Bird and Sugar Boy

by Sofie Laguna

  I got the slice with the B from the Bon on it. Everyone drank lemonade and ate the cake. When you get a cake at school it makes everything seem special and exciting, as though the cake has a get-excited power. Everyone was talking and laughing and saying, ‘Don’t think we’re going to miss you, Sugar Boy!’ and poking him in the ribs to show they were joking.

  I ate round the edges of my sugar-free cake and stayed quiet. Mrs Naylor stopped the class and said, ‘Hmm hmm everybody, let’s raise our lemonades and say “Good luck on your trip” to Craig, in French!’

  ‘Bon Voyage, Craig!’ said the whole class. I looked at my cake and Sugar Boy looked at me. It was as if his eyes had light beams coming out of them that made my skin itch.

  Sugar Boy, come with me – come to the Blue Mountains. Have you ever seen a real blue mountain before? It glows like magic, I promise! AP Davies is going to feed us crackling and the dessert will be a lot better than this cake.

  I didn’t say a word as the B from Bon Voyage went down my throat.

  Sugar Boy came up to me at lunchtime. ‘We’re catching the plane tomorrow. It’s a five-hour flight. They give you lunch. Everything comes in little packages. If you opened the exit door you’d be sucked right out. They have oxygen masks in the chairs. The planes fly at a thousand kilometres an hour, maybe more. The life jackets have a whistle; you blow it if you end up in the sea. I can maybe go in the cockpit and see how you fly a plane – Dad’s going to ask. If you end up in the sea a helicopter comes and you get airlifted. I’m getting a window seat. They bring you whatever you want to drink, you just press a button. They give you instructions for what to do if there’s an emergency.’ It was the most he’d said all at once in a long time – maybe ever.

  ‘Bon Voyage,’ I said, and walked away.

  ‘Bird!’ he called out.

  I turned around. ‘What?’

  ‘They have oxygen masks in the chairs.’

  I kept walking.

  The whole day, instead of thinking about my plan, I thought about the golden plover that could fly non-stop across the Pacific Ocean for eight thousand kilometres (exactly the same distance that Sugar was flying in an aeroplane). They did a study using radar. Golden plovers don’t go on planes with oxygen masks in the seats and whistles in the dumb life jackets and people giving them drinks every ten minutes. They just use their wings that are only around ten centimetres across.

  On page 207, AP Davies says that the wing is a marvel of engineering. That’s the same thing Dad says about the Holden Engine. AP says that the wing is a very lightweight airfoil that folds compactly along the side of the body and doesn’t interfere with walking or swimming.

  The golden plover flies in flocks in a big V shape – so they never fly alone. If one bird gets tired she can look across at all her friends flapping their wings and say, ‘Well, they can make it, then so can I! Asia here I come!’

  Ten centimetres of feather and bone gets the golden plover bird eight thousand kilometres across the Pacific Ocean.

  At last the end-of-school song played. The end-of-school song was Waltzing Matilda, and usually whenever it played Sugar and me shouted along with it and did a few leg kicks, but not today. A lot of kids were standing around Sugar Boy saying goodbye so he didn’t see me as I ran past him to the bike sheds. I pulled my bike out, then rode through the side gate so no one would see me. I cycled home as fast as I could, to get my things. When I looked at my hands on the handlebars they were shaking. I pedalled so hard my legs burned.

  I took all the back streets home. I don’t even know why. I was hiding the clues, but clues for what? Clues that said I rode my bike home? Everyone knows I ride my bike home every day. It was getting harder to think.

  Is this how my mother felt? Did she shake like this when she left our house? Did she feel scared without knowing why? The shake was all over me now, not just in my hands, but all over. Is this the way a golden plover felt just before she set off across the Pacific Ocean?

  I pulled my books and my footy clothes out of my backpack, chucked them on the floor and raced into the kitchen. I took out four cans of three-bean mix, and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce that had been there for years from the back of the cupboard. I’d never tasted Worcestershire sauce before, but I hate three bean mix; maybe the Worcestershire sauce could make the beans taste better.

  Now that I was following my plan it was harder to keep it making sense the way it did when I first decided. Then I remembered Mrs Naylor saying, ‘Bon Voyage to Sugar Boy!’ and it kept me going. Bon Voyage to Bird.

  When I was leaving the house I saw a pair of Dad’s overalls hanging over the kitchen chair. I remembered he was going to sew the B and the A back onto urdell’s uto Repairs, but he ran out of time. I thought about Dad’s limp from his motorbike days and the grease on the back of his hands from the garage and I thought about how he’d sit on the couch a lot of nights, sometimes picking up Auto Weekly magazine, the one with all the old cars for sale. He’d sit there with a pen and put red circles around the cars he’d like to buy if money grew on trees. Sometimes he’d sit watching the telly until he fell asleep from being so tired and then he’d just wake up to say, ‘You’re right there, Jamie? You’re not hungry, are you? You okay?’ as if he was worried. I heard his deep voice in my head – deeper than Mr Brooks’s and deeper than Mr Kemp’s. I thought about how much I hated him and how much better it would be if Uncle Garry was my dad. Then Lena would be my mother and Razz could live with us and we could eat Babaghannouj and fattoush every night.

  I was still shaking. People were getting mixed up in my mind: Sugar Boy-thoughts were getting mixed up with Dad-thoughts, which ran into mother-thoughts. It was like the day I looked at the map of Australia when Mrs Naylor was talking about Broome and all the places ran into each other. The same thing was happening to the people in my mind.

  Why did dumb people have to matter at all? Why wasn’t one person the same as another person? How come one person got to be so important? Why wasn’t I ready for Sugar Boy to shoot through?

  I’d never thought so much before, all at once. If I’d had time I’d have sat down and drawn the golden plover, but I had to hurry. I got the twenty-two dollars seventy out of my moneybox and stuffed it into the side pocket of my backpack, next to Birds: A Field Guide, and my drawing books and pencils. It was time to go.

  I got on my bike and cycled as fast as I could to Denham station. I took Brenton Avenue, and then I turned right at Links Street so nobody would see me. Not one car went past. I almost wished one did. Maybe I was scared.

  When I got to the station I pushed my bike into the middle of a thorny bush so no one could find it and say, ‘Where’s Bird? He must be on his way to the city on the 4.40 express to the city via Glengray. We’ll catch him and then we’ll punish the little shit.’ No way. I hid my bike in that thorny bush so you’d never find it and if you tried, you’d prick yourself.

  Ern Tippy was the only other person at the station. He was smoking a cigarette with his radio pressed up close to one ear. He didn’t even look at me.

  I wished the watch from the collection worked. I didn’t know how long until the train came. I’d never wanted a train to come more than I wanted that train to get to Denham station. I thought about the star finches’ eggs. The star finches’ eggs are pure white without blotches or dots like a lot of other bird eggs. I thought about holding one in my hand and how my heart couldn’t be beating too hard and I couldn’t be shaking too much or I might break the pure white egg.

  At last I heard the 4.40 express to the city via Glengray coming to take me to the magical blue glowing mountains and AP Davies.

  The double doors of the train opened and I stepped inside. I found a seat for myself in the empty carriage, then the train got going and I watched as Denham rushed past me in fast motion. I saw Denham Reserve, the ditch, Denham Public School, a blackbird in the sky and my own face very faint as I pressed up close to the glass.

  Sugar Boy would be packing no
w – he’d be saying, What do I need for the plane trip, Mum? Dad would be at the garage under a car bonnet. Mr Kemp would be walking in the bush on the edges of Denham looking for signs of Evolution, and my mother would be in England patching it up with Husband Number One. All this was happening while I was on a train to the city.

  Everything happens at the same time. You might think it’s just you in your life, but other lives are going on all at the same time and everyone thinks that their life is the most important thing.

  The blackbird I saw – her most important thing would be looking for her dinner. My dad’s would be getting the fan belt to drive the cooling fan. Sue Hill’s would be getting Chris’s air in. Mr Hill’s would be making sure the bugs weren’t killer bugs, and my most important thing was getting to the Blue Mountains.

  We rushed past stations, platforms, people, houses, gardens, and graffiti saying things I couldn’t understand in fluoro-coloured spray paint. I was on my way. Maybe after the Blue Mountains – when A P Davies and me had the sanctuary up and running, maybe then, with some extra money donated by people who loved our work – I’d visit England.

  I hadn’t been to the city much before. Dad didn’t like it – he said it was a mug’s game. Uncle Garry took me once. We went to the motorbike shop on Elizabeth Street where Uncle Garry stood around talking to a lot of motorbike guys about revs, leathers and cc’s while Lena and I looked at Harley Davidson T-shirts and boots. Lucky Lena was there or we might have been stuck with those motorbike guys forever. ‘Come on, Gazz. Let’s get lunch. Jamie and me are bored out of our brains.’ We went to an Italian restaurant where you could draw on the tables with crayon while you waited for your spaghetti. I wanted to draw Lena a dark-eyed junco with its tail fanning out, but we played noughts and crosses instead.

  That was a long time ago. Now I was going on my own. I pulled Birds: A Field Guide from out of my backpack and rubbed my hand over the sunbird on the cover as if I could really feel the smooth feathers on her green wings. I turned to the back and read again about AP Davies living in the Blue Mountains and I wondered if he had kids and if he did would we be friends? And would one of them play soccer and maybe do stunts with me and go fishing?

  I did know I was having big dreams, and big dreams aren’t the way things actually are – but why was it better to stick with the way things actually are when big dreams felt so much better? Big dreams could happen too. Look what A P Davies did – he lived in mountains that glowed blue and spent all his time doing bird study. A P Davies would have those super high-powered binoculars where you could see birds from very very far away. Maybe he’d lend them to me, and when it was my turn to have a look through the binoculars I’d spot a rare species and I’d say, ‘AP Davies! Look! It’s the short-tailed albatross! Look!’

  When I looked up from Birds: A Field Guide, lots more people were getting on the train. I was squashed in beside two men reading newspapers. The back of one of the newspapers said A hero one more time, with a picture of a man throwing a tennis racket into the air. The other paper said Can a change in policy mean the end? The man reading that paper was wearing a black suit with a grey tie. He looked over the top of the pages at me like I’d done something wrong by reading Can a change in policy mean the end? It seemed I had a get-mad-with-Bird power. I went back to looking out the window.

  The train was full now. Lots of people were standing around me. They were wearing business suits and big coats and they rocked as the train took us closer to the city. I forgot about how many people there were that I didn’t know in the world. In Denham I always knew somebody, but here on the train nearly at the city I didn’t know anybody. If I didn’t have wings and Archaeopteryxes and mountains that glowed blue, maybe I’d be shaking, maybe I’d be so scared my face would be hot, and maybe I’d have ball bearings in my throat.

  I wondered what Sugar Boy was doing. Would his plane be taking off now? Would he be staring out the window saying, Goodbye Denham Goodbye tunnel Goodbye Mrs Naylor Hello Broome?

  Soon a robot voice said, ‘Next stop Central-Main Station,’ over a loudspeaker. Central meant the middle of something, and main meant the most important bit. I stood up; I didn’t want to miss Central-Main Station. I didn’t want to get lost down the sides of anything.

  Everyone in the city looked bigger than in Denham. I don’t remember thinking that when I came with Uncle Garry and Lena. Or maybe I’d forgotten. Why didn’t anyone ever say, ‘Bird, did you know that people in the city are giant-size these days, so don’t be scared when you see them?’

  The train pulled slowly into the stop and a rush of the giants pushed for the doors with one small Bird somewhere in the middle holding very tightly to Birds: A Field Guide and a fluoro backpack heavy with cans of three-bean mix.

  I stepped on to the platform with everybody else. I saw the man with the Can a change in policy mean the end? newspaper walking quickly up the platform towards the exit sign. I decided to follow that man – he was a man in a black suit and a grey tie who knew where he was going. The problem was that he was a very fast walker and it wasn’t easy to keep up with him, with so many people getting in the way. A couple of times I thought I’d lost him, but then I’d push past another set of legs, bags and backs and I’d see him again.

  A sign said No spitting on walls, floors or stairs. If Sugar saw that sign he would’ve said, ‘Make your slag hit dead centre, right between walls and floors.’ But Sugar wasn’t here now. Now it was a one-person team.

  My backpack knocked a lady in the arm and she said, ‘Watch it!’ I still had the get-mad-with-Bird power. Maybe it would never leave – maybe I’d spend my whole life in trouble. Maybe I’d end up in jail with Jeremy Shadrow’s brother and even in jail the warden with the keys would say, ‘Didn’t I tell you, Bird – lights out, eat up, don’t talk! You’re really making everybody at this jail mad, you little shit! No wonder your own mother shot through, I bet your crying woke the whole district!’

  I followed the man up an escalator. When some people get on an escalator, they stand to the side and let it do the work for them, but other people – like this newspaper man – preferred to walk up, even though the escalator would happily do the job. I tucked in behind him and we walked quickly up the moving stairs with lots more people pushing up behind us.

  Everything was loud. In Denham I can always hear birds. Birds can be loud too – a pair of rosellas talking to each other sounds like a whole crowd of bells. Galahs and magpies shriek. Skylarks whistle non-stop – but there is nothing coming between me and those bird songs that has to be torn or cut for the sound to go in. Standing in Central-Main Station you could only hear a roar that ripped. I couldn’t say exactly what the noise was from – people or trains or machines or cars, but the whole thing added up to a roar. If I hadn’t been able to remember the chit chit chit of the wagtail and hear it over and over while I followed the man, maybe the roar of Central-Main would have scared me.

  When we got to the top of the escalator the man walked towards machines that said PLEASE VALIDATE. People put their tickets into a special slot, the PLEASE VALIDATE sign disappeared and the metal arms of the machine opened to let the people out into the world. A man in a green uniform was watching to make sure nobody cheated.

  I didn’t have a ticket. Denham was such a quiet station, a lot of the time there wasn’t anyone there to sell you one. But I never thought about what you do when you get to the other end. Do you tell the truth? Do you say, ‘Excuse me, train master, but there was nobody there to sell me a ticket. I have twenty-two dollars seventy. Could I give you some so I can PLEASE VALIDATE?’ Because of my get-mad-with-Bird power, I’d be taken straight to the juvenile delinquents’ jail, which was where Jeremy Shadrow’s brother went before he got put into the real adults’ jail. In juvenile delinquents’ jail they bash you if you lose at pool.

  I watched the man with the newspaper put his ticket into the machine. The PLEASE VALIDATE sign went out and the metal arms lifted. The man walked through, th
e metal arms closed behind him and he was gone. I missed him. I didn’t even know that man and he was mad with me for reading his newspaper, and here I was missing him. Suddenly I didn’t know what to do. I’d been following the man to the exit sign, but where was I exiting to?

  Think, Bird, think! You have a plan. You have a sanctuary to build. You can’t just follow a man in a black suit with a grey tie when you don’t even know where he’s going. You’ll never get to AP Davies that way.

  Birds: A Field Guide was in my hand. Looking at it made my breathing slow down. I think it had a telling-Bird-where-to-go power. The Blue Mountains. But what could I do? Step into the city and see if there were any mountains glowing blue in the far distance? Birds: A Field Guide couldn’t tell me that. I had to ask. I had to be as polite as I could, and I had to ask someone where the Blue Mountains were.

  I walked away from the ticket man, sat down on a bench near a magazine stand and waited to see someone who looked right to ask. Nobody seemed friendly and they were all in a big hurry. I should be in a big hurry too – maybe if I was in a big hurry I wouldn’t feel lost. Not that I was lost, because I wasn’t, so it wasn’t right or true to use that word, lost. If there was an aerial view of Central-Main Station there would be a small black dot somewhere that you could point a red arrow towards, and that would be me, so you couldn’t say I was lost. I knew where I was. At the moment the black dot would say I was in Central-Main Station on the way to the Blue Mountains.

  While I was sitting there looking for someone to ask, I thought about the fire Sugar Boy and me made at the tunnel. I thought about how the smoke curled up slowly and how I could see trees behind Sugar Boy, sitting there with his quiet face, and how he never needed to say, I like you, Bird – you just knew that he really did.