The Boy from the Mish

by Gary Lonesborough

  I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck as the bus performs a U-turn in the carpark of the community centre; as we drive back along the main street of the Mish; as we stop for cars at the highway turnoff. He’s quiet, doesn’t say anything to me, doesn’t touch me. There is only the rumble of the engine as we turn onto the highway and then take the turnoff to the town.

  We pass the football fields and all the workers are setting up their stage for New Year’s Eve tomorrow night. They wheel their boards along the grass and pitch food tents in a row adjacent to the stage. People are setting up the rides too, from the backs of trucks.

  We pass the traffic lights and the pub. The beer garden looks full, and I can hear the chatter even through the bus’s closed windows. The bus stops outside the shopping centre, and Tomas lets the other two people exit before he does, extra-polite. I follow him off the bus.

  Tomas’ eyes light up as he looks around the street, like he’s just set foot on a new planet. His whole body turns as he takes in the other side of the street. The post office. The computer store. The pub. The library. The convenience store. The uptown supermarket.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, steering us into the shopping centre. The air-con hits us right away, like a blast from a propeller.

  I head to the cheapest clothing store I know of. Tomas follows me inside and roams away from me. I catch the shopkeeper gazing at him. She turns away when I catch her.

  ‘Where are all the brands?’ Tomas asks me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The brands? You know, Nike, Adidas, Lacoste . . .’

  ‘This is a cheapo shop. No big brands.’

  He sighs as he walks past me, heads for the exit. ‘Well, take me to the brands.’

  ‘Aunty Pam only gave me a fifty,’ I say as I rush to follow him.

  ‘Don’t worry about money,’ he says with a cheeky smile on his face.

  Nervousness comes to my stomach. ‘We ain’t stealing,’ I say.

  Tomas does laps around the little shopping centre, peeking into each clothing store for only a moment before leaving.

  ‘Why do you need brands?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with the cheap clothes?’

  ‘They’re cheap,’ he chuckles.

  But he concedes, and we come back to where we started, walking back inside the cheapo shop. I wait outside the change rooms while he tries on clothes. He comes out and asks if things look good, and I just say yes to everything. He gathers himself two shirts and three pairs of shorts, and we head for the counter. The shopkeeper hands me back ten dollars and fifty-five cents, which I load into my pocket.

  ‘Let’s get some lunch,’ Tomas says, and I follow him out of the shopping centre and onto the street.

  ‘There’s a fish-and-chips shop this way.’

  I point to my left, towards the beach. We have to dodge and weave between tourists as we walk there. When we arrive, all the tables inside are taken by old white people and there are three people lined up at the counter.

  ‘Gorn, then. Make sure the fish is battered, not grilled,’ Tomas says, nudging me inside.

  I walk to the counter and order a large box of fish and chips. It’s at least twenty minutes before our order is ready. I carry it outside and place it on the table in front of Tomas, who digs in straight away. I don’t know how he’s eating so fast, though, because the chips burn my fingers. We’re half-shaded from the sun, thanks to the outstretched shop roof.

  ‘There’re a lot of white people in this town,’ Tomas says. ‘Like, not even any Asians, or Indians or anything, just white people.’

  I nearly laugh. It’s hot as hell, but there’s a nice sea breeze flowing through from the beach across the road. Sand covers the pavement beneath us. I watch as some parents cross the road with their kids and walk together down the steps to the beach, for a family dip.

  ‘What were they doin’ at the footy fields?’ Tomas asks.

  ‘They have a big thing for New Year’s every year, with, like, bands and rides and stuff.’

  ‘Cool.’ He digs his fingers into the battered fillet of fish and guides it to his mouth with the steady precision of a sloth. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ he asks. It catches me off guard.

  ‘I dunno. You kissed me,’ I say.

  He’s quiet for a moment as some people pass by. ‘Do you like me or something?’

  ‘No,’ I say, so quick to the word. ‘Don’t worry. It was just a weird thing.’

  ‘A weird thing?’

  ‘Yeah. I dunno. We don’t have to talk about it.’ I take another chip and put it in my mouth.

  ‘You know what would be weirder?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we kissed again.’

  I nearly choke on my chips. I chuckle and look across the street – anywhere but at him.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Would be weirder if we did it again.’

  ‘We probably shouldn’t.’

  I turn back to him. He’s looking down at our food, deciding whether to take some more fish or go for another chip.

  ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ I say. It feels weird to say what I’ve just said, like it has a dirty aftertaste, of something I’m not sure I even mean. But for the good of both of us, we shouldn’t.

  Tomas takes another chip to his mouth and looks up at me with his brown eyes. Some salt’s been captured on his lips. On the pink of them. I turn away again, towards the stairs leading down to the beach across the road.

  ‘Wanna go for a dip?’ I ask.

  Tomas nods.

  We cross the street quickly, to beat the traffic coming our way. And then there they appear ahead of us: the white boys from the pub, Ethan and his mates. The three of them are walking up the stairs, onto the footpath. They spot me and stop their conversation. Ethan’s beard is trimmed. He’s accompanied by a big gym-junkie wearing a flannel shirt, and a shirtless fella built like a brick shithouse. I never remember their names.

  ‘G’day, fellas,’ Ethan says. ‘Where’re your other boyfriends? Off to the petrol station?’

  ‘No idea,’ I say. I try to keep walking, but the guy in the flannel shirt steps in front of me. Ethan’s shirtless friend stands behind him, the water still fresh on his chest.

  ‘Who’s this one?’ the flannel shirt guy asks, looking to Tomas.

  ‘None of your business,’ Tomas says.

  The white boys laugh. Tomas shapes up to the flannel guy, puffs his chest out, chin raised to look up to his eyes.

  ‘Hope we see you and your petrol-sniffin’ mates tomorrow night,’ Ethan says. They walk around us and laugh, egging each other on.

  Tomas turns to go after them, but I take hold of his elbow. ‘We can’t take all of them,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll get ’em later.’

  ‘Fucking losers,’ Tomas says under his breath. It makes me smile. Just like with Mum, I like it when Tomas swears too.

  We head down the wooden stairs to the beach, hit the sand and take off our shoes and socks. Tomas carries his bag of new clothes in one hand and his shoes in the other.

  A sea of white families lines the beach. We stop behind them and drop our stuff to the sand. Tomas races for the waves. I walk behind him and watch as he dives under a big one. He might not have noticed yet, but I’m very aware we are the only blackfellas here.

  The beach’s floor dips real quick as I walk out through the waves, dropping deep so I can barely stand and making my heart stop. I haven’t swum here for years. This has always been the whitefella beach, whereas the one near the Mish, near the camping ground, is the blackfella beach. It was just always that way, growing up.

  Tomas swims out, heading towards the surfers in the distance, where the waves are bigger. I keep on too, bobbing up and down with the waves before I finally dive under the ocean water. I come back up to see Tomas freestyling inwards amid a large wave torpedoing towards me. I drop underneath and open my eyes. The wave towers over me, white and foamy. When I come back up, Tomas stands tall near the shore, facing me, water dripping from his hair. I slowl
y back out to sea, bobbing in the waves again, and he follows.

  We attract looks from the white beachgoers, who are probably wondering why we aren’t at the blackfella beach. Tomas doesn’t know about the blackfella beach. I decide to let myself forget about the whole thing for a while.

  We go out far enough that we can’t touch the ground beneath the water. The wind howls, the water shifts around us, the waves crash at the shoreline. I can feel my heart beating faster as Tomas moves closer to me. I sort of wish we could stay out here for hours.

  I splash Tomas and he splashes back, then we swim into shore, riding a wave Tomas deems to be big enough. In the shallows, he gets back up and shakes his head, spraying me with water. We walk back through the sand to our stuff, and Tomas remarks that we have no towels.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘the sun will dry us. We’ll just follow the beach back to the Mish.’

  ‘How?’

  I point along the stretch of the beach, to the end where the black and purple rocks rest. ‘Past those rocks, we’ll come to the beach near the camping ground. Just trust me.’

  ‘Looks like a big fucking walk.’

  We pick up our stuff and start for the rocks. Tomas drags behind me, complaining about the sun and the heat and the warmth of the sand.

  The crowd of beachgoers thins out the further we walk up the beach, though the surfers still try out the waves all the way along. The rocks grow closer and bigger as the sun falls on us. It seems to be growing hotter with each passing hour.

  ‘Reckon my superhero should fight sharks?’ Tomas asks, puffing as he tries to keep up with me.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘That’s the silliest idea I ever heard.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be cool? I could work it into the story, somehow.’

  ‘How?’ I stop to give him a break, sitting under the shade from a bunch of trees leaning over a nearby fence.

  ‘Okay . . . maybe the Doolagahs drive him into the ocean, or take one of the kids into the ocean. And he kills them, but then a shark attacks him and he has to fight it off. And fight the shark’s family too!’ Tomas catches his breath.

  ‘Yeah, then he can piss a rainbow and send it over the Mish to turn everyone gay,’ I laugh.

  ‘Well, then it wouldn’t be so weird if we kissed again,’ he says.

  I smile, but it’s a smile of awkwardness. ‘It would still be weird.’

  He’s quiet. The waves roll to the shore and crash with a bang, then they simmer out and crash again.

  ‘In juvie,’ Tomas begins, ‘we had our own little rooms. They weren’t like prison cells, just normal rooms. My bed was all right. My pillow was good. You’d think I’d love to see something like this.’ He points to the water, which burns blue with the shine of the sun. ‘But it’s scary.’

  ‘Scary?’ I cradle my knees with my arms.

  ‘This world is so big, you know? And all we’ll ever see is the back of a paddy wagon.’ His cheeks have reddened.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be all we see,’ I say. ‘I used to get in trouble a lot. I been picked up by the same copper a few times, so he knows all about me. He usually stops me in the street if he sees me in town. Asks me what I’m doing, who I’m with. It really gets to me, sometimes, like, makes me wanna just smash everything and get as drunk as I can. But I’m trying to be stronger than that.’

  Tomas turns to me and I turn to him. Our faces are so close. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it myself, as I see his eyes flicker down to my lips.

  I stand up, out of the moment, and walk back into the sun. Tomas sighs as loud as possible and follows me.

  ‘You know,’ he says, ‘that was the perfect time to kiss without it being weird.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I chuckle. I’m fucking blushing. Hopefully the sun can hide it from my cheeks.

  11

  We reach the rocks at the end of the beach. We put on our shoes and climb over the jags and roughness, over the shucked oyster shells that stick to the rocks like tumours. The cliff shades us from above.

  I sit on a big purple rock while Tomas roams around, carefully stepping on the rocks and peering into rockpools.

  ‘There’s a starfish,’ he says, and it takes me a moment to realise he might never have seen one in real life before.

  We walk around to the blackfella beach and climb down. There are some parents far up the beach, helping their children to fly kites. Some of the campers are in the waves, ducking under and coming up. Troy’s standing in the shallows with Jasmine. His muscles are so defined now. He looks like a WWE wrestler. He gives us a wave, which we return.

  I lead Tomas up the wooden stairs. At the top I go for the pathway, but Tomas wanders off, walks to the cliff’s edge.

  ‘You gonna jump or something?’ I ask, annoyed at him for delaying us. I want to lie down and rest my back.

  He doesn’t respond though, just stares out to sea, the wind whipping his shirt and the bag in his hand. It’s endless, the sea, stretching on forever until it blurs with the sky on the horizon.

  ‘It’s the same blue as your eyes,’ he says, in almost a whisper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your eyes are as blue as the ocean.’

  ‘You trying out poetry or something?’ I tease.

  ‘I think my superhero will have blue eyes. It’s unique.’

  ‘As unique as an Aboriginal superhero?’

  He gives me a playful push, then strides ahead along the pathway. I catch up to him and walk by his side.

  ‘So, what happened to your dad?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’ It catches me off guard.

  ‘Your dad? You said you got your blue eyes from him, but he’s not around.’

  ‘Oh. I dunno. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere that’s not here.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Why not?’ Tomas asks.

  ‘He wasn’t a good person. Forget it. What about your parents?’ I ask.

  ‘I see ’em every now and then.’

  ‘Every now and then?’

  ‘Yeah, my caseworker sets up visits with ’em. They usually come, but sometimes they don’t. So yeah, I see ’em every now and then. I usually don’t like to talk about that stuff, but it feels okay to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. It makes me feel a little special, to know he feels all right talking to me about his parents. ‘Is it shit? To have to have your caseworker set up a time for them to see you?’

  ‘Yeah, especially when they don’t come. But that’s just the way it is.’

  We continue along the path. The sunlight is broken into pieces through the tops of the trees as we walk under them. They arch over us and cool us in their shade.

  We stop at the rusty tap. I cup my hands and have a drink of water. Then Tomas drinks for ages, slurping like a thirsty dog.

  ‘What do you think about your parents?’ I ask.

  ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘I don’t care.’

  We continue along the pathway and come out to the road. Two of the Mish dogs are running, one chasing the other, as we make our way past the houses. Some of the lawns grow long. Some of the front yards have rusty old cars resting there. Some of the old fellas sit on their front porches and give us a wave as we pass.

  We surrender to the couch after dinner. Henry and Jude sit between me and Tomas, and the rest of the kids spread out on the mattresses on the floor. We watch continuous episodes of The Simpsons and my eyes are feeling heavy. My phone vibrates and wakes me from my near sleep. It’s a message from Kalyn.

  Come to mine for pre-drinks tomorrow.

  I text back a yes and put my phone back in my pocket. Maybe he’s gonna ask me for permission to ask Tesha out again, in person so I can’t avoid it. Maybe I don’t care so much, really. Maybe I’ll let him go for it.

  Tomas yawns and stands up from the couch. He shares a glance with me. ‘I’m heading to bed.’

  He creeps up the steps so slowly, it’s like he’s begging me
to catch him, but I just continue watching cartoons with the boys. Aunty Pam comes in with paint on her forearms and orders us from the couch so she can sit down and rest her back. Mum heads to bed and Aunty Pam begins to snore, less than twenty minutes later. The boys give a collective sigh as I lie beside Henry on his mattress.

  I gaze to the top of the staircase. It’s too dark to see, but I imagine Tomas is standing at the top, waiting for me. I want my bed, but the weirdness between us keeps me downstairs.

  Henry starts to snore. I realise all the boys are asleep already. I sit up and turn off the television. The house is dark and quiet now, though the kitchen light’s still on. It sprays into the walkway between the lounge room and the kitchen.

  I cross the wooden floor to the tiles of the kitchen. I turn off the light and creep back to the bottom of the staircase. It looks like such a hike to get to the top. I’m feeling some kind of nervousness in my stomach as I begin to climb, step by step. My heart pounds when I reach my bedroom door, slightly ajar, because I can see Tomas’ feet on the end of my bed’s mattress, lit by the moonlight shining in through my window.

  I push the door open and walk in. Tomas is still awake. His eyes open as I close the door. I pull off my shirt. He watches me as I drop it to the floor, his arms behind the back of his head, shoulders outstretched like brown wings.

  I crawl onto my side of the bed. He turns to face me as my head reaches my pillow. I lie on my side and we face each other. I’m sweating all over. He has a drowsy softness about his eyes. In the moonlight, they look almost black.

  Tomas rests his palm on my cheek and tucks his fingers behind my ear. I move my hand to his face, feel the spiky growth on his chin as I guide the tip of my shaky index finger. I move to his lips and trace my finger along them. They are spongy and moist. I brush the moustache that grows above his upper lip, though it feels more like whiskers.

  ‘That tickles,’ he whispers.

  My mouth is dry as I move my hand to his forehead. I spread my fingers through his hair and brush it back from his face. It sparks him. His eyes move to my mouth and he leans into me. He kisses me hard. His mouth opens and our tongues meet, only for a moment. I place my hand on his chest and push him away.