The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  ‘Open up, you fuck.’ Scott Harley, such a charmer.

  Isaac sighs. ‘I’m glad we waited,’ he says.

  ‘I am so happy for us.’ He does not detect the sarcasm.

  He walks the way we came.

  I watch the back door. I estimate the time it would take to clear the distance. I calculate the risk of being caught before I have escaped.

  EXT. ISAAC’S HOUSE – MORNING

  I stand flush against the side of the house. My heart races.

  Isaac’s voice carries through the open kitchen window. ‘You’ll never guess who’s drinking with us.’ He notices I am gone. ‘Miles?’

  ‘Miles is here?’

  ‘Miles was here.’

  ‘The wet blanket? Here? Nah.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  He will realise I left via the back door. When he does, I am ready to run as fast as my jeans will allow.

  ‘Dude, you’re wrecked,’ Harley says.

  ‘No, he was . . . He went shopping. The groceries were right there.’

  A bag of groceries hangs from each hand.

  ‘Wrecked,’ Harley insists.

  I flee.

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – AFTERNOON

  I sit forwards in my desk chair, and my eyes scan from margin to margin. I revise the document, searching for opportunities to add authenticity. Every essay Isaac and I sell starts as a Miles Cooper. This essay is meant to pass for a Brent Rodgers, so I simplify the verbs and split the infinitives.

  We sell the best, but the best is relative.

  I can hear the vacuum cleaner approaching. Eventually, Dad appears outside my door. He pulls the machine closer with a violent tug of the hose. He is surprised to see me at my desk.

  ‘When did you get in?’ he asks. He switches the vacuum off with his toe.

  ‘Not long ago.’

  He lays the hose down carefully – Mum has warned him about the hardwood floors and he knows I am watching. ‘That was a short movie.’

  ‘The session was sold out.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dad nods slowly. His eyes drift to the shelves, overstuffed with books and everything that cannot go anywhere else. He takes up a statuette and turns it over in his hand. ‘How long are you going to keep these?’

  There are four statuettes from last year, made to look as much like Oscars, without infringing on any copyright. I quite like having them there.

  ‘Who are they hurting?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re dust collectors.’ He replaces it and glances around the room. I can tell it is not as tidy as he would like.

  ‘Today,’ I tell him. ‘As soon as I finish my work.’

  ‘Good man.’

  I look back at the document and posits sticks out like a sore thumb. I amend it to suggests, and then to says. Says is more Brent Rodgers. We have been selling essays for almost two years. It is this sort of attention to detail that has kept us from getting caught. Without it, I am certain we would have been hauled in to see Mrs Evans by now.

  INT. MRS EVANS’S OFFICE – MORNING

  As the Deputy Headmistress of Barton House, Mrs Evans deals with two types of students. There are the delinquents, like Harley. He has been dragged in here so many times, his loyalty card is one hole punch away from a free coffee. Then there are the athletic achievers, like Ryan. Mrs Evans is wild about sports, as are most of Barton House’s higher-ups. Her office is decorated with framed photographs, tributes to every student who has ever held a football.

  Harley is here, Ryan is here . . . and I am here. I have never had her ask to see me before. This is new.

  She must know about the essays. It is the only explanation for why we are all here at the same time. She has caught Isaac, and recognising the operation is a sophisticated one, she is trying to figure out who else is involved. In inviting Ryan and Harley, though, she has betrayed how little she knows.

  Isaac and I have prepared for this. He takes the fall. I deny, deny, deny.

  Her wrists are reinforced by bracelets. Each movement is a symphony, so she keeps her hands still. She asks us how we are.

  ‘Very well, thanks,’ I answer.

  I wonder how she found out. I doubt it was a client. What they get out of it is linked to how well they keep their silence. Our messaging has been clear: if they tell their friends, their advantage diminishes, because their friends will want in. We do not need word of mouth. We do not want it. It is too risky. All it takes to compromise everything is one client telling the wrong person. So we encourage secrecy.

  We approach clients, not the other way around. And we only approach the ones we trust to play by our rules.

  It could not have been my writing. I am always careful. Somebody must have seen a drop. Or Isaac must have bragged.

  Mrs Evans mentions him.

  He could have had one too many refreshments, enough to make him think telling one person would not hurt . . .

  Mrs Evans’s features soften. She says he died.

  I fall out of myself. I picture us contained within a 16:9 frame sitting opposite her desk: me in the winter uniform, full blazer with pants; Ryan in the summer option, shorts and knee-high socks; Harley in his own custom casual interpretation, a shirt that is slightly untucked but not completely, a top button that is undone but obscured by a tie, and white socks visible only when he sits and his trouser legs ride up. The three of us stare at her, stunned.

  ‘Wait, what?’ Harley asks.

  INT. CHAPEL – AFTERNOON

  ‘Isaac’s family may visit in the coming days to collect his belongings from his locker,’ Mrs Evans tells the cohort. ‘If you cross paths, please, display the compassion Barton boys are renowned for.’

  I peel off my glasses and wipe my eyes. I pause.

  My mind catches up with her words.

  They are collecting Isaac’s belongings. He kept our earnings in his locker. He promised they would be safe there, and I knew if they found the money in his locker and not mine, it would be easier for them to believe he acted alone.

  I need to get into his locker.

  INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON

  I tear the red pouch out of Ryan’s hands. He fumbles over his words. He is pressing me for details I do not want to give.

  I look him in the eyes. ‘This did not happen.’

  INT. LIBRARY – AFTERNOON

  The bottom of my backpack is a bed of crumbs and crumpled paper. I lay the red pouch down and pile everything on top – folders, books. I zip it up and thread my arms through the straps. I usually keep my bag in the cages between the library entrance and the security detectors, where it is closer to most of my classes than it is in my locker, but there is not usually anything in it that is worth stealing.

  I peer between the security detectors. Mrs Lang sits on her high stool at the circulation desk, looking severe. She guards the entrance and chastises any student who dares enter with a bag big enough to smuggle books in.

  Ideally, I would spend lunch in the library, sitting cross-legged by the stacks of an ignored genre, where I could go unnoticed and process what has happened. Given my lock is on Isaac’s locker, my bag and I are inseparable, at least until I take the money home.

  I will have to spend lunch elsewhere.

  INT. MEETING ROOM – AFTERNOON

  I sit at a long conference table with the bag still strapped to me. The meeting room across from the library is reserved for staff and supposed to be locked.

  There is a laminated poster taped to the wall. The outline of a lady with feathered eighties hair correctly administers CPR on a boy. I think of Isaac.

  I wonder softly. What if I had stayed? What if I had been there? What if I had saved him?

  My mind pulls on the thread, but I resist. There is nothing on the other side of it that will make me feel any better. My mind pulls harder. I would have been there if I had only . . .

  BEGIN FLASHBACK:

  INT. ISAAC’S KITCHEN – MORNING

  ‘You brought a book bottle of vodka to a g
athering?’ Isaac asks.

  ‘It is a gathering,’ I say. ‘What were you expecting? A book? I also brought organic kale chips, so Ryan can eat something if he comes.’

  Isaac says it slowly. ‘Organic.’ He mouths it twice more, stretching the O.

  I laugh. ‘You all right?’

  Isaac’s mouth hangs open, suspended in animation. He shakes it off and blinks at me. ‘Hm?’

  ‘You seem high?’

  Isaac beams. ‘I am very high.’

  I grab the bottle by the neck and twist off its cap. ‘In that case, I better catch up!’

  I take a long swig. It tastes like whatever vodka tastes like.

  The doorbell rings. Isaac bounces on the spot. ‘Betcha that’s Harley,’ he says.

  ‘Great. I do not hate him in the slightest.’

  The phone on the kitchen counter vibrates. It distracts Isaac. ‘Who’s that?’ he asks.

  I reach for the phone.

  END FLASHBACK.

  INT. MEETING ROOM – AFTERNOON

  Mum’s number flashes as the phone vibrates in my hand. She gave it to me on my first day at Barton House. The edges are chipped, there is a crack across the bottom of the screen, and every operating system update has made it respond a little slower, but I am attached to it. Even more now.

  I have had it for exactly as long as I knew Isaac.

  The phone stops vibrating. The screen darkens. I place it down.

  There is a little conference hub in the centre of the table. I drag it closer. A pre-recorded female voice tells me to press 0 for external numbers. I do as she says and punch Mum’s work number into the pad. The dial tone fills the room, and then Mum’s voice, smooth and professional. ‘Hello, this is Holly.’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  She gasps like her heart is torn. The school has notified her. ‘Miles!’

  I pre-empt the questions. ‘I am fine.’

  She does not ask anything. Instead, she offers one loaded, ‘Oh, Miles.’

  ‘I am all right.’

  ‘Wait . . . Where are you calling me from?’

  ‘It is a school number.’

  ‘Are you in the office?’

  I can practically see her sitting at her workstation, wanting to know I am being looked after. Not sitting in an empty meeting room at lunch. ‘Yeah.’

  Mum sighs. ‘Good. That’s good. There are people with you?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Evans, Mr Ford.’ I look around at the vacant chairs.

  ‘Can you put her on?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Deputy.’

  ‘She is . . . Uh, I could get her, but she is speaking with Ryan and Harley.’ I have learnt never to say no to Mum – it is easier to make her think she does not need what she wants.

  ‘Right. Of course. She has her hands full. You boys.’ She exhales into the phone. She is thinking of the others.

  I am not. They are on their own.

  ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’ She is scrambling to be useful. ‘What can I do? Do you want to catch a cab to my work?’

  ‘No. I am fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I am not fine. I am somewhere between numb and broken, but I cannot imagine being in Mum’s office, under her constant supervision, will make it any better. At least here, I know where to hide.

  ‘I am sure,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly, we are all here. We are all together.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Mrs Evans is waving me over, I should go.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  ‘Love you.’ There is a weight to it that I have never noticed before, like it is potentially the last time I will hear her say it, or the last chance I will have to say it back.

  ‘Love you too.’

  Mum does not hang up right away. We sit in each other’s silence. It is the comfort before the click. When that comes, it is because someone says her name on the other end of the line and she has to go. Click. I am alone in another silence, one that feels deeper than the one before the call.

  It occurs to me that Isaac and I will never be this close again.

  Time is pulling us apart. With every second that passes, the space between us widens. Today, I saw him yesterday. In a few days, it will have been last week. Then, last month. And there is nothing I can do to keep time from wedging more of itself between us. It is inevitable.

  I sink forwards a little, restrained by the straps of my backpack, and shatter in slow motion.

  INT. SCIENCE LAB – AFTERNOON

  Mr Barber sets some pages from our Chemistry textbook, but reading them is more a suggestion than a task. The class is distracted, sitting in clusters, reeling from the news. I have my textbook open to page eighty-nine, as directed. I can feel their eyes on me.

  It is 11 Chemistry A’s amateur production of Stares and Whispers. It has everything: stares, whispers and me, daring to do the assigned work. A play in one act.

  I catch morsels.

  ‘ . . . what they think actually happened . . .’

  ‘ . . . the article says . . .’

  ‘ . . . yeah, there was a journo out on the main road at lunch . . .’

  ‘ . . . interviewed Ex before Mrs Evans stopped . . .’

  Mr Barber runs device-free Chemistry classes, but even he spends today with his eyes glued to his phone. In the row ahead, five guys lean into one screen, reading the article about Isaac. It is a regular Herald Daily hack job. It pitches Isaac as some bona fide acting prodigy. In truth, he took Drama for the bludge periods and he was only in the film because I asked.

  Point of View is premium award bait. Stylish, gritty, it follows three inner-city teens questioned for the same crime. The screen is permanently split in two. On one side, they narrate their version of events, and on the other, that narration is acted out. The film’s ten minutes are the best of hours and hours of raw footage. It is all still sitting on the school server, probably.

  Curious, I pull my laptop closer. I exit the Herald Daily site and click into the shared drive. The computer struggles with the basic command. Eventually the contents start to load. It is a labyrinth of folders within folders. One click reveals a half-dozen new folders, and in each of those, a half-dozen more. Seven folders deep, I find the one labelled COOPER_FILM. I click it. A long list of video files appears, sorted by date.

  I filmed Isaac’s narration first. I click ISAAC_01. The frame of the video player appears, then the playback options fill in, and finally, the video. Isaac is in the centre of the 16:9 frame. The shot is a medium close-up.

  ISAAC looks down at his lap. His ginger mop of hair has grown way past what the school considers acceptable, grazing his collar.

  ISAAC

  And I’m just there like –

  I mute the audio.

  Omar has ripped his eyes from his computer. For a second, he thought he heard a dead guy behind him.

  I force a smile.

  Dylan looks at him. ‘Man, have you posted anything on Isaac’s profile?’ he asks.

  Omar turns away. ‘Yeah. It got seventeen likes. Not my best. I might re-up it tonight.’

  ‘Tag Cara in it and all the North Shore chicks will like it.’

  I do not know who Cara is or why she controls a faction of girls from the North Shore. She is Isaac’s type, powerful in insignificant, high-school ways. I only ever heard stories about the girls. I was never allowed to meet them. Isaac said Ryan and Harley made better first impressions.

  His lips are moving on my screen.

  I pull my earphones out of my pocket in one knotted cluster. I set to work unwinding it as well as I can. I wrangle enough of the cord free to plug into my computer and my ears without having to strain my neck.

  MILES kneels behind the camera, off-screen. RYAN and HARLEY are there too, also off-screen.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  Tiff’s a little weird about you now.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  She’s al
ways been weird about me.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  Well, you hook up with her and that happens. I had to convince her going out with you isn’t what she wants.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  What? Serious?

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  She calls and goes, she wants me to test the waters, see if you’d want to.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Isaac.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  And?

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  I tell her to close her eyes and listen to her inner voice – cracks me up now I say it – and her inner voice tells her she doesn’t want Zac, just a boyfriend, and she’s projecting onto the closest guy.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  Thanks.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  No worries.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  Remember to do that with every girl you talk to who knows me.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Isaac.

  ISAAC

  (to Miles)

  Hey.

  Isaac smirks through time. I whisper, ‘Hey,’ right back at him.

  INT. STATION PLATFORM – AFTERNOON

  I wait at the southern end, right where the rear doors of the front carriage open. Isaac always thought it was pedantic, but it saves me time at Ashfield. Two minutes, that is how long Isaac said it would take anyone to dawdle the full length of the platform. But it makes sense to board the train where it is best to disembark from. It is efficient.

  I check the monitor suspended from the ceiling. There are three minutes until the express, but there is no telling how long it will actually be. Time is flexible down here. Minutes are exaggerated and truncated to ensure that trains always arrive on time.

  I hold my computer against my thigh. I have not put it away since I rediscovered the footage. I downloaded all the files from the server before I left.

  I check my phone. There are two new emails. The first, to my school account from Anthony Ford.

  Miles –

  I lament not having had a chance to speak with you properly after the . . .