‘I know,’ he whispers. He kisses the back of my hand. ‘I know, you’re not ready. Neither am I. Just tell them that – that you’re not ready. If they’re really your mates, they will respect it. And they’ll still love you. You’re still you.’
His hand is warm against my cheek as he caresses away my tears with his thumb.
‘Am I still me? I’m not sure who I am.’
‘You are. You’re fucking Jackson Barley. You’ll always be Jackson Barley.’
We sit there, silent. Tomas rest his forehead on mine and we breathe together. I realise the picnic is still just sitting somewhere in the bushes. The perfect first time will be washed away with the rain that’s beginning to fall outside my window and drop onto the roof.
‘You can just go talk to them,’ Tomas says. ‘They’ll understand that you’re not ready.’
‘You think?’
I look into his eyes. They are so brown and soothing.
‘I can go with you, if you want?’
‘It’s okay. You stay here. I’m sorry. I’ll go talk to Kalyn,’ I say.
‘Good. Now stop being a drama queen.’
Tomas reaches his mouth up to mine and kisses me. And maybe I’m not so wrong anymore, because it feels so right to be kissing his lips.
19
The storm rolls over the Mish, growing more vicious with each passing second. I’m left stuck at my front door, ready to walk to Kalyn’s, but with the rain bucketing down and the wind swirling like crazy. Mum and Aunty Pam have rushed their big canvas into the kitchen, where they’re now struggling to dry some of the boys who were playing outside when the storm hit.
The clouds look black and purple in the sky. Lightning flashes in the distance and the thunder follows. All the boys start piling in front of the television, turning on the Xbox and scrambling for the controllers.
I walk back upstairs to my bedroom. I can hardly see the bush behind the house from my window because the rain is so heavy. I pull out my phone and reread the message from Kalyn: I just talked to Jarny. We should talk.
I finally text a reply: What Jarny say?
I look back to Tomas, who smiles at me. He’s working on his graphic novel, drawing square panels across the page, three boxes down, three boxes across. He writes the story onto the side of the page and leaves the three boxes beside each bit blank for illustrations.
My phone vibrates with a message from Kalyn.
He showed me the photo Troy sent him.
Another message comes. I saw you and him on the canoe that day . . . After I dropped Jarny off, I wanted to double-check you didn’t want a lift back . . . then I saw youse kissing . . . I was gonna wait until after Tommy left to talk to ya about it . . .
I text back: Might just be a phase. No big deal.
He replies quickly. You reckon?
I stare down at Tomas. There was a time I did think that. But as I watch Tomas sit shirtless on his mattress, composing his graphic novel, I really don’t think it is just a phase. I don’t think there ever really was anything to figure out about myself.
I text back: I dunno. I just don’t want anyone to know.
I move back to my bed and sit on its side. Another message comes from Kalyn: I told him not to tell anyone, and I won’t.
The relief flowing over my body is like nothing I’ve ever felt. The tears are coming to my eyes again, and I wipe them away.
‘You all right?’ Tomas asks.
‘Yeah. Kalyn’s not gonna tell anyone.’
Tomas nods and smiles at me, then goes back to his sketchbook. I look over the last message I sent.
I thought I wasn’t ready, but maybe I am. Maybe Tomas has made me ready to accept this thing I’ve tried to stop being a part of who I am. Maybe.
I text back to Kalyn: Thanks.
I kick off my shoes and lie back on my mattress, listening to the rain beating down on our roof. I open my shirt to the breeze flowing through the window and close my eyes.
Kalyn sends me another text. It’s all right, brother.
I look at the phone, and I’m suddenly feeling all right. Maybe it will actually all be okay. Maybe.
What was Jarny saying? I write.
Kalyn shoots back: He’s just a bit weirded out. Don’t worry bout him.
I turn my phone off and rest it on my stomach. The thunder booms louder, more violent. Through the rainfall, I hear Tomas’ pencil hitting the page. I wonder where he gets the energy and the willpower from – the fire inside him – to focus on such a thing, after we’ve been exposed.
‘What was juvie like?’ I ask.
‘It was all right,’ he says.
‘Yeah? But how was it?’
‘Boring,’ he says. ‘But it wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be. I had my own room and my own shower. We went to school and had programs in the afternoons.’
‘Programs? What kind of programs?’
‘I dunno,’ he says, scribbling away. ‘People would come in from different places and talk to us about stuff, or we’d go to the pool, or have a game of footy.’
‘You had a pool?’ I sit up and I know my eyebrows are nearly meeting my hairline.
‘Yeah, just a little one.’
‘Did you have lots of fights with other kids?’
‘Only had one fight, with this Leb kid. There’re so many Kooris in there, though, so we sorta stuck together. The screws were the real arseholes, always talking shit.’
‘The screws?’
‘The workers. Most of ’em were cool, but a few talked a lot of shit.’ He looks up from his sketchbook. ‘I’m finished. Just needs pictures now.’
I crawl off my bed and sit down opposite Tomas on his mattress. He flicks back through his pages to the start, and there’s the cover page for the book. The title is spread across the paper in big block letters: THE BOY FROM THE MISH. It brings a smile to my face, warms me, knowing his hero is from here.
‘I like the title,’ I say.
‘Yeah? Well, it’s an origin story, so I figure that saves me having to come up with a superhero name, like Superman or something. He’s just a normal guy at the start.’
I gaze upon the blank whiteness beneath the letters of the title. ‘So, what do you want for the cover pic?’
‘Just him standing in front of the bush. And remember, black and muscly!’
He makes me giggle. I take the pencil and study the blank space for a moment. Then I sketch the hero’s bare feet and place them on a grassy ground – I’ve decided he’s standing with his back to us, facing the forest. I sketch his legs in torn, oversized pants; his ripped shirt, which hangs loose on his toned body. I give muscles to his forearms, a strong clench to his big, meaty hands. I hang his hair in a mess, which stretches down to his shoulder blades like Tarzan’s.
I give the trees spiky bundles for leaves and shade the trunks. I place them near and far, adding a depth to the picture, making the distance fuzzy, with our focus on the hero in the foreground.
‘That’s good,’ Tomas says as I show him the finished cover. The rain bangs on the roof like gun pellets and a big gust of wind swirls in through my window. The rain comes inside with it, and I rush to the window and close it while Tomas shields his sketchbook.
‘Keen to start illustrating?’ he asks.
He hands me the book and the pencil once more, and I flip past the cover page. His handwriting is pretty messy.
‘Warren?’ I giggle, realising that’s what he’s named his superhero.
‘Yeah, everyone knows a blackfella named Warren.’
I start to read . . .
The people of the Mish were rattled. Two little girls had gone missing in the past fortnight. Word on the street was that they were playing in the bush. Now they were gone.
Warren, a boy from the Mish, was devastated to hear of their disappearances. He followed the news, watching every night as the police claimed they had no leads or evidence of anything. But Warren knew . . .
. . . Warren knew what lur
ked in the bush near the Mish. He knew of the evil and vicious creatures who’d terrorised residents of the Mish hundreds of years ago. He feared they might be back.
One month later . . . The government had declared a national tragedy. The police had searched the forests but found nothing except the shoe of one of the girls. Warren tried to calm the people of the Mish.
A town meeting was called at the Mish community hall. Uncle Raymond, a seasoned elder and warrior, declared there was only one solution: an Aboriginal person must travel into the bush, to find the missing girls.
Warren volunteered. His hand flew into the air, and he said he would be the one to do it. He knew of the danger that lurked in the bush, but he knew he must do what he had to for his people.
Warren departed his family home after a tearful farewell with his mother, little sister and little brother. He took only a bag full of supplies and a hunting spear, passed down to him by his father.
He stood at the entrance of the bush and stared down the pathway. It was dark and gloomy, but Warren mustered the courage. He took a deep breath and ventured through.
He passed through the trees, through the swamps, through the bushes, over the footbridge across the river.
He ate dinner with the kangaroos. They shared salads and biscuits. Then he slept under the moon.
As he walked further into the bush, Warren came across a den. It rested under the biggest tree he had ever seen.
Warren took his spear and crawled into the den. There was fur stuck to the walls, caught by the tree roots poking through the dirt. Warren crawled through . . .
. . . Warren reached the heart of the den. It looked like a cave, and there he saw the skeletons of the two missing girls.
As Warren cried, he heard footsteps behind him . . .
. . . Warren turned to see a big Hairy Man staring down at him. Its fur was thick and it was as tall as a mammoth. It looked down at Warren with its big red eyes.
Warren knew that this creature was a Doolagah. As he readied himself to spear it, he saw another Doolagah behind it, then another, then another!
Warren ran out of the den, but the Doolagahs chased him. He fought them in the forest, breaking his spear as he stabbed one of them. The others zeroed in on him and he hit them with a super-punch, which sent them all flying through the air.
More Doolagahs came out of the den. As Warren started to run from them, he realised he could fly. He flew through the air and back to the Mish.
Warren told the cops about the Doolagahs, and they told the government.
The government decided it would blow up the Mish in one hour, supposedly before the Doolagah infestation reached the other towns and villages.
The clock counted down at the Mish community hall. Warren raced to fight off the Doolagahs on the outskirts of town while the rest of the mob evacuated.
Warren fought the Doolagahs. He killed them one by one with his superhuman strength, but they kept coming and there were too many of them.
Warren ran back to the Mish. He saw the government helicopter in the sky, ready to drop its bomb.
He was about to fly away when he heard the cries of the children . . .
The children were stuck in their school. All the adults had left them. The doors were locked, but Warren ripped them open.
The alarm sounded from the Mish community hall. The countdown had reached zero. Warren saw the bomb begin to fall from the helicopter, just as the Doolagahs ran into the Mish.
Warren ripped off the wall of the school . . .
. . . His arms stretched like rubber and he grabbed all the children of the Mish . . .
. . . He flew them into the sky as the bomb landed on the street . . .
. . . The Mish exploded beneath him as he flew the kids past the helicopter . . .
. . . Past the clouds . . .
. . . Then Warren brought them down at the nearby village, where their parents and families were waiting for them.
All the people of the Mish gathered for Warren. They formed a parade and had a party.
The Prime Minister came to the parade. He offered Warren a medal, looping it onto his neck.
But Warren’s greatest appreciation didn’t come from the Prime Minister, or the government. It came from the people who lived in his village, who praised him, their hero, ‘the Boy from the Mish’.
‘Damn,’ I say.
‘You like it?’ Tomas asks, eagerness on his face and light in his eyes.
‘It’s fucking amazing.’
Tomas smiles and it is an amazing one, which stretches across his face as he blushes. It’s the smile of a boy who doesn’t get praised very often.
I take the pencil to the page and start to sketch his story from the descriptions.
‘You really think it’s good?’ Tomas asks. I almost don’t hear him over the rain on the roof.
‘Yeah! I had no idea how good it would be,’ I say. ‘I think I underestimated you, Tommy.’
I glance up from my page and there is a tear escaping Tomas’ eye, though his half smile still rests on his face. He sniffles and the tears come streaming down.
‘Hey,’ I whisper with a gentle voice. I put the sketchbook aside and shuffle closer to him on the mattress. ‘What’s wrong?’
He looks to his lap, shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, and I feel like I’m about to cry with him.
‘Nothin’ I ever did was good,’ he says, with a shaky voice.
I wrap my arms around him. He falls against me and rests his head on my chest, crying for a few minutes before settling himself. Then he wipes away his tears and walks to the windowsill. I follow slowly behind him as he gazes into the grey and the thunder and the lightning and the rain.
The thunder still rumbles but the rain sounds like it’s falling lighter on the roof as Tomas opens the window.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Yep,’ he says. I lean against the windowsill beside him. ‘Where have you been this whole time?’
‘I was right here,’ I say. A smirk comes to my face.
He wraps his arms around my body, shimmies in front of me and rests his head against my chest, holding me against the windowsill. He presses his ear against my heart. I know he hears its fast beats, and that he’ll be able to smell my deodorant and the excessive soap I used to scrub myself this morning. I wrap my arms around him too. I hope he feels safe in my arms.
The rain eases to gentle pitter-patters on the roof. The sun sets over the Mish and Tomas snores on my bed. I’m still on the floor on his mattress, sketching his story. My wrist is sore as I finish the last image: the townspeople standing in two rows, clapping and cheering for their hero, Warren, the boy from the Mish.
I give the drawing a gentle blow to rid the page of lead dust, then I close the sketchbook and place it beside the mattress. Tomas rolls over on my bed and moans, still asleep. He’s dreaming, somewhere far away from here. His face shows he is relaxed and unworried.
I pick up my phone from the bedside table and turn it on, opening Kalyn’s last message about Jarny. He’s just a bit weirded out. Don’t worry bout him.
But I do worry. I can’t fucking help it. Maybe it’s just part of my personality or my DNA or something – to worry forever about everything.
I text Kalyn a reply as I gaze outside to the easing rain: Can I come talk?
Kalyn texts back in a hurry: Yeah, if you want.
The feeling in my stomach is still there, even though he seems okay with knowing what he knows. The feeling just churns, squeezing somewhere inside me, like a knotted rope that feels the tightness of itself.
I pull on my shoes. I want to wake Tomas, so he knows where I’m going, but the peace I see on his face reassures me. As scared as I am to confront this, it’s Kalyn. I’ve known him my whole life. He knows me better than anyone. He might have already guessed this, years ago.
Jarny, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. He’s never taken much seriously. I can already hear him making jokes abou
t bum sex or something. He may actually hate me. But one thing at a time – off to Kalyn’s.
20
The rain falls onto me as I step outside, though it’s not too heavy anymore. I start along the main street of the Mish. My shoes splash in the puddles that have formed on the uneven road. I walk so slowly and let the rain wet me – whatever it takes to prolong my journey.
Up past the community centre, I can see that Kalyn’s ute is still there, parked outside his house. My stomach twists at the sight of it. He’s home. I want to turn back, join Tomas on my bed where it’s safe, but my feet keep moving me forward.
The streetlight by the community centre reflects off the water on the road. I step through its reflection as I pass. I arrive outside Kalyn’s place, take a deep breath, step onto his lawn. It squishes like a sponge when I walk over it. I stop myself for another breath at the front door.
It’s all right, I think.
It’s Kalyn.
It’ll be all right.
I knock on the door three times. I hear the radio inside, then footsteps. A figure appears through the glass pane. The door opens, and Kalyn stands there in a singlet and boardshorts.
‘Come in,’ he says.
I follow Kalyn inside to the kitchen. I’m relieved so far. The world hasn’t ended just yet.
Kalyn opens a beer from the fridge. He offers me one but I shake my head, then I follow him into the backyard. He sits at the round glass table, shaded from the rain by the roof above us. He rubs his forehead and eyes, takes a big sip from his beer and swallows a quarter of it in one gulp.
‘So, do you want to talk about it?’ he asks.
I don’t want to speak. My throat has dried itself and I’m pretty much shaking like a jackhammer on gravel.
‘Do we have to?’ I ask, as he takes another sip from his beer. ‘I mean, it’s not a big deal . . . is it?’
‘No,’ he says, quickly. ‘Not a big deal.’ He looks at me and smiles, then looks to the rain gently falling onto the grass and dirt of his backyard. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’
The Boy from the Mish Page 15