‘OK.’ I can hardly hear him.
‘But I’m going to talk to George Hamel first. Winger and the other guys too, if I have to.’
Christopher takes off his glasses and rubs them. His eyes are panicky. ‘Why are you doing that?’
‘It’s more than the scrum. It’s your school bag! I’ve seen the messages too, Christopher. I know what they’re doing.’ I don’t say the words aloud—four-eyes, chink, slanty eyes. ‘Let’s talk to them. Get it over with.’ The bus appears at the end of the road, chugging towards us. Christopher doesn’t answer. I pull his shirt. ‘So we’re doing it?’
‘Not today.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow.’
‘All right. We’ll do it tomorrow.’
Sports afternoon. Our bags are packed. We dump them at the change rooms. I’ve been taken off the reserves bench at last. A real footy game. It’s not the 13As, but a game. Coach has discovered my ‘talent’. Good, because my bum was getting sore just sitting on the benches. There’s a yell. A whistle. Game’s on. The ball’s being passed along the line. Freddie’s running fast. I’m like an eagle. The ball’s coming my way. Pulse racing. Got to stop that ball going over the wrong line. I jump, sliding in the dirt, my arms outstretched. A save. A save.
Screams from my team. ‘Yeah, Jack. Yeah.’
I give a thumbs-up. Maybe I’m good at this. I save a few more. Throw some good passes. Whistle. Yeah, our team wins. Slapping hands, we race off the field. ‘Great saves, Jack.’ I feel pretty good.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I jostle with everyone to the bus stop. I look around for Christopher at the bus line. He’s not here. Paul runs up. ‘So you’re not bad at footy. Maybe you’ll get onto my team.’
‘I’m fine where I am.’ I look over at Hawkie. His nose isn’t bandaged any more, but he’s still got two black eyes.
Paul pretend-boxes me and we jump around, bumping into a few kids.
Mr Angelou’s voice booms across the bus line. ‘Hey, stop that.’
I message Christopher:
Jack: Where were you this arvo?
Christopher: Went home sick. Flu.
Jack: R U OK?
Christopher: OK but have to take the rest of the week off.
It’s late. I keep thinking about Christopher. As if he’s sick. I check out my photo wall and move the photo of him in front of the Tran Bakery to the middle. Right next to Grandad in his army uniform.
I go to my desk. My computer screen stares at me like a brainless idiot. I press Search. No answers. More dead ends. My birth notice comes up again and again. Yeah, I know, I know. I can’t find my father. Where is he? Where? I hit my fist on the desk, turn off the screen and get up to go to the kitchen. Mum’s baked another banana cake, since it’s my favourite. I need a big piece. As I open my door, I see light coming from under Nanna’s door. She might want a piece too. I call out, then knock, ‘Nanna. It’s me.’
‘Come in, me.’
Nanna’s a joker too. She puts down her bridge book. She’s already a champion. Smiling, she pats the chair next to her armchair. Puss investigates from the windowsill. Puss is always checking out the world. ‘Do you want some banana cake?’
‘Hmm. Sounds delicious. With a cup of tea. But in a minute, Jack.’ She pats the chair next to her again. ‘It meant a lot that you came with me to see Grandad.’
I sit down and lean towards Nanna. ‘Me too.’
‘You know how I said you can talk to him? And to me?’ I nod. ‘It’s sometimes really hard to talk, but I know there’s something wrong. You were so quiet at the cemetery.’ I try to look down, but Nanna stares at me, right in the eyes. ‘I’m here. I don’t know all the answers, or even any answers. But if we talk, maybe you’ll find your own.’
I can’t tell Nanna about my nightmares. I can’t tell her what I do every night at the computer. I shake my head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Mum’s excited about your birthday.’
I groan. ‘Too excited.’
Nanna gives me a knowing look. ‘Anna is too. She’s such a dear girl.’
I stammer. ‘I like her.’
She puts out her hand to me. ‘I met your Grandad when I was at school. Though I was a bit older than you.’ Her eyes twinkle as she remembers. ‘You’ll be thirteen very soon. That’s such a special age. Trust me. What are you worried about?’
It’s so hard to talk. I look at her. She watches me. ‘OK, Nanna. But you can’t tell Mum. She’s better now and she’s happy with Rob. Her hair’s grown back. You can never tell.’
‘I won’t. I promise. You know I keep my word.’
I take a breath. I stammer at first, then it comes like a river. Pouring, crashing out in a massive flood about Christopher, George Hamel, Winger—the pool, which is always in the corner of my mind. And how Mum could have died and I need to be there for her and my family and then I take a breath. But more comes out, about Grandad dying and leaving and Rob and no Dad.
Nanna listens until I don’t talk any more. We sit for a long time. Then she gets up and shuffles to her chest of drawers. She pulls out socks and purple underpants. I can’t help smiling. Then she turns around, holding an old shoebox. She shuffles back to her armchair. ‘Your mum threw out these letters and documents eight years ago. There’re photos, addresses. I’ve added things, when I’ve seen snippets in the newspapers, or overheard people talk. I’ve written things down. Your mum doesn’t know I have this box. But I kept it for you. For when you’d ask me.’ She hands me the shoebox.
My hands are shaking. ‘What’s in here?’
‘Take it back to your room. Open it. Talk to me when you’re ready. I’ll have the banana cake tomorrow, Jack.’
Slowly I stand up, walk to the door, turn to Nanna. She nods and I leave holding the box. I get to my bedroom, slump onto my bed, lay the shoebox on my blanket. I take a deep breath and lift the lid. There’re old papers. I shuffle through them. Cuttings from newspapers. Wedding notices with Dad’s name crossed off. Mum must have been so scared. By herself. There’s their wedding. I smile. Mum’s wearing a hippie skirt that flounces with pale yellow daises. She’s wearing a daisy flower ring in her hair. Her blonde hair is long with ringlets that go to her shoulders. Mum’s beautiful. Then I stare at Dad. He’s wearing gold square-framed glasses, a black suit with a purple velvet bow tie. I snigger. Who wears a purple velvet bow tie? I get up, walk around the room. I’ve been looking for him for so long.
There’s shuffling down the corridor. I panic and throw my blanket over the box. Woof, woof. It’s only Puppy racing to the flap door. I let out a breath and push the blanket away. More paper. Then I see it. I see it. Addresses. Boat Harbour. No, crossed out: not there. More addresses. No, not there. Not there. Not there. Then I see Nanna’s scribbly writing. An address. A phone number. Not crossed out. He’s there. Genoa Caves.
Chapter 18
Where’s Four-Eyes?
Genoa Caves. Can’t stop thinking about it. Should I ring? I have to, but when’s the right time? What if Dad doesn’t remember me? That’s stupid. He’ll remember me. I remember him. Got to talk to Nanna. Everyone’s at breakfast and there’s no time.
Nanna murmurs in my ear. ‘Do you want to have that banana cake tonight? Just us?’
‘Yes. A lot of banana cake.’
The school bus chugs along. Christopher isn’t on it. I gaze out of the window. I jump when Anna taps me on my shoulder. ‘What do you think of yellow and blue streamers for birthday decorations? For under the shed awning?’ I twist around. She beams like a sunflower. Samantha thumps the back of my seat.
‘Fine.’ I’m totally uninterested. Anna’s face drops and Samantha’s thump deflates. ‘Oh, oh . . . sorry. Love streamers.’ Anna re-beams and Samantha re-thumps. They go back to chattering about my birthday. I go back to gazing out of the window until we reach school.
Classroom. I slide into my seat at my desk. Christopher’s seat is empty. I watch the door. Maybe he’ll come. H
e’s not sick. Ping. Ping. Check my phone. Facebook messages:
Beast: Where’s 4-eyes.
A photo of Christopher’s broken glasses flash up.
Oki44: Whatcha call a FISH with no eyes?
FSH!!!!!
Eagle: Christopha. Ha. fishface.
Likes: 9. Shares: 1.
I glare around the room. George Hamel’s smirking, looking at Winger’s knees. Winger’s got to be Eagle. He’s sending those fish jokes for sure.
The classroom door creaks open. Like lightning everyone turns off their phones: pings shut down all over the classroom. They’re banned at school and doubly banned in class. We don’t want our phones confiscated. It’s a tough policy. Glad the school’s grump handyman’s so slack that he hasn’t oiled the door’s hinges. Mr Angelou’s bald head appears.
‘Ethics today.’
I can’t think. Genoa Caves. Christopher. Dad. I pretend to write and keep my head down. Got to talk to George Hamel first. Then see what happens. My head’s pounding.
Lunchtime bell. I stalk George Hamel all lunch. He doesn’t see me. Ducking behind a tree, I watch him stuff down a sandwich with his mates. Then he’s doing push-ups with Winger, Paul, his team at footy practice. George has a lot of muscles. I check out his knuckles. Yeah, he’s got muscles there too. All of a sudden, he jumps up and runs across the sports field. Where’s he going? I follow him, dodging kids, hiding behind garbage bins. He’s at the boys’ toilet block. Clang. Clang. He belts the metal door as he bounds inside. Hanging near the benches outside, I wait and try not to look suspicious. My hands are sweating as I check, look around, check. Clang. Clang. I nearly jump out of my skin. George Hamel belts the metal door again and charges out of the toilet block. With the speed of light, I step in front of him. He lurches to a halt. ‘What the . . .?’
‘Sorry, mate. Need to talk to you, George.’
He puts his hands on his hips and we face each other. When did I get as tall as George Hamel? Nausea grips my guts. I gulp. I remember George Hamel and his gang chasing me, sneering at me ‘bum head’, ‘butt head’ and much worse. But that’s over. The pool’s over. That’s not me any more. I’m not taking it. I’ve got to do this for Christopher. For me. ‘It’s the film clip of the footy game. When you beat the Blues. Mr Angelou wants to see it.’ My heart’s pounding. I look George Hamel straight in the eyes. ‘To be fair, I want to show you first. There’s stuff in it you’d want to see.’ I stand straight with my feet apart, cemented to the ground.
George Hamel squints towards the sports field. ‘I’ve got to get back to practice.’
‘So do ya want to see it or not?’
He squints at me now. ‘OK. After.’
‘Meet you at the side door.’
George belts off. Casually, I wander towards the side door. A few kids yell out hi. I don’t stop as I yell ‘hi’ back. I wait there. Wait. Wait. It’s ages. Is he coming? Then I see him. He charges straight for me.
‘This way.’ I open the side door and we creep into the corridor. It’s out of bounds at lunchtime. We race towards our classroom. I look through the window to make sure Mr Angelou or Mrs Banneker aren’t there. Empty. ‘Come on.’ We sneak inside. I take out my laptop from my bag and slide it onto my desk. George watches as I set it up. I press play. The school song and cheers blast into the classroom. We both jump. Quickly I push minus on the volume. The clip plays. George smirks as Becky screams ‘George, George, George’ and Jasmin jumps. The film cuts to the game. Winger’s running with the ball. George’s leaping. Paul’s passing. It’s fast, fast, fast, broken up with shots of Mr Angelou running with the game, the Coach yelling ‘George: now. Now! Kill ’em. Kill ’em,’ and the cheering crowd.
The scrum takes up the whole shot. It moves like one massive beast. The ball’s thrown in and the camera’s inside the belly . . . then there’s Hawkie and the blood.
We’re dead silent, watching. When it ends, I look at George. He doesn’t go ballistic. He doesn’t say a word as I pack everything away. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I whisper. I peer through the classroom window into the corridor to make sure no one’s around. I creak open the door. I wish it didn’t creak now. Then we run as fast as we can to the exit and we’re outside and safe.
We look at each other. George grunts. ‘Let’s talk, Jack.’
‘Library?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Mrs Lopez raises her eyebrow when she sees George Hamel and me together. ‘Are you right, Jack?’ I nod at her. ‘Sure?’ She gives George a suspicious look.
‘I’m right.’
‘Well, you know I’m here if you need me.’
I smile at her. How’d anyone survive without the library? I look around at the books. There’s my old spot in the Science corner. ‘Over there.’ George follows me.
‘You know the library pretty well, Jack.’
‘You should come in sometime.’ I scan the sports section as we walk past, and grab a book. The Greats of Football. ‘You’d like this one.’
He takes it and flicks some pages as we walk. ‘Hmmm. Could do.’
We drop into two beanbags. George Hamel leans back into his bag, puts the book on the floor and watches me. He’s not giving me a free kick. He doesn’t have to. It’s my game. I’ve got to play this right. How do I even start? I close my eyes for a second, grit my teeth, then spit it out. ‘Winger’s a mean bum.’
George Hamel laughs. ‘Yeah he is sometimes.’
‘He’s going for Christopher. Names. Fishface. Chink. Sending them out everywhere. Jokes that aren’t funny.’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’re photos. Messages. Facebook. Christopher’s glasses. He can’t see without them. The Tran Bakery had chink painted across it.’ I wait, look at George. I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to say. ‘You’re in on it.’
He punches his fist into his hand. I hide this gut-wrenching panic. I glance around. There’s Mrs Lopez.
‘Nah. Just laughing along.’
‘That’s how come they do it, George.’
He grinds his fist into his eye socket. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know, OK. Look. I didn’t know about the painting on the Trans’ shop. I wouldn’t do anything to Christopher myself. I don’t do that stuff any more.’ He rubs his hand across his forehead. ‘Ya know, I’m sorry. Sorry I did that garbage to you in the pool. Bullied you. I don’t feel great about it. I don’t want to do it any more. To anyone.’ It’s the first time he’s really said sorry and meant it.
My panic subsides. I have to tell him. ‘You know I’ll be showing Mr Angelou the film clip.’
George Hamel looks me in the eye. ‘Show it then. Winger needs a kick up the butt.’
‘He’ll be in trouble.’
‘Yeah, he will.’
‘You could be too.’
‘I can take it. I’m the captain. Hawkie’s our man. Should’ve told. Footy’s a good game. Got to keep it clean.’
My head’s spinning. George really is different. ‘And what about Christopher?’
George Hamel shrugs. ‘OK, I’ll get Winger to lay off Christopher. Everyone’ll follow me. I know that.’
‘He can lay off everyone, right?’
George grunts. ‘Yeah, I’m gunna do it.’
Mr Angelou’s sitting at his desk. ‘Sir.’ He peers up. ‘I’ve got the film clip of the game. Christopher and I put it together but . . .’ I stop. Nervously, I dig my hand in my pocket. I pull out the flash drive.
‘Looking forward to seeing this.’
I shuffle my feet uncomfortably.
Mr Angelou puts the flash drive into his computer. He watches the game. Smiles. Then his face changes as Winger belts into the scrum. As Coach shouts in Hawkie’s dripping face. Mr Angelou puts his elbows on the desk and presses his chin against his knuckles. The clip ends. He sits there for a while, pushes his chair out, stands up, walks around his desk. He looks me in the eye. ‘I know this was hard to do. Thank you, Jack. Leave it to me.’
Everyone’s packing
up. Principal Brown makes an announcement over the intercom. ‘Winger Ratko, Hawkie and George Hamel come to my office. Immediately.’ The principal’s voice is angry.
Winger jumps. He grabs Hawkie’s sleeve. ‘What’ve you said? About the game?’
‘I didn’t say nothin’. My nose . . .’ Hawkie’s voice breaks.
‘Shut up. Listen. Let’s get our story straight.’ Winger glances at George Hamel, who’s cool as a cucumber.
Winger is edgy and shoves Hawkie in the back as he heads out of the door. George Hamel looks back at me.
Chapter 19
Even If You Don’t Win, How Can You Lose?
The classroom is strange this morning. Too many empty seats. Anna looks at me questioningly. I shrug, but I know it’s about the scrum. George Hamel, Winger, Hawkie, Paul and anyone else on the team are missing.
Mrs Banneker doesn’t mention the missing boys. She just starts the Maths lesson. We’re working on problems when George Hamel and his missing team arrive. They’re very quiet. Mr Angelou follows them in. ‘See you boys after school.’ He turns to Mrs Banneker. ‘Would you mind if I give the class some homework?’
‘Go ahead, Mr Angelou.’
He writes on the board:
In the end, it’s extra effort that separates a winner from second place. But winning takes a lot more than that, too. It starts with complete command of the fundamentals. Then it takes desire, determination, discipline, and self-sacrifice. And finally, it takes a great deal of love, fairness and respect for your fellow man. Put all these together, and even if you don’t win, how can you lose?
‘That’s from Jesse Owens, the grandson of a slave, a US Olympian. He won four gold medals in 1936. Copy it down. I want half a page on why fair play in sport is important. Use examples from the sports you play. Due tomorrow for our Ethics class.’
Mr Angelou gives Winger a direct look. ‘I’d expected a lot more from you and the whole team. We’ll be talking about this with Coach after school.’
Being Jack Page 8