by Pat Flynn
She gives my hand a squeeze. ‘You need to open your heart and let your feelings flow onto the page. Not only will you write a great poem, but you’ll feel better, too.’
She moves onto the next kid and I think about my life. About Ashleigh and Lacey and how I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions. About how Kane always lucks out while I’m often out of luck. And there’s this puberty thing that’s got me looking and speaking like a half-man, half-boy creature.
And then I stop thinking, and start writing.
At the end of the lesson, Christine comes back to read my words. She wipes her eye when she finishes. ‘Tony, this is good. Really good.’ She takes my hand again. ‘I’m proud of you.’
I’m proud of me, too. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For everything.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She leans in close. ‘Don’t tell anyone I said this, but from what I’ve seen you’ve got a good chance of winning the competition. A very good chance.’
Although I don’t tell her, she’s wrong.
You see, the most embarrassing moment of my life was when a Year Ten girl dacked me on the bus. It wouldn’t have been so bad except that I forgot to wear underwear that day. But I reckon winning the school poetry comp would be even more embarrassing. Imagine what my mates would say?
So I can’t win because I’m not going in it. This poem is for my eyes only.
‘You mind if I make a copy?’ she says.
‘Sure.’
Mine, and the beautiful brown eyes of Christine Bateson.
*
Mrs Randall stands at the front of assembly. ‘I’m very excited to announce the winners of the middle school poetry competition.’
She waits for applause but there is none. Footy is hands-down the biggest thing at our school, followed by cricket, then chick sports like netball and dancing, and right at the bottom comes debating, chess club and poetry.
‘But firstly I’d like to thank our judges, Miss Mason and Mr Relf. They said that the standard of poetry in this year’s competition was extremely high, which made their job most difficult.’
Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, I think.
‘In third place with a poem titled “Revolution”, please put your hands together for Astrid Reichelt.’
Some of Astroid’s friends clap, as well as a few boys – probably because she’s hot in a nerdy kind of way.
Astrid doesn’t look at all happy when she collects her certificate. She would have expected to win.
‘In second place is a poem that really stuck to the theme of the competition – ‘denial’. It’s about how giving up the pleasures of life, although difficult, can help us become better people. Here’s a sample:
My lips hum with desire
but my soul sings like an angel’s choir.
‘Please congratulate Ashleigh Simpkin!’
She gets a slightly bigger clap than Astrid because she’s slightly hotter.
Mrs Randall gets really excited now. She speaks so loudly the speakers shudder.
‘And the winner came as a big surprise to me. He is obviously a boy of hidden talents.’
She must be talking about Brains. He probably wrote a poem called ‘SCIENCE’.
‘It’s a short poem but very powerful.’
No, it can’t be Brains. If he wrote a poem it would be 50 pages long, like his speeches.
‘According to the judges …’ She puts on a pair of granny glasses and starts reading. ‘This is a brilliant, post-modern analysis of denial. Its use of empty space gives the reader room to fill in the gaps about its many deep meanings. An outstanding piece of work.’
I’m getting a bad feeling about this. I don’t know what most of what she said means, but my poem was quite short and I only wrote on every second line – which means there was lots of empty space. I hope Christine Bateson didn’t enter the poem behind my back.
‘But before I announce the winner, I have something exciting to tell you.’
There’s a groan from the audience. They want less poetry and more lunchtime.
Mrs Randall waits for silence. ‘I was buying some books this morning from Baxter’s Bookshop and I just happened to have the winning poem with me, so I showed it to the owner. He was so impressed that he decided to sponsor the competition to the tune of $200, half to go to the winner as cash, and the other half to go to the library so we can build up our impressive poetry collection for you to enjoy.’
There are a few sniggers at this. The only poetry collection most kids at this school will ever read is the one on the back of the dunny doors.
But then it becomes quiet. Everyone wants to see who’s going to win a 100 bucks, and now I’m hoping and praying that it’s me. I could buy four monster truck tickets with that much cash.
‘And the winner is …’ She pauses to build the tension. Gavin Fox uses the opportunity to let one go.
‘Kane Steele!’
Kane? What the …?
A buzz goes through the Year Eights, and it’s not just because of Gavin’s fart. No one expected Kane to win a poetry comp. He’s a popular bloke who’s good at sport, not a nerd.
As he stands and saunters through the group, I’m waiting for some blokes to chuck some smart-alec comments his way. I’ll be the first one to laugh.
‘Lucky bugger,’ says David Mulligan. ‘Wish I won 100 big ones.’
‘I might take up poetry meself,’ says Gavin Fox. ‘Could help me hook up with the chicks.’
‘Trouble is you have no talent,’ shoots back Megan Frost. ‘Not like Kane.’
Sally Bliss giggles. ‘You don’t have a body like him either.’
What’s going on? There’s no slagging at all. Before I can think of something bad to say, Kane’s up on the stage.
‘And now I’m going to ask Kane to recite his prize-winning poem in full,’ says Mrs Randall.
Kane stands in front of the microphone and gives it a tap to make sure it’s working. It is.
‘Good morning, everybody,’ he says with a grin. ‘My poem is called “Nothing”.’
For about ten seconds he just stares out into the audience. Maybe he’s having a mental blank?
‘Thank you,’ he says, before walking off.
Kids look at each other, puzzled. So am I.
Then someone goes, ‘Ohhhh. The poem’s called “Nothing”. Get it? Nothing.’
‘Yeah,’ someone else says. ‘That’s good!’
No, it isn’t! I think. That’s not a poem. It’s nothing!
‘Please give Kane a big clap,’ says Mrs Randall. Amazingly, kids do what she says.
As he cruises off the stage, Kane holds one hand up high. The one holding $100.
I just shake my head.
*
The best thing about today is that it’s Friday. No lunchtime cultural activities, nothing for me to do but kick butt in handball.
I’m on my way there when I hear a familiar voice. ‘Hey, Tone.’
I pretend to ignore it and keep walking. Faster. She yells louder. ‘Tony!’
I sigh, stop, and turn around. Ash hurries up to me. ‘Seeing as we don’t have anything on today, I thought we could have lunch together. I even made you something.’
‘I’d love to, Ash, but I’ve already eaten.’ It’s true. I usually finish my lunch at recess, just so no one can steal it.
‘Well, it’s just that I really need to talk to you about something.’ She bites the corner of her bottom lip.
It sounds serious. Maybe she’s breaking up with me? I’d better find out.
We sit under a tree and she spoons some chickpea salad onto a plastic plate and hands it to me. It looks disgusting. I’ll pretend to eat it and then when Ash isn’t looking I’ll chuck it to the crows.
‘So what do you wanna talk about?’ I ask. My time as King is getting shorter as
we speak.
‘I want to talk about us.’
‘I see.’ I put on my serious voice. ‘Are you unhappy?’ I hope she says yes.
‘Well … let me try to explain.’ She looks up at the leaves before fixing her green eyes on mine. ‘Not kissing you has made some things clearer to me. About our relationship, I mean.’
I nod. Since we’ve given up pashing, things have been pretty clear to me as well.
She keeps going. ‘On one hand, I’ve really missed the physical part. And I think you have, too.’
‘You got that right.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘But on the other hand, I’ve liked it. Without our raging hormones, we’ve been able to relax and enjoy each other’s company more. I think it’s made us closer.’
You got that wrong, I’m about to say. But I think of Devo’s muscles and hold my tongue.
‘I’d like to ask if you’d do something special for me.’
‘What is it?’ I hope she’s talking about either breaking our no-kissing rule, or breaking up.
‘I was thinking about how we can keep connecting in ways that aren’t physical, and then it hit me that no boy has ever written a love poem for me before. It would mean a lot if you’d do that for me.’
I pause. I still haven’t quite recovered from the ‘keep connecting in ways that aren’t physical’ part.
She’s waiting for an answer. ‘Tony? What do you think? I’d love it if a guy wrote me a poem. And, in return, I promise to write you one back.’
Whoopy-doo. If I want to read a love poem I’ll look on the internet. There’s no—
Whack! A nut falls off the tree and hits me on the head. For some reason, this gives me an idea. A great idea.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’
She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Tone! You won’t regret it!’
I hope she’s right. I get up and run off.
*
I don’t run to the handball court, though. I run to the toilet. I know the bloke I’m looking for is in there.
I step up beside him on the platform that overlooks the yellow-stained trough.
‘Speak of the devil,’ I say, unzipping. ‘How are ya, Devo?’
He looks down and across. ‘A lot bigger and better than you by the look of things.’
‘Well, then …’ I aim and fire. ‘I won’t tell you what Ash just said about you.’
He turns sharply towards me and I feel some spray on my leg.
‘Hey, watch it!’
He ignores me. ‘What’d she say? Tell me or I’ll hurt you. Bad.’
Apart from a wet leg, things are going perfectly. I’ve got him right where I want him. ‘Well, mate, it turns out she’s still got a torch for you. You should’ve heard her rattling on about how you’re the best thing since Instagram.’
This excites him. ‘Really?’ But then he turns suspicious. ‘You’re pullin’ my chain, aren’t ya?’
‘Nah.’
‘You must be. She told me I’d never be more than just a friend again. It was the worst day of my life.’
‘Well, she just told me that the only reason she dumped you is because you never wrote her a love poem.’
He nearly yells. ‘A love poem? I bought her a gold necklace!’
‘Not the same thing, mate. Chicks want you to tell them how you feel about them. Not buy their love.’
Kane told me this line once. I’m glad I remembered it. Actually, on second thoughts, I think he said, ‘Chicks want you to buy their love. Not tell them how you feel about them.’ Oh, well.
‘Hmmm.’ Devo waggles while he thinks. I never shake mine more than three times but his is the longest waggle I’ve ever seen.
Finally, he zips up, and plays all suspicious again. ‘Why are you telling me this? You’re her boyfriend.’
I put a hand on his shoulder. My other hand is still holding something important. ‘Yeah, I probably shouldn’t. But I don’t want to go out with someone who likes someone else. I wanna be number one, you know?’
He nods his head. ‘Yeah, I do.’
*
During SOSE in period six there’s a knock on the door. It’s Devo. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mason, I need to talk to Rossy for a minute. He’s got an urgent message from the office.’
‘All right, then, Tony. Don’t be long.’
‘No worries, Miss.’
I check the clock on the way out. My goal is to stay outside till the bell rings. It’s only 25 minutes away.
Devo takes a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve been working on this in double English for the last hour. What do you think?’
‘You’re showing me your love poem?’
He looks ashamed. ‘I figure you’ll know better than anyone what Ash wants. And though I’m good at lots of things, writing poetry isn’t one of them.’
I read his work and he’s right. He sucks. There’s no imagery, no feeling, no heart. ‘Devo, to be a good poet you have to reach down into your guts and pull up some real emotion. What you’ve written here is total crap.’
His body stiffens and I think he’s going to bash me, but he kicks the ground instead. ‘Well, what should I do, then? I can buy her stuff, give her compliments, take her to the best parties. But I can’t write her a good poem. I just can’t.’ He looks down, defeated.
This is going even better than I thought.
‘Well, it just so happens that I know the perfect poem for Ash. It’s romantic, sensitive and she’ll never know that you didn’t write it.’
‘Yeah?’ he says excitedly. ‘Can you give it to me?’
‘Well, Devo, I could. But I’d need to be … rewarded.’
He pulls out his wallet. Devo’s dad owns a big computer company and he’s as loaded as my dad on New Year’s Eve. ‘How much?’ he asks.
I wonder what I can get away with. I decide to start at top dollar and work my way down. Even ten bucks would be good. ‘A hundred,’ I say casually.
He takes out a thick handful of fresh bills and peels off two fifties, just like that.
Darn! I should’ve gone for more. Still, it’s good money, and I put it in my locker before taking out the poem I wrote during Christine’s workshop.
‘Give her this,’ I say, handing the poem to Devo. ‘And you’ll be in like Flynn.’
‘I hope so,’ he replies. ‘I love that girl like nothing else.’
‘You see? That’s your problem. You should say, “I love that girl like a fat kid loves chocolate cake.”’ I point a finger at him. ‘Now that’s poetry.’
He goes off to class and I go to the toilet. I’ve still got about ten minutes to kill so I might as well have a go at writing some more verse. There’s some empty space on the back of the middle dunny door.
*
That night I have my usual Friday night date with Ashleigh. If things work out right it will be our last one ever.
We’re babysitting at the O’Connors’. We’re on the couch. We’re not kissing.
‘So, Tone. Have you written the poem yet?’
‘Uhh … I’ve started it. But I want to get it just right before I give it to you.’
She puts her hand on my arm and says excitedly, ‘Can you tell me a few lines? Please?’
‘Okay. Ummm …’ I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Your lips are like strawberries. Red and juicy. I want to taste them. Right now.’
Her eyes narrow and she looks at me for a few seconds. Uh-oh! I hope I don’t get slapped.
‘It needs some work,’ I say, leaning away.
‘No. It’s perfect.’
And then she jumps me.
It’s not until five minutes later that I come up, gasping for breath. ‘What’s going on? I thought you didn’t want to kiss anymore?’
She sl
aps me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be stupid, stupid. I said we should connect in ways other than kissing, not that we shouldn’t kiss at all. It’s way too much fun to give up forever.’
Before I can figure out what’s going on, she jumps me again.
By the time the O’Connors get home from the opera, my lips are chapped and I’m so thirsty I could drink the water out of the fish tank across the room. But I’ve never been happier.
Mrs O’Connor hands Ash some money and Mr O’Connor takes us home. Ash and I sit in the back seat and hold hands. She squeezes mine four times, which is code for ‘Do_You_Love_Me?’ and I squeeze hers back three times in reply: ‘You_ Bet_Babe.’
She gives me a long kiss goodnight, and as I float across the front yard I can’t believe I even considered breaking up with her. She’s the best girl in the world, I reckon, and it’s dead-set lucky all my plans have backfired.
As I go to bed a nagging thought tugs at my head but I ignore it. I have more important things to think about. Like my girlfriend’s hot lips.
*
The next morning I decide to surprise Ash with a call. ‘Hey, sexy.’
‘Tony. Ummm … hi. I’m glad you called because I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Can’t get enough of me, ay?’
There’s a pause. I think I hear a voice in the background. ‘Is someone there, Ash?’ I say.
‘Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got a visitor.’
‘Well, tell the prime minister that you’re busy. Mum and Dad are going out soon and I thought you could come over to my place and check out my lips.’
‘I can’t, Tone.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, someone just gave me something that’s made everything different.’
‘Who?’
‘Devo.’
Devo! Far out! I forgot about him and my poem. I’m going to have to do some fast talking.
‘Ash. Forget about him. He’s actually a terrible poet—’
‘No, he’s not. He just gave me a poem that made me realise that even though I really, really like you, Tone, I don’t love you. Because you could never write words like this.’
‘Yes! I could—’
‘I’m sorry. I’m gonna have to break up with you.’