Ms Singh, our classroom teacher, made her sit next to Damian, so my bones didn’t liquefy. She probably figured that Damian might smell, but at least he was capable of striking up a conversation. I wasn’t disappointed. It gave me the chance to stare at Destry for the rest of the lesson, and I couldn’t have done that if she’d sat next to me. Well, not without being totally creepy.
I loved the way her perfect nose crinkled when she got a whiff of the Pilling’s armpit.
‘Does she know how you feel?’ asked Grandad.
‘Get real, Pop,’ I said. ‘You know I avoid talking. And even if I plucked up the courage, what am I going to do? Walk up to her and say, “I love you, Destry”? She’d think I’m a complete loser.’
‘You’re blankety gutless,’ said Pop.
‘No I’m not,’ I said. Then I thought about it. ‘Yes, I am,’ I added. ‘And a complete loser.’
‘So what do you hope is going to happen?’
‘Well, the ideal situation is that Destry comes up to me, at recess, for example, and says, “Hi. You’re Rob and possibly the most gorgeous person I have ever seen. I realise I’m not worthy of you, but I just had to tell you that I am head over heels in love with you. Spurn me if you must, but I had to let you know.” And I’d give this really cool smile, you know, like this is something that happens to me a lot, and then I’d just walk away, but throw her a look over my shoulder, maybe give her a wink, just to let her know she was in with a chance …’
Grandad dunked a biscuit into his tea and then pointed it at me. The end fell off and hit the coffee table with a dull splat.
‘Gutless and an idiot.’
‘Harsh, but true,’ I said.
‘If we could stay in the real world for just a moment, young Rob,’ said Grandad. ‘Does she even know you exist? Have you talked to her, for example?’
‘Grandad, you know I’m painfully shy.’
‘So, you haven’t talked to her?’
‘No.’
‘Has she ever looked at you?’
‘I walked into a basketball post yesterday because I was staring at her and didn’t see it. Made a loud clang and I sat on the floor with blood running into my eyes.’
‘She saw that?’
‘I imagine. I can’t be absolutely sure because I had blood running into my eyes.’
Grandad dunked another biscuit and sucked on it while he thought. For the first time, it occurred to me that we humans end our days the same way we start them. Sucking on mush because our teeth aren’t up to it. Pop closed one eye and pointed another biscuit at me. The end fell off with another dull splat.
‘You’re going to have to make a bigger impression,’ he said. ‘Frankly, any kind of impression would be a start. Sport.’
‘Sport?’
‘Impress her with your sporting ability.’
‘I don’t have any.’
Grandad ignored me. ‘Is there a school event coming up? A sports day, something like that, where you could power home in the blankety hundred metres, trailing clouds of glory?’
There was only one sporting event on the horizon. When I told Pop about it he nodded.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘And I know what position you are going to play. She can’t fail to notice you, which is a start. Do a good job and the scales will fall from her eyes. Even if you don’t do a good job, but you’re brave, it’ll work. You will appear to her as a god, young Rob. A god.’
‘You’re crazy, Grandad,’ I said. ‘There’s no way I’m playing in that game.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I’m glad we agree,’ said Pop. ‘Now we have a campaign plan, let’s go to the community room and you can give me your best guess as to who among the inmates is going to die next. I’ve got a good idea, but I’d be interested in your view.’
‘Grandad!’ I said. ‘That’s horrible.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s totally horrible that this is what passes for entertainment in this place. It’s so bloody boring I blankety hope it’s me who’s kicking the bucket next.’
‘Grandad!’ I said again. He tries to shock me and I try not to smile.
But it’s hard.
I talked over Grandad’s plan with Mum and Dad that evening.
I’d given it some thought as I walked home, and although I still believed it was nuts, it didn’t seem quite as nuts as when he’d first mentioned it. See, I really hate being the centre of attention. I freeze when I’m aware that everyone is looking at me, or expecting me to say something in a public forum. I get severe panic attacks. Oral presentations are a classic example. My mouth goes dry and my legs tremble and I simply can’t say anything. Now I have a medical certificate and the school has to find alternative methods of assessment.
Grandad’s plan would mean plenty of eyes on me, but there were, to my way of thinking, two pluses. One, I’d be busy. I wouldn’t be looking at them looking at me, which is guaranteed to bring on a panic attack. Two, I’d be part of a team. There’d be twenty-one other people to look at.
I’d be diluted. Like raspberry and apple cordial.
Nonetheless, the whole notion was basically dumb. I figured Mum and Dad would destroy Grandad’s idea, shred it with the argument that I am of a retiring nature and have no sporting talent. Grandad doesn’t listen and I needed allies. Luckily, I can talk about pretty much anything to my parents, which I know is unusual, if not outright weird for a thirteen-year-old. Most kids my age roll their eyes if parents are even mentioned in passing, but I’m not like that.
The thing is, they’re accepting of who I am. Most people are, if I’m honest, though there are one or two exceptions, Daniel being an obvious example. Anyway, I trust my parents so I got straight down to it while Mum dished up the lasagne.
‘Pop thinks it would be a good idea if I tried to impress Destry with my sporting ability,’ I said.
‘What sporting ability?’ said Mum and ‘Who on earth is Destry?’ said Dad at the same time.
‘Rob is madly and passionately in love with a girl at school. Destry Camberwick,’ explained Mum.
‘And she doesn’t even know who I am,’ I added. ‘So, according to Pop, I need to get her attention by doing crazily brave sporting stuff.’
‘But Rob,’ said Mum. ‘Sport? Really? Write her a love poem – you’re terrific at English – but no one could really say you’re a sporty person.’
A love poem. Brilliant idea. I filed it away for future use. This was going well. Not only was Mum making ally noises but she’d also come up with a practical suggestion.
‘But that’s the point,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit nerdy, but if I could show how brave I am by playing a physical sport in the most dangerous position on the field, no one could fail to be impressed, could they?’ This is called being the devil’s advocate and involves arguing the opposite of what you believe, to firm up your case.
Mum placed a bowl of salad in the middle of the table.
‘I hate to rain on your parade,’ she said, ‘but people normally get picked for a sporting team on merit. You know, actually being good at the sport, rather than being hopeless. A small point, but an important one, I feel. Isn’t that right, Alan?’
‘Destry Camberwick?’ said Dad. ‘Isn’t that an eighties rock band?’
I ignored him.
‘You don’t know for certain I’m hopeless at sport, Mum,’ I said. I wanted her to argue, but I was becoming a little tired of the confident assertion that I’m rubbish at anything physical. Mums are meant to be supportive under all circumstances.
‘I’ve been to countless sports days at your schools, Rob,’ said Mum. ‘You used to get out of the egg-and-spoon race because you reckoned it was dangerous.’
This was an outrageous lie.
She continued. ‘You said that if you fell it was probable you’d poke your eye out with the spoon and possibly insert an egg up a nostril.’
Ah, yes. I remembered. So not an outrageous lie then.
Actually, it still seemed to me a fair assessment of what is obviously a risky sport.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how everyone viewed me. Not just a total loser, but a coward as well? Grandad had called me gutless and I’d agreed, but I thought he’d been joking. Kind of.
‘But you’re older now,’ Mum continued. ‘You might cope with the egg-and-spoon race. Is that what you’re thinking of entering?’
I decided to ignore her sarcasm. Assuming it was sarcasm.
‘Actually, it’s the annual soccer game between our school and St Martin’s,’ I said. I aimed for a cool tone. ‘They’re really good – we haven’t beaten them … well, ever, I think. And we are total rubbish. Last year they won fourteen–nil, and they weren’t even trying in the second half. Our team couldn’t find their goal with a GPS.’
‘I think I spot the flaw in your plan, Rob,’ said Mum, placing a slice of lasagne on her plate. ‘You want to impress a girl by being a hopeless part of a hopeless team? The pity factor will only get you so far, I’m afraid. Plus, even if your school is unbelievably bad at soccer, I’d still find it impossible to imagine they couldn’t find someone better than you. No offence.’
‘Plenty taken,’ I replied. This was turning into a nightmare.
‘Wasn’t Destry the name of a famous gunslinger in the Wild West?’ said Dad.
‘No one wants to be the goalie,’ I continued. ‘James Martin is and he told me he hates it. But he can’t get out of it, since no one is prepared to replace him and the coach won’t let him drop out. So if I volunteer, James will be thrilled and I’ll be in the team.’
‘The goalie is the one who tries to stop the ball going in the net?’ said Mum.
‘Correct.’
‘Then won’t you seem an even bigger loser if you’re the one picking it out all the time? And who’s to say Destry will even see the game? She’s probably not interested in the sport.’
An even bigger loser? I took a deep breath. ‘She won’t have a choice,’ I said. ‘The whole school is forced to watch. And, okay, even if we lose twenty–nil, I’m bound to make some saves, aren’t I? And she’ll have to notice me. All the action will be taking place around me.’
‘What do you think, Alan?’ said Mum.
‘Or was Destry PI an American show from the seventies?’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You’ve been brilliantly helpful. Thanks.’ At least he wasn’t insulting me.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said around a mouthful of lasagne. ‘It’s what dads are for.’
‘And, anyway,’ I said. ‘I don’t need your approval, Mum. I’m going to do it. I am.’ This was obviously a time to prove myself to Mum and Grandad. I wasn’t going to be a sook all my life. It was time to break the shackles of everyone’s preconceptions and show I was made of tough material, that I was not afraid of spoons, eggs or even footballs.
I think I saw a small smile play across Mum’s lips as she lifted a glass of water to her mouth, but I might have been wrong.
Andrew Harris is my best friend in the whole world, so I texted him later when I was in bed.
Descriptive note: Andrew. Age: fourteen. Tall, long dark hair in a centre part. Oh, forget it. I’m getting tired of these descriptive notes. It’s just Andrew, okay? Doesn’t matter what he looks like. Well, not for our purposes.
Andrew, being my best friend in the whole world, obviously knows about my Destry obsession. In fact, he’s already made suggestions, but they’ve been of the kind that Grandad first put forward.
‘Just ask her out, mate.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if she says no?’
‘Then she says no. But what if she says yes?’
‘She won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not going to ask her.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if she says no?’
It was a conversation that he admitted made him want to punch my lights out. I told him to get in line behind Daniel Smith. But Andrew (never call him Andy, unless you want to really irritate him) is something of an expert on what girls want. He’s had three girlfriends to my certain knowledge, and he’s only just turned fourteen. That’s impressive. In fact, it’s inconceivable. Anyway, he’d know if my plan was a good one.
Andrew. Thinking of being goalie in annual soccer game to impress Destry with my bravery and general macho qualities. What do you think?
(I am always grammatical, even in texts. It’s called having standards.)
Ru nuts
(Most people don’t bother.)
Yes, but what do you think?
U cd get killed
Then she would be overcome with grief.
A great aphrodisiac.
Wot
Aphrodisiac. Like a love potion.
Thort it was type of hair cut anyway no matter cos ud b dead ya moron
True. Plan depends upon my survival.
Plucky trooper. Brave against all the odds.
Heroic in the face of intense danger.
Mite work or u cd just ask her out
What if she says no? And don’t spell ‘might’ like that, just to save one letter. Mr Lazy.
I went to sleep full of enthusiasm for the plan. But I also decided to write the love poem before the game. From my research on the position of goalkeeper (five minutes on the official A-League site), I understood severe brain damage was a real possibility. The worst-case scenario would be that I turned into Daniel Smith.
I love my school. When I first arrived I had a problem with the school uniform but Mum and Dad sorted it out, and since then it’s been great. Everyone is friendly. Sure, there are a couple of people like Daniel Smith, but you get them everywhere. And really, the only way to deal with the Daniels of this world is to ignore them.
No, Milltown High is awesome and exceptionally supportive.
I went to see Mr Broadbent, the PE teacher, at recess. He was in the gym, supervising a bunch of kids playing basketball, but he sat down with me on the bleachers and let the game run itself.
I explained. He looked me up and down and whistled.
‘Goalkeeper, Rob?’ he said. ‘You know what they say?’ I didn’t, but figured he’d tell me. ‘You have to be mad to be a goalkeeper. You can get kicked in the head – you almost certainly will get kicked in the head. It’s like a war zone in that penalty area. You have to be incredibly brave. Imagine there’s a fifty-fifty ball coming towards you.’
I tried, but as I had no idea what a fifty-fifty ball was (half ball, half something else?) I failed. So I just nodded.
‘The centre-forward is thundering in, determined to get to the ball before you do. He’s huge and mean and all he cares about is scoring that goal. What are you going to do?’
I thought, If it means that much to him, who am I to stand in his way? But I figured this wasn’t a wise response if I wanted to make the team.
‘I make sure I get to the ball before he does,’ I said.
‘Right. But you’ll be diving headfirst into the ground, while he’s coming in with studs up. Who’s going to get injured?’
‘Me.’
‘Right. Can you do that, Rob? Because if you can’t, you’re no use to the school soccer team.’
‘I can do it, Mr Broadbent.’
He sniffed. ‘Tell you what. The game is in a month. I want you on the oval three times a week after school for training. We’ll see what you’re made of.’
Blood, I thought, if what you said about goalkeepers is true. Blood but nothing in the way of brains.
‘I won’t let you down,’ I said.
I let him down.
Well, for the first couple of training sessions. See, the goals in soccer are really high and wide and I’m not. I stood in the centre, on the goal line (give me some credit for getting the terminology right) and looked to my right, left and up. There were massive spaces, just waiting for a soccer ball to sa
il through. In fact, from my perspective, you’d have to be unlucky not to score. You’d have to hit it straight at me and hope there wasn’t enough time for me to get out of the way. Mr Broadbent placed a ball on the penalty spot and took a few paces back.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll start with the simple stuff. I’ll kick the ball a little to your right or left. No, wait. I’ll tell you. It will be to your left.’
‘Don’t go easy on me, sir,’ I said. ‘I can take it.’
He ignored me. ‘You must get down, so as much of your body as possible is behind the ball. Understand? Like you’re lying down and the ball is hitting your stomach. No way for it to go through you.’
I nodded and jumped up and down on my toes a little. I saw a goalkeeper do that and thought it looked cool. (Small confession – for research purposes I watched an English Premier League game on the television. Professional goalkeepers are BIG, by the way. Blankety huge, as Grandad might say.)
Mr Broadbent stepped up and side-footed the ball a metre or two to my left. He’s obviously a man of his word. I can’t pretend it went fast. In fact it went so slowly that I can remember all of my thought processes. I probably would have had time to write them down.
You can get that, Rob.
What did he say? Dive. No, he didn’t say ‘dive’. He said, ‘get your body behind it’.
But I could stick my foot out and kick it away. Come to that, I could walk over and sit on it.
He said lie down with your body behind the ball.
Yeah, but that would mean throwing myself on the ground.
So?
So the ground looks really hard. I could hurt myself.
The ball is going slowly, but the way this debate is going it will be past you before you know it.
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 2