The Crush

by Scott Monk

  That riled the Mongrels even more.

  ‘Mate, if your brain was any smaller, ants could use it for soccer practice,’ Chris said.

  ‘Always the comedian, aren’t you, Pearce?’ Blackwell answered by strangling him more. ‘Keep those jokes coming, because the only thing that’ll be funny round here soon will be us kicking your head in.’

  ‘That’s if you guys know how to kick. You wouldn’t be able to tell by the way you played today!’

  Blackwell snapped. He pushed Chris backwards, ready to maul him. That triggered off the rest of the Lions and Mongrels. They were starting to tear each other apart when parents and teachers rushed from everywhere to stop the fight before the bloodlust took hold. Matt bulldozed his mates backwards out of harm just as the Princes principal got involved.

  ‘Enough! Break it up!’

  A Lions player took a swing at a Mongrel and missed. The teachers and parents had to restrain both sides again.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ the principal added. ‘Stop or you’ll all be expelled.’

  The two sides eyed each other off, snorting out lungfuls of hate. The principal cast a nervous glance at the reporter and the photographer. They hadn’t moved. But they had already snapped some photos.

  ‘Deal with them, would you,’ the principal said to an underling. The teacher approached Ms Hurrell and the photographer, but they refused to leave.

  ‘Princes boys should know better,’ the principal said to his students. ‘And as for you,’ he added, singling out Matt, ‘take your thugs and leave.’

  ‘Hey, my mates wouldn’t have started this without being provoked first,’ Matt retorted.

  ‘Princes boys don’t start fights.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ voices shouted from the Mongrels side.

  ‘Guys, shut up, would you,’ Matt warned.

  ‘But they started it,’ Chris said.

  ‘I know but we don’t want any trouble. And no doubt, the cops will be called.’

  ‘You’re a very wise boy,’ the principal said.

  There were a few grumbles but the Mongrels backed off. They listened to their captain. He’d made them winners all year. His leadership had never been challenged. They glared at the Lions players. Another time.

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ Blackwell said, looking straight at Matt.

  ‘Blackwell!’ the principal snapped.

  ‘Hey, the game’s over, all right?’ Matt said. ‘You’re in the finals. We’re in the finals. If we play again, then we’ll see who’s the best team, okay?’

  ‘That’s us!’ Chris shouted, triggering off more shouting.

  ‘Enough!’ the principal ordered. ‘The game is over. It is time for you and your “mates” to go home, Mr Cassidy.’

  Matt shook his head. Unbelievable. Any icier and he’d start seeing penguins.

  Huffing, he told his players to start leaving. But before he did so himself, he reluctantly offered Aaron Blackwell a handshake. His mum always said unresolved grief only created more later on. ‘Peace?’

  Blackwell looked down at the outstretched palm then back at Matt. But instead of shaking it, he rumbled up a green goober and spat it right into Matt’s eye. Warm sticky slag leeched down his face as he froze, too stunned to react.

  Players went to war again.

  Wiping a tissue down his face, Matt dropped his backpack onto the nature strip with a heavy crash.

  ‘What’ve you got in there?’ Chris asked through numb, bleeding lips. ‘A dozen bricks or something?’

  ‘Nah, just books.’

  ‘You sure it’s not Aaron Blackwell’s ego?’

  Matt snorted, but flinched at the memory of the goober hitting him in the eye. ‘My bag isn’t that big.’

  Chris grinned too, although it cost him. ‘He’s one sad case. Pity all those oldies broke up the fight. I would have liked to have had a shot at that guy.’

  ‘You did. He hit you first.’

  ‘Lucky shot. Two of his mates ganged up on me. Next time I’ll smack him out with one punch, you’ll see.’

  A car turned into the long driveway that led to the extensive grounds of Princes Boys College. The old sandstone nineteenth century buildings, fountains, green football ovals, cricket pitches and courtyards were nothing like the transportable classrooms, rectangular fibro buildings, handball walls and concrete quadrangle at Bankstown Central High. Matt almost felt guilty for sitting in front of their wrought-iron fence. The guards probably had cameras pinned on him and Chris, ready to call the cops if they looked like they were about to cause trouble.

  ‘Hey, you going to the Grand Slam concert this Friday night?’

  Matt tied the laces of his footy boots together and then slung them over his shoulder. ‘I can’t. Tickets are thirty-four bucks.’

  ‘Scab the money from your mum or get a job at Maccas like me. It’s the biggest concert of the year, man. Twenty bands. The hottest music. Luscious babes …’

  ‘Babes?’

  ‘Absolutely. Thousands of them. All in tight little outfits and crammed up nice and close to you. You’re guaranteed to score—even with a head like yours.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘C’mon. What do you say? You’ve got to go. If not for me, then for all those lonely girls out there.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do. Somebody has to act as crowd control when your face causes a stampede.’

  Chris cuffed his mate on the back of the skull.

  Chris Pearce was Matt’s best friend. Rocketing upwards at one seventy-three centimetres, he had light green eyes, a small nose, dark eyebrows and spiky coppery hair the length of matchsticks. Patches of orange stubble were starting to sprout along his jawline and cheeks, which were also peppered with acne. He was lanky and ran like a praying mantis, but he sure could kick. He should’ve been an Aussie Rules player or a basketballer but league had been his passion since he was a kid. And because the two of them hung out together so often, people would call them Matt Cassidy and the Sundance Kid after the famous old movie starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman.

  A four-wheel drive pulled out of the college driveway. From the passenger’s seat, a Lions player shouted, ‘What are you waiting for, ferals? Your parole officers?’

  ‘Nah, the council workers to stop steamrolling the road—with your mum!’ Chris shot back.

  The four-wheel drive left before the angry Lions player could leap out. Chris shook his head and looked at Matt. ‘Sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything by that.’

  ‘No offence taken.’

  A car horn beeped from the street. ‘That’s my dad. I better go,’ Chris said. ‘Hey, you doing anything tonight? We could grab some burgers and play some pool.’

  Matt glanced from his mate to Mr Pearce, fighting off a surge of jealously. ‘Nah, me, mum and my nan are having dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It’s a birthday thing—’

  ‘Birthday? Whose birthday?’

  Matt screwed up his face. ‘Mine,’ he answered sheepishly.

  ‘Yours? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  He shrugged. ‘I kind of forgot. I’m not really big on them.’

  ‘Not big on birthdays? You’ve gotta be joking. Everyone loves their birthday. Getting presents is the best.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You should have told me. I would have bought you something.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Not even that brunette you’ve been secretly lusting after?’

  ‘Which brunette?’

  ‘That one in the grandstands you keep staring at.’

  Matt blushed. ‘I do not! Who told you about her anyway?’

  Beep! Beep!

  ‘Sorry, gotta go. Catch ya!’

  Laughing, Chris jumped into his dad’s car, Matt in pursuit. Matt pulled up short, letting his friend get away. Knowing Chris, he was bluffing just to stir him. Matt hadn’t told anyone about the brunette. Not even his mum. Especially his mum.

  Thinking o
f home, he realised he was the last of his team to leave. He grabbed his bag and boots and started walking.

  Peak-hour traffic was crunched together by four o’clock. Cars, trucks, taxis, vans and an empty hearse inched along the main road. Waves of heat shimmered from their engines as the drivers’ tempers stewed at the delay, listening to radio talkshow hosts vomit bigotry across the airwaves. Matt left for the twisted intestines of suburbia. Stopping a short distance away, he unbuckled his school bag then pulled out a handful of glossy department store catalogues showcasing fluffy blue slippers, ferns and shapely models in knickers and bras. Each pamphlet was neatly folded in thirds. He quickly stuffed the first one into the mailbox of a pale green weather-board house then glanced around him. Good. No one had seen him. He hated it when he was hassled by adults, dogs or smart-mouthed kids for doing his job. It stank big time but it earned him some spare change.

  Next was a new block of flats echoing with Middle Eastern music and billowing with lines of washing. The brick monstrosity was one of hundreds crammed together in the Bankstown area. The whole street looked like a giant kid had whacked together some crazy Lego town without much idea of living space or taste. Matt stuffed twenty pamphlets into the mailboxes then moved on to the next apartment block.

  Within an hour, his bag was empty. Exhausted, he flopped down on a low garden wall next to a used car lot and watched the traffic muscle its way along the Hume Highway. Beyond was a petrol station cluttered with oil racks, pumps, ice freezers, barbecue heat beads and cheap plastic soccer balls. Through the windows, he could see a fridge stacked with every cold drink imaginable.

  The first mouthful of orange juice washed down his throat before the money rattled in the cash register. He sucked back another gulp then wiped his mouth slowly along his shoulder.

  In no hurry to leave, he looked outside at a blue Porsche pulling up at one of the bowsers. Next to it was a white kombi van with a bad muffler and panels painted with murals even an ageing hippie would protest against.

  A girl in a green school blazer, tartan uniform and grey tights stepped out of the Porsche. She slammed the door then hurried away from the car. But she had only gone a few steps before the driver called her back. Matt couldn’t see who it was. The person was hidden behind the kombi but he could hear anger in the driver’s voice.

  Hurt, the girl retreated and headed towards the bowser. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, but she obediently lifted the nozzle from the bowser’s cradle and stuck it into the Porsche’s hip.

  The girl was pretty. Real pretty. But then again, which girl wasn’t? He’d seen her before. Her name was Kelly Sinclair and she went to Mother of Mercy—a middle-class Catholic girls school that all his mates went out of their way to walk past. Nearly as tall as Matt, she had long legs, twilight-blue eyes, dark chocolate-coloured hair that cascaded around her shoulders and rounding breasts. Her face, when it wasn’t shadowed with despair, was playful and occasionally warmed by her shy but deep sense of humour. Her body was shaping more and more every day into that of a woman who would always attract a guy’s attention. And her kissable lips remained painfully elusive.

  Kelly must have been distracted while filling up the Porsche because petrol suddenly piddled onto the ground next to her feet. She jumped back and flicked the mess from her skirt and hands. The driver saw it too and he starting abusing her again.

  ‘Hey, you!’ Matt jumped. Standing behind the counter, the manager was pointing at him. ‘Yeah, you! Are you going to stand around all day in my shop or what? This ain’t a train station, you know.’ The manager glared at him with eyes that told him to scram. Matt considered making a big deal about it, but he was tired. He readjusted his bag and his boots then headed through the sliding doors.

  Kelly had finished wiping the mess from the side of the Porsche when he stepped outside. He walked in her direction to say hello but she ignored him. Scrunching up a paper towel, she hurried past him into the store, trying to remain composed. He turned to say g’day, when the driver of the Porsche growled directly behind him.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, feral.’

  Matt spun round. Blackwell!

  ‘She’s too classy for you. Plus, she’s mine.’

  The Lions captain puffed up his chest and looked down his nose at Matt. Veins traced down his large arms like tree roots as his fingers balled into fists.

  ‘I was just going to say hello.’

  ‘Bad luck. She doesn’t talk to dogs like you.’

  Blackwell leaned over Matt; his mere presence pushing him back a step. Matt knew what was happening. It was time to leave.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Blackwell said, shoving him back.

  ‘Hey, leave me alone. I don’t want any trouble, okay?’

  ‘And maybe I do.’

  ‘Look, if this has got to do with today—’

  ‘Of course it’s got to do with today.’

  Matt sighed through gritted teeth. ‘We won, all right? Get over it.’

  ‘It’s more than that. You made me look like a fool.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. The talent scouts. You saw them.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were talking about you and not me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’ll know who to maim if I miss out on a contract with a Sydney club, won’t I?’

  Matt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘I didn’t know the talent scouts were even in the grandstand until after the match. I wouldn’t have played any differently if I had known. My team comes first. We play to win. Always have. If you can’t handle that then you should think about taking up another sport.’

  Matt attempted a second pass but Blackwell blocked him again. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Of course but having a famous father doesn’t impress me.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with who my old man is, feral. It’s me you should be worried about.’

  ‘C’mon. I’m not in the mood for this. If you want to be the big tough guy, then Hollywood’s that way.’

  ‘Stupid kid.’

  Blackwell suddenly lashed out. He thumped Matt hard in the chest and sent him reeling into one of the metal stands. Wire bit painfully in Matt’s back and arms as plastic soccer balls scattered everywhere.

  He tried scrambling to his feet but Blackwell was faster. With two hands, he hoisted Matt up and threw him against a wall.

  ‘What are … Aaron! Stop!’

  A girl’s voice. Off to the right.

  ‘Stay out of this, Kelly! Get in the car.’

  ‘What are you doing to him?’

  ‘None of your business. Now do as I say!’

  ‘Don’t talk to her like that,’ Matt said.

  ‘I’ll talk to her however I like,’ Blackwell said, pounding Matt against the wall again.

  ‘Leave him alone, Aaron. You promised no more fighting.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. Get-in-the-car!’

  He freed one hand to threaten Kelly with a slap. She flinched and impulsively Matt grabbed hold of Blackwell’s raised palm to stop him. That angered Blackwell more. He pinned Matt’s head against the wall and prepared to punch him in the nose.

  ‘Hold it right there, son.’

  The three of them looked to the entrance of the servo, where the manager and two mechanics stood.

  ‘What do you want?’ Blackwell snapped.

  ‘You off my property. Now.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or you can talk to the cops I’ve just called.’

  Suddenly, as if on cue, a police siren screamed down the Hume Highway. His fingers still clenched around Matt’s neck, Blackwell strained to listen if he had heard right. He had. Dropping Matt to the ground, he warned, ‘This ain’t over.’ Then, turning to Kelly, he shouted, ‘Get in the car!’

  He started up the Porsche’s engine. Panicking, Kelly stepped towards the car but faltered when the siren grew l
ouder.

  ‘C’mon! The cops are almost here!’ he shouted.

  She still didn’t move. Blackwell screamed once more before gunning the car out of there in a screech of rubber. The Porsche was a streak of blue down the highway just as the cop car appeared around the corner. The chase was on.

  Free, Matt breathed deep as he massaged his neck. He attempted to swallow but found it excruciating. There was no sympathy from the manager, however.

  ‘You too, son. Get out of here. You and your friends aren’t welcome.’

  A quarter of the way home, Matt realised he was being followed by Kelly. She trudged along the footpath behind him. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes were open but not looking at anything. He hated seeing girls downcast like that. Nothing was sadder than a girl robbed of her smile.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, when she caught up to him.

  Startled, she blinked out of her daze. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you okay? You look a little lost.’

  ‘Me? No … I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No, really. I’m fine. Thanks.’

  She grimaced, excused herself then kept moving.

  Matt watched her pass before holding onto his shouldered boots and jogging after her. Call him a softie but he couldn’t let a girl that depressed just leave.

  ‘Do you think the cops caught him?’ Matt said behind her.

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Aaron Blackwell. Do you think they got him?’

  Kelly stared in the direction her boyfriend had escaped. Her eyes were skittish and frightened—not for Aaron but for herself. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘I don’t get it. How can he drive a Porsche when he’s only fifteen?’ Matt pushed. He was determined to get a full sentence out of her.

  She looked in the distance again. ‘I’m sorry. I better go.’

  ‘I’ve heard he takes his father’s car when he’s not around. Is that true?’

  Once again, Kelly checked to see if her boyfriend was within sight. Then, with her eyes lowered, she nodded.

  The answer must have been as embarrassing as a confession because she seemed desperate to leave. Matt stepped in front of her. ‘I’m sorry about what happened at the petrol station. It’s my fault you’re without a lift home.’