as me.’
We talk for ten minutes, me doing most of the talking. I update him on the weather (hot), the Hydes (cool), the first week of school (I survived).
‘How are the Aussie honeys?’ asks Lou.
An image of Caro sneaks into my head, more a silhouette than an image. Night-time. Nuit. ‘I’ve only been here seven days.’
‘That’s plenty for Ryan Gosling. Come to think of it, I imagine you’re the honey over there. You’re the honey and those Aussie girls are a bunch of bears sniffing around you.’
‘You’ve got quite the imagination.’
‘Man, I wish I could get a bear sniffing around me.’
‘Thanks for the visual.’
Lou smiles. ‘It’s real good to see you joking around, homes. Been a while.’
‘True dat.’
Lou starts twirling a pen around his thumb. He looks away. ‘So, I’m sorry to kill the buzz … I saw your mum and dad at Save-On yesterday. They told me you’d made it over okay, said you were settling in with your host family. They looked pretty bummed about the whole thing, to tell you the truth.’
I rub my face and nod. ‘Yeah, the exchange was kind of a last resort to keep me in school. They only agreed because I thought it could work.’
‘I think they regret letting you do it.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m making the effort to keep in touch, though. I’m sending emails and we’ll FaceTime soon.’ I flex my hand, trying to shake off the pins and needles. ‘It’s only six months.’
‘Six months,’ repeats Lou. He rakes his hair, turning his ginger bed of coals into a bonfire. ‘You sure you’re coming back?’
‘They don’t do extensions.’
‘No, I m
ean you sure you’re coming back?’
My head drops. ‘Is this about what happened in the gym storeroom again? I told you fifty times already, Lou – that was a joke!’
‘Dude, you pointed a starter’s gun at your chest and said you were going to put a hole in your heart, same as Evie.’
‘I didn’t say it was a good joke.’
Lou pushes forward, crowding the screen. His face could double as a Halloween mask. ‘If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you, brother. Any hour of the day or night. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay!’ I fold my arms. ‘So, how about those Canucks? Or are you not finished going all Teen Helpline on my ass?’
You weren’t joking when you put that gun to your chest, Munro.
Yes, I was.
No, you weren’t.
It was a starter’s gun. It didn’t even have any caps in it.
But you thought about a real gun, didn’t you? You thought about how it would feel in your hand. You thought about how hard you would have to squeeze the trigger. You thought about how the bullet would feel going into your body, how much pain there would be. You thought about how it would be over in a second. You thought it might not be the worst thing that could happen.
THE ESCAPE ROOM
The Nike douchebag is right in my face. From the nose up, he’s blank. The whites of his eyes are dull. The pupils are pinholes. His blond bowl cut is oily and limp. Below the nose, he’s fuming. Mouth twisted, teeth gritted. The huge angry zit on his chin is begging for a mirror and a squeeze.
‘Fuck off, dipshit,’ he growls. ‘It wasn’t a foul.’
‘What do you call this then, asshole?’ I lift my forearm up to eye level. A big red welt runs from my watchband to my elbow.
Nike D-bag’s lips peel away from his crooked teeth. ‘You don’t like playing hard? Then fuck off back to your figure-skating lessons.’
I hold his stoner gaze. The murmurs of the surrounding spectators go up a notch. I can’t make out what they’re saying. The talk in my head, though, is loud and clear.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
I flex my right hand. Fingers scream. The back of my neck feels like it’s about to split in two. I didn’t go looking for a fight today. After waking up late and not being able to do my usual anti-Coyote exercises, I thought half an hour of pick-up would be a decent substitute. I thought it would take the edge off. A brawl on the basketball court – the perfect way to finish Week 2. By my super-low standards, the first few days at Sussex were a triumph. No meltdowns. No flashbacks. The Coyote was vocal but not totally intrusive. Entering Week 2, I was hopeful about the direction in which I was pointed. Who knew – maybe I could even get my hands on a compass?
I did not get my hands on a compass. I grabbed hold of a grenade instead. The pin came out Monday lunchtime with the girl lying on the grass next to the soccer pitch. She was flat on her back, one leg bent, one arm flung sideways. Friends stood around her, heads bowed. A dude with his collar turned up was on his knees by her hip. One of the girl’s sneakers had come off; it was upside down on the painted sideline, lime-green laces untied. The reality of the situation, I found out later, was pretty tame. The girl had tripped running backwards and smacked her head on the ground. A few circling stars, a few there, theres. Nothing serious.
Trickles of sweat poured down my back. Armies of goosebumps marched on my skin. My lungs tightened. My head throbbed. My heart may have even stopped for a few seconds. I told the gang I needed to sit in the shade, the heat was getting to me.
More problems piled on after the girl on the grass. On Tuesday, I had a panic attack during the school fire drill and ended up in the first-aid room, hyper-ventilating into a paper bag. On Thursday, I froze during a practice book talk in English. And now, here it is: the icing on top of my Week 2 relapse cake. Friday recess and some bowl-cut fuckwad mauls me on a drive to the hoop. And when I call him out on it, he wants to throw down.
My heart is a wrecking ball, swinging away in my chest. Ollie’s words itch like a mosquito bite: You are not your thoughts.
She’s right! You are your actions!
Punch this asshole’s lights out!
Nike D-bag rolls a glob of spit around in his mouth, then hoicks it onto the ground right next to my sneaker.
‘What are you waiting for, dipshit?’ he says. ‘You wanna go? Let’s fuckin’ go.’
Though my right hand hurts like a mother, I ball it into a fist and draw back.
YES!
‘NO!’
My cranked hook stalls. Somebody’s holding it back.
‘Let’s go? Sounds like good advice, Mun.’
I wrestle Rowan’s bear hug, trying to lash out.
‘You don’t want to take on this one, Trey,’ he says to Nike D-bag. ‘Ice-hockey player. Knows how to throw ’em.’
He hangs on to me and gets some help from Digger. The two of them muscle me out of reach.
NO!
The girls emerge from the onlooking crowd and add their two cents.
‘Seriously, you got nothing better to do, Trey?’ says Maeve.
‘Like shave your palms?’ suggests Renee.
Caro confronts Nike D-bag, feet apart, hands on hips. ‘Get in Munro’s face again,’ she says, ‘and I’ll let Mr Wilson know you shoplifted your LeBrons.’
He laughs nervously, tells her to piss off and calls out to me. ‘Lucky your babysitters were here, dipshit!’ He gives me the finger, accepts a bounce pass from one of his gangsta goons and shoots an airball.
Rowan and Digger shunt me through the crowd and off the court. The girls follow. I’m released only after I’ve promised to be good. I breathe, counting down from twenty.
‘No doubt Trey was outta line,’ says Rowan, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘but that joker outweighs you by fifteen kilos.’
‘Twenty,’ corrects Digger.
‘You got some kind of death wish, Munro?’ asks Renee.
I stretch the fingers of my right hand. ‘Life wish, actually.’ I quickly add, ‘I’ve faced up to worse than him.’
Caro begins examining the welt on my arm. It’s a welcome development. And not unfamiliar. Caro went all Florence Nightingale on me after Monday’s girl-on-the-grass flashback. Lots of oohs and awws. The suggestion of a cold washcloth to put on my neck and forehead. And, best of all, she touched me. Four times. Twice on the upper arm, once on the shoulder and once on the face. It was a better treatment than the breath counting, the muscle releasing, the morning exercises, the ‘work with your unreasonable thoughts’ mantra – all the Ollie-advised calming techniques put together.
‘Thanks for having my back out there,’ I say.
‘No worries,’ replies Rowan. He consults with Nurse Caro. ‘Is he going to be okay for the escape room tonight?’ She nods. ‘Good. Well, Munster, I think you’ve met your quota of trouble this week.’
The others agree. Digger’s phone bursts to life, looping the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars. He checks the incoming text.
‘From Kenny,’ he says. ‘Ms Mac’s put up the placements for volunteering.’
Fair Go Community Village is always looking for Living Partners to help make a difference and create meaningful connections with our special needs community. You will provide friendship, coaching, education and experience to positively impact the residents’ life journey.
You’ll be a key part of the daily routine, with activities in the areas of vocational and educational training, community access, fitness and recreation, home maintenance, and a multitude of other life skills and fun experiences.
The role of Living Partner is a wonderful opportunity for you as a young person with energy and compassion. You are the sort of individual who views time spent with our special needs residents as a privilege.
No experience necessary.
We look forward to meeting you!
Rowan slides the print-out back across the desk. He keeps his eyes fixed
on our Biology teacher, Mr Pearce, standing at the whiteboard like a six-and-a-half-foot, sweaty-armpitted praying mantis. He murmurs through a cupped hand. ‘This your placement?’
‘Yeah,’ I whisper.
‘And you don’t want to go here?’
‘No!’
‘Did Trey’s devil breath melt your brain? This joint seems like a pretty sweet set-up.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Ah. Too much baggage?’
I flinch. My vision buffers for a second, stuck in its download.
Remember Evie’s field trips? You weren’t much help, were you? Wherever they went – Science World, the PNE, Watermania – whatever the activity – eating lunch, crossing the road, walking in a crowd – you were always a helicopter. How is she doing? Is she enjoying herself? Is she listening? Is she learning?
You didn’t have to watch out for her the whole time. You know that. You loved being there. Evie loved that you were there. That should’ve been enough.
But you couldn’t help yourself.
Rowan looks down at the desk, begins tracing the scratches on the surface with his finger.
‘I get it. Dad couldn’t swim for a whole year after the rescue. We’d go to Coolum – his favourite place in the world to bodysurf – and he’d just sit on the sand, reading Rugby League Week. Sometimes he’d get the shakes and have to go back to the hotel room. Wouldn’t even look at the water.’ He stops tracing. ‘It was hard.’
Several classmates turn and shoosh. Out front, Mr Mantis scans the rows of bugs, looking for a lunch date.