Will

by Maria Boyd

  Chris stared at me as if he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. Which is exactly why I hadn’t told him. He was now about to get his revenge.

  Me and the boys had given him constant crap about being the school brownnose ever since he had been made the class representative in kindergarten. Not that it had ever stopped him: he just gave us the finger and kept accepting the badges. But now, after twelve long years, he had the perfect revenge and he didn’t have to raise any fingers to make it happen.

  You mean you have to get up there in front of the whole school and actually play when Brother Pat’s doing his wailing banshee stuff on the mike?

  Yep.

  He didn’t even wait one second.

  Hey, Jock!

  Shut up, Chris! Come on …

  But Chris was going to bleed this for everything he could get.

  Did you hear that Willo’s going to be up onstage this morning?

  No way, man! It can’t be true! The man who dacked himself at the girls’ bus, one of the finest moments in St. Andrew’s history? You’re part of the Brother Patrick Show by personal invite? Will, you’ve crossed to the dark side.

  Others, overhearing Jock’s accusing roar, came flooding over to throw in their gold coins’ worth. After five minutes of being slammed, I’d had enough.

  Yeah, yeah, you’re all a bunch of bloody comedians!

  Just at that moment, I mean at that exact moment, Brother Pat’s voice boomed over the PA, entering every room in the school.

  Could William Armstrong of Year Eleven please meet Brother Patrick in the hall immediately.

  Naturally, this was too much. The whole class fell over one another, some in pain they were laughing so hard.

  Whatever fragments of my armor were left clanked to the ground with each step. By the time I reached the hall I was unarmed and defenseless. Last night’s bravado had evaporated along with any semblance of credibility.

  Singing practice

  Brother Pat loomed from the stage. Good to see you heard the message, William. We have a lot to do! You are to be in charge of the band, as I will be up the front leading the school.

  What do you mean, in charge of the band, Brother? I asked, edging nervously toward the front of the hall.

  He stopped unwinding the mike cord and stared down at me, incredulous.

  What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean you will be conducting, of course.

  My pace slowed significantly. He’d only asked me to look after the band—he hadn’t said anything about conducting it.

  But Brother, I’d really rather play. I’m not that confident conducting.

  Rubbish, with your ear, you’re a natural!

  What about Ms. Sefton? Isn’t that her job?

  Oh no, she’s far too busy. She’s playing the piano and accompanying me with the flute. It will have to be you, Will. He placed his hand on my shoulder. Now, there is no time for self-doubts. I know you will do a wonderful job.

  I stopped.

  I’ve set you up on the stage so that everyone can see the band. It’s time to give them a much higher profile in the school, especially considering how hard they are working in preparation for the musical.

  This was it. This was the point of no return. Goodbye, Will the funny man, Will the I don’t give a … Will the soccer hero. Hello, Will the geek, Will the brownnose, Will the loser, Will the nerd.

  I watched as the midget geeks came piling through the doors of the hall full of excitement, oblivious to any code of cool conduct. The Freak came bounding up the front ready to carry out any instruction I threw at him. I knew I could still pull out one of my finer escape moments, of which there have been many, but for some reason I didn’t. I kept on my slow path to the stage. And as I edged closer I knew I’d crossed over to the unknown and relinquished myself. I had made contact with my inner geek.

  Come along, boys, called Brother Pat. Take your positions.

  Hey, Will!

  I looked down to see two big eyes staring up at me, radiating excitement.

  Hey, Freak.

  Isn’t this exciting?

  Yeah.

  I still had to hide the sarcasm. I may have made contact with the inner geek, but it was only a flicker of recognition.

  I climbed up onstage and turned to face the band. Their expectant faces looked up at me with complete trust. I tried not to think too much about the responsibility angle. This was enough of a head trip for one day.

  I was as articulate and as gracious as ever. Hi.

  Hi, Will!

  Let’s start with Brother Pat’s favorite, “Amazing Grace,” before the animals arrive.

  At this moment the hall began to reverberate and the foundations shook. All doors were invaded and the hall began to swell with its inhabitants. A very strange phenomenon, the singing practice. A thousand adolescent boys crowded into a confined space, led by an elderly man, singing religious songs written two centuries ago. Weird.

  Packs of students took their seats and waited. Expectant. Alert to any opportunity to take the piss.

  I could make out the Year 11s as they nudged one another and pointed at me. Guys were shaking their heads in disbelief; others were laughing and being told to shut up by Danielli. Chris, Jock and Tim stood up and waved.

  Brother Pat yelled into the mike.

  Right, thank you, gentlemen. As you all know, next Friday is a day of great celebration for St. Andrew’s College. It falls to every single one of you in this hall, students and teachers alike, to make sure we honor the day in the best way we know how. This means singing up loud and strong. So let’s hear you sing up, St. Andrew’s! OK?

  A few boys mumbled, Yes, Brother.

  I can’t hear you, St. Andrew’s!

  Yes, Brother! they chanted.

  That’s better!

  This was just the beginning of the rev-up.

  I would like to introduce to you a young man of special talent who has taken pride of place in our wonderful school band. He has been working tirelessly with these youngsters to whip them into shape for the musical. He has proven to be a wonderful role model for them. A big round of applause for William Armstrong.

  The school body broke into applause, some obligatory, some a piss-take, not much of it genuine. Some teachers were left with their mouths open. Andrews threw his head back laughing and turned to some of the other teachers. I didn’t even look in Waddlehead’s direction. Year 11, on the other hand, went wild, led of course by the Tim and Jock cheerleaders. I heard a chorus of Go, Will! and the beginning of the wave. I attempted to throw the ringleaders a death stare but it only provoked them more, with them throwing me fake kisses in return.

  Right, over to you, Will.

  I turned my back and tried to develop the select hearing my mum reckons I have.

  OK, geeks, let’s get this right.

  They started.

  And I forgot that I was onstage in front of a thousand potential savages. That was until at one point while we were waiting for Brother Pat to finish one of his rev-ups, I looked up and saw Tim and Jock maneuvering themselves around to the right, waving what looked like little sticks in the air like fake batons. When I looked over again they were gone. I hoped they’d been busted, but more than likely they’d just got bored and were now poking the sticks in people’s ears.

  Slowly I started to chill out. The geeks were doing a good job. Everybody else was too busy taking the piss out of the singing to be worried about what we were doing. Brother Patrick wound the kids up and the teachers calmed them down. The boys sang loudly and badly off-key. Brother Patrick yelled how good they were and to Sing up; the teachers looked angry and told the kids to Shut up.

  It all went horribly wrong, however, as soon as Brother Patrick screamed his next announcement.

  Gentlemen, it’s time to take a rest from singing and use our listening skills.

  He waited for silence. I would like to introduce to you our latest singing star to emerge from St. Andrew’s.

 
; Oh no!

  Now, he was very reluctant to sing as he wants to rest up for next week. But I’m sure if we encourage him loudly enough, he will pay us this honor. Put your hands together for a new boy to St. Andrew’s—so we can’t take all the credit—the very talented Mark Newman.

  No one ever sang on their own in practices. Brother Pat had no idea how dangerous this was. The atmosphere became hostile instantly. To single someone out from the pack, especially someone who was unknown to most, was potentially fatal. I searched my head for the last bloke who’d sung in front of the school body. The only image I could dredge up was footy boys in dresses at the Year 12 farewell two years ago. Brother Patrick was offering the pack fresh meat. And the boys were licking their lips in anticipation.

  I watched Mark leave the anonymous safety of the Year 12s to minimal applause. He was definitely dealing with the situation far better than some of the A-grade footballers, who obviously didn’t know that their new star player was also able to belt out a tune. He looked at me as he approached the stage, trying to catch my eye, smiling. It was at this point I was overwhelmed by a very familiar need for escape. It was going to be hard enough for me already; the last thing I needed was to align myself with a bloke who was setting himself up for hassle every day until he left school and even after that. Knowing I was a hypocrite and not caring, I turned my back to him.

  It was up to me to count the band in. For those four counts, the hall pulsated with heavy silence. And then Mark opened his mouth and sang, loudly and well. When he’d finished, the hall’s inhabitants breathed a sigh of disappointment. They were angry that they hadn’t had their flesh. However, they made sure he knew he hadn’t got away with it completely. The wolf whistles and catcalls confirmed just how much he was going to cop in the quad.

  Thank you, Mark. That’s a taste of what you will hear when you come along to the musical to support your school. But for the moment let us all stand for the school song.

  The atmosphere lifted again and everyone competed to make the funniest, crudest, rudest version of the school song they possibly could. It was something I’d been getting a laugh out of for the past four years, but this time it wasn’t funny. My gut had concreted over. I knew there was a reason why I should feel like crap but I couldn’t, wouldn’t think about it.

  From where I was onstage, I watched three of the more well-known St. Andrew’s hard boys looking over in Mark’s direction, shaking their heads and trying to throw him death stares. Mark wasn’t paying attention, he was dealing with Jock and Tim and the other footy boys who were now giving him crap to his face. Something was about to go down. I knew it.

  My need for escape had intensified. I had to get out, to get as far away from the hall as possible.

  I dismissed Brother Pat’s thanks at the end of the song, threw down the baton and left the Freak in charge of clearing up. I had to get to the safety of the music room before the pack began to feed.

  The fallout

  Too late.

  I made my way out to the senior quad, feeling more exposed than when I’d dropped my daks.

  As I walked past a group of Year 12 guys, they stopped their conversation, watched me walk past and then laughed. There was nothing unusual about that. Hassle was to be expected.

  As I moved just out of range one of them yelled, Nice baton twirling!

  I told him where he could shove the baton. He replied that, unlike myself, he didn’t like taking things up the arse. If I’d hung around I would’ve hit the guy in the face.

  I increased my pace, trying to regain control. I made my way over to the tuckshop and stopped when I saw a crowd was gathering. For once the top priority was not who was served first. This was a very different fight for position, a fight between Mark and the three try-hards from the hall.

  They were known throughout the school, something they took great pride in, and belonged to some gang that ended in boyzzz. Jock always took them off behind their backs. Australian white-bread boys acting like some American TV version of kids from the hood. As expected they had tracked and stalked their prey, except Mark wasn’t looking very threatened.

  I couldn’t hear Mark’s comeback but it must have been good because the three shut up and the whole tuckshop line cracked up. These blokes weren’t used to their victims having any sort of comeback, let alone one that made them the butt of the joke. They didn’t fight with words. Mark was getting himself farther and farther into dangerous territory. As if to confirm the increase in aggression, the action moved out of the sight of the tuckshop ladies. The three circled Mark now, shoulders back and chins jutting forward as if to knife his face.

  I moved closer.

  So, mate, you’re a songbird, are you?

  Mark attempted to move out of their way. The main guy, flanked by the other two, deliberately stood in his path.

  Come on, mate, why don’t you give us your own little concert right here?

  You sing really sweet, mate. Are you sure your balls have dropped yet?

  By this time the crowd had swollen, loving the fact that they were being treated to a second show for the day.

  Hey, one of those geeks in the band reckons he heard you saying you were a faggot! Is that right, mate? Are you some sort of faggot?

  Instantly the mood changed. The crowd visibly recoiled; echoes of faggot, poofter filled the four walls of the area. I watched as Chris, Jock and Tim moved closer, their faces impassive, their bodies tense.

  Mark walked slowly up to his stalker and stared him in the eye. They stood silent, a space of no more than one centimeter between them. The crowd was hushed now. For more than a minute no one moved, until Mark smiled.

  Why, mate, what’s it to you? Are you interested?

  Victory! And the crowd knew it. The tension vaporized instantly. Mark walked away, leaving the try-hard to his moment of humiliation. He didn’t have to do much more: the fickle pack did the rest for him, until word of a teacher’s imminent arrival wiped the crime scene clean. For now.

  I remained fixed to the spot. I should have gone over but I wasn’t going to incriminate myself further.

  Will! Hey, Will!

  That was my cue.

  Mark’s voice was behind me. I pretended not to hear him and kept walking. This time he was more persistent. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  Will! Didn’t you hear me? I called out three times. He looked at me quizzically.

  Right, sorry. Must have been thinking about something else.

  Nice scene, huh? Mark pointed toward the tuckshop.

  Yeah! Are you all right?

  I’ve had worse. Dickheads like that just need to be confronted.

  I looked over my shoulder. We were standing in full view of the senior quad. I had had enough of being on show. I just wanted to hide, become anonymous.

  Mark, look, I’ve got to go … I mumbled, not making eye contact.

  Will, are you OK?

  Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just got to …

  Go. He finished my statement, his voice slightly challenging. Yeah, you already said that. You’re acting really weird, Will. If I didn’t know better, and I do, I’d say you don’t want to be seen talking to me. Is that why you blanked me in front of the whole school when I got onstage?

  Another pile of concrete landed in my gut. I couldn’t say anything to him. All I wanted to do was disappear. I walked away.

  As I was reaching safe ground Jock came toward me.

  Hey, nice work with that little stick, Will!

  Get stuffed, Jock!

  I kept walking, leaving Jock openmouthed and shrugging his shoulders.

  Music theory

  I locked myself in the music room, reefed up the amp and didn’t stop to hear or think. It was only when Ms. Sefton knocked on the window and pointed to the adjoining classroom that I figured we had theory. It was too obvious to ignore her and I was in no mood to explain anything to anyone. I grabbed my stuff and made my entrance. A couple of comments flew my way but they crashed midair
as I turned on them. Chris had moved his stuff so I could sit in my usual seat. I sat on my own.

  Ms. Sefton had set up some sort of listening exercise. Fine by me. She turned on the music. Old. Classical. The type of stuff your grandparents listen to. Cellos. They always sound so bloody depressing. Miss sat at the front with her eyes closed, looking like she’d been teleported to another universe. I felt progressively more like shit.

  It was then the images started. Woven in and out of each melancholic chord were snapshots of the assembly, the playground, the tuckshop and the conversation. Me watching from a distance, Mark in among it, in their faces. I shook my head to stop it but the scenes kept looping: Mark; the three wannabes; Chris, Tim and Jock stepping up; me watching, me walking away.

  The cellos continued. My thoughts responded to the music, weaving, releasing, spilling. I fought hard to get the bubble on for guaranteed protection. But somehow I knew this time it wasn’t going to work. There was too much erupting its way to the surface, other images that had been censored, prohibited for the well-being of Will Armstrong.

  The pain of recognition ripped through me. I had forgotten what he looked like. He became movie-theater big, looking down at me, shaking his head, disappointed. He was speaking, but all I could hear was distorted sound.

  I tried to push the delete button, but I had uncovered a private stash of do-not-remembers and, once unleashed, there was no stopping them. I looked to the door ready to make an escape, but I couldn’t move.

  The presentation was set to automatic slide show.

  Photos of Dad and me flashed one by one on the screen.

  Click: Dad and me just born.

  Click: Dad and me, first birthday.

  Click: Dad and me and my first bike.

  Click: Dad and me and my first guitar.

  Click: Dad and me and my first soccer boots.

  Click: Dad and me and my first soccer jersey.

  Click: Dad and me and his soccer jersey, his beer and his ball.