The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  Tomorrow, I start fresh.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – MORNING

  I do not talk to Isaac at recess. Instead, I work on memorising an essay for our English half-yearly. I move the keyboard to one side and lay my notepad down. I take a new page, and within ten minutes, I have a draft paragraph. I allow myself two read-throughs, then I tear the page off, turn it over and attempt to reproduce it.

  At Barton House, we are discouraged from learning essays. Barton House does not produce boys who learn by rote, that is part of the sales pitch. Then our teachers give us the marking criteria two weeks before we sit a question, and they place so much importance on our answers to that question, that of course the best of us will use the keywords in the criteria to build flawless paragraphs and learn them.

  My notification light flickers and I lose the sentence. I reach for my phone.

  I place the phone back, facedown.

  INT. MATHEMATICS CLASSROOM – MORNING

  Kevin Tran leans back until the spine of his chair hits the front of my desk. ‘You got a pen, bro?’ he asks.

  I hand him my spare.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Catch you tomorrow.’

  I almost remind him that tomorrow is Saturday before I remember his seventeenth. Kevin and I are as close as two people who occasionally borrow pens off each other can be, but when I agreed to go to his birthday, I had wholly expected to cancel a week or two beforehand. Isaac had rejected the invitation outright. ‘Who’d wanna go to a barbecue in the park with parents and no booze?’ he had asked. Even though I do enjoy barbecues, do not mind parents, and am a staunch believer in sobriety, I had let Isaac’s lack of enthusiasm temper mine.

  But I am starting fresh. ‘I look forward to it,’ I tell Kevin.

  INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON

  At lunch, I pass Isaac’s locker, whose naked door is barely visible any more. So many photographs, but none of Isaac and me.

  I look to my feet and walk faster.

  INT. LIBRARY – AFTERNOON

  I start fresh harder. I raid the library for every book I can draw on in my English half-yearly. When I place the stack on the circulation desk, Mrs Lang tilts her head forwards a fraction.

  ‘I would like to borrow these, please,’ I say.

  An eyebrow climbs towards her fringe. ‘All of them?’

  I do not flinch.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  I open the book to a page near the middle and scan it for something quotable. I do not remember the last time I actually read a book I quoted. The path to second to dux is paved with short cuts. Cherrypicking the sentences with intelligent-sounding words never fails to impress. Cite the author and the date of publication, and teachers tick madly.

  I cherrypick a sentence and work it into my prepared paragraph, a prepared paragraph I will not be distributing with added authenticity to anyone else. I am starting fresh.

  I tear the page out, turn it over and attempt to reproduce it. Halfway through the cherrypicked quote, my mind blanks. I look up from the page and wait for it to occur to me. My eyes wander to the screen on my right.

  I tear them away and clear my throat. The computer lab is my private study space. I am perfectly capable of knowing the footage is within arm’s reach without being distracted by it.

  I do not need to talk to Isaac. He has nothing to say to me anyway.

  I blink down at the page and wait for the word. I know it sounds smart and starts with . . . C?

  Nothing.

  I surrender and turn the original paragraph over. Coalesce. Of course. With that block removed, the paragraph flows out of me until I hit another one. I rack my brain and my eyes drift to the computer mouse. I convince myself that the distraction is hampering my productivity.

  I need to get it out of my system for the sake of the essay.

  I cup my hand over the mouse and navigate my way through the shared drive folders until I come to the film folder. I double-click. The files flood in. I select ISAAC_07.

  Isaac stretches his arms and yawns.

  I pause him. We talk. Well, I talk, knowing full well that hearing Isaac’s voice is just one click away. There is no harm in watching one clip, I suppose . . .

  I click.

  Isaac’s yawn ends and his arms drop. Miles is off-screen.

  MILES (O.S.)

  You ready?

  ISAAC

  Born ready. Although, I have been meaning to tell you this longwinded story about –

  MILES (O.S.)

  No. Focus.

  ISAAC

  (smirking)

  Do you not like my tangents?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Not when it is this late.

  ISAAC

  Aw. You know I love teasing you, Miles.

  I smile. This is not so bad.

  I almost pause it, but convince myself a little more will not hurt.

  ISAAC

  (continuing)

  Not sure filmmaking is your calling. You write the best essays. Why are you even doing this?

  Isaac mirrors Miles’s unseen movements, slicing his hand across his neck.

  ISAAC

  (continuing)

  What does this mean?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Very funny.

  ISAAC

  I’m not going to tell people. Or am I? Does that make you nervous?

  My heart races. It makes me nervous now.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Please, do not even joke about it.

  ISAAC

  (smirking)

  One drink and I won’t tell anyone.

  I close the video player.

  ‘You rope me into selling essays,’ I say. ‘You make me think it will bring us closer, and every chance you get, you dangle it over me to make me do what you want. And when I finally show up, when the wet blanket finally caves, you are high. It is never about me having one drink. It is about me not being myself. It is about me being Harley, being fun. Well, no. No.’

  I highlight all the files, right-click, Delete. A box appears to ask if I am sure I would like to permanently delete the files.

  I am.

  They disappear off the school server, one by one.

  ‘No.’

  INT. MILES’S KITCHEN – MORNING

  Dad circles the table, setting the cutlery. ‘Saw you threw out your trophies,’ he says. ‘You good?’

  ‘Yes. You were right, they were collecting dust.’

  EXT. QUEENS PARK – AFTERNOON

  I walk deeper into the park, against a wave of guys marching towards the kerb in muddied jerseys, and the parents who follow them with folded chairs and eskies. The last of the day’s scheduled games have ended, and sporting teams have relinquished the park to parties and pets.

  Somewhere out there, Kevin and his family are having a barbecue. The chances of cutlery are slim. I check my hands. I cannot see anything, but I can feel the bus handrails all over them.

  INT. TOILET BLOCK – AFTERNOON

  I hold my hands underneath the running tap and wait for the water to heat. It is an eternity before I feel a change in temperature, albeit slight.

  A conversation carries through the brick wall. I recognise a voice. I stop the tap. It is Xavier Jones. Martin Johnson speaks too, but he is interrupted by a third person.

  ‘No.’ It is short and dismissive, but it is enough for me to identify the speaker. Harley. What is he doing here? I would not think he could identify Kevin Tran from a bar of soap. Then again, from the usual look of him, I doubt he could even identify a bar of soap.

  I lean into the wall until my ear almost touches the brick. I hear Omar. Harley tells them that they need to talk to Mrs Roberts about the night Isaac died. He says she wants help.

  My brow furrows. Harley is in contact with Mrs Roberts?

  They refuse to help and take Harley to task. I should relish it, but when he defends himself, his voice cracks. He almost seems . . . vulnerable?

  They persist. He gets mad and s
pits out the words, ‘I want you to tell her he was happy.’

  Twigs snap under feet. He is storming off.

  ‘When did Harley get so melodramatic?’ Martin asks.

  I pull back from the dividing wall. When did Harley care?

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – AFTERNOON

  I compose an email from the Black Ops account.

  Hello Xavier. An essay for your forthcoming English half-yearly exam is ready for collection. Be at Bogus Burgers at 1:45 pm tomorrow. Bring $50.

  I send it, and forward duplicates to Martin and Omar, changing their names.

  I phone Isaac’s home. Mr Roberts picks up. I pinch my nose in case he recognises my voice. ‘Hello, Warwick, this is Xavier.’

  INT. BURGER JOINT – AFTERNOON

  I arrive after the lunch rush. I secure a table that has just been wiped down and take out a book. Other patrons ask if I mind moving to a smaller table. I tell them that I do mind and continue reading. When the waiter insists I order, I ask for fries and eat them slowly. I keep two fingers grease-free for turning pages.

  Martin is early. He comes with a flurry of questions. I answer none. He sits opposite me. I hold out my hand and he gives me a fifty-dollar note. I keep reading. He asks if I am going to give him his essay. I tell him we are waiting for the others.

  When Xavier sees us, he punches the air and says that he knew it. ‘I knew you couldn’t get full marks in an essay by yourself! I knew it!’

  ‘Guilty,’ Martin says, as Xavier eases into the seat beside him. ‘Pay him.’

  ‘What?’ Xavier asks. ‘Oh.’ He slides the note across the table.

  I pocket it and continue reading.

  Xavier cocks an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  ‘We’re waiting,’ Martin explains.

  Omar folds into the chair beside me. I turn the page and continue reading. He takes longer than Xavier to clue in. ‘Oh, so you guys buy essays too?’

  It is a testament to how expertly we executed the operation. Martin, Xavier and Omar, who cannot go to the bathroom without texting each other in-depth updates, have kept this secret.

  ‘What are we –?’

  ‘Money,’ Martin and Xavier say.

  Omar pays.

  ‘Okay.’ I lean to my right. There are three personalised envelopes propped up against the front leg of my seat. I pass one to each.

  ‘So we just learn it?’ Martin asks. ‘How did you figure out the exam question?’

  Omar has the sense to actually peer inside. ‘Um . . .’ He pulls out the pages.

  I try not to smirk. ‘What you have there are records of our correspondence and copies of the essays I have supplied you.’

  There is a nervous edge to Xavier’s laugh. ‘Why?’

  ‘You are going to have lunch with Mrs Roberts in,’ I check the time on my phone, ‘ten minutes, and you are going to tell her everything you remember about the night her son died, or else similar envelopes will be delivered to Mrs Evans.’

  Xavier and Omar seem more worried than Martin. ‘But you’d be ratting yourself out,’ he says.

  I let myself smirk. ‘I would be.’

  Martin leans back. ‘Shit, you’re for real.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ I push my chair out and stand. ‘You will tell her everything, and as far as she knows, you are not being blackmailed into doing it.’

  Omar says, ‘But we paid you.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  EXT. STREET – AFTERNOON

  Mrs Roberts takes large strides. I wonder if I imagine it, or if there is a sadness in the way she moves. I watch her from across the street. My view is interrupted by the occasional large vehicle stopped in traffic, but never for too long. Their discussion seems guarded, there are no big hand gestures to give me a sense of how it is going. In the end, she stands to embrace each of them in turn. They leave and instead of following, she returns to her seat.

  When a worker passes, she orders fries. She empties the carton onto the tray it was served on. She eats alone.

  I am not sure what I expected, but it was not this.

  I helped her when Harley could not, and made some money in the process. I should feel triumphant, but instead, I watch her eat with sunken shoulders. Goosebumps trace a line down from my elbow.

  I take large strides of my own across the street.

  INT. BURGER JOINT – AFTERNOON

  I pass Mrs Roberts’s table, for plausibility, so I can stop, walk back, squint and ask, ‘Mrs Roberts? Is that you?’

  ‘Oh!’ She covers her mouth as she chews. ‘Oh my.’ She pushes herself up.

  ‘Fancy seeing –’ An abrupt, awkward hug silences me. ‘This is such a small world, huh?’ I point back at the counter. ‘I was just going to have a late lunch. Do you mind if I join you?’

  She does not.

  I order a burger that looks better than it tastes.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to see you,’ Mrs Roberts says. ‘I didn’t catch you at the funeral.’

  ‘I was at the back.’ That is not a lie. ‘I liked the flowers.’

  ‘They were good flowers.’

  She asks about school. I tell her it is going well. She says Isaac would be proud.

  It lands with more heaviness than she intends. I start counting the passing seconds in my head.

  ‘I don’t know if you believe in mediums . . .’

  I believe in mediums and their power to prey on people who are in mourning for their own financial gain, yes.

  ‘I went and saw one with my sister, a very talented chap. Isaac spoke through him, said to tell his bright friend to keep his chin up. Not to talk down the others, but I think my son meant you.’

  I know the message is supposed to make me feel good, but it is very general, and is probably repurposed to fit every deceased person somebody asks about.

  ‘Your face . . .’ She takes a chip. ‘Are you a sceptic?’

  There is no use denying. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Ah.’ She shrugs. ‘Well, to each their own. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can live in a world where Isaac’s gone and that’s it, or I can live in one where he’s still here, hanging around, keen for a chat. Why wouldn’t I choose that?’ She exhales. ‘Mm, but anyway. Let’s talk about you.’

  ‘There is not really much to talk about.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ She clearly does not believe me. ‘Isaac would always talk about you.’

  I do not believe her.

  INT. CAFE – AFTERNOON

  I dip the marshmallow into the foam of the hot chocolate and take a bite. I feel heavy after seeing Mrs Roberts, and I want to let it pass before I head home. I think about Isaac. We are all preserving our relationships with him, in our own ways. Mrs Roberts has her medium, the guys at school have their photographs on lockers, posts on his profile, cameos in the Herald Daily article, and I have the footage copied to my laptop.

  I cannot help but feel I have drawn the short straw.

  I scroll through Isaac’s article on my phone. It is less about reading it and more about having something to do with my finger.

  ‘Ow!’

  BEGIN FLASHBACK:

  INT. GYMNASIUM – MORNING

  Harley is a conscientious objector to House Competition Day. He says it promotes animosity among peers. He sits on the wooden floor of the gymnasium, leaning back on his arms. A running Year Seven student steps on the sprawled fingers of his left hand.

  ‘Ow!’

  END FLASHBACK.

  INT. CAFE – AFTERNOON

  I look up. There Harley is, sitting a couple of tables over. He rubs his shin. He stands, I look down.

  I feel him walking closer. I hope he will just walk past. He does not. He tries to make small talk. I stare at my phone. That should be enough of a hint. He sits. It was not enough of a hint.

  Acting cold does not feel as good as it ought to, not after what I heard at the park yesterday. He might not be as bad as he lets on.

  Before I can stop myself, I am telling him about
the article. I actually share how much it hurt to be left out.

  He listens. It . . . challenges me.

  I cannot be friends with Scott Harley.

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

  I slide three fifty-dollar notes into the pouch and zip it. I push it against the back of my cupboard and obscure it with a stack of folded T-shirts.

  I lie on my bed, fully clothed, and what Mrs Roberts said tumbles over in my mind. She has made a choice. She can live in a world where Isaac is gone, or she can live in one where he speaks to her through a medium. Surely, if Isaac really does speak through a man, that man must, when faced with a grieving mother, massage anything hurtful Isaac says so as to spare her feelings.

  I have a medium of my own.

  Film. It is true, an exact representation – raw, honest and unedited.

  Unedited.

  I roll over and scoop my computer up off the floor. I tap the edges. ‘Come on, come on,’ I coo, as if that will make it boot up faster. I try the touchpad. The cursor’s response is delayed. I give it more time. When I try the touchpad again, the cursor is more cooperative, moving in time with my finger.

  I open the video editing software and import ISAAC_07 into a new project. I let it play.

  Isaac stretches his arms and yawns. His arms drop. Miles is off-screen.

  MILES (O.S.)

  You ready?

  ISAAC

  Born ready. Although, I have been meaning to tell you this longwinded story about –

  MILES (O.S.)

  No. Focus.

  ISAAC

  (smirking)

  Do you not like my tangents?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Not when it is this late.

  ISAAC

  Aw. You know I love teasing you, Miles. Not sure filmmaking is your calling. You write the best essays. Why are you even doing this?

  I pause the clip and delete what comes after. I make precise cuts, and duplicate what I need. My computer protests regularly. Video editing is beyond its specifications. It takes longer than it should, but I get it done.