I help grate and squeeze the lemons. I have to do them just right, the way Rhonda says. Not on the big holes of the grater, on the small spiky ones that leap out, grab bits of your skin and make a mess of mincemeat out of you. I take a turn at beating the egg whites till they go stiff. She mixes the butter and sugar, calling out like one of those surgeons on the telly for what she needs. I’m wondering how I’d look in a nurse’s uniform. Good-go!
The pie’s baking in the oven. Rhonda starts the video. We sit together on the couch. Not touching. Close, but. She says she’s cold. I just sit there frozen, not knowing if I should try and warm her up. I got too many jokes running round in my mind to move. She waits for a bit, then gets her doona. Double-down, she reckons, the best. I’m not saying nothing, but I’m thinking that ‘down’ gotta mean ‘duck’, duck feathers. I could be wrong, but.
She gives me some doona.
I’m trying to keep my mind stuck on that movie. It keeps wandering down under the doona, but. She’s snuggling up. The main characters in the movie are getting smoochy. I’m not knowing where to look. I’m getting as hot as. I’m gonna explode or burst into flames or somethin’.
She presses pause. Looks up at me. Like she’s waiting for me to do something.
Then she announces, ‘Pie’s ready.’ She climbs out from under the doona.
Thank god! I wasn’t sure what she was gonna say. I’m getting up. I need to get some air.
‘Stay there,’ she slips out to the kitchen.
I can hardly breathe. I’m thinking, Run . . . Stay . . . Run . . . Stay. And then I’m thinking, Stay. Cedric’d give his bottom dollar to be in my shoes, or is that in my bare feet? I gotta be a man. It’s not just my reputation on the line. I gotta do it for my cus’. I’m giggling under my breath, lying out on top of the doona.
My mouth’s watering with the smell of warm pie. Rhonda comes back from the kitchen, a big pile of lemon meringue on one plate. No-good, only one spoon, true. And a sweet smile across her face. She’s wanting to feed me. I’m well able to feed myself, busted-up or not. She insists, but.
Rhonda’s got double everything today. Double cream to go with the pie. We never had double nothing, not even half-cream, when m’mum made lemon meringue. I’m getting the feeling I’m double or nothing with this jalbu. Eh, good-go! Now my mind’s going wongy.
‘Yummy, eh?’ Rhonda’s licking her lips.
‘Mmmm.’ My mouth’s bulging with hot meringue and cold cream.
I’m watching the spoon disappear into her open mouth, her soft lips closing round. I’m doing the same when it’s my turn. Taking my time, thinking things I only dream about. I’m thinking she’s thinking the same things. Somehow I’m not going all shame, but. Only when I think of Cedric watching.
From now on it’s different. There’s no way back to that boy I was. My mind’s been switched on, all lights blaring. Before it was a big dark hall, me moving around by touch, bumping into things. Now I’ve woken up and I’m somewhere I never been before. I’m a man. The man. I got a jalbu. And a duck. I got that much I’m looking at, I’m not sure what it is I’m seeing.
I’m trying to focus m’eyes onto just the three of us. Her and me and the duck. Not that we’re planning anything, nowhere to go, or do, or nothing. We’re just here, together. I can’t take on much else. One day rolls into the next and that’s enough.
I’m wanting her to play some more computer. I’m right into this skateboarding game. Gammin’ skateboarding’s gotta be better than busting your butt getting a nose grind happening. And me with no board! Here on the screen I’ve got my kick-flip McTwist down fully, good as.
Rhonda’s rolling a joint. She’s right into njarndi. I’m sticking to my beliefs, but. I don’t do drugs. She don’t tease me, or say I’m a wuss or nothing. Just puffs away herself. I’m noticing how bad it tastes when we kiss after she’s been smoking. I’m wishing she didn’t smoke. I’m buying her lots of peppermints to suck. She’s getting the hint. Talking about giving up smoking and how good I am for her. Can you get with that? Good-go, I never thought I’d be good for no one. I’m thinking I should write home to Aunty Milly or to Mum or to someone. I reckon Rhonda’s the best school report I ever got. They’d be real proud of me. I think.
Rhonda, she’s sinking back into the couch, but. She’s in that mood she wants to talk about herself. I’m trying to concentrate on saving my butt from the predator.
‘I suppose you and I have got a lot in common,’ she says, trying to drag me in.
‘Aw, come-on!’ I’m jivin’ her, like she could be meaning something else we got in common, like under-that-doona feeling.
She don’t laugh, but. She’s got her mind on serious.
I got m’mind on the game.
She’s gone all quiet.
I grab a quick look around, checking she’s okay. I see this mob of tears backing up behind her big, blue eyes.
‘We’ve got no one to love us. No one wants us, you and me, do they?’
I’m trying to nod yes. I’m thinking of m’mum and aunties and uncles and m’whole mob back home, but. I’m not wanting her to feel like she’s the only one left out. So I make some noise, could be ‘yeah’ or ‘uh ha’, or ‘mmmm’. Sort of leaving it open. Hoping like hell I can get on with the game.
Now she’s stroking m’face. Saying how beautiful my hands are. And m’dark brown eyes. And I’m looking at her now, the tears rolling down her pink cheeks, and I can feel things stirring in me. There’s no one around to tease. No big mob of sisters, no uncles, no aunties, no Cedric, not even in m’mind. No one but the image of me in her eyes. And I’m living up to that image. I’m seeing m’self like I never seen m’self before. She’s making me into that warrior man.
And she’s crying, wanting me to hold her. And we’re kissing and I’m getting good at it. And we’re talking like we never talked before. About inside things. About her being lonely.
Rhonda, she don’t have a family, she don’t reckon. I’m thinking, how could that be?
‘I’ve got a mum and dad, of course. Everyone has.’ The tears keep rolling down her cheeks. I keep wiping them away. ‘But somehow my life isn’t turning out the way they wanted it to be. It worked out for my big sister. She’s married with kids and a house and a car and all the things you’re meant to have. Me? I got scared of that. I wanted to see if there was something else. It didn’t work out that way for me.’
Rhonda, she reckons she’s the black sheep of the family. I’m looking at her pale skin and eyes all pink with crying. Black? I’m thinking. Good-go! Maybe that’s like calling a white duck after a black rapper. I’m starting to get that nothing’s-what-it-looks-like feeling. 2 Quack could be the black duck of the family! What have I got m’self into? I’m thinking. I got a migaloo jalbu could be a black sheep and a white duck could be a black rapper. Me? I thought I was a blackfulla. Could be I’m an any-fulla or a no-fulla or a someone-else’s fulla. I’m getting myself real jumbled up.
I’m mucking round in my mind, trying to get a hold on her way of thinking, but. There’s no way I can imagine not having your mum and dad and sisters and brothers and all your cousins, the whole mob of them there to back you up. No family? I’d be dead, like fully.
Only time Rhonda sees her mob, she reckons they make her feel like a capital L loser. The way she dresses, what she thinks, the food she doesn’t eat. She doesn’t eat meat, see.
Rhonda’s thinking she won’t go back home for Christmas this year. Her home is the next big city south. Melbourne.
‘What’s the point? I don’t eat turkey.’
I’d be crying if I wasn’t laughing.
The corner of her mouth twists up in a sort of half-smile.
‘You might laugh, but it’s true. I’m the odd one out. That’s what I mean. You and me are meant to be. We’re both outcasts.’
I’m baulking at that. Outcast? I’m trying to think how that sits with those migaloo fullas always wanting to call you half-caste, quarter-caste .
. . telling you how to measure what’s in your blood. Maybe ‘out-caste’ is like worse. Next to no-caste. Gone see-through or something. My mind’s getting stuck, twisting up with these Rhonda thoughts. She’s too deep for me.
Now, she’s hugging, but, and I’m trying to hold on. And she’s stroking, and I’m trying to make out what she could mean about us being the same. And we’re kissing, and I’m giving in, sinking into a softer place where thoughts, they don’t matter no more.
I’m dead asleep. Swimming in warm lemon meringue pie. I’m sliding towards it, but. The dark jagged edges of m’dream.
I’m hearing that knocking, nagging at me. I’m pushing it away, thinking it’s them big bulleymen fullas coming for me.
That knocking keeps on at me. I’m hanging onto that sweet smooth creamy part of the dream I never want to finish. It goes dark, but, the thumping’s getting louder. That language voice of one of the old fullas from up home starts. I can’t get what they’re telling me. I’m trying to call out. There’s the knocking. I’ve gone all dry in the throat.
Then I’m sitting straight up, looking around. I musta crashed at Rhonda’s. There’s no sign of her, but. Maybe she’s gone to work.
There’s the knocking at the door. I’m hearing Aunty Em’s voice calling out. Something about dinner.
‘Coming . . .’ I’m groaning. I’m getting that Uncle-don’t-wake-me-up sound in me.
I’m feeling for m’shorts and t-shirt. Pulling m’self up. Looking around for what time it could be, night or day.
I open up the door. Aunty Em, she’s still there, looking at me sort of tragic, worried. I’m not looking back, but, ‘cause I’m not wanting to answer no questions.
I’m following her back up the stairs.
I’ve been avoiding m’uncle. That’s not hard. He’s busy as, off early in the mornings. He gets home after school and crashes out, sleeps for a couple of hours.
When Rhonda’s home, I just hang out there. Come night time, she cooks something up and we muck around and before you know it the night’s gone. Too late to wake Aunty and Uncle up rattling with the key at the front door in the early hours. I’m getting slack as, laying around at Rhonda’s.
Aunty’s cooked up a big dinner. Uncle and I tuck in. No one’s talking that much. Uncle reckons he’s really stuffed from a hard day’s work. Aunty’s chewing something over in her mind. Me, I’m waiting for the storm to break. For them to come crashing down on me with a big lecture.
I’m not telling Uncle I’m getting lazy with my workouts, neither. I’m looking more for fooling around, but. If no one’s down the Pavilion, I get Rhonda on the court, mucking round, one-on-one. Not serious. You can’t be serious playing with Rhonda. I don’t reckon she’s ever shot a hoop in her life. It’s fun bumping into each other, me going for the ball over her head.
I’m still waiting at the table. No-good, Aunty, she looks at Uncle, sour as. Then gets herself stuck into the washing up, bossing those dishes around like a mob of kids cutting up rough at school. Uncle, he just checks to see I got enough money and cruises back to bed.
Between Uncle and Rhonda, I’m as rich as I’ve ever been. It’s not the money I’m wanting that much. It’s to be like him. Cruising off somewhere important each day. But I’m not pestering Uncle to take me or nothing no more. I’m hanging with what I got. And what I got has both m’hands full, like fully.
7
Days turn round to nights and nights become our days. It’s our day-time, like maybe night-time. We go hang out up at Smoko’s flat. It’s cool as, here. Couple of people on the floor playing the guitar. Couple of others just cruisin’. I’m checking one woman out. I swear she’s singing that song same as that jalbu sings it on the radio.
‘That’s her. She’s famous.’ Rhonda tells me.
I’m wanting to hold tight round Rhonda. She’s showing me people, taking me places I’ve never been.
Smoko and Maori Mick are cursing about the bastards ripping off the country, making the rich get richer and us fullas get poorer. I’m agreeing.
There’s a bloke, Zed, laying back on the couch. Real cool dude with long black dreads all beaded up. He’s chatting on to whoever’s listening.
‘Man, I’m that energised, I gotta watch myself,’ he reckons. ‘I don’t want to blow it all at once. I haven’t felt this energised in weeks. No use wasting it. I think I better just sit this one out here on the couch.’
Rhonda’s laughing, whispering in m’ear. Reckons Zed’s always out of it. I think I know what he’s saying, but. Sometimes it’s just best to sit with what you got, and imagine the rest.
Zed and me, we get yarning. Rhonda wanders over to sing along with Reggie and them on the guitar. That fulla, he can play the guitar real deadly. He picks the spot that makes the sound just right.
‘That’s what I’m like on the basketball court,’ I’m telling Zed. I’m not sure he’s getting it. Don’t matter. I keep on with m’talk, telling him I’m music to the ears when I got the ball.
‘I’m the young gun.’
I check Zed out. He don’t seem to be disbelieving nothing. He’s just nodding, and yeah-man-ing, and gazing round the room.
I keep going. ‘I’m the one with the hot hands. Microwave. That’s what they call me. All you need to plug me in and turn me on is give me the ball.’
Zed’s agreeing. Something about the waves down Bondi rolling in real big this morning. He’s talking his talk. I’m talking mine. It don’t matter that our talks don’t match up I don’t reckon. We’re both on the same couch.
‘When it comes down to money-time, with five seconds on the clock, I’m the money-man. Only I don’t give no change!’ Eh, look-out. I never knew I could talk up this big.
Now I’m jarring m’own self up. I’m talking that way, seems I already done it. It’s fun talking like your dreams are what is, but. Fun as doing it. More, ‘cause it’s less hard work. I’m not needing to go down the Pavilion to practise. Seems I can practise with Zed right here on the couch.
Rhonda sends some fulla over to ask me to blow the didj, join in the jam session.
I’m telling him, ‘Yo, I can blow. Just not right now.’ As if! I’m forgetting I’m kidding m’self sometimes.
Misery must be being a Murri-fulla and not being able to play the didj. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get myself learning off m’uncle.
I’m asking Mick about those Maori tatts across his face and what they mean. I’m wishing us Murri mob had something right out there in your face like those tattoos. Something you can see straightaway, says, ‘I’m tough. Don’t mess with me.’
‘That’s what I want.’ Rhonda butts in, njarndied up. ‘We could get something matching, don’t you reckon?’
Something’s holding me back. Maybe it’s just I don’t know what we’d get, what tattoo. I’m thinking I’d be wanting a frog.
I give her my girragundji test.
‘You into frogs?’ I’m asking.
See, I had a girlfriend when I was a kid. She dropped me ‘cause she reckoned I got warts on my fingers from touching m’pet frog too much. I never forgot her dropping me ‘cause of m’frog.
‘Frogs?’ Rhonda gets that shine in her eyes. ‘Frogs are the most important creatures on earth. Do you know, frogs are the bio-indicators of the health of the whole world?’
She could’ve just said yes. That’s all I was after. Rhonda gets hold of a frog theory from somewhere, but, and she’s off and racing.
‘They’re disappearing. Have you seen any around lately?’
I’m starting to tell her about my girragundji, but there’s no space so I stop. I’m not sure what she might do with the story of my pet frog neither. ‘Specially if I tell her I still listen out for my girragundji’s voice on the inside. And about the dreams I’m having each night, waking up, my mouth gone dry for words, not able to understand that inside voice no more.
‘There’s too much pollution in the world. If there’s too much pollution for frogs, there’s too much poll
ution for us. They’re finding deformed frogs in the Amazon, mutations. An extra leg growing out of their stomach.’
Rhonda’s looking up at me like I should do something about the pollution in the Amazon.
I’m looking back. All I can think of is mutant ninja frogs! I’m trying to joke m’way out. It’s not working, but. Rhonda’s looking serious. How do migaloos get their minds into thinking like this? This way of saving places they never been or seen or walked across or swum in?
I’m breaking into a sweat, thinking of my girragundji mutating. I’m feeling like I’m growing legs where they shouldn’t be. I’m in some computer game, or lost in someone else’s jungle, or a legend up in big lights, can’t find my way down off the billboard.
I’m getting myself real lost.
Rhonda’s talking on about how you can’t eat nothing without poisoning yourself and the world’s stuffed.
I’m feeling that world she’s talking about is inside me. I’m trying to focus on something. Something strong to hang onto. I’m focusing on tattoos. Just to keep m’mind together. A girragundji tattoo. A little green tree frog. No words, no telling what it means, just what it is. Green and slimy. A sign. Some way of people knowing I’m me, and I’m tough, they gotta watch out. I spent too long with my tattoos on the inside, I’m thinking. Maybe that’s why I can’t understand that voice inside me no more. I gotta get it out. Make a sign. Tattoo my frog to the outside, on my shoulder or over m’heart.
Rhonda decides on an Aboriginal flag tattoo. Black for the people, yellow for the sun, and red for the earth. She wants the yellow part of the flag shaped in a heart. My initial in the middle. Tattooed on her butt.
I’m getting scared.
Rhonda’s coming close. Her arms round m’kneck. Dancing. Talking these poetry words. Reckons she’s got this poem going round and round in her head all about me. Most of it I’m not following. Romantic stuff about my Dreamtime eyes. Something about me walking naked in a world that’s done me wrong. Good-go!
Njunjul the Sun Page 7