She didn’t answer. For once, Terry wasn’t joking.
There was nothing left to say; the “lecture” was over. He picked up his mug and pushed his chair back.
“Anyway, I can’t sit talking all day.” He smiled. “Some of us have work to do.”
“That’ll be the day!” Now Julie smiled, too. “I’ve got to go, too. I’m enrolling a new kid from the Intensive Language Centre. He’s only been in the country for nine months, and still they expect him to cope in a normal class, with —”
“Julie … back off, remember?” He almost reached out to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. He scratched his nose instead. “What’s this kid’s name?”
She looked inside one of the folders.
“Sayanh Phothisaranasouk.”
“That’s easy for you to say!”
She poked her tongue out, and turned for the door, throwing over her shoulder. “We’ve been asked to call him ‘Nanh’.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Terry Price replied, but he was already talking to an empty doorway.
14
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
“His name is Nanh, and he’s Cambodian. He doesn’t speak a lot of English.” Miss Vegas was shuffling papers on her desk, and looking into her folder as she spoke, so I knew she was uncomfortable about asking me this favour.
“Well, I don’t speak any Cambodian. I don’t know how much help I’d be as a buddy.” It was only a token resistance; I quite liked the idea of showing him around, teaching him “the ropes”. Mind you, it did strike me as funny that she’d choose me to ask. “Lisdalia the Failure”, one of the great misfits in the history of the school — maybe the planet.
Of course that was probably a part of her plan: give the kid responsibility, make her look at someone else’s problems and forget the fact that she feels like a spare big toe most of the time. I remember thinking that Miss Vegas must have done some psychology in her teacher training.
“Actually, Lisdalia, that’s one of the reasons I chose you. He’ll be in your classes for everything except English — I’ve put him in Mr Dunford’s E.S.L. group. And the thing is, I don’t want him to feel that the only kids he can mix with are the ones who speak Cambodian. He’ll find those kids on his own. You can introduce him to a wider group of kids; help him adjust.”
Yeah? And who’ll introduce me?
The thought crossed my mind, but I didn’t voice it. She was looking far too pleased with herself for me to go and spoil her fun.
Then it hit me. Psychology.
It wasn’t just Nanh she was trying to fit in, it was me too!
I’d always liked Miss Vegas, but suddenly I realised why. She was good at her job because she took it seriously. She cared about “her kids”, and she didn’t stop trying — even with Shane Thomas.
Even with me.
It would have been easy for her to sit back and say that “the Pain” was just a lost cause; why bother? Or to stick Nanh into the E.S.L. group and close the file until he found his feet on his own, or ended up like Maddie’s brother, Minh: angry, confused and in trouble. And it would have been just as easy for her to say, “Lisdalia’s bright. She’ll get on; she’ll work things out for herself”. But that wasn’t her way.
And if she wasn’t going to give up, neither was I. How hard could it be?
“All right,” I said, “I’ll give it a go.” And I meant it.
She smiled. “Thanks, kid.”
I think she was the only teacher who ever called me that. It felt good.
I smiled back. “That’s okay. You’ll get my bill in the mail.”
“You sound like a doctor. Is that what you’re planning to be?” She was fishing.
“Actually, I hear plumbers make more money.” I bent down, picked up my bag and turned to go.
“Good luck with Nanh.” Her voice followed me out of the room. I nodded; I was feeling lucky.
Naturally, the first person I introduced Nanh to was Michael, who in typical Michael fashion nodded his head and said, “G’day.”
Nanh bowed slightly, but didn’t say anything.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“Nanh’s from Cambodia.” I couldn’t remember if I’d already told Michael that, but I was looking for something to say. I didn’t want either of them feeling awkward. Michael took the hint.
“Do you play basketball?” A predictable question. Anyone who had a first name ending in “h” had to play basketball. Nanh looked confused.
“You know,” Michael mimed what I thought was a pretty good imitation of a free-throw. “Basketball.” He wasn’t getting through.
It was recess, and we were standing in the main quad, which overlooked the basketball courts, where what seemed like half the school’s male population, plus a number of the braver girls, were throwing far too many multi-coloured balls at the six worn-out rings. He pointed down at them, mimed again and repeated, “Basketball.”
This time it registered. Nanh nodded, and a slight smile grew on his face.
“Bathketball …”
Apart from a nervous “Hello” outside Miss Vegas’s staffroom, it was about the first word I’d heard from him, and I couldn’t decide whether he had a problem with his “s” sound, a lisp or something, or if it was just the new language that was throwing him. As it turned out, it was a lisp — or, as he said, when his English got better, a “lithp” — and it caused him quite a bit of trouble early on, especially with Shane Thomas’ “Morons Anonymous” until … But I don’t want to move too far ahead of myself. I’ll get to that particular episode later.
“Come on, I’ll take you down and introduce you. Maybe we can get a game in before the bell goes.” Michael looked across at me. “Do you want to come down and watch?”
I was about to make an excuse, but then I remembered what I’d promised myself.
It’s hard to break the ice with people when you’re sitting in the library, and Mr Parnell screams at anyone who looks sideways. Besides, most of the basketball freaks only made it into the library if their teachers dragged them in during classtime; they were far too busy at recess and lunchtime playing half-court and dreaming of the day they might get up high enough to jam it.
If I was ever going to make contact, it would have to be on their terms and on their turf, not mine. They were quite happy the way they were; I was the one with the problem.
I nodded. “Let’s go.”
Of course, the Year Sevens and Eights got to use the worst rings in the school. They were bent down from all the weekend wannabes and tryhards thinking it was cool to jump up and hang off them, and it meant that anyone trying to score had to hit the basket directly, because any shot that came off the backboard rolled off the end of the ring. Michael explained the problem to me afterwards — to account for the fact that he missed so many inside shots.
Mind you, it didn’t explain why Nanh never missed one. He might have had trouble with English, but he certainly spoke “basketball” — their language.
They were playing five-on-five half-court, so everything was pretty crowded, but he seemed to be able to cut through the confusion and do the most amazing things with the ball. Shooting, passing off, dribbling behind his back, between his legs. I felt sorry for the kid who was trying to stop him, but no one on the other team seemed to mind. That was the thing that really surprised me about all of the basketballers. I expected them to be competitive and argue all the time, like the soccer players on the oval behind us, but they didn’t. They even clapped when he slid past three of their players, jumped into the air and rolled the ball over the end of the ring.
Here was a new kid, a stranger, walking into their game and taking them apart, and they clapped him. He could hardly speak a word, but they shared something that worked on a totally different level. He was accepted.
I almost felt jealous, but I forced the feeling down. This was the new me.
“Go, Nanh!” I shouted, as he sank a shot from outside the th
ree-point line.
He turned, smiled at me and bowed slightly. Then he caught the return ball and lobbed it across to Michael, who turned, shot and finally got one to fall.
The game rolled on, but I was still thinking about Nanh’s smile.
If only life could be as easy as a basketball game …
15
UNDERSTANDING
Things certainly weren’t easy at home. Since Mum had started work at the biscuit factory, there was more to do around the house, and, of course, most of it fell to me. Dad was out of hospital, dying of boredom and taking it out on everyone in sight. And I was making it hard on myself as usual by actually doing the homework that most of the kids quite sensibly ignored or thought up imaginative excuses to avoid. As well, I was helping Michael with his Maths (and anything else that happened to be due “yesterday”) and trying to teach Nanh a few basic phrases and survival skills — like any good buddy would.
Actually, as it turned out, Michael and I ended up sharing the role. After that first game, most recesses and lunchtimes were spent on the courts. I got to enjoy the game a lot more when I learned a little bit about the rules — and the tactics. The pair of them even spent a few afternoons, while we were waiting for the buses to arrive, teaching me how to shoot and dribble and pass. Michael said I learned quickly, but I think he was just being kind. I missed a lot more than I hit. There again, on those rings, most people did. Except Nanh.
Nanh rarely said anything, though over the next few weeks his English did improve gradually. He looked more comfortable, though, and there was a confidence in the way he moved.
And at least my “strike” was over.
After a couple of pretty tricky weeks, I’d come to an agreement with Tony and John. I lowered my demand to fifteen dollars a week between them, and as a trade-off, they gave me a lift to the library if I needed to go when they happened to be home. In return, I picked up after them, made their beds in the morning, and did all the sorts of things that had always been taken for granted in the past.
I know it still sounds like slave-labour, but I really felt like I’d won. What I did now, I did because I agreed to, not just because it was expected of me. Fifteen dollars, a few less bus trips and the occasional “thanks, kid” may not sound like great wages, but it sure beats “Do it, or else!”
And it gave Dad one less reason to get angry — which was worth a whole lot more than fifteen dollars.
Mind you, I could understand how he was feeling. Mum was getting home in the afternoon, exhausted, then trying to do all the things she would normally have done during the day, and he was left feeling useless.
He’d never been the slightest use around the house at the best of times — anyone who can burn spaghetti should stick to laying driveways and slabs for project-homes — and with his right hand looking like a scene from The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb, he couldn’t even push the vacuum around properly. He tried a couple of times, but his heart wasn’t in it.
In the end, apart from his daily trip to the physio, he took to sitting around the house, looking for things to get mad about and picking fights with Mum as soon as she came in through the door. I could see her biting her tongue, trying not to fight back, but it must have been hard. You could almost feel the pain in her eyes.
Sometimes, I tried to comfort her, to let her know I was on her side, that I understood how unfair he was being, but she just shook her head.
“No, querida,” she told me once, “you don’t understand. If you did, you would not talk about ‘fair’.”
And she was right; I didn’t understand. Not how he could be so mean to her when she was trying so hard, nor how she could defend him for it. And I didn’t understand the look of … love she gave him when he fell asleep in front of the TV, and she paused as she bent down to pick up his empty coffee cup. I guess I do now, but I was only just turning twelve then, and a lot of things have happened since.
16
TANJA’S STORY
Between them, Lisdalia and Michael did wonders helping Nanh fit in. I guess it was too much to expect them to be able to prepare him for Shane Thomas. After all, you never knew exactly what would set “the Pain” off.
It wasn’t that he was particularly racist, or anything. Actually he was quite democratic. He picked on everyone, it didn’t matter who they were.
But he shouldn’t have picked on Nanh. The poor kid had only been at the school for a few weeks. I guess if he’d known what he found out later, Shane would have left him alone, but nobody knew. Not Lisdalia, not Mike — and certainly not Chris Walker.
He was really the one who started it all.
The thing about Chris Walker was that he was a complete dork. Terry Dickson called him “the Ferret” on account of his face, which was all pointy; Tes reckoned it reminded him of the little furry rodent he kept in a cage on his back veranda. Terry’s family had a small farm out the back of Cecil Park, near Kemp’s Creek, just beyond the bus-route, which was why his dad had to drive him to school every day in the ute. Living out there, he could afford to keep all kinds of pets: snakes, rabbits, a blue cattle-dog called Harley, a couple of half-feral cats and a sulphur-crested cockatoo called Rambo, who lived up to his name by mumbling meaningless words all the time and attacking total strangers when they visited the house. But I think Terry’s favourite was the ferret. It was certainly my favourite.
Chris Walker wasn’t anyone’s favourite. He wasn’t even cute. He had the pointy face all right, but he wasn’t small and furry, and he had so little personality that he was always trying to borrow Shane Thomas’. Why you’d want to, I don’t know, but if you’re a dork, who knows why you do anything.
Like trying to pick on the new kid.
It began in English. Mr Dunford was away, and the E.S.L. kids were spread back into the “normal” classes. Nanh was sitting next to Lisdalia, so that she could explain things to him, and when Miss Vegas left the room for a minute, “the Ferret” leaned forward and spoke to him, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear.
“Hey, Nanh, got a thpecial girlfriend? Did she kith ya yet? Better watch out for Harrithon, he might get jealouth.”
He thought he was being so smart, picking on Nanh’s speech problem, and he looked around the room for approval, but everyone was acting like they hadn’t heard. Lisdalia gave him the sort of hand-signal my dad uses all the time when he’s driving, and I kicked his ankle as hard as I could from across the aisle.
“Hey —” he began, but he didn’t go any further and he didn’t even turn his head to face me, because at that moment, Nanh turned around and just stared at him. I was sitting a short distance away and just slightly behind Nanh, and I caught the look on his face. There was no anger there, just a cold pity. The kind of look a cat might give a mouse, while it’s deciding whether it’s really hungry or not.
Then Miss Vegas came back into the room, and Nanh faced the front again.
Chris Walker should have taken the warning but I guess one of the things about dorks that makes them dorks is that they’re slow learners. Besides, he was one of “Shane’s Shadows”, so he didn’t need to worry, did he?
17
SHARING
When Tanja told me about “that look” later, I guess it made sense.
Even though he was in Year Seven, Nanh was a little bit older than us — about fourteen, I suppose; he’d had a really mixed-up childhood, and his language problems had kept him back in school, but he was really quite small for his age, so he didn’t look older. And if you’re not too bright and you’re used to relying on force to get your way, you tend to rely on appearances a bit too much. Shane Thomas and his “Morons Anonymous” certainly did this time.
Chris Walker, who was the only one in the group with even half a brain — even though he’d been hanging with “the Pain” for so long that he’d basically forgotten how to use it — made the mistake of thinking that just because someone has trouble using a particular language, it means that they’re stupid, or the
y don’t understand what’s going on. Or that they’ll just stand there and let you treat them like a victim and take what belongs to them without a fight.
If he’d remembered how to use his brain, and thought about it for a minute, he might have figured that to someone who has spent the best part of his life having what belongs to him taken away or threatened by people with guns, or by desperate and hungry gangs, a bunch of zit-faced school bullies, even if one of them is the size of Shane Thomas, aren’t exactly a terrifying sight.
In Year Seven, “Shane’s Shadows” had changed their old tactics. In the last couple of years of Primary, they’d been able to make a big thing of their size — or his size, at least — and their power around the whole school, but in this pond they were little fish, so they were more sneaky. They only picked on the other Year Sevens — and only when they could catch them alone, and the older kids weren’t around.
Which was the way they found Nanh, a few days after the incident in English.
Nanh brought his lunch from home, and he’d just bought a can of drink from the machine, then headed for the seats near the MPC. Michael was getting my lunch for me from the canteen, so I was standing just outside the building, about two metres from where Nanh was sitting. I could see what was happening and I tried to get Michael’s attention, but he was in line, talking to Tanja, and had his back to me; and the noise in the canteen at the start of lunchtime sounds like the kick-off in the Grand Final.
I didn’t want to let Nanh out of my sight even to go and get help, so I was stuck. I moved towards him, to warn him, but I was too late. The pack had formed around him, and Chris Walker had started.
He was a wimp himself, of course, but he had the goons behind him, so he came over like the big man.
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