Being Jack

by Susanne Gervay

  I swallow. ‘Yeah, Mum. We’ll have a great barbecue.’

  Chapter 5

  Hot Sausages!

  Rob blowing up the barbecue was something. I bend over my desk and upload the video clip and post it on Facebook. Too funny.

  I check out Ponto on my windowsill. It’s Ponto Number 39 and growing really well. I cross my fingers that this one works. I take a few photos of it. Put down my camera and do some work on my soundboard. Ping. Ping. I look at my screen and hoot. Rob and the barbecue.

  Comments:

  Paulo: Im so boooored doing homewk. Hey Worlds WORST cook!

  Christopher: Whoooooahhhh!!!!! Rob’s on fire.

  Anna: What happened? C ya soon.

  Likes: 4. Shares: 3.

  ‘C ya soon?’ I look at the time and scramble to my cupboard. Anna’s going to be here any minute. I drag on my jeans. Get out my T-shirt. Anna’ll like this one for sure. Splashed across it is We are all star stuff—Carl Sagan. I drag it over my head. Socks. I sniff them. Clean. Phew. Pull them on, then shove my feet into my shoes.

  The doorbell rings. The Napolis’ voices echo down the hall. I check myself in the mirror. Flick my hair back. It’s not too bad. OK. I sprint down the hallway. Mrs Napoli is handing Mum a gigantic salad platter with lots of olives. Mr Napoli puts his arms around Mum and gives her a whopping Italian double-cheek kiss.

  Anna’s standing behind them holding a mango cake. I catch my breath. She looks really amazing, wearing a green and yellow flowery dress with a golden ribbon through her hair. Anna smiles at me. She flicks her head so that her dark hair swirls. ‘Hi, Jack.’

  ‘Hi, Anna.’ My face goes hot.

  Anna laughs and kisses each of my cheeks. From the corner of my eye, I see Mum with a know-all smile. My face gets hotter.

  I growl under my breath, ‘Can you stop, Mum?’

  Lucky for me, just at that second, Christopher’s parents appear at the door with baskets of bread and cakes. Mum’s distracted. ‘Wonderful to see you. You shouldn’t have brought so much.’

  Christopher and I slap hands. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Anna stamps her foot, then raises her hand. ‘What about me? Or is it only for the boys?’

  ‘Only for the boys.’ I wink at her and lift my arm. She thinks it’s hilarious and we slap hands. Then Christopher does the same and the three of us head out through the backyard to the park just past the back fence.

  The clouds are white ribbons across the sky. The sun’s shining and the cricket game is on. Christopher and I are fielding. Mum’s bowling, except she can’t bowl. Rob’s trying to help Mum. Wish him luck there. Samantha is cheering. She really knows how to cheer. Loudly. My eardrums are going to burst. Mr Tran is batting, except he can’t bat. Nanna is scoring. So at least someone can do something right.

  Mum bowls a weak throw to Mr Tran who hits the ball up into the sky.

  Nanna throw her hands in the air and calls out. ‘Six.’

  The ball sails out over the field into the bush. Christopher waves to his dad. ‘Shot, Dad.’

  ‘Six and out, mate. House rules.’ Rob raises his hands.

  Mr Tran accepts it. ‘Ahhhh . . . OK.’

  It’s Anna’s turn. She takes the bat from Mr Tran and gets into place. Her face is scrunched and the wind catches her curls. She waits for Mum to bowl.

  ‘Go, Anna,’ I call out.

  Anna’s face lights up as she turns to look at me.

  Mum sings back, laughing, ‘She’s on the wrong team, Jack.’

  ‘The wrong team, Jack. Ha, ha.’

  ‘Shut up, Christopher. Can we watch the game?’

  Mum’s rainbow skirt flips up and her hair fuzzes into a ball as she runs with her arm raised. She throws the ball. Anna swings, thumping out a huge lollipop hit. The ball sails through the air and I run towards it. ‘Got it. Got it.’ Getting into position, I eye the ball’s arc. It’s going to land right in my hands like a fat plum falling off a tree. Wow, Mum so can’t bowl. Screams belt out from the field, ‘Go, Jack. Go, Jack. Catch it.’

  Like in slow motion the ball heads for me. My arms are out. I glance at Anna racing as fast as she can to get runs. The palms of my hands open, the ball touches my hands. I fumble, letting it slip through my fingers. Groans and laughs come from everywhere.

  ‘Ohhhh . . . Just missed that.’ I bend down to pick up the ball and sneak a look at Anna.

  She’s beaming. It was worth it.

  Cricket’s over and no one’s sure who won. In the end, Nanna was hopeless at scoring. Too busy talking to Mrs Tran about how to bake buns. Who cares? Starving Jack. It’s barbecue time.

  I can’t believe it. Rob’s still wearing his World’s Greatest Cook hat. I give him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. He nods towards Mum. Oh, that’s right. She bought it for him. And the matching apron. He’s got to wear it. ‘Lookin’ good, Rob.’

  ‘I’m a good-lookin’ bloke.’ Rob rubs his prickly head and nearly knocks off his hat. He chuckles and flips the sausages with the tongs. ‘They’re gunna be perfect.’

  Christopher, Mr Tran and Mr Napoli are standing together talking, holding their drinks. There’s growly yapping going on. Everyone looks around. Anna and Samantha are chasing Puppy, who’s chasing his tail. I call out, ‘Puppy’s gunna catch that tail. That’ll be the end of the story. Ha, ha.’

  Christopher laughs. ‘That’s funny, Jack.’

  ‘I’m a funny guy.’

  Rob’s in the middle of demonstrating to Mr Napoli how he put a new clutch in his van. I sniff and look down. Wisps of black smoke pump from the barbecue. I nudge Rob. ‘Perfect?’

  He looks down. ‘Yipes.’ He grabs the tongs.

  I shout. ‘Burned sausages ready. Come and get them.’

  Chapter 6

  Red Socks

  I hear Nanna in the bathroom. She had a lot of cookies and cream buns. I bet she has a stomachache. She said that she would just have one more bun. Just one more. She really can’t control herself. I like that her room is at the end of the hallway, overlooking the garden. She watches me when I’m working on my experiments outside. She gets a cup of tea, a cookie, a book, but she looks out to see what’s happening. I wave to her and she waves back.

  I peer through my telescope. The moon is a little bigger tonight. There’s so much out there we can’t see. So much here we can’t see. Today was a great day. I start chuckling at the hopeless joke Christopher told me on the cricket field.

  ‘Why are Trans so useful? They Trans-fix!’

  He’s smart and he’ll become a doctor and save the world, but he sure can’t tell jokes. The Trans don’t tell many jokes. Maybe because they work really hard in their bakery to make up for everything in Vietnam. The war. Leaving their family there. Escaping in an old wooden boat. Christopher was happy his parents took time off and came to the barbecue today. Me too.

  I look at my photo wall. There’s Christopher and me with our Vietnam project. Mr Angelo made everyone do the project—on where our families came from and who we are. I didn’t know about Christopher’s family before. Grandad fought in the Vietnam War. Christopher’s family lived through it, escaped and are here, safe. We’re best mates now. Mum took the photo. It’s actually in focus, which is a miracle. I stare at Grandad’s medals on my wall. He’s a hero. Saved a soldier’s life. A shiver runs down my back. Nanna made me take the medals. ‘But I’m not a hero,’ I told her. She said Grandad wanted me to have them.

  Ping. Ping. My phone. Message.

  Anna: Did U drop the ball on purpose?

  I message back.

  Jack: Sun was in my eyes. U did a great hit.

  Anna messages back.

  Anna: Had fun.

  Me too. The sun gets in my eyes. I check out Anna’s photo on the wall. ‘At least when she’s around. Did I say that aloud, Hector?’ I give Hector a few cookie crumbs. ‘Promise not to tell.’

  The school bus is packed and everyone’s wearing red. Red streamers, red T-shirts, red armbands. Re
d wash-away tattoos on arms and legs. Becky’s got George Hamel written in red marker up her leg. She’s a dope. I’m wearing red socks. It’s the big game today. Our school, Boat Harbour, against the enemy—Forrest Lodge. I wave at Christopher as he gets on. He’s stuck at the front of the bus. He tries to move towards us. Some idiot blocks him. ‘Stay put, four-eyes.’ Yeah, it’s Winger of course.

  I yell out to Christopher. ‘I’m here.’ He waves, wedged between kids.

  Anna’s hair is a mass of red ribbons. She looks up and smiles. I smile back and feel my face go hot. Everyone’s stuck between kids. I look out of the window as the bus bumps along the cliffs. I never get sick of looking at the ocean.

  The bus pulls up. A red army of kids piles off. Christopher and Anna wait for me. We rattle into the schoolyard together, with Samantha following.

  Paul bounds up. ‘Hey guys. Big game today.’ He passes his football between his hands.

  Mr Angelou’s voice comes over the PA system. ‘Everyone to the hall for assembly. Quietly and quickly, please.’

  Mrs Lopez hurries down from the library with red ribbons around her wrists. All the teachers will be at the game today.

  There’s laughing, shoving, running as we pile into the hall. Paul thumps to the front with the rest of his team. I see George Hamel give him a high-five. They’re in the same team, but I sort of wish they weren’t. Paul’s my mate, not his. George Hamel doesn’t notice me. All of a sudden, I get this sick feeling inside. Flashes of George chasing me last year, yelling at me, shoot through my head. I grit my teeth and look at Christopher who’s right beside me. I’m not letting George Hamel, Winger or anyone make me feel like nothing ever again. Smiling, I pretend to punch Christopher in the arm. ‘Hey, like your red socks.’

  He laughs. ‘Yeah, great minds think alike.’

  We tumble into our seats. Anna sits on my right side with Maggie next to her. Christopher’s on my left. Principal Brown is on the stage. The hall quietens. He welcomes everyone then motions for us all to get up. ‘Everyone stand for the school song.’ The music starts and we sing. Principal Brown nods. ‘Well done.’ He mustn’t have heard me: I sound like a frog. He directs Mr Angelou onto the stage.

  Mr Angelou motions to everyone to sit. The he nods at George Hamel and the football team and climbs the stage steps. He looks like an overfed giant, with his bald head shining. His voice booms through the hall. ‘Today is the big game. You all look great in school colours. I don’t know who’ll win this game, but Boat Harbour will win if we all show school spirit and do our best.’ He looks down at the front row of footy players and gestures for them to stand. They all get up, turn around and wave. ‘Let’s give it up for our champion team.’ Mr Angelou applauds and everyone else joins in. He points to George Hamel. ‘Now for the captain of the 13As. George Hamel, come on up.’

  George Hamel charges up the steps and everyone claps. I slow clap and slide a look at Anna. She’s finger clapping. Mr Angelou gives him the microphone, then stands back.

  ‘Thanks, everyone. We’ll do our best.’ He throws his arm into the air. ‘Go Reds. Go Boat Harbour.’

  The audience hoots and whistles. George waves everyone down. The hall quietens. ‘This is gunna be a great game.’ He lifts his arms over his head, then pumps his fists. The footballers follow him. The assembly does too, cheering and waving.

  Mr Angelou’s voice booms across the stage. ‘Settle down. Settle down.’ He points to the front row. ‘Stand up, boys. Winger. Hawkie. Paul. All of you. Stand, boys. Turn around.’ They get up and face the crowd.

  George looks at the audience. ‘We’re gunna win this.’ He raises one arm and yells. ‘Yeahhh.’

  The assembly erupts. Winger belts the air. Hawkie copies him. The others follow. George Hamel’s voice blasts over the mic. ‘Come on, Boat Harbour.’

  More yelling. George holds out his arm to Principal Brown and Mr Angelou, who nod. George waves to the audience. ‘Thanks. I mean it. Thanks, everyone.’ He winks at Becky, who shrieks. The hall fills with shouts, whistles and stamping feet.

  I don’t stamp my feet even though George Hamel is a great footy player. Even though the hall is full of everyone else’s cheers. I can’t forget. Last year. It was bad. I still don’t get how it happened. Why it happened. Why I couldn’t stop it. Why kids did it. Why my friends weren’t friends any more. Then there’s the pool. I shudder. I don’t get how people could do that to anyone. Corner, trap, hunt. Like I’m a bug to be squashed. Bullying. And I still don’t get why it was me. George Hamel got caught in the end. So did his mates. Suspended from school. George won’t do it again to me or anyone. I won’t let it happen again. But I can’t cheer.

  These days George Hamel says hello to me in the corridors and in the playground. I say hello to him as well, but we’re not mates. Not after what happened at the pool. Since then, Mr Angelou keeps an eye on him, but today everyone’s forgotten because he’s the captain of the footy team. The hero.

  Anna puts her hand on my arm. I jump. Her eyes look worried. She mouths, ‘Are you OK?’

  Anna hasn’t forgotten. A true friend.

  I take a breath. ‘Sure.’

  George Hamel gives the audience the thumbs-up. The clapping goes on and on as he walks off the stage.

  As we head out of the hall to class, Mr Angelou calls me over. ‘Are you right to take photos at the game today? Do some filming as well?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘I can always depend on you, Jack.’

  Chapter 7

  Game’s On

  The stands are insane with screams. Rows of Forrest Lodge kids are a mass of blue with blue streamers, hats, signs—WIN BLUES. Go Blue, Go. BEAST Blues. Rows of Boat Harbour kids are a mass of red with red streamers, hats, signs—Reds Rulz. Hamel’s a Legend, BOAT HARBOUR ROCKS! Teachers march along the aisles checking that everyone is sitting and not being idiots. Click. Click. Click.

  Players line up. The coaches huddle with their teams giving last-minute moves. Mr Angelou is the referee. I’m on the sidelines. Mr Angelou nods at me. ‘Right, Jack?’ I hold up my camera and nod. I’m filming this. Christopher tries to look useful and carries my camera case, but we’re really just hanging together. He’s got his black glasses tied on with rubber bands, just in case he gets knocked. ‘Glasses, Christopher.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Nerd alert.’

  He shrugs. ‘You’re right, but I can’t get them broken.’

  I laugh. ‘Loser.’

  He smiles. ‘Yep, that’s me.’

  ‘Ready to run? You’ve got to keep up with me. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ He pats his rubber bands. ‘And ready.’

  Mr Angelou blows the whistle and it’s on. George Hamel charges down the field, handling the ball with real know-how, out the front of his team. There’s a roar from the Reds—‘Boat Harbour. Boat Harbour. Go George. Beast. Beast. Beast.’ The Blue’s Centre intercepts and there’s a roar from the Blues—‘Forrest Lodge. Forrest Lodge. Go, Legend. Go.’

  I focus my lens into the stands, filming yells, faces exploding, kids jumping up and waving hands. Becky’s long red hair flies in the wind as she throws her arms in the air. Jasmin’s screaming next to her. I stop on Anna, who’s calling out, ‘Reds! Reds! Reds!’ Maggie’s jumping all over her. There’s a huge shout from the stands. I turn my camera onto the game. Winger has the ball. He’s lightning-fast, belting down the field, outstripping the Blues. Then it’s Paul. He takes a pass and runs. He’s down, tackled by a huge guy, the ball knocked out of his hands.

  Mr Angelou blows the whistle. There’s a scrum. Paul’s catching his breath. I crouch at the sidelines. Focus my lens deep into the clump of guys. Paul looks around, nods at Mr Angelou, then he throws the ball into the scrum.

  Legs, arms, spikes, kicks. I film shots of a hand yanking an ear, nearly pulling it off. Spikes dig into legs and there’re screams. George Hamel’s hand grabs hard into a thigh. Winger’s face drips sweat as he belts players. Hawkie’s in his way, pressing against him. Win
ger growls and jabs back his elbow. George Hamel tries to grab Winger’s arm. Too late. Winger’s elbow slams against Hawkie’s face. Hawkie falls to the ground, groaning. His nose’s covered in blood. It looks broken. I film. Then take stills. Click. Click. Click.

  Mr Angelou blows the whistle hard. The game stops. Reds and Blues look at each other, stand up, grazed knees, mud on faces, hands on hips, taking the chance to catch a breath. George Hamel grabs Winger. Away from Mr Angelou and forgetting about me, he says, ‘Whatcha do? Hawkie’s our man.’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  Coach quickly checks out Hawkie, the old man’s cauliflower ears and bent nose close to Hawkie’s face. He sprays water on Hawkie’s bloody nose.

  ‘It hurts, Coach.’

  Coach’s face is blotchy purple. ‘You’re all right. Man up, Hawkie. Are you a hawk? Or a chicken?’ Coach waves to some guys to help Hawkie off the field. Christopher and I watch. I get this sick angry feeling inside. I rumble to Christopher, ‘Coach has a birdbrain. No. That’s insulting to birds. He’s got no brain.’

  ‘Some people never change.’ Christopher turns to look at the old man.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ I click Coach’s face: pink and angry. Coach calls George Hamel over. They talk. Coach motions a reserve to get onto the field then shouts to Mr Angelou. ‘Hawkie’s fine.’ I turn my camera on Hawkie. He’s not fine. What am I supposed to do?

  Mr Angelou waves. Blows his whistle. Game’s on again. It’s fast and furious. Score is 18–16 to the Blues. Half-time. Guys are gulping down water, huddled with their coaches.

  George Hamel eyes his team, thrusts out his arm. ‘Come on, guys. We can do this. Right?’

  The team slap hands. ‘Right.’ ‘Right.’ ‘Right.’

  Second half. The Reds run onto the field. The Blues run on too. The whistle. Tries, runs, scrums. Crowd yells. ‘Go George. Smash ’em.’

  Coach races along the sidelines, shouting. ‘Winger: throw. George: now. Now! Kill ’em. Kill ’em.’