Boyz 'R' Us

by Scott Monk

  She looked at both of us. ‘How does that sound?’

  Sean nodded back at me. ‘I suppose it’s best,’ he breathed. ‘Richard and Jackie will look after us.’

  They’d be the only relatives who’d take us. The others had nothing to do with my father after our mother’s death. But Richard and Jackie were cool. They lived in Baulkham Hills, owned a typical Baulkham Hills big double-storey house and drove a typical Baulkham Hills Ford station wagon. They had no kids, but plenty of space to take on both Allison and me.

  ‘How’s everything here, constable?’ a senior officer asked.

  ‘Fine, sir. The older brother here will arrange temporary accommodation for the two minors until a hearing before the courts.’

  The officer looked us up and down then nodded. ‘Okay. Take them down to the station and fill out the paperwork. I’ll tell Mr Jarrett what’s happening then follow you in my car.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  Allison returned as the police officer left. She twisted in the red jumper while I helped her arms find her head. The female constable escorted us to her car, and, as we got in, my father yelled, ‘See if I care! I don’t want them! I don’t want any of them!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Like I said, we never made up after the commercial break. Warm smiles and hugs were for phoney TV families, not ours.

  As expected, Uncle Richard and Aunt Jackie agreed to take care of us. They didn’t have much choice. The cops basically dumped me and Ally on their doorstep at three in the morning. As for Sean, he chose to stay at home for the time being. He wanted to help our father beat his addiction once and for all. My brother promised to visit me and Ally every day, but I reckoned travelling from Marrickville to Baulkham Hills and back regularly would wear him down. Eventually, he’d only come and see us on weekends.

  But that didn’t stop me from seeing him at school. I was determined to finish Year Ten at Wardell Road despite the hatred the Thunderjets had towards me. I’d ace my School Certificate then hit the job market. There was no way I was going on to the senior years to gain an HSC which only stated: yes, this student learnt nothing.

  But today was today. One week after the beating, the weekly hangover called Monday was back. School was the usual bore. In English class Old Lady Read (top name, huh?) was still on my case for not paying attention and reading the “prescribed texts”. (Teachers called books prescribed texts because a person needed to go down to the chemist and get a prescription for painkillers after reading one!) On one of my essays she handed back, a big fat D minus sat next to the trumpeting comment: A HALF-PAGE ANSWER IS UNACCEPTABLE. So what. I didn’t care. I knew the answer but couldn’t be bothered wasting a lot of ink bellyaching about it.

  English was such a useless subject. Why did teachers always ask stupid questions about themes, personification, imagery, tone and mood, and not real questions like: did you enjoy the book? I reckon they were all sadists who enjoyed watching students dry retch come exam time. I hated the class because the novels teachers gave us were for losers. I liked reading about gangs, kids down on their luck, fast cars, guys’ problems and mateship. None of that namby-pamby, wussy, girlie stuff about first love, failed romances, sexism, horses, time-travellers, save-the-environment hippies or pregnant chicks. Most teenage novels were written by females for females. They turned a lot of guys right off. I wanted to step into a story and be the characters; to run away like them. And if a book didn’t have a fight in it, I never wanted to pick it up.

  So there I was in English, tortured by Old Lady Read’s ramblings.

  ‘Blue Moon Blues depicts perfection versus imperfection. One of the characters, Malcolm, has perfected music like no other musician since Mozart.’

  Yer, I understood that bit.

  ‘Malcolm’s perfection is because of his autism. But the writer believes this is a gift rather than an imperfection. This is demonstrated through the reaction of Malcolm’s friends. In the entire novel only Stephen treats Malcolm as an artistic leper because of his strong envy for this perfection —’

  Autism. Friends. Envy. Got it.

  ‘All of Malcolm’s friends envy his perfection in some way. But in juxtaposition to this, Malcolm admires his friends’ imperfection when they play music because they have never experienced the social pressures and expectations he has experienced —’

  Huh? What did she say? I didn’t catch that bit. I was counting bricks. I hope it wasn’t important. Hey, why worry? The chances of it being in the exam were slim. She’d probably forget this part come November.

  ‘This relates to the symbolism discussed earlier. The blue moon is perfect but unattainable. Malcolm also considers himself perfect but unattainable as his talents ostracise him from an ordinary life —’

  I wonder what I’ll be doing after November. Will I remember in November sitting in English thinking about what I’d be doing in November?

  ‘— blah, blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah-b-blah, blah, blah —’

  Listen to those crows outside. Why doesn’t the school put lids on the bins to stop them scavenging week-old yoghurt? Or shoot them? Hire an exterminator to make them pillow stuffing? They flock to the school grounds like Elvis fans to a Sighting.

  ‘— b-blah-blah-blah. Blah, blah —’

  Man, those birds are loud. Look at that one. Sitting on top of the bin, squawking to the whole world it’s prince of the pecking order. Now, if I only had a slingshot —

  ‘And blah, blah, blah —’

  ‘Stone the crows!’

  I stole an orange from Brendon Carlill’s desk and pegged it at the black birds. It missed by a metre but sent the flock into a panicky retreat.

  ‘Mr Jarrett, please explain!’ Old Lady Read demanded.

  ‘I threw the orange to shut the crows up, Miss. I couldn’t hear what you were saying.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. I think you’d better go see the principal about your unruly behaviour right now, young man.’

  ‘But I was only trying to get rid of the crows, Miss,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, then you can go and tell that to the principal, Mr Jarrett.’

  ‘Miss, I —’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Go!’

  Standing up, I pushed over my chair. The class howled at my little tantrum, but forget them. I hadn’t done anything wrong. The teacher was victimising me. Just because the new Mitch Jarrett had a bad record she kicked me out. Any other student would’ve been told to go downstairs and put the orange in the bin. Not me. It’s ‘Go to the principal, young man’. She always called me that, regardless of the circumstance. I hated it. It was as if she was talking to a dog.

  I slammed the door, hit the stairs and made a detour to the toilets. Sternfeld could wait. I wanted a smoke.

  Ten minutes and two cigarettes later, I was resigned to the fact that the day was going to be a Monday like every other day-in, day-out Monday. That was until the school bell screamed lunchtime! and Elias cut through the crowd, calling my name.

  ‘Yer, man. What’s up?’

  ‘Come quick! It’s Sean!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I recognised that terrible look.

  ‘He’s hurt.’

  ‘Hurt?! By who?’

  But Elias sped off, me trailing behind.

  During the ten seconds it took to reach Sean all I could think about was thumping the guy who beat him up. If the attacker wanted to know whether there was life after death, hurting my brother was the quickest way to find out.

  We rounded the last corner. On the ground someone had tripped or fallen and dropped their folder notes. Elias pushed through the crowd hollering at everyone who tried to stop him from reaching the guy. When I got through, I found that someone on the ground was Sean.

  ‘Sean? Sean?’ I dropped to my knees, not knowing what to do. ‘Are you okay?’

  My brother wormed about, clutching his stomach. ‘Hit me —’

  ‘Who
hit you?’

  ‘A tall guy — big —’

  ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone I might know?’

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed, the pain returning with force.

  ‘A bomber? A bomber hit you?’

  ‘Yer.’ Sean winced and curled into a ball. ‘A new kid —’

  A new kid? Who joined the Thunderjets recently and went to this school? The only one I could think of was —

  ‘Peeper,’ I said, seeing his face in the crowd. ‘Did you see who did this?’

  He looked sideways. ‘No. I just got here.’

  Liar. He saw what happened but was too scared to tell. He was saving his own butt by not getting involved. What I hated the most was when a buddy didn’t stick up for his friends. And now Peeper had just made that mistake.

  ‘Where’s Wheeler?’ I was standing now and ready to punch in those bugged-out eyes of his.

  ‘He’s —’

  I grabbed Peeper and slammed him against the wall. ‘I’m not asking again.’

  ‘He’s not here. He’s still hiding cause of the pigs.’

  ‘Who did this then? And don’t give me that “I don’t know” excuse.’

  Peeper squirmed in my grip. ‘Husk.’

  The fat kid with the two-hundred buck shoes.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Detention. The principal’s office,’ he blurted out. His memory wasn’t failing him this time.

  I dropped Peeper and ran. Wheeler was the mastermind behind the Thunderjets; Husk his musclepower. What the leader said went. Sean didn’t have an enemy in the entire school. Everybody got on with him, even the thugs and losers, because of that dashing rogue charm of his. Wheeler had ordered the attack to get back at me. Well, he got to me all right. But I wasn’t going to take it. I was about to go ballistic.

  Husk was hiding inside A-block.

  ‘Fatboy!’ I yelled, introducing myself by shoving him against a wall. ‘You hit my brother, didn’t you?’

  Husk looked behind me. ‘Jarrett, my friend—’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  I moved towards him again, grabbing him by the collar, but he was prepared for it this time. He resisted.

  ‘I didn’t do anything. I was here on detention.’

  ‘You did it. You attacked Sean.’

  ‘You’re hysterical, Jarrett. Now let me go.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna let you go. I’m gonna fight you, then Wheeler, and give you the thrashing you’re both asking for.’

  His nervous eyes rabbited behind me again. ‘Fight? I haven’t been after no fight. It’s all in your head, Jarrett. Now let go.’

  ‘I’ll let go. With this.’

  I raised my fist and darted it at him. Before it struck, a strong arm caught and twisted it behind my back.

  ‘And what, Mr Jarrett, do you think you are doing?’

  Sternfeld!

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ll call your father and make it my business if you keep up that tone of voice, Mister. Now what is going on here?’

  I tried to escape Sternfeld’s hold, but he held on.

  ‘Mr Jarrett?’ he repeated.

  ‘Ask him,’ I snarled at Husk.

  ‘What? What did I do?’ he scoffed.

  ‘Thank you but I’ll talk to Mr Hudnall later. He’s not exactly an innocent party to this either.’

  ‘But sir —’

  ‘Mr Hudnall, go to my office.’

  Husk growled, stared at me then did Sternfeld’s bidding. Me, I shot fatboy the worst greasy imaginable.

  ‘Now I’ll ask you a final time, Mr Jarrett, what provoked this attack?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing is it? Well then, Mr Jarrett, you can march into my office as well so we can talk about your future in this school.’

  ‘Why? What did I do?’

  ‘“Nothing” if I recall correctly.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not going to your stinking office.’

  I shrugged off Sternfeld’s grip and hit the stairs.

  ‘Mr Jarrett! Mr Jarrett! You get back up here or your stay at this school will be finished.’

  What a threat to someone who hated school. See if I cared if a letter home informed me I was expelled. I’d frame it and hang it next to my soccer trophies. No, more. I’d invite everyone round and throw a party! Wardell Road High and me were finished anyway. The Thunderjets saw to that. I couldn’t go anywhere without some homey spying on or threatening me. Paranoia? No way. Finding my Nikes shredded by a flick knife after PE was real enough.

  Quitting school handed Wheeler a victory. But so what? My days here ended a long time ago, just as my bomber days did. If Wheeler believed being king of this dump was a worthwhile achievement then let me hand him the crown. Roll out the red carpet and blow the horns. The school was his. I wouldn’t dispute it. Just as my leadership of the Thunderjets ticked away, so would Wheeler’s. If a rumble didn’t kill him, some wannabe’s ambition would. Being the leader didn’t make a guy invincible.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I hitchhiked into the city after leaving the school grounds for the final time. Wardell Road High was history. I’d never hitched before. Never needed to. Sydney wasn’t the place to do it, even if it was the middle of the day. The bus fare was a bit more than a buck but I wanted to risk it. Say to the world, ‘Come and hurt me’. I wanted something solid to fight.

  In bad situations like this I always wanted to get stoned. Now was no different. If a joint was handy I would’ve lit up. It always seemed to make me happy. Then again, it was the people smoking around me who made me laugh, not the weed. Getting high by myself was boring. But it let me escape for a little while. Forget the real world. That was until the real world tapped me on the shoulder, asked me to turn around, then punched my lights out. Running away from reality only worked for a short time. It always caught up.

  Listen to me. Thinking about getting whacked again. I was past that. If Sean read minds he’d kill me about now. All the trust built up between us would be betrayed. And that was just for thinking about it. I’d hate to guess what would happen if I did return to my aunt and uncle’s stoned.

  I breathed hard. Sometimes being good got in the way of having fun.

  The guy who offered me a lift was a red-haired, freckled waxhead from Ingleburn. Apparently he was on his way to Bondi to catch some waves. He asked where I was going. I said downhill. Within minutes he tuned into Triple J. It seemed the weirdos on the radio were saner than the weirdo in his car.

  Dropped off in the city, I bought two packs of nicotine fix 16s and finished half of one by just walking around deciding what to do. Money was sparse. $4.90 to be precise. Pigeons carried more than that in Sydney. And I’d need all of that for the bus fare back to Baulkham Hills.

  Worst of all my gut was hungry. I’d left my school bag in Old Lady Read’s room along with my lunch. Old hag. It was all her fault. If she had listened, an angry fifteen-year-old kid wouldn’t be reported missing tomorrow morning, a victim last seen leaving Wardell Road High. Great. Just great. Now I was hungry, lost, mad and hallucinating about not making it home. What a day.

  And it just got better and better.

  Smoking more like a bushfire than a chimney, I paced the steps of Town Hall and brooded. What should I do? C’mon, man. What in this ugly hole should I do?

  Clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack —

  The silver trains slithered through the rat nest hidden under the city.

  clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack —

  I hated trains. They threatened me. I rode them once as a king. Now, I loathed them. But why? clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack —

  Clenching the cig between my teeth, I ran across the road, ignoring cars and trucks as they squealed to a stop. Variety stores, bargain junk stalls, pubs and skyscrapers merged into the background as the greenness
of Hyde Park replaced the grey city. Toddlers splashing in the Pool of Remembrance barely noticed me run by. Blowing my budget, I hailed a taxi at Whitlam Square and ordered the driver to take the quickest route possible. Handing over my last coin, I slammed the door shut then ran into St Vincent’s Hospital. ‘Level 7, ward 11,’ the front desk attendant said, after calling up the name of the John Doe brought in last week. ‘But only immediate family can see Mr Eyston! Young man? Young man!’

  Thumbing the UP elevator button, I waited. Paranoia kicked in and images of three suited gorillas jumping me, asking for identification, flashed in my head. They would say, ‘You’re not a relative,’ and I would say, ‘No kidding.’ Then, as with all my daydreams, I’d beat them up — single-handed. I’ve seen too many movies, right?

  But they never came.

  The elevator stopped with a ding! and I stepped out. Mellowing enough so as not to appear suspicious, I read the numbers above the doors. ‘Ward 5, 7, 9 — 11!’ I looked around the corner of this last room where four beds were housed. Two old men in pyjamas, slurping orange solids through tubes, watched Oprah Winfrey laugh at a well-known celebrity’s revelation she knitted booties for her pet chihuahua. A third absorbed the sights of Sydney’s dull towers through a dirty window. The fourth hid behind a white curtain.

  It was to this last bed I walked.

  My heart was out of control and not just because of the running and facing the unknown. I hated hospitals. Ever since Mum was admitted to one, hospitals and me had tried to keep our distances. Sure, the stabbing forced the two of us together again but I was unconscious most of the time and near death. There were just too many bad memories haunting these places. People didn’t come here to have family picnics. People died here. And I swear their spirits still roamed the halls, searching, yearning, calling out to be set free.

  No noise sounded from the bed, suggesting the guy was asleep or unsociable. Introducing myself was going to be a hassle. He didn’t know me, and, really, I didn’t know him. To me Mr Eyston would always be the Trolley Man.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ I cleared my throat, trying to sound polite, ‘do you have a minute?’