Hunter turns away and walks slowly down Burnley Street. Lightning forks in the distance. He practises spitting between the gap in his teeth, first for distance, then for accuracy. He’s an expert by the time he reaches his house.
Hunter sits on his front fence, watching the storm bruise the horizon. A curtain of rain folds toward him. He hears the rain on the corrugated roof of Mrs Betts’s house before he feels it. He closes his eyes and turns his face to the sky. Pock. Pock. Pock. The raindrops drum on his forehead, soak his hair and channel down his back. He opens his mouth to catch the drops and says, ‘I’m eating the rain.’ He giggles.
Hunter remembers when he was five years old, being caught in a thunderstorm with his dad. How his dad lifted a newspaper above their heads as they scurried for cover. They were soaked before reaching the safety of a bus shelter. While he watched the rain gush down the gutters and turn potholes into puddles, his father read the wet newspaper, peeling each page away from the other. Hunter marvelled at the sky, amazed that clouds could hold that much water. With one of his father’s discarded sheets of newspaper, Hunter fashioned a boat: a newsprint canoe. He stepped from the shelter and launched it in the gutter. It swept away, riding the stormwater waves. Hunter knelt on the footpath and laughed. His father told him to come out of the rain.
A car horn sounds and Hunter opens his eyes, startled. Mrs Betts is pulling into her driveway. He hops off the fence and rushes across the road to where his neighbour is about to get out of her car. Hunter calls, ‘I’ll do it, Mrs Betts.’ He quickly reaches over the gate and unlatches it, pushing it wide. He stands back as she drives through into the garage. He closes the gate and runs back across the road to his home. Mrs Betts waves in thanks.
Hunter leaps across his front fence and looks at the gutters, gushing wildly. If only he had a newspaper.
9
jesse
The problem with the internet is one moment I’m learning all about the campaign to stop the Japanese killing whales in the Southern Ocean and within two clicks, I’m staring at a starving boy from Ethiopia.
His name is Kelifa. He’s eight years old and lives with his dad and four sisters. His mum died giving birth to his youngest sister, Mubina, last year. He looks at me with sad eyes from the computer screen. The cursor hovers over the ‘DONATE NOW’ button in the bottom right-hand corner. My hand shakes on the mouse. Anybody with four sisters deserves all the help I can offer.
I’ve checked my piggy bank and I have exactly nine dollars and sixty cents. If split six ways with his sisters and dad, that amounts to one dollar and sixty cents each. Which is not even enough to give him clean drinking water. My eyes wander to the water bottle on my desk. If only I could push the bottle through the screen and all the way to Kelifa in Africa.
I look out the window. The storm has cleared and Dad is tending his peach tree in the garden. He sees me watching and waves, then plucks a ripe peach from the tree. He tosses it into the air and catches it before taking a big bite. The juice spurts into his eye. He laughs and walks robot-like around the garden, his arms reaching out in front of him, feeling the way, pretending to be blind. Then he opens his eyes and takes another bite.
I wonder if hunger can cause real blindness. Kelifa appears to nod from his village in my computer. My throat is dry. Absentmindedly, I reach for the water bottle. But Kelifa is watching. I get up from my desk and walk down the hallway, taking a guilty drink as I go.
On the kitchen table is Dad’s wallet, a twenty-dollar bill poking out.
I glance down the hall to my bedroom. Trevor looks blankly at me, through the doorway, his arms spread as if to say, ‘It’s your decision, Jesse’.
Mum and Beth are out shopping for groceries. In thirty minutes they’ll arrive home and Mum will complain that she spent over two hundred dollars at the supermarket as she stores cans of food in the pantry. I doubt Kelifa has ever seen a pantry.
I quickly open Dad’s wallet and take out his MasterCard. Running down the hallway, I avert my eyes from Trevor. ‘Forgive me, Trev,’ I whisper.
Kelifa is waiting. He looks thinner than a few minutes ago. I click on the ‘DONATE NOW’ button. A screen appears with all the details I need to fill in: name, address, card number, expiry date. I do it as quickly as my shaking hands allow.
My finger hovers over the mouse. One click and fifty dollars is on its way to Kelifa and his family. I hope his sisters share.
I hear the crunch of car wheels on gravel in the driveway. Beth’s voice is loud, ‘One chocolate bar!’ I lean across and close my window.
My right index finger clicks the mouse.
Kelifa smiles.
10
HUNTER
The house echoes with emptiness when Hunter closes the front door. He walks to the kitchen and hangs his schoolbag on the hook. There’s a personal assessment task in the bag and that’s where it’s staying. He opens the fridge door and reaches inside for a handful of grapes. When his mother brings them home from the supermarket, she pulls each grape from the stalk, and puts the fruit in a bowl, to encourage Hunter to eat them. As he crunches down on the skin, he wonders how far he could spit a grape. He closes the fridge door and notices the puddle he’s created on the kitchen floor. He walks into the laundry and takes off his jeans, socks and t-shirt, tossing the squelchy bundle into the laundry basket.
He runs to his bedroom, where the blinds are rattling in the wind. He left the window open this morning. Hunter slams the window shut and looks out to the road, slick with damp. The storm has passed but the gutters are still surging. He wonders if the old man made it home in time. He tries to remember if the scooter had a roof.
Hunter leaves his bedroom and walks up the hallway to the closed door of the second bedroom. He reaches for the doorknob and a sudden clap of thunder booms in the distance. He quickly removes his hand from the knob.
‘Ha!’
Even though he’s only wearing undies, Hunter is sweating as he turns the handle and opens the door. In the corner is a single bed, covered with a doona. A pile of pillows is scattered along the bed, like a sleeping figure, round and pudgy. Next to the bed is a dresser and beside that are cardboard boxes, stacked three high. The weight of the boxes is forcing the bottom carton to sag and the stack looks about to fall at any moment. Hunter walks in and shoves the stack tight against the wall. Scrawled across the lid of the top box in his father’s handwriting is the single word: ‘Charity’.
He rips the masking tape off the box and reaches inside. He pulls out a long-sleeved business shirt, white with thin blue stripes, and holds it up to his nose. It smells of camphor mothballs and faint traces of his father’s aftershave. He reaches into the box again and pulls out another shirt. And another. All white, with pinstripes. He wonders why his mother keeps all this stuff. Why his father didn’t take it to the charity shop before he left.
On the opposite wall is a full-length mirror. Hunter goes to the window and looks down the street. No sign of his mother. He checks his watch. Thirty minutes until she arrives home from work. He puts his arms into his father’s shirt and pulls it on, slowly fastening each button, leaving the top one undone. The shirt hangs down a little too far. Quickly he searches in the box for a pair of his father’s slacks. Sure enough, at the bottom, neatly folded, are a few pairs. He pulls the dark blue pants up over his waist. They’re baggy and too long. Hunter leans down and rolls up the cuffs before searching in the box to find a leather belt, frayed at the edges. He threads it through the belt loops and tightens it as far as it’ll go. He takes a deep breath and stands in front of the mirror.
He looks like a ragdoll with a scowling face. He tries to smile, but it turns out all crooked and forced. Hunter stares at himself for a long time, looking for any resemblance to his father. He has brown eyes and olive skin, like his mum. Nothing like his father’s blue eyes and pale skin. Hunter stands straighter, with his shoulders pulled back. His d
ad always leaned forward, as if he were trying to sell you something, as if he wanted to be your friend.
The fabric of the shirt itches at his neck and is clammy against his skin. He puts his hands in between the buttons and rips off the shirt. The buttons fly across the room, bouncing off the mirror. He unbuckles the belt and lets the pants fall to the floor, kicking them away. They land on the bed. He throws all the clothes back into the box and closes the lid. He hates the smell of mothballs and aftershave. It clings to his body. He rushes out of the room and slams the door.
Hunter shrugs into trackpants and a t-shirt. He wonders if his mum ever goes into the room and opens the boxes. Why doesn’t she burn them? She can’t still be hoping he’ll return, not after the postcard he sent her last week.
New Zealand.
Hunter remembers his dad going there twice a year on business. He’d send postcards of sparkling harbours and daredevils bungee jumping and he’d promise that next time, the whole family would go. Hunter wanted to ski, to experience the thrill of sliding down a mountain. He imagines it must be the greatest feeling, even if you have to dress like an Eskimo.
Hunter walks into his mother’s room and goes to the second drawer of her dresser. He opens it and pulls out a woollen jumper. Underneath is a photo of the three of them at a coffee shop. Hunter is sitting in the middle. On the table near him is a thickshake in a tall glass, topped with chocolate ice-cream. To the left is his mother, smiling at the camera. To the right, his father, looking past the photographer, across the street. His eyes are hooded and he’s leaning forward, like always.
The front door slams and his mother calls his name.
Hunter puts the photo back and covers it with the jumper.
11
jesse
Dinner tonight is free-range roast chicken with gravy, potatoes and beans. Dad comes to the table wearing an eye patch. Beth groans. ‘What are you, a pirate?’
‘Beth, show a bit of sympathy,’ says Mum. She reaches across and pats Dad’s wrist. ‘I think he looks quite dashing.’
‘Like Johnny Depp?’ Dad suggests.
Beth almost pours the gravy on her lap she’s laughing so much. It’s hard not to join in. Dad is tall, skinny, with a shock of blond curly hair and big ears. He looks as much like a movie star as I do.
‘Being a farmer can be quite difficult at times,’ Dad explains.
‘A farmer!’ says Beth. ‘Six fruit trees, a watermelon patch and two garden beds doesn’t—’
‘Doesn’t mean we’re not making a contribution to saving the planet, Beth,’ Mum interrupts.
‘Yeah. Imagine if everyone grew their own vegetables,’ says Dad.
‘There’d be more food for the starving in Africa,’ I say, nervously.
Mum and Dad nod in appreciation. I pretend to be very interested in pouring myself a glass of iced water.
‘Jesse’s right,’ says Dad. ‘Each of us, in our small way, is helping.’
‘How is growing peaches helping the starving Somalis?’ asks Beth.
‘Ethiopians,’ I correct her.
‘Ethiopians, Somalis, Burundians, they’re all starving,’ says Beth, ‘and none of them are eating Dad’s peaches.’
Mum sighs. ‘Beth.’
‘Mum.’
‘Beth.’
This could go on all night. ‘An eight-year-old boy in Ethiopia has never seen a peach, I reckon. He’d think it was a,’ everyone is staring at me, ‘a mini football or—’
Beth scoffs.
‘It’s true,’ I say, thinking of my friend, Kelifa. His favourite sport is football and he wants to be a professional player when he grows up. If he grows up. He probably wouldn’t actually kick a peach around. He’d eat it. Somebody should warn him about the hard pip in the middle. And to be careful about getting sprayed in the eye with peach juice.
As if on cue, Dad removes his eye patch. ‘This thing is irritating me.’ He laughs. ‘What’s a bit of peach juice,’ he looks at me, ‘compared to the starving in Africa.’
I can’t help myself, ‘We should try to help the Ethiopians.’
‘Yeah, let’s send them Dad’s peaches,’ says Beth.
‘Beth,’ says Mum.
‘I know my own name, Mum, you don’t have to keep repeating it.’
‘Maybe the school could take up a collection, Beth. You could suggest it to Larry tomorrow?’ says Dad.
‘He only wants to save the environment, not starving African kids,’ says Beth.
‘Bet—’ Mum stops herself just in time.
‘We could donate money,’ I suggest.
‘Only yesterday, I gave two dollars to a lady in the street collecting for the Salvos,’ says Dad. He picks up a drumstick and takes a bite.
‘Will she pass it on to the Ethiopians?’ asks Beth.
Dad looks hurt.
‘Every little bit helps, Beth,’ Mum counters.
‘We could sponsor a child?’ I suggest.
Dad glances quickly at Mum. Maybe they’ve already been thinking about it. I have to try, for Kelifa.
‘For twenty-seven dollars a month, we could sponsor a boy in Ethiopia. Maybe someone who doesn’t even have a mum.’ Mum looks at me. I continue, ‘Or a dad. Someone who’s stuck in a small hut with lots of sisters and only a bag of rice.’
‘Yes, well. That’s a good idea, Jesse,’ says Dad, hesitantly. ‘Maybe not this month though. What with school fees and—’ He notices he’s still holding the chicken drumstick and places it back on the plate.
‘Forget your peaches, Dad,’ says Beth. ‘Just send cash.’
I wonder if Kelifa has a picture of Trevor on his wall.
‘We could just donate once,’ I suggest.
Dad brightens. ‘Yeah! Fifty dollars!’
Beth grins. ‘That’s not much for a pirate. What about all your buried treasure?’
‘Two hundred dollars!’ says Dad. He looks quickly toward Mum, who appears to have swallowed some chicken the wrong way.
‘One hundred dollars?’ asks Dad.
Mum nods.
One hundred dollars! Kelifa could buy enough food for three months and have spare change for a football. To practise, for when he becomes an Ethiopian superstar player. All because of me and Dad!
‘I know just who to donate to,’ I say without thinking.
The table goes quiet.
‘You do?’ asks Mum.
‘I mean … I could do it for you … On the internet, if you want?’
Beth laughs. ‘There you go, Dad. Give Jesse your credit card and it’s all taken care of.’
‘I’d only spend—’
Dad reaches for his knife and fork. ‘I’ll handle the financial—’ He looks at Mum. ‘Your mother will handle the financial transactions, Jesse.’
I can picture Kelifa with a football. Tomorrow, I’m going to write a letter to him. Maybe I’ll be able to find his address somewhere on the website. I’ll tell him about Dad and Mum and our fruit trees and how one hundred dollars is only the start. I won’t mention Beth. He’d probably be jealous of me for having only one sister.
12
HUNTER
Hunter walks into the bathroom and takes the scissors from the cabinet under the sink. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his hair. He grips the scissors, considering what to do.
Short on top? Yep.
Long at the sides? Too girly.
Straggly bits at the back? Mullethead! No-one at school would have the guts to call him that.
He puts the scissors down on the sink and turns on the cold tap, filling the basin with water. He ducks his head down and scoops water over his hair. The water runs down his back and makes him shiver. He looks again in the mirror. Wet streaks of hair stick to his face, like a gargoyle.
He grins. Now that’s a hairstyle. B
ut he can’t go to Walter every five minutes to wet his head in order to maintain the look. Not even Sarah would allow that.
He opens the bathroom cabinet, reaches for a fine-tooth comb and runs it slowly through his hair. He picks up the scissors again and starts cutting: a snip here and there, even to uneven, long to short, wet to dry. What does it matter? His hair drops into the basin, floating on the surface of the water. After a few minutes of careful snipping, he looks again in the mirror. One side of his fringe is longer than the other and a strand of hair tips over his right ear while his left ear sticks out, like a clown.
‘Uuuummm,’ he says. He snips away the long fringe and considers the options. ‘Too clunky on top.’
And there’s still the back to do. He opens the cupboard beside the bathtub and picks up his dad’s old shaving mirror. Holding it behind his head, he can see what the haircut looks like in the bathroom mirror.
In one word?
‘Gross.’
He sighs. What now?
He remembers the time a few years ago when he was beginning swimming lessons and he’d somehow paddled into the deep end, away from his group. When he put his feet down to touch the bottom, there was nothing but water. Water and rising panic. He kicked and flapped his arms against the surface of the water, wondering why he couldn’t scream. He went under, gulping water before resurfacing and spitting it out. He wanted to yell, but still no voice would come. He flapped and grabbed at vacant air and felt the water filling his ears and nose. Why couldn’t he shout?
He reached one arm high into the air as the rest of his body went under. And that’s when his mother dived into the pool. She reached him with a few strokes. With her arms circling him, he felt weightless. His breathing settled immediately as she kicked and floated, with him in her arms, to safety. He could smell her perfume mixing with the chlorine. At the side of the pool he gripped the bar and noticed his mum was wearing a dress, soaked and clinging to her body. The water streaked her make-up. Her dark hair shone in the sunlight.
Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain Page 4