George Hamel has the ball now. He barges through the opposing backs, dives for the line, slams the ball right down between the posts. Winner. Score 32–28. Boat Harbour explodes in the stands, cheering and shouting. ‘Hamel! Hamel! Hamel!’
Hamel and Winger leap into the air, slapping hands together. Click. Mr Angelou’s jumping in the air with his hands out. Click. I pan the fields. Blues leaning on each other. Click. Reds crazy with winning. Click. I jump back to Coach’s face. His mouth’s wide open, his teeth exposed and tongue stuffed back against his throat in an ear-piercing shout. Click, click, click.
Chapter 8
Legends
I’m uploading the video and photos of the game onto my computer. Mr Angelou wants to see the photos tomorrow. Some of them . . . I don’t know if I can show him. Ping. Ping. Check my phone. Photos from kids at the game flash up on the screen: George Hamel sliding over the line. Winger sprinting with the ball. Reds and Blues on the field. Kids cheering. Facebook messages keep pinging:
Anna: Great game.
Hotchic1: Hamel’s a legend.
Hotchic2: Winger’s a legend.
That’s got to be Becky and Jasmin. So stupid.
Paulo: Only game to play! Ha!
Eagle: Beast! Beast! Beast!
Christopher: Can’t wait to c yr photos.
Christopher didn’t see what I saw through my camera lens. Inside the scrum. Don’t want to get him involved. Just got to think what to do.
I hear the back door slam. Rob yells down the hallway. ‘How’d the game go?’
‘Great,’ I yell from my bedroom. I’m not in the mood for Rob or anyone.
‘Who won?’
‘Boat Harbour,’ I yell again and close my door.
Rob’s knocking at my door. What’s wrong with him? Can’t he see I don’t want to talk? ‘Hey, Jack. Got something for you.’
I stick my head out of my door and nearly crash into him. Rob’s holding up a jar covered with suction pads. ‘They just came in at work. Thought they’d be good for your experiments. I’ve got a box of them. Come and see.’
I slouch down the hallway. He hands me the jar and I check it out.
‘What do ya think?’
I shake my head. I’m thinking about that scrum. Coach. Winger. But Rob’s just waiting. Got to say something. I turn the jar. ‘Yeah, Rob. It’s a bit like the world.’ I wait a second. ‘If it didn’t suck, we’d all fall off.’ Rob scratches his prickly head. I try to explain. ‘Suck. You know, like life can suck. Like gravity keeps us stuck here? Sucking us onto the world. We’d fall off otherwise. Like the jar has suckers on it. Get it?’
Light-bulb moment. Rob gets it and laughs. Mum looks up from cooking and fluffs her hair. ‘Jack’s so smart.’ Groan. Nanna doesn’t even look up. Firstly she’s half-deaf and secondly she’s too busy helping Sammy clean up another wee. Puppy needs to be toilet trained soon.
‘I’ve got something for you girls too.’ Rob ducks out the back door to the porch. He strides back inside with three bunches of flowers. Long red roses for Mum. ‘For the best babe ever.’ I roll my eyes. Rob twirls Mum around as she holds the flowers close to her chest. ‘And for my other girls.’ Rob gives Samantha a bunch of baby-pink roses and some white jasmine to Nanna.
Samantha hugs Rob. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
A creepy shiver runs down my spine. I wish I knew what a dad was. Where my dad was.
‘They’re lovely, Rob.’ Nanna sniffs the jasmine and waddles over to me so I can sniff too.
I smell the flowers. Can’t help smiling at her toothy grin. Nanna does that to me. ‘Hey, Nanna, I’ll get you a vase.’
Love Nanna. She puts her hand over mine. Her hand’s swollen, a bit twisty, but soft. ‘You’re just like your grandad, Jack.’
Hate Nanna saying that. I’m not as good as Grandad. I wish I was.
Next morning. School. Bell rings. ‘Jack,’ Mr Angelou strides towards me. ‘I’m getting the newsletter together. Great game yesterday. Expect some brilliant shots from our number-one school photographer. Can you show them to me at lunchtime?’
‘Sure.’ Maybe not all of them. I don’t know. Hate Mr Angelou saying I’m the best photographer. I take photos, that’s all.
‘See you in class, Jack.’ He strides off to the staffroom.
Christopher sits next to me in class.
There’re calls across the desks.
‘Great game.’
‘Boat Harbour showed those Forresters.’
‘Go, Winger.’
‘Best captain. George rulz.’
I look around to the back. George Hamel and Winger are lapping it up. Hawkie’s there with a bandaged nose. He sees me staring at him. Grinning stiffly, he taps his bandage, pretending he’s fine.
‘You OK?’ I mouth. He gives a thumbs-up. I turn around. He’s not OK. I’m not either. I’ve got to do something.
Mr Angelou walks in carrying a pile of books. He’s only with us half the time this year since he’s been promoted to Executive Teacher. Mrs Banneker is our other teacher. She likes science. We talk about space sometimes and what I see through my telescope. I showed her the NASA photos of the moon I got from the library. She’s not sure if Ponto will feed the world, but ‘it could’, she says. I’d like that.
‘Ethics today. That means you’ve got to think.’ Mr Angelou taps the smart board. ‘Books are one of the best ways to understand events and people. Work out what you want the world to be. What you can do about it. We’re going to start with ideas from one of the great classics of last century. To Kill A Mockingbird.’ He holds up the book. At the same time ‘To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee’ flashes onto the board.
‘Atticus Finch is a sole parent and the father of Scout, a girl who’s nine and her brother, Jem, who’s nearly thirteen. He gives his children great insights . . .’
Mr Angelou’s voice fades into a murmur. I’m going to be thirteen soon, like Jem. Mum wants me to have a birthday party. ‘It’s an important birthday. You’ll be a teenager,’ she says. We’ve got a mum. Jem and Scout have got a dad. It’s the same, but not. I keep thinking about having a dad. Where he is. Not knowing is worse than Grandad dying. Grandad would have stayed if he could. My gut clamps into rock. I miss Grandad. But he didn’t have a choice. Dad did.
Suddenly there’s an elbow in my ribs. ‘Wake up,’ Christopher whispers. Mr Angelou walks down the aisle. ‘Are you all paying attention?’ Mr Angelou stops still. ‘Atticus said that it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. Let’s see what that means.’
He points to George Hamel. ‘Read out that passage from the board.’ George stands up. He takes a breath, looks nervous. Starts reading.
‘Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.’
There are a few stumbles, but George reads it out. He looks relieved.
‘Thanks, George. Good work.’
Even though he’s not my mate, yeah, it’s good. Everyone needs to be able to read.
‘A mockingbird? Do you know anyone like that?’ Mr Angelou waits. ‘Come on. Someone. Anyone?’ Dead silence. ‘All right. I’ll tell you about one mockingbird I know. Jay. A big man with curly hair. Muscles like a wrestler. He cleaned in my mother’s nursing home in the last few months of her life. My mother was trapped in a wheelchair. He’d sing to her instead of doing his work. My mother felt safe with him but the matron shouted at Jay. One day he didn’t come in any more. He lost his job. I call him a mockingbird.’ He looks around at the class. ‘What do you think? Is Jay a mockingbird?’
Anna’s hand goes up. Mr Angelou nods at her. ‘Yes, he’s a mockingbird because he just wanted your mother to be happy and he didn’t hurt anyone. And he lost his job. It’s cruel.’
‘That’s a great answer, Anna. Do you have a mockingbird you can talk about?’
Anna thinks for
a moment. ‘I guess. Well, Princess Diana.’ There’re a few laughs from the class. Anna’s eyes go dark. Becky bleats like a sheep. For a change, Jasmin doesn’t join in. Maybe because she loves anything ‘princess’. Mr Angelou looks around, but Becky stops quickly, especially since Jasmin isn’t supporting her, so he nods at Anna to go on. ‘She helped homeless people, and kids with AIDS in Africa and she fought against landmines in war, so people wouldn’t get blown up or lose their legs and . . . she was killed in a car crash.’ Anna stands up. ‘She was a mockingbird. And you don’t kill them and you don’t laugh.’
‘You’re right.’ Mr Angelou stares at a few kids tittering.
Anna stands there looking people in the eyes.
I call out. ‘Go Anna.’ I start clapping. Christopher copies. Then Maggie does and her friends. Paul claps too and so does Mr Angelou. Anna sits down. She flicks her hair and raises her chin at me.
‘Thank you, Anna. Now everyone get out your exercise books. I want you to write down the name of one person who you think is a mockingbird. It can be personal or historical or a public figure or whoever you like. Explain why you feel that person is a mockingbird.’ He waits until everyone is ready. ‘Begin now.’
I pick up my pen, stare into space, then slowly print, Nanna. I start writing. It’s like my pen has a life of its own. Writing, writing, like it’ll never stop.
Always there, just there. Not like my dad. And I know you’re sad because Grandad’s gone. I’m sad too, but you get on with everything and you’re funny and help Mum and when Mum had cancer you were there. And you’re always there for all of us. Always here for me. And you say you’re grateful that you’re allowed to live with us. I hate you being grateful because we’re the lucky ones. Nanna, you’re a mockingbird.
I’m not going to read this out to the class.
I wait for Mr Angelou outside the staffroom. ‘The photos, sir. I’ve edited and printed the good ones. What do you think of this one with George Hamel and Winger jumping in the air?’
‘That’s a great action shot. You’ve got natural timing, Jack.’
I grin. ‘You might like this one too.’ I hand him the photo where Mr Angelou’s jumping up with his hands out. His eyes are bulging. He looks like an alien with the sun beaming off his bald head like a laser attack. It’s Star Trek for sure. Just need to say, ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’
Mr Angelou stares at the photo for ages. ‘This is brilliant. This one is going above my desk now.’ He puts the other photos in his folder. ‘So what’s happening about the film clip?’
‘I’m editing it. I’ve been working on a soundboard and want to add some extra sound bites and special effects.’
‘Take your time. I’ve booked the computer lab for you to work on it next week. For your year’s Project Strategy Day. I like the special project on sports and fairness that you’ve chosen to do for this term.’
‘Thanks, sir. Can Christopher do it with me? He’s really smart with techy stuff?’
‘Good idea.’ He flicks through the pile of photos. ‘These are great. Well done.’ He stares at his beam-me-up-Scotty photo again and smiles. ‘OK, Jack, I’ll see you later in class.’
I don’t show him the photos of inside the scrum. Not sure what I should do.
Chapter 9
Wee Puddles
Mum’s sorting out books and I’m on a major job. She keeps coming over to check how it’s going. ‘Looks good, Jack.’ I’ve spent all afternoon measuring and cutting a bigger hole for the flap in the back door. Ollie has no trouble getting through it, but Puppy is hopeless. Those wee puddles and poo accidents in the kitchen are happening all the time. Samantha’s tired of cleaning them up. The other day, Nanna tripped and slid across the floor. A near puddle disaster.
My drill and tools are laid out in order on the verandah. Samantha and Nanna watch me. Ollie’s watching too, but Puppy’s yapping. ‘Hey, quiet. And keep Puppy away. Just stay back.’
Samantha picks up Puppy and rewards him with extra pats and cuddles. I roll my eyes at her. ‘Great training. Not.’
Samantha doesn’t care and keeps hugging Puppy. I think even Ollie rolls his eyes. I widen the opening. Check, adjust, file. Then I install the bigger doggy door. I flip it in and out. A few more adjustments. It’s pretty good.
Mum calls out to me as she mixes the vegetable stir-fry. ‘That’s wonderful, Jack. Puppy’s going to love it.’
‘As long as he uses it. No more puddles inside.’
‘Can he try it?’ Mum waves her wooden spoon in the air like a conductor. She’s always got music inside her head. Maybe that’s why my embarrassing mother dances around and does star jumps.
‘Yep. All good to go.’
‘Come on, Puppy. You have to use this.’ Samantha pushes Puppy through the flap again and again. Suddenly Puppy gets it and jumps through the flap himself. Nanna claps. Mum does a star jump just as Rob comes bounding in with his new super dishwashing gloves. ‘Is that star jump for me?’ He flashes the gloves around. ‘New product. Just came in at work.’
I groan.
Rob notices the improved dog door. Stops. Checks it out. ‘Pretty good, Jack.’
‘Dinner’s ready in a minute,’ Mum sings out. That means action. Dinner’s family time, no excuses. There’re scuffles as we scramble for the table. Samantha pulls out her chair, and gurgles, ‘You did such a great job, Jack. On the Puppy door.’
Nanna beams. ‘Jack’s a fixer. Can fix anything.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
Mum’s dishing out food.
I gulp down a whole carrot in one bite. ‘Great dinner, Mum.’
Mum shines. She loves a compliment. We’re eating, talking about the new door flap, when she casually says, ‘Oh, by the way, Leo’s coming down this weekend. He hasn’t seen Puppy yet. Or the Puppy door. And we want to see Leo.’ She glances at Rob. ‘He’s part of our family.’
Samantha nods. Nanna raises her eyebrows at me. She knows. Leo. What am I supposed to feel? He’s not my brother. He’s not like Sammy. He’s OK. Mum looks at me. She brushes back her hair. Rob looks at me. He misses Leo. They want me to like him.
‘Leo. That’s great.’
Rob bounces up from the table. ‘We can all surf.’ He’s so excited. I don’t feel excited. He heads for the sink and turns the tap onto boiling. ‘Dishes, everyone.’
I carry over plates. Steam is pumping out of the sink. ‘You’ll get third-degree burns, Rob.’
‘Not with these new super-protective dishwashing gloves.’ He waves his yellow rubber hands in the air.
I laugh. I suppose I don’t mind Leo really. He’s a good surfer. Just that he’s not my best mate and Rob goes strange when he stays. It’s like no one else exists when Leo arrives. It’s fine, I guess. It’s not like Rob is my real dad.
I pin a new photo of Anna with the red ribbons in her hair on my photo wall. She gave me one of the ribbons. It smells like roses. Like her.
Grandad’s photo is right next to it. I stare at the photo. I hear Grandad’s voice. ‘Jack, you’ve got to find the answers you need.’ I don’t know how, Grandad. Tell me how. The face in the small photo at the bottom of my wall glares at me. It’s my father, wherever he is, whoever he is.
I look out into the hallway and see a light coming from Nanna’s room. I knock on her door. ‘Come in.’ Nanna looks up from her armchair where it sits overlooking the garden. She puts down her book—Advanced Bridge Rules.
‘Bridge?’
‘I’ll have to teach you one day.’ Nanna smiles.
‘One day.’ I pick up one of her bridge trophies from her side table. ‘You’re so smart, Nanna.’ There’s a small tapestry in a gold frame on the wall just above the side table. Nil desperandum. There’s a translation underneath. Never despair. I look at Nanna.
‘Your Grandad always believed there was a way forward. Not to give up and despair.’ Nanna looks at it. ‘Grandad really liked the tapestry. I can’t embroider these days with my arthritis.’ She
rubs her hands.
There’s a photo of Grandad in Vietnam in his khaki uniform next to the tapestry. ‘Grandad always said that you have to defend what you believe in. War is the last resort. He didn’t like war.’
Nanna gets up and walks towards the tapestry. ‘You’re so much like your grandad. A hero.’
‘I’m not, Nanna.’
Nanna stares at the photo. ‘When your father left, Grandad was here. I loved watching you work with him. Fixing things together.’
‘Wish he was here, Nanna.’
‘I do too.’ Nanna presses her hand against the tapestry. ‘His heart attack was so sudden. And you were just a boy running for Mum and me.’
I feel my legs running. Grandad lying on the ground and calling for help. I whisper, ‘I didn’t save him, Nanna. I should have saved him.’
Nanna gasps. ‘Don’t ever say that. Ever. You were the last person he saw. That was a gift to him, Jack. He loved you so much.’ She puts her hand over mine. ‘We pulled together afterwards. Just like he’d want. Your mum was strong, but you were strong too. And you got stronger. It takes all kinds to be heroes.’
I go back to my room.
‘Hector, do you want some cookie crumbs?’
His white tail flicks as I dribble crumbs into his cage. Thinking. Thinking. I go to my computer and type the words carefully. I print out Nil desperandum. Never despair. I pin it on my photo wall next to Grandad.
Chapter 10
Cliff Tops and Beaches
The wind bites into my face this morning as I pedal down the streets. I fling my last newspaper into the last house on the street and it skids to the front door. A man in pyjamas comes out. ‘Good throw.’
I wave and start to bike home. A couple of dogs chase me down the street and I pedal harder. They give up. Suddenly I don’t want to go home. I swerve into a side street, skimming over rocks on the dirt track. Birds whistle as I jump broken branches and race to the cliff tops.
Puffing, I skid my bike to a stop and stare out to sea. The waves crash against the rocks. The beach is quiet. Grandad used to take me down there. I leave my bike at the cliff top and climb down the track. It’s steep and the loose dirt and rocks roll under my feet. I grab onto trees so I don’t slide to the bottom.
Being Jack Page 4