Dark Wind Blowing

by Jackie French

  He turned the corner to the lockers and looked around cautiously. But there was no sign of Loser. He must have grabbed the note and read it, then run straight to the ag plot.

  Mike could just imagine Loser’s face when he read it, his silly grin below the owl-like glasses and the shaved head that made him look more like a bald peanut than a tough-guy. No, he wasn’t going to feel sorry for Loser. He wasn’t.

  ‘Hi, Mike.’

  ‘What? Oh, hi Jazz.’ Mike turned and watched as Jasmine’s long brown hands shoved her bag into her locker. Jasmine was new in school that term. Her dad was an exchange teacher from England, and her mum had come too, taking a year off so the family could wander round the country in the school holidays. Which meant that Jazz was hardly round at all, thought Mike regretfully. They even seemed to be out at weekends.

  Jazz smiled at him, and shoved her hair behind her ears. It was long and black. Like silk, Mike supposed, though he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen anything made out of silk. He tried to think of something to say to her, but his mind seemed to have turned into dog food. Jazz’s skin was sort of silky too, he thought, and pale brown like milky coffee. Someone had said that her mum was Jamaican, but Mike’s mum didn’t think so …

  ‘See you,’ said Jazz, in her high-pitched English accent. Mike watched her hair sway as she walked down the veranda.

  No wonder poor old Loser has a crush on her, Mike thought. He was probably still down at the ag plot, waiting for her. When she wasn’t there he’d probably … he’d probably …

  Mike’s legs seemed to move before he knew what he’d decided. Along the corridor, down the steps, past the tuck shop and round the hall to the small plot of grapevines at the beginning of the ag plot.

  He stopped.

  It was like a scene in a video, when you’ve pressed the ‘Pause’ switch so you can go and grab a drink. There were the ag plot grapevines, limp and dusty in the hot morning air. There was Loser, his feet in shabby joggers frozen in the dirt, his fists clenched, his face red, his eyes behind his glasses even redder, as though he was going to cry. No, please, please, thought Mike, don’t let him cry.

  Budgie and Jordie and Fizzer Lucas were there, but they were moving, even though everything else was still. They were laughing — Budgie almost bent over with the giggles, Jordie slapping his back, Fizzer gasping for air he’d laughed so much.

  Suddenly Loser moved. His head twisted to look at Mike, then at the other three, and Mike realised he wasn’t about to cry at all. His face was red with rage.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ he said. His voice squeaked with intensity, which made Jordie laugh even more.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ Loser repeated. His voice was louder now.

  ‘Your face!’ choked Budgie. ‘Mike, you should’ve seen his face.’

  Mike said nothing.

  Loser reached into the pocket of his combat trousers. He held up the test tube with the dark brown dust inside. ‘You see this?’ he demanded. His voice still shook with rage. Or was it pain as well, wondered Mike.

  ‘You got some doggy doo for lunch?’ choked Budgie.

  ‘No,’ said Loser. His voice was flat now, as though all emotion had drained away. Or maybe there was so much, thought Mike, that he had to push it all away to be able to speak at all. ‘It’s a … a … biological weapon.’

  ‘A what?’ Budgie’s grin grew even wider.

  ‘A biological weapon! Like on TV last week! All that brown stuff is millions of viruses. All I have to do is drop this test tube and you’ll all be dead! All of you!’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Budgie was still gasping for breath. ‘I suppose you ordered it on the Internet?’

  ‘No,’ said Loser.

  ‘Well where did you get it then?’

  ‘Tenterfield,’ declared Loser. ‘They’ve got a lab out there. I went out there for dinner with my parents. I said I was going to the toilet and sneaked into the lab and stole it.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Budgie made a lunge for it. ‘Let’s see it then.’

  Loser backed away, the test tube clutched to his chest.

  ‘Hey, that’s enough,’ said Mike. ‘Break it up. You’ve had your joke.’

  Loser shot him a glance. Mike had thought he would be grateful, but it was a look of the most concentrated hatred he’d ever seen. He doesn’t want to be grateful, thought Mike suddenly. It’s easier to hate me too. Just like I don’t want to feel sorry for him.

  Loser’s back was against the hall wall now, with Mike between him and the others. Loser pushed him away. His hands were shaking too much for it to be a hard push, but Mike moved anyway.

  Loser blinked furiously at each of them from behind his glasses. ‘I’ll give you all till recess,’ he choked. ‘You’ve got to apologise by then. If you don’t apologise you’re all dead. Dead!’ his voice shattered on the final word. He bit his lip, then ran.

  Budgie was still giggling. ‘Oh, man, you should have seen him,’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ said Mike. He tried to work out what he was feeling. Anger, he decided. It was Loser’s fault, not Budgie’s. If Loser wasn’t such a try-hard, no one would pick on him. He brought it on himself.

  ‘He was standing there with this goofy look on his face,’ hooted Jordie. ‘And then Budgie said …’

  The bell rang, drowning him out.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mike, as the echoes died away. ‘We’d better run.’

  Chapter 3

  FRIDAY, 9.20 A.M.

  There was no sign of Loser at assembly. No sign of him in class either.

  Mike tried to switch his mind onto Henry V. It was a dumb story, this stupid king pretending he was doing the right thing invading someone else’s country and Shakespeare sucking up to royalty and making it seem like he was okay …

  Loser had probably run off home, he decided. He’d be telling his dad about how they’d persecuted him at school and Mr Loosley would march up to talk to Mr Andrews this afternoon, and in his soft, too reasonable voice demand something be done about the discipline in the school, gangs of bullies out of control and all that stuff, just like he’d done last year, when Loser had been given a detention for hiding under the cypress trees out front and throwing stones at Budgie and Jordie.

  Mr Loosley had threatened to write to the newspaper and all sorts of stuff so old Andrews had given in and let Loser off, just like he’d given in when Mr Loosley refused to let Loser stay down a year, because of his ‘social immaturity’ old Andrews had said.

  Mike wondered if Loser might have been happier staying down a grade. Maybe Mr Andrews had been right.

  ‘Michael, if you’d care to join us, the rest of the class is examining page forty-three …’

  Mike looked up. ‘Sorry, Miss Jinsky,’ he muttered.

  ‘Now what do you think Shakespeare meant when he said …’

  All that stuff about the test tube, thought Mike. As though there could really be anything dangerous in the stupid thing — viruses or explosives. It was just a load of bullfrog.

  Mike wondered what Loser would do when no one apologised. Because they wouldn’t, of course, and Loser would look even dumber than before.

  ‘But what’s the significance of the tennis balls?’ demanded Miss Jinsky.

  Jazz’s hand went up. ‘They meant King Henry was just playing, like a kid. But Miss Jinsky, King Henry was just like a little kid! He didn’t care how many people were killed as long as he got what he wanted!’

  Trust Jazz, thought Mike. He settled back to enjoy the argument.

  Chapter 4

  FRIDAY, 11.00 A.M.

  Mum had packed him leftover pizza for morning tea. Mike chomped it wearily.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like pizza, especially the ones mum made with extra olives and chunks of meatball among the tomato. But sometimes, just sometimes, it would have been good to buy a donut at the tuck shop or something. It was as though Mum didn’t even trust him to feed himself without her there.

  ‘Hi,’ s
aid Jazz, sitting down beside him and stretching out her long brown legs. ‘You coming on Sunday?’

  Mike swallowed a bit of pizza the wrong way.

  ‘Glup … yeah, sure,’ he said.

  ‘Dad’s hired this great big marquee in case it rains,’ said Jazz. ‘He won’t be back from the Sydney excursion with Year Five till tomorrow, but Mr Pattinson said he and the boys will put it up for us down by the river. Dad’s even borrowed a generator so we can have some music. He wants it to be a sort of “thank you” party, because everyone’s been so welcoming.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mike. He wanted to say, ‘Of course everyone has welcomed you. You’re that sort of person.’ But his tongue wouldn’t fit round the words.

  ‘Mum’s going to …’ began Jazz. ‘Hey, there’s Lance. What’s he doing coming out of the classroom? He wasn’t in class this morning, was he?’

  ‘What? No. No, he wasn’t,’ said Mike. He wondered if he should tell Jazz about the incident at the ag plot, then decided it was just too difficult.

  ‘He looks sort of strange,’ said Jazz, her voice full of concern. ‘Like something’s wrong.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mike absently, his eyes on Loser.

  He did look different, thought Mike, as he watched Loser trot along the veranda and down the steps, though it was hard to say what the difference was. His face was sort of blank but his back was really straight, like he thought he was acting in a movie or something.

  Loser took three steps away from the stairs, and gazed around the school yard, his jaw high as if he was Arnold Schwarzenegger about to take on an entire army, then marched across the bitumen towards the line at the tuck shop.

  ‘What’s he …’ began Jazz.

  ‘Shh,’ said Mike. Then he added, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that Loser was, was sort of upset this morning. I want to see what he’s going to do.’

  Budgie turned round just as Loser approached. He nudged Jordie, who was in the line ahead of him. Loser said something, but they were too far away to hear.

  But I don’t need to hear, thought Mike dismally as Budgie began laughing. I can guess what they’re saying.

  For a moment, Mike thought that Loser was going to strike Budgie, despite the fact that Budgie was bigger and had his mates around. But he just nodded, his fists clenched, then looked around again.

  ‘He’s coming over here,’ whispered Jazz. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Mike.

  Loser stomped over to them, then stopped. He glanced at Jazz. His face went red, then white again. He stared at Mike instead. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, what?’ asked Mike.

  ‘Are you going to apologise?’

  ‘Look,’ said Mike, annoyed. ‘It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it! I stopped them grabbing you, remember?’

  It was as though Loser could no longer hear anything but the words he wanted.

  ‘You’re not going to apologise then?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike, still annoyed.

  Loser’s hot gaze turned to Jazz. ‘How about you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Me? What about?’ asked Jazz, puzzled.

  ‘You know,’ said Loser.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Jazz looked genuinely confused.

  ‘So neither of you are going to apologise?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike.

  Jazz shook her head, bewildered.

  ‘Alright then,’ said Loser. His voice sounded odd, as if it was trapped in an empty tin can. ‘You asked for it. Just you remember! You asked for it!’ He marched away, strangely clumsy in his too-wide trousers.

  ‘He’s off the planet!’ exclaimed Jazz, in her just-like-that-show-on-TV accent.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ said Mike. He wondered how much to tell her.

  ‘Why should he go off at me? I haven’t done anything to him at all!’ demanded Jazz.

  ‘Well,’ Mike hesitated. It was a bit like telling tales, but Jazz had a right to know. ‘He’s going crook because he didn’t get an invitation to your party.’

  ‘But I gave his invitation to Caitlin! She said she was seeing him after school. Didn’t she give it to him?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Jazz heatedly.

  ‘Well …’ Mike searched for words to explain. ‘She doesn’t like him … no one really likes him much and she’s best friends with Budgie’s sister and Budgie asked her … well, anyway, she didn’t give it to him.’

  ‘Blast her,’ said Jazz. She bit her lip in annoyance. ‘I didn’t want to leave anybody out. She had no right …’

  ‘Well, anyway, that’s mostly what he was upset at you about,’ said Mike. ‘And Budgie and the others pulled a … a joke on him this morning. He’s pee-ed off at that too.’

  ‘He looked more than that,’ said Jazz, still watching the distant figure of Loser as he disappeared up the stairs. ‘He looked … I don’t know … desperate or something. Why don’t people like him?’

  ‘Because he’s such a loser,’ said Mike. ‘No, that’s not it,’ he corrected himself. ‘I mean, if he just did dumb things people might laugh at him, but we’d still be friends. It’s because he won’t accept that he’s a loser.’

  Jazz blinked. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a try-hard. He’s always making himself out to be this great hero, saying things like he’s gone hunting wild pigs with his dad over the weekend when everyone knows his dad spent the weekend being a nuisance at the Lions Club barbecue. I mean, his whole family are losers too.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ said Jazz.

  ‘It’s his fault,’ said Mike. ‘He does it to himself.’

  ‘Poor kid just the same,’ said Jazz.

  ‘Hey,’ said Mike, seizing his chance. ‘Mum’s driving Budgie and me over to Gunyabah tomorrow to the movies. They’ve got Thrill Kill showing …’

  Jazz wrinkled her nose. ‘Thrill Kill?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s got whatshisname in it …’

  ‘It sounds like it’s all blood and car chases and stuff,’ said Jazz.

  ‘No, really, it’s supposed to be awesome. I don’t suppose you’d like to come too?’ Mike tried to calculate. If three of them sat in the back seat and one in the front there’d be enough room … ‘With a friend or something? Caitlin, maybe?’

  ‘I’m not going to be speaking to Caitlin,’ said Jazz grimly. ‘How dare she … Sarah might like to go. I’ll ask her and Mum and tell you after school.’

  ‘Great,’ said Mike. He tried to stop the grin spreading over his face. His mouth probably looked like a slice of watermelon, he thought.

  Then Jazz grinned back and it didn’t matter.

  Chapter 5

  FRIDAY, 11.40 A.M.

  It was History after recess. Jazz was in the History class, as well as Mike, and Loser and Jordie and Budgie, even though Budgie hated history. There hadn’t been any other subject he could take that fitted into his timetable.

  That was the trouble with a small school, Mike supposed, as they filed in. You only got a few choices of subjects, not even a language, not that he wanted to learn a language. What was the point? And if there was a choice between History and Food Tech, yuk, well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.

  He glanced round to see if Loser had come in. But there was no sign of him.

  Jazz leant over the aisle towards him. ‘Where do you think he’s got to?’ she whispered.

  Mike shook his head. ‘He was heading this way. I suppose he’s marched off again.’

  ‘What did he mean by …’ began Jazz, then stopped when Mr Simpson stared at them pointedly.

  Mr Simpson was really into history. He was even doing some kind of postgraduate degree on it, and had written about Aboriginal trading links in the Elbow Creek area before white settlement. Mr Simpson wasn’t a bad teacher, thought Mike. He supposed even boring stuff was sort of interesting when the person who was teaching you was actually interested too.

  Suddenly the
door opened. Loser stood there, blinking behind his glasses, as though he’d forgotten how to come inside.

  Mr Simpson glanced at his watch. ‘You’re ten minutes late,’ he said, and paused.

  He’s waiting for Loser to apologise, thought Mike. That’s what’s supposed to happen. The teacher says, ‘You’re late’, and the kid says, ‘Sorry, sir, I was down at the oval and didn’t hear the bell’, or something like that, and then the teacher says, ‘Well, don’t let it happen again’, and the kid sits down. But it’s not going to happen like that. Loser doesn’t know how to get it right.

  Loser looked up at Mr Simpson, then he looked at the class. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

  ‘Well, come on in, boy!’ said Mr Simpson. ‘Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?’

  Loser took a step forward and then another one. ‘You shouldn’t speak to me like that, Mr Simpson,’ he said flatly. He blinked, as though trying to remember something, then added, ‘My dad says that you should make people show you respect. He says if they don’t you should make them. Make them,’ he repeated. His voice was firmer now.

  ‘Lance,’ said Mr Simpson uncertainly. ‘Are you feeling …?’

  ‘You’re not going to apologise either?’

  ‘Apologise!’ Mr Simpson seemed to realise something was wrong. ‘Lance, why don’t you just sit down and we’ll discuss this later …’

  ‘No one’s going to apologise, are they?’ Loser’s voice had a hint of desperation now. ‘So I’ve got to make them. That’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked no one in particular. ‘You’ve got to make people respect you!’

  He reached into his pocket.

  ‘Lance …’ began Mr Simpson again.

  Loser held up the test tube. It looked just the same as it had earlier, thought Mike, the dark brown powder, sealed against the air.

  ‘Do you know what will happen if I break this glass?’ asked Loser.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Simpson bewildered. ‘Lance, why don’t you …?’

  ‘You’re all going to die,’ said Loser with the same blank expression. As if he was trying to recite a movie script or something, thought Mike, but didn’t quite know how.