The Crush

by Scott Monk

  He leaned closer to the mirror. He’d always wondered who he’d inherited his ears from. Or his brown hair for that matter. They didn’t look anything like his mum’s …

  ‘How was school?’ he asked, stepping back into the living room with the towel wrapped around his waist.

  ‘Starting to get hectic,’ she answered, hovering over a biology book this time; a sole desk lamp lighting up the whole table in the dark kitchen. She looked great—dolled up in a blue dress, red lipstick and a touch of foundation. The image was far removed from the canvas council coveralls and orange vest she normally wore. He just hoped a single guy would think the same about her one day soon.

  ‘The teachers want us to start studying three hours each night between now and the exams. A lot of this stuff ain’t easy, y’know.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Reaching his bedroom door, Matt stopped and grinned cheekily. ‘By the way, you better not fail maths this time or you’re grounded for a month, you hear?’

  ‘Keep talking like that, mate, and I won’t be the only one.’

  Matt laughed and closed his door behind him.

  His mum was studying Year 12 part-time at TAFE. Now that her job was under threat, she wanted to go on to university and study nursing. She’d only ever made it as far as Year 9, the same grade Matt was in. Falling pregnant at fourteen had forced her to drop out of school.

  Fourteen. Man that was young. Imagine carting around a baby on board while all the other girls were sweating over their first kiss. At that age—a whole day ago!—he’d been more interested in footy, cars, keeping fit, computer games and water bomb fights. Then that puberty thing started. What a trip. He couldn’t stop thinking about babes. Lots of babes. Babes who wanted his body. He thought he was a mental case. His science teacher didn’t help. She said that one per cent of men’s hormones was female and vice versa. He was scared for weeks that those stray hormones would group together, demand equal opportunity and he’d grow wider hips or develop a fetish for high heels. Bizarre, huh?

  Scratching his chest, Matt walked inside his bedroom. Overlooking Marion Street, the room had a single bed with wrinkled black sheets, a second-hand wooden desk and a small chest of drawers where his favourite trophies perched. The walls were covered with footy posters of the Bulldogs and signed jerseys from each school and weekend club he’d played with, including the ‘nappy grade’ Under 6 sides. At the window, he could sit and watch the traffic below or read one of the dozens of league magazines he’d borrowed from his mates. Dirty shirts, boxer shorts and socks cowered in one corner, while his school textbooks and novels lay unread in a pile nearby. The room was pokey, but it was his space.

  He picked up a yellow flier from his desk. It advertised the Grand Slam concert for that Friday. Mulling over it for a second, he eventually screwed it up and tossed it next to his dirty clothes.

  Pulling on a pair of red boxers, blue jeans and a marsh-coloured shirt with racing stripes, he noticed the envelope with the birthday card his mother had been talking about. There was a typed address on the front but no return to sender on the flip side. He opened it and removed a card with a picture of a teenager lazing over motorbike handlebars. In gold letters, the front read: For a cool guy on his 15th birthday. As he checked inside, a hundred dollar note fell from the middle and fluttered onto the orange carpet.

  Stunned, Matt gawked at it like it was a scorpion. A hundred bucks! No way!

  He reached down and touched it. Yep. It was genuine. And best of all, it was his.

  No. There had to be a mistake. No one he knew was rich enough to give him a hundred bucks. He double-checked the name and address. Yes, they were his. He read the message written in loopy blue ink inside the card.

  Dearest Matthew,

  As always I’m thinking of you on this special day. I’ve never forgotten you and I promise I never will. You’re very important to me. I couldn’t think of what to buy you, so I thought $100 might help. All the best for your 15th birthday. I’ll see you shortly. Love always.

  Strange. There was no name. Love always who? His mum? Nah. She said she’d give him his present at dinner, plus she couldn’t spare that kind of cash. Nan maybe? It had to be. He didn’t have any other living relatives. Maybe it was a secret admirer. Some good-looking sort who had fallen madly in love with him and wanted to do the wild thing every day and night. He snorted. Yeah, and she was lying in his bed at that moment wearing only a smile.

  Nah, the card must have been from Nan.

  Plates of hot steaming noodles, Peking duck, beef in black bean sauce, fried rice, honey king prawns and sweet and sour pork were slid onto round tables by a flurry of waiters zipping in and out of the restaurant’s kitchen. Businessmen in cheap suits forked down mouthfuls of food as they laughed at a raunchy joke about one of their colleagues. Three early-comers commented about the flowers, painted fans and golden dragons along the walls as they waited for the rest of their group. Lobsters crammed into a small aquarium floated dully about, watching as a large man ripped apart their last comrade. In a corner, a teenage boy scooped a dribble of fried ice-cream from his giggling girlfriend’s chin and ate it under red and gold paper lanterns.

  Matt and his mum squeezed through the noisy crowd behind a young Chinese woman who showed them to their table. She planted menus in front of them and asked them would they like to order a drink before they even had a chance to see what was being served.

  ‘A beer,’ his mum said.

  ‘Make that two,’ Matt added. Both women frowned at him until he said, ‘Just joking. An orange juice thanks.’

  ‘And a tomato juice for me,’ a lady in her fifties said.

  ‘How’s it going, Nan?’ Matt asked, standing to receive a kiss.

  ‘Happy birthday, Matthew. How’s my favourite grandson tonight?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘I can see that. Looks like they smacked you one on the chin.’

  A flashback of a tackle earlier in the day triggered off stinging below his jaw. It would probably be a bruise by the morning.

  ‘If that was any redder you’d have every bull in the country chasing after you.’

  They laughed and sat down after his Nan and mum had kissed hello.

  ‘Okay, let’s see. What looks good tonight?’

  The food was great. They filled their stomachs with Mongolian pork, stir-fried vegetables, beef chow mein, lemon chicken and steamed rice. Each morsel was eagerly devoured. It wasn’t often they ate out; usually only on special occasions like birthdays. Matt liked it that way. He didn’t like big celebrations with streamers, cake, bad music and his friends either hitting onto each other or actually hitting each other. Family gatherings were swift and mainly painless.

  ‘So what did you get for your birthday, Matthew?’ Nan asked.

  ‘A late note,’ his mum answered for him.

  ‘What?’ Nan laughed.

  ‘He wanted to sleep in until ten this morning.’

  ‘I told mum she didn’t have to buy me anything this year. Just to let me sleep in.’

  ‘Surely you wanted something,’ Nan pushed.

  Matt’s eyes flicked to a table where a father was laughing with his three young sons. ‘Only to win the grand final this year. I’m too old for presents now.’

  ‘Is that so?’ his mother said. Opening her handbag, she flashed a white envelope in front of him. ‘Then you won’t be needing this.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, unable to mask his excitement.

  ‘Sorry, mate. You said you’re too old for presents.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Go on, Heather,’ Nan said. ‘Don’t torture the boy.’

  ‘Okay. But I’m sure he won’t like it.’

  His mum placed the envelope in front of him. His face brightened as he opened it and pulled out a ticket marked Grand Slam Music Concert, Sydney.

  ‘No way!’

  His mind went crazy. Music. Mates. Mosh pits. Kelly …

  ‘Thanks, Mum!’ he said, nearly
knocking her over with his hug.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she said.

  ‘But … But how did you afford it?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. You deserve it. That’s all you need to know.’

  Elated, he grinned then hugged his mum again, not knowing how to thank her properly. ‘That reminds me,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the card and the money, Nan. That was great. You definitely didn’t have to do that.’

  Nan dabbed some sauce from the corner of her mouth and put down the napkin. ‘What card, dear?’

  ‘The birthday card you sent me. You know, the one with the motorcycle on the front?’

  ‘A motorcycle? No, that’s not from me. I’ve got your present right here.’

  Nan opened her bag and pulled out a package wrapped in black and yellow paper. Confused, he opened it and lifted out an old blue and white jersey. In black texta, seventeen players from his beloved Bulldogs had scrawled their signatures. He nearly fell off his chair.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Our local dance club ran a raffle. That was one of the prizes. I hope you like it. I bought fifty tickets to win it.’

  ‘I do! Absolutely! You’re the best, Nan!’

  He leaned over and hugged her too. But that still left one question. Who had sent him the hundred bucks?

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t send me a card?’

  ‘Quite sure. I might be fifty-eight, but don’t put me in the old folks home yet.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ his mum asked, suspicious.

  ‘Nothing. I just thought Nan must have sent that other card I got today. The sender forgot to write their name on it.’

  His mum and grandmother exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘It must be from one of your old friends then,’ his mum offered.

  ‘That wouldn’t be surprising, what with the number of times you two have moved homes. How many times is it now? Five? Six?’

  ‘Does anyone want dessert?’ his mum asked.

  Wednesday began just like every other cool but clearing August morning. Clouds breezed through the blue sky that promised a mildly warm day and threatened late showers. Streams of Corollas, Commodores and Falcons started clogging the major roads as people finished their rushed breakfast and groggy goodbye kisses. Trains stalled and started, stalled and started between stations carrying loads of unhappy commuters. And houses echoed with screams about who had stolen whose hairbrush.

  Weeds danced at Matt’s ankles as he ran along the chainlink fence of the Chullora railway yard. Sweat teemed off his elbows, knees and chin as he glanced at the rusted coal, petrol, stock and flatbed carriages parked in the distance. Each swallow was dry and gravelly. Cramps riddled his calf muscles and sides, still agitated even after a good night’s sleep. But he fought on. Pain was good.

  A freight truck shuddered loudly beside him, blasting him with barrelling hot air. The stinking breath was nearly enough to knock him over. Exhausted, he stopped and doubled up, sucking in lungfuls of diesel fumes, smog and dust as he tried to regain his breath.

  He looked around him as he stretched against a telegraph pole to rub the splintery cramps from his legs. An advertising billboard down the road caught his attention. It showed a proud father teaching his five-year-old son how to shave. The pitch was for a brand of electric razor. Matt stared at it for a moment, then sighed. Time to move on.

  Regaining his rhythm, he made his way home. School started in fifty minutes and he needed to shower, shave and catch the bus. He turned a corner and nearly smacked into twin boys. They were no older than the boy in the billboard and still dressed in their pyjamas. They’d shot out of their driveway to fight for a rolled-up newspaper on the nature strip. Their father chased after them, hid them behind his legs then apologised to Matt.

  ‘Sorry. They’re terrors, you know. We all were once, right? C’mon, boys. Back inside.’

  Their father scruffed their heads then led them into the house.

  Eyes down, Matt tore out of there. He sprinted as hard and fast as he could, clenching his teeth against the ache building up inside him. He kept running and running and running until the pain ripped through his legs, chest and throat like little powersaws. His tendons felt like snapping and his heart rupturing. But instead of slowing down, he pushed himself harder and faster until sweat, speed and agony blinded him.

  Ssscccrrreeeeeeccchhh!

  A car nearly splattered him all over the evening news.

  ‘What are you trying to do, you stupid kid? Kill yourself!’ Stunned, Matt stared back at the driver, too scared to speak. The driver shouted at him again. He finally fought off the daze, and didn’t hang round to argue.

  With a quick twist, a tap blasted water into Matt’s cupped hands. Kneeling in a corner of a small park, he threw the liquid into his face. Slivers dripped from his palms and elbows as he ran his fingers down his cheeks. He was shaking, which was good. It meant that he was still alive.

  Relax, man. Relax. It had been a scare, that’s all.

  He hated this time of the year. The time around his birthday. The same thing always happened. He’d think about the past, freak out and try to run from it. He wished he could have escaped just this once. But no. Wherever he looked, he was always reminded of the same emptiness. Waiting for Chris after the football. At the Chinese restaurant. On a billboard plugging electric razors. And by five-year-old twins. The same thought had haunted him for most of his life: what would it be like to have his own dad?

  Matt and his mum rarely talked about him, which was central to the problem. The only time they did was when she was in the mood, which wasn’t often. All he knew about him was that he’d met his mum at a party. They’d got drunk, slept together then gone their own way the next morning. The day his mum found out she was pregnant was two weeks after his dad had died in a car crash.

  ‘What did he look like?’ Matt asked her on a rainy day when he was seven and they were playing Monopoly.

  ‘Your dad? I don’t really remember. His memory’s faded over the years.’

  ‘Was he tall?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Good looking?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘What colour were his eyes?’

  ‘Brown, I think.’

  ‘How about his hair?’

  ‘I can’t remember, mate. Now buy Mayfair or hand me the dice, would you.’

  Matt had clung to that fuzzy image of his father for half of his life. He’d cast his father in his dreams—dreams about kicking a football together, dreams about going fishing and dreams about rumbling in the backyard until his mum called out: ‘Dinner’s ready!’ It sounded like kid’s stuff, but it was the closest he’d come to having a real dad.

  Turning off the tap, Matt collapsed onto the grass. He looked at his watch. 8:31. Oh no! He was going to be late for school again.

  Rushing home and grabbing his bag, Matt was soon pistoning across the mall on his BMX. The bus hadn’t waited for him, although he’d waved frantically to get the driver’s attention. Typical. School bus drivers were card-carrying sadists.

  So he had to bike it.

  Every rotation was torture. After the morning run, he was spent. Chucking a sickie looked pretty good right about then, but the threat of angering the Dragon Lady a third day in a row fired him on.

  The BMX skidded to a stop outside the school gates. Using the cover of trees growing near the library, he snapped a chain around the wheels and bolted towards class. 9:28. He was so late.

  The Dragon Lady’s voice boomed across the playground and he braked as the windows rattled around him. Caught out! Eyes closed, he waited for her to snap his spine in half. But the mauling never came. He listened closer and heard the PA system echoing across the quadrangle. All right! An assembly! And during a double maths period too.

  Hundreds of bored students shielded their faces from the sun or scratched at the black quadrangle’s surface with twigs as the Dragon Lady roasted them for littering, not wearing the pro
per school uniform, or failing to turn up for sport. Two students were singled out for slagging on her office window while she was sitting inside. The Dragon Lady was the toughest, angriest and meanest principal Matt had ever known. She’d earned her nickname because she had sharp teeth, flaming red hair, long fingernails like talons, a fetish for green clothes and a well-honed ability to bite off the heads of Year 7 students. It was even rumoured she had two pet lizards named Son and Daughter.

  After another ten minutes of bile, the Dragon Lady dismissed the assembly and everyone groaned as they trudged off to their classes. Matt easily blended into the crowd, believing he was safe.

  Until science class.

  He couldn’t help it. Sitting up the back of the lab bored out of his mind, he was about to fall asleep when Chris suggested they conduct their own experiment. ‘Ever hooked up one of these babies to a tap?’ the Sundance Kid asked, pulling a Bunsen burner from under their bench.

  Matt grinned, knowing he was sure to find out.

  Chris grabbed the Bunsen burner’s hose and twisted it over the nozzle of the long thin tap on their sink. The teacher turned round at that moment and nearly busted them, but she was more interested in explaining carbon chemistry and quickly resumed writing on the blackboard.

  Giggling, Chris aimed the Bunsen burner at the geeks in the front row and twisted the tap. Water rushed through the hose, up the Bunsen burner’s spout and blasted out the other end. A ten metre jet of water drilled a geek in the back of the head. He screamed and Chris quickly turned off the tap and dropped the Bunsen burner into the sink.