by John Larkin
‘Didn’t he talk to you about any of this?’
‘No not really, mostly just books and music and philosophy.’
‘That’s really great, Eric. I bet you’re a big hit at parties.’
‘I don’t get invited to any, I don’t care eigher. How many thirteen year olds do you reckon have heard of Jean-Paul Sartre?’
‘Not many. But can Jean-Paul teach you about girls?’
‘Of course not, he’s dead.’
‘Okay then it looks like lesson two will have to come from Stephen-John.’
‘What was lesson one?’
‘Wet dreams, Underwood, pay attention! Have you noticed how some of the girls in class sometimes have to go and see the school nurse?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re sick I suppose.’
‘They’re not sick, there’s nothing wrong with them, although they sometimes get stomach cramps which can’t be very nice.’
‘What can’t?’
‘Their periods. What happens is their wombs get lined with blood but if their eggs aren’t fertilised by the stuff that you are leaving about all over your PJ’s, then once a month the blood’s discharged and the cycle starts again.’
Eric couldn’t help being impressed by his friend’s knowledge. He obviously hadn’t been reading Phantom comics.
‘How come you know all this?’
‘My mother’s a doctor, she tells me everything.’
Eric stopped thinking about Woodwork long enough to go out to the kitchen and get himself a bowl of Coco Pops. He enjoyed his conversations with Stephen Brown and could hardly wait for school to start back. Despite the fact that Stephen’s lessons were not on the year seven syllabus, Eric felt that he’d learned more from Woodwork than all of his other classes combined, and the mere sight of sandpaper in his father’s shed caused him to get excited.
‘Eric!’ yelled Jenny across three rooms.
‘What?’
‘Do you think we should get up?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘So?’
‘Mum and Dad’ll be home at five. We should at least wash the dishes and vacuum.’
‘I suppose. Where’s Paul?’
‘He’s staying with Auntie Dot for the holidays. The grumblies don’t think we’re mature enough to look after him.’
‘He’s staying there for two weeks?’
‘No, retard, they’re gonna drop him off every morning and pick him up at night.’
‘Jenny?’
‘What?’
‘Will you stop yelling?’
The following day, as agreed, Stephen came round and they went out for a bike ride. Eric realised his friend, apart from knowing heaps, was either an extremely good bike rider or a hideously reckless one because as they zoomed off from the driveway, he broke a couple of laws of gravity and a few more governing public safety.
Stephen’s family went away the next day so Eric kept himself amused for the remainder of the holidays by concentrating on his new hobby of Airfix kits. If Liz still lived next door he night have gone for a peek in her undie drawer. But he had to be content with building an F-18 model fighter instead. It seemed a poor second.
He went for a bike ride round to Veronica Roberts’ house in the second week of the hols but started packin’ it when he got into her street. Instead of knocking on her door and asking her out to the movies, he zoomed past her house and all the way back home and hid under his doona for a while.
Despite his poor attempt to ask Veronica Roberts out, he enjoyed his time away from school and the weather was great. In fact the sun streamed in past Eric’s curtains right through the break and it only became a bit overcast on the very last day.
On the first morning of the new term Eric realised it was back to the library for a while because Stephen Brown’s holiday to the Gold Coast was for an extra week. He was also a bit disappointed to find out they had a new English teacher. He’d also learned from the gossip that the class fat boy, Paul Morris, had gone to a health farm, which meant that without him to bear the brunt of the abuse from the ‘backrow boys’, which included constant speculative remarks regarding the width of his backside, the attention might fall on himself.
‘Miss Hemingway has found herself a permanent position at another school so I will be your English teacher until Mr Lawrence returns from Never-Never land. My name is Mr Cumming and I expect three things from you while I am your teacher. One, do not speak unless you are spoken to. Two, all homework must be completed otherwise you’ll find yourself on detention, is that understood?’
‘What’s the third thing?’ asked Billy Nelson.
‘Don’t ask stupid questions!’
‘I’m not. You said there were three things, but you only told us two.’
‘Don’t ask stupid questions is the third thing. Now, is there anybody else who feels like interrupting, or should I say detention?’
Eric felt that Mr Cumming was a well balanced sort of teacher. That is, he appeared to have a chip on both shoulders. His Mel Gibson looks ensured that just about half of the school, including the teaching staff, thought he was a total hunk, while the other half wanted to break heavy objects over him because he was so arrogant. He drove a BMW convertible and had an ego the size of D-block.
‘Okay, I suppose I’d better get to know you,’ said Mr Cumming, reluctantly reaching for the roll, and a few of the more impressionable girls had to wipe the drool from their mouths.
‘Jenny Baker?’
‘Here, Sir.’
‘Boyd Bannister?’
‘Yah.’
‘Stephen Brown?’
‘He won’t be back till next week.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I did.’
‘And who might I be?’
‘You’re the teacher.’
‘I know who I am; who are you?’
‘The student.’
‘Your name, thicko?’
‘Oh. Eric Underwood.’
‘Well Mr Oh Eric Underwood, don’t interrupt!’
Although he liked helping his teachers out during roll call, he was going to make an effort to keep his mouth closed for the rest of this one. Cumming was a dickhead.
‘Greg Fern?’
‘Hhnfm Snirn.’
‘Take that sandwich out of your mouth, Fern, and see me in detention!’
Even though Eric loathed Greg Fern, he didn’t think the dag deserved detention for having a chomp on a sandwich.
As the roll marking went on, Eric spent the time gazing at Veronica Roberts and out of the window.
‘Is Paul Morris away?’
‘Oh. He’s gone to a health farm.’
‘He’s gone to a health farm what?’
‘He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight.’
‘He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight what?’
A confused look sprawled itself across Eric’s face. He only wanted to help but his naivety landed him in trouble again. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut?
‘I’ll try again,’ said Mr Cumming. The veins in his neck were pulsating seriously at this point.
‘He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight what?’
Still nothing.
The tension of the roll marking was slightly relieved when the class cracked up after Paul Watson released one of his morning wake up calls into the air. But apart from telling James Lee to open a window, Mr Cumming chose to ignore it.
‘Can anybody help this demented child?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re not what?’
‘What you just said.’
‘What you just said what? Oh never mind, stick to the first point! He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight what?’
‘Off his thunder thighs,’ suggested Billy Nelson.
‘No.’
‘From his tummy?’ chirped Julie Dougla
s.
‘No.’
‘Off his backside?’ offered John Kennedy.
‘No! No! No! What’s wrong with you all? He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight, Sir.’
‘He’s gone to a health farm to lose weight, Sir?’
‘Yes, that’s it, but without the question mark. Okay Mr Underwood, you’ve wasted enough of my time already, now I’m going to waste some of yours. Stand outside the classroom, where I can see you, and put your hands on your head!’
Eric walked out of the room with his shoulders hung low. ‘I was only trying to help,’ he uttered feebly as he walked past Mr Cumming’s desk, and the rest of the class cracked up again.
‘As for the rest of you, if you think he’s funny, please feel free to join him.’
With Eric despatched from the class and standing guiltily by the window, the marking continued.
‘Now who was I up to?’
‘Me, Sir?’
‘And your name?’
‘Zelco Zimmerman. I’m last.’ The class cracked up again. Most of them had heard or come to the conclusion that despite his looks, Mr Cumming was a nasty piece of work and their laughter was a show of solidarity. Eric didn’t realise it, but he’d become something of a martyr standing outside there with his hands on his head.
‘You really are trying my patience boy.’
‘It’s Billy Nelson, Sir.’
‘Nelson, I don’t want to hear another peep out of you for the rest of the lesson.’
Veronica Roberts was next. Eric’s face was flattened against the window.
‘Peep.’
‘Veronica Roberts?’
‘Here, Sir.’ Eric practically drooled when he heard her voice.
‘Peep.’
‘Neil Thorn?’
Eric could hear Billy Nelson’s peeping noises from outside. He reckoned he was going to be in big trouble pretty soon. He was looking forward to it.
‘Here.’
‘Peep.’
‘Eric Underwood?’
‘Here, Sir.’ A piece of chalk went flying across the room and hit Eric’s head, which was poking in through the window.
‘Eric Underwood. Remove your head from the window! Put your hands back on top of it! And don’t take them off until you are twenty-one, or I’ll come out there and rearrange it.’
‘Peep.’
‘Paul Watson? I know you’re here. I can still smell you.’
‘Peep.’
‘Okay Nelson, outside!’
The last time Billy Nelson was dismissed from class he walked out squeaking. This time he was marched out physically by Mr Cumming, peeping all the way.
‘Come here, Underwood!’
Eric walked over to where Mr Cumming had Billy Nelson pinned against the wall by his throat.
‘Let him go!’
‘What did you say to me, Underwood?’
‘You’re not allowed to touch us. Let him go or I’ll report you!’
‘Don’t you dare try to stand up to me, Underwood!’ He squeezed Billy’s collar tighter and tighter just to show them who was in charge.
‘You’re hurting me,’ said Billy Nelson, half-choked.
Eric thought he’d already bitten off more than he could chew by confronting his teacher, but he felt that he had no choice now other than to follow it through.
‘Let him go, Mr Cumming, or I’ll kick you in the balls and then report you.’ Eric could not believe that he’d said it. But there it was out there.
Mr Cumming released his grip and a tear rolled down Billy’s cheek.
‘You two are a disruptive influence on the rest of this class. Miss Hemingway left a note saying that she also had cause to send you outside, so don’t paint me as the villain!
‘Nelson, you can stay out there for the remainder of the lesson, but I want you to think about what you’ve done. As for you, Underwood, you can come with me to the principal’s office!’
After Mr Cumming had dragged Eric off by the scruff of his neck, Billy popped his head round the door. ‘Cumming’s taken Underwood to the principal’s office, he’s getting expelled.’
‘Why?’ said Leanne Oakley. She was the unofficial leader of the girls.
‘Ahh umm, I stood up to Cumming but Underwood started crying.’
‘You don’t get expelled for crying.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Stevenson?’
‘Er no, Billy.’
Mr Cumming dragged Eric down the D-block stairs by his jumper and told him to wait outside the toilet. A couple of seconds later he emerged and dragged Eric inside. He pulled him into a cubicle and locked the door. ‘Okay Underwood, you little smart-arse. You aren’t so tough now, are you? I didn’t spend four years at uni just so a little stick insect like you could put one over me. There’s always a punk in each class who thinks that they can get the better of Geoffrey Cumming. I thought it was Nelson, but he’s just a moron who’ll leave this school and go straight to the dole office. It’s the clever ones you’ve got to watch. They can turn a class against you. Well, come on, Underwood, you’re not so smart now, are you? What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Billy Nelson’s not that stupid. He knows about continental drift and stuff.’
‘Oh shut up you pathetic little stick! Do you know I could snap you in half if I wanted? In fact, I’ve got a good mind to stuff your head down the toilet and flush it.’
‘That’s already been done to me seven times since I came to this stupid school.’
‘You’ve got a real attitude problem, Underwood.’
‘I’m not the only one.’
Eric felt a sharp pain on his left cheek. Mr Cumming had slapped him hard with an open hand. Eric held his throbbing cheek. It was stinging quite badly and he could feel it turning red.
‘Gandhi will get you,’ said Eric.
‘Gandhi? What are you talking about, you undernourished praying mantis?’
Mr Cumming opened the cubicle door and pushed Eric towards the wash basins. ‘Wash your face!’
‘You know something, Underwood? You’re not always going to be in year seven. As much as the thought sickens me, you are going to grow up. And then when you are, say, eighteen I’ll only be twenty-nine. We may meet up, and if we do we’ll see if you want to stand up to me again. What do you think of that, Underwood? Knowing that when you leave school I’ll be looking for you.’
‘You won’t be twice my age then. Or twice my size.’
Mr Cumming grabbed Eric by his hair and was about to throw him back into the cubicle when the door opened and a year 9 kid walked in. ‘Get out!’ yelled Mr Cumming at the poor guy whose bladder was just about to burst.
‘Stay here until the red mark has gone from your face! I’ll get someone to take your bag to the next class. I wouldn’t tell anybody about this either. Nobody would believe you for a start.’
As soon as Mr Cumming had gone, Eric burst into tears. When the bell rang for the end of the period, he locked himself in the cubicle and spent the next hour tracing the still stinging handmark on his face and quietly sobbing.
Eric eventually caught up with his classmates halfway through the fourth period. It was Geography.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Miss, I wasn’t feeling very well.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Eric,’ said Mrs Livingstone. ‘I heard all about you being sent out of class and taken to the principal’s office. You should be ashamed of yourself. Sit yourself down and don’t let me hear a word out of you!’
Eric retrieved his bag from Sean Keegan and sat at his desk dejected.
‘You were right, Billy,’ whispered Noel Stevenson quite loudly. ‘He has been crying.’
Eric looked over at Veronica Roberts. She was giggling, but then again so was the rest of the class.
The rest of the week went by in a blur. Eric kept his mouth closed at all times and didn’t even look up from his desk during English. He couldn’t work out why the class had rallied against him. On top of Spaghetti Legs, th
e boys in the back row, led by Billy Nelson, started calling him Cry Baby as well. And when it came to choosing between the good-looking, well-built Mr Cumming and a tall gangling introvert such as himself, there appeared to be only one choice and the girls, who never took much notice of Eric before, started ignoring the hell out of him.
Eric was slightly relieved when on the following Monday Stephen Brown got back from the Gold Coast and the two of them resumed their Woodwork lessons.
‘How come you haven’t got a tan?’ Eric was relieved to have someone to talk to again.
‘Because I’m not keen on skin grafts.’
‘Didn’t you go swimming?’
‘Yeah, but I had factor fifteen sunscreen on, and I always put on my T-shirt and hat when I go out. It isn’t sexy any longer to be tanned, Eric.’
‘Veronica Roberts is tanned, and she’s sexy.’
‘Okay, forget that! What happened to you last week? Noel Stevenson was telling me all about it.’
Eric told his story from start to finish. Stephen’s jaw did a fair amount of dropping.
‘Wow, you stood up to Cumming? You’re either very brave or very stupid! The guy’s a nutcase.’
‘I think I was stupid. But I’m sick of being picked on.’
‘But he wasn’t picking on you. He had Nelson in a headlock, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why’d you stick up for Nelson? He’s always paying out on you.’
‘I didn’t do it for Nelson. I would have been next.’
‘Anyway, your story is different from Nelson’s and Cumming’s.’
‘What did they say?’
‘When Cumming dragged you off, Nelson told the class that he’d stood up to Cumming and that you started crying. And when Cumming came back he told the class that he was going to take you to the principal’s office, but you begged and cried so much that he let you off and told you to stay in the toilets till you stopped bawling.’
The sound of eleven saws grinding away in Woodwork was drowned out by Eric’s teeth doing the same thing.
‘No wonder the rest of the class is treating me like shit.’
‘You’ve got to report Cumming to the principal.’
‘He wouldn’t believe me. And besides, Nelson would back up Cumming’s story before mine.’
‘Did you tell your folks?’