Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  I checked out the Preston team. Two girls and a boy sat opposite in dark coats and ties, staring at us like undertakers. It wasn’t hard to work out whose funeral it was going to be.

  Razza nudged my arm and passed a note. It said, If you’re thinking of going the grope again–the hot blonde is mine! I gave him my best pained smile and looked down at Bill Kingsley. He was rocking back and forth and frowning. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  ‘Ladies and gendemen …’

  I jumped as Prindabel’s voice cut across the room like a laser and the card Razza had just given me nicked from my hands, leapt into the air and sailed back over my head. I picked up my notes and drilled my eyes into them while my cheeks sizzled with embarrassment. The nightmare of the last debate came flooding back as I felt the whole room leaning in on me. I didn’t really take in another word Prindabel said until he called on the first speaker for Preston, Razza’s hot blonde, to start the debate.

  It was obvious after about ten seconds that she was going to be way better than me. But the thing was, she wasn’t perfect. She even looked a little nervous, and a couple of times she got a bit tangled up. I guess the short preparation ordeal was nerve-racking even for Preston kids. I listened to her team outline and her main arguments and, thanks to Bill Kingsley, I knew I had a number of rebuttal points.

  ‘… and that is why science-fiction and fantasy films have little relevance to the problems facing today’s world.’

  She sat down. A cement mixer had started up and was sloshing and churning away in my stomach. I waited as the adjudicators scribbled down notes and filled in their cards. Finally they exchanged glances and one of them nodded at Prindabel. This was it. The doors of the plane had burst open and I was looking down at the patchwork of land far below, wondering if I had remembered to pack my parachute.

  ‘… first speaker for the Negative, Ishmael Leseur.’

  I stood up and walked to the front of the room. I forced myself to make eye contact with the audience. Mum stared, white-faced, as if I were about to perform open-heart surgery on myself with a blunt axe. Dad desperately tried to master the it’s-no-big-deal-you’ll-be-fine kind of expression but ended up looking as if he was having some kind of spasm. Prue suddenly seemed intensely interested in her fingers. Miss Tarango wrinkled her nose and nodded, and then turned the dimples on high beam.

  I looked down at my first palm card. This time I had written out the topic word for word so there would be no repeat of the last debacle. Then I noticed that something was scribbled below it. It said, You da man, Ishmael! (Did you check your pants? Is Elvis in the undies?)

  I smiled, took a deep breath and began …

  And would you believe it, when I’d finished, the entire audience stood and cheered and showered me with streamers and rose petals, and then the opposition team wept and conceded defeat and the adjudicators hoisted me on their shoulders and paraded me triumphantly around the room while I blew kisses, and on the front page of the paper the next day they wrote that I had made Martin Luther King’s ‘I have a dream’ speech sound like a kindergarten recital and then the prime minister rang and begged me to be his PR man and the Pope …

  No, I guess you wouldn’t believe that, would you? You’re right. To tell the truth, I was pretty ordinary. But I did manage somehow to mumble and stumble my way through, and I even succeeded in tearing my eyes from my palm cards and flashing them at the audience a few times. Not only that, I made it past the three-minute warning bell (though when it rang I got such a fright my voice cracked like a strangled chook’s and all the atoms in my body leapt apart for a nanosecond before clashing back together). Maybe I wasn’t that brilliant, but on the positive side, I had remained conscious the entire time, I hadn’t sexually assaulted a member of the opposition, and none of the world’s most influential people had made a grand entrance via my shorts. Yeah, all in all, I was pretty stoked.

  I sat down with the last of the applause still clattering around me. Razza punched my shoulder and gave me some sort of weird handshake. Bill Kingsley patted me firmly on the back. I looked around the room. All the St Daniel’s supporters were smiling and nodding at me like those little dogs in the back of cars. My parachute had finally exploded open and was yanking me into the clear blue sky.

  It was only after the second speakers had completed their speeches that a startling thought began to take shape in my mind. We were actually doing all right. We weren’t winning, of course, but we weren’t getting thrashed, either. The way I saw it, the opposition were better speakers than us, but thanks to Bill, I thought we had a stronger case and better rebuttal. Amazingly, their second speaker didn’t quite make the three-minute bell.

  Even Razza seemed to sense something was happening and tried to put a lid on the jokes and smart comments. Only once did he stray, when he was making a point about how fantasies help people cope with real-life problems. ‘Everyone needs fantasy. “We all fantasise some time. I know I’ll be fantasising tonight,’ he said, leering at a certain Preston girl. I think ‘mortified’ is the word my mum would have used to describe her expression. But, apart from that little indiscretion, Razza stuck to the script and poured on the charm and flashed that winning smile as only the Big Z could.

  The third speaker for Preston was confident, efficient and clinical. She was a definite future PM. Razza and I exchanged an oh-well-we-were-in-it-for-a-moment sort of look. Bill Kingsley was too busy to notice. He was listening intently. Every so often he would frown, shake his head vigorously as if he had taken some comment by the opposition as nothing less than a personal affront, and busily write on his palm cards in incredibly small print. By the time the third speaker had finished, Bill had become so agitated that he stood up and went straight to the front of the room before she had even made it back to her seat. There he remained, tapping his palm cards and staring impatiently at the adjudicators. Finally they gave the signal.

  ‘To conclude the debate I would like to call …’

  But Prindabel got no further. Bill Kingsley launched himself into his speech like a downhill skier. ‘How can the Affirmative team say that science-fiction and fantasy films have little relevance to the problems facing today’s world? Look at the arguments my team has presented …’

  For the next four minutes Bill Kingsley argued and persuaded as if he had been waiting all his life just to make this speech. First he piled our main points one on top of the other until they seemed like a stone fortress, and then he cut through the opposition’s case like a light sabre through butter. About two minutes in, he dumped his palm cards on the chair’s desk in frustration and continued without missing a beat. Soon the three-minute bell came and went and then the final four-minute bell rang twice. Just when it looked as if Bill Kingsley was as unstoppable as a runaway truck, Razza sneezed with all the force of an air-to-ground missile, ‘Aaaaaats-ennuuuufffff!’

  Brother Jerome glared. The adjudicators raised their eyebrows.

  Razza searched innocently for his handkerchief.

  But it worked. Bill Kingsley stopped mid-sentence and looked around at the audience. ‘In conclusion … science-fiction and fantasy are not just relevant to today’s world, my team has shown tonight that they are crucial. In fact, it could be argued that once we stop imagining the future or stop fantasising about worlds different from the one we have today … that’s when our real problems will start.’

  Bill Kingsley nodded earnestly, as if he was satisfied he had said his piece, and turned to go. Then the room erupted and the applause thundered on as he sat down. It was led by Razza, who was on his feet, whistling and whooping. I’m pretty sure this was a breach in debating etiquette, but the adjudicators were sharing a sly smile, so I hoped it would be overlooked.

  There was nothing to do now but wait. A quiet murmur slid around the room while the adjudicators tallied their marks and conferred. The Preston team looked a little rattled. They were whispering together, shaking their heads at times and shrugging their shoulders.<
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  Razza nudged me in the ribs and jerked his head towards Bill Kingsley, who was gazing into space beside him. I knew what Razza was getting at. Bill looked different somehow. It must have been the smile on his face.

  And the decision? Well, sorry, no Mighty Ducks’ ending here. We lost the debate by one point. Two judges gave it to Preston by a point and one judge awarded a one-point victory to us. It was as close as that.

  The thing was, though, none of us really cared. Honestly. We’d fronted up and given it our best shot. We hadn’t drowned in our own offal. In fact, we had almost pulled off the impossible. We were happy with that. I think we all knew Preston were the better team and deserved to be in the final. We just got lucky with the topic.

  I still think about that night all the time–I remember how everyone was smiling and congratulating us and saying how proud they were, just as if we had won. Brother Jerome even called us ‘true St Daniel’s men’. And I remember how the Preston team came up and told us that they thought they had lost and we joked and talked together for a while and promised we would come and support them in the final. It was strange, but underneath all their coats and ties and braid and badges and stuff, they didn’t seem that much different from us. And I remember, too, how Razza spent most of the time with his arm draped around Bill Kingsley’s shoulder telling anyone who would listen, ‘I taught him everything he knows,’ until Brother Jerome said in his sternest voice, ‘Just as long as you didn’t teach him how to sneeze, Mr Zorzotto.’ That broke everyone up.

  But my favourite bit? My very favourite bit was when Miss Tarango came up to us and said, ‘You guys rock, you know that? You’re my absolute heroes,’ and gave us each a hug. Razza winked at me and whispered, ‘She wants me,’ and laughed because even he didn’t believe it. And then Miss Tarango stood right in front of Bill Kingsley and shook her head and said, ‘Billy, what can I say? Outstanding. You are my Jedi knight in shining armour,’ and Bill Kingsley seemed to swell up so much it looked as if he might explode.

  I thought that night was going to be a disaster, but it ended up as one of the best nights of my life. The only way it could have been better was if Scobie could have been there to share it with us. I wondered about him later on as I lay in bed, too hyped up for sleep. What was he up to? Why hadn’t he come back at the start of the term and what was he doing in Sydney with his father?

  I just wished I knew what was going on.

  The next day a letter arrived for me addressed in big, backward-sloping loopy writing. I guess sometimes you really should be careful what you wish for.

  37.

  PROBABLY NOTHING

  Inside the envelope I found a typed note.

  Dear Ishmael,

  There’s been a bit of a problem and it looks like I’m going to miss the debating finals.

  It’s that tumour operation we talked about. I have these tests every six months to see if everything is still all right–that it hasn’t come back. They’re no big deal. It’s just that this time, something showed up. A ‘shadow’, they called it. They’re not sure what it is at this stage. They’ll have to do more tests and scans, but the doctors are confident that it’s probably nothing to worry about.

  Don’t know when I’ll be back at school. Good luck in the finals. I’m counting on you to hold the team together.

  James

  PS Could you keep all this to yourself?

  PPS Miss Tarango was right about words being powerful. Even words like ‘probably’ can hurt you.

  After I read his letter I remembered what Scobie had said about the last operation using up all his fear. I wondered if that was true. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like being in his position and having to face it all again.

  I guess it made Barry Bagsley seem like a minor skin irritation.

  Part 4

  … what trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms.

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  38.

  WHO YA GONNA CALL?

  A few days after I received his letter, Miss Tarango announced to our Homeroom that James Scobie wouldn’t be returning to Year Nine. She didn’t go into any details. She just said it was for ‘personal’ and ‘family’ reasons.

  Suddenly Barry Bagsley lurched back to life, as if he’d just had a million volts of electricity channelled through the bolts in his neck. ‘What are ya gonna do now, Le Turd, without that little freak to hide behind, hey? You got the guts to take me on all by yourself? Or are ya gonna go running to Barker and Jerome? Hey? Are ya? Or I know, maybe you and the other girls in your little debating club are planning on giving me a good talking to? Is that it? Hey? Hey?’

  Barry Bagsley was certainly full of questions. Naturally, I countered his taunts with some pretty impressive eye avoidance and some stinging silence.

  ‘Just as I thought. You’re a gutless wonder without that little dork around, aren’t you?’

  Of course I could have pointed out that the ‘little dork’ he was referring to had kept him locked in his cage for half the year, but I decided this might be unwise. After a final parting shove, Barry Bagsley sauntered off as happy as a psychopath with a brand new chainsaw. The opportunities for mayhem must have seemed endless.

  He took one of those opportunities the following week.

  It was a Thursday, and it seemed to get off to a good start. At the assembly, all the members of the debating teams were presented with certificates of participation, and our team received a special one for making the finals. Brother Jerome gave a speech and said how impressed he was by our performance. We all left the hall feeling pretty good about ourselves. Bill Kingsley said it was the first certificate he had ever received. Prindabel said it was his forty-seventh. Razza told him that medical certificates didn’t count.

  Barry Bagsley struck that afternoon. Looking back, I guess all the warning signs were there during the lunch break. Danny Wallace and Doug Savage had been hanging around the lockers, and later both of them were huddled around Barry Bagsley at a computer in the library. That by itself should have been enough to set the alarm bells clanging. Barry Bagsley at a computer … in the library! My only excuse was that my radar had been dulled by my recent Barry Bagsley-free months.

  It was after school that I came across Bill Kingsley at the lockers with his bag lying open at his feet and all his books and folders on the ground.

  ‘What’s up, Bill? Lost something?’

  ‘Yeah, that debating certificate thing.’

  I must admit, this didn’t particularly surprise me. Bill Kingsley was always losing stuff. Last year he spent an entire day looking for his ‘good’ pen until someone took pity on him and pointed out that it was behind his ear.

  ‘Where’d you put it?’

  ‘I’m sure I put it straight in my locker. I’m positive I did.’

  ‘Did you lock it?’

  ‘I can’t–lost my key last term.’

  ‘You can get a replacement, you know. Five bucks from Mr Grayson.’

  ‘I did. That’s the one I lost.’

  ‘Oh … do you think someone might have nicked it?’ I said, as the memory of Danny Wallace and Doug Savage skulking around this very spot flashed into my mind.

  ‘Who’d want to steal a debating certificate-with my name on it?’

  I had to admit he had a point there. ‘Have you checked your bag?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not there.’

  ‘You sure you didn’t take it to class?’

  ‘I’m sure. I put it straight in my locker so I wouldn’t lose it,’ he said dejectedly. ‘I wanted to show Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Maybe it got caught up in one of your books or one of your folders. We should check your Homeroom desk just in case.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly, ‘but I bet it’s not there.’

  He was wrong. That’s exactly where it was. When Bill opened up
his desk, the certificate leapt out at him. It had been pinned to the inside of the lid by two tacks. But its discovery didn’t make Bill Kingsley happy. I watched as his face fell and his eyes clouded like molten glass. Someone had glued a picture of Jabba the Hutt right in the middle of his certificate and at the bottom some of the words had been crossed out and crudely written over. Now, instead of saying:

  Awarded to: William Kingsley

  For: Reaching the Year Nine Debating Finals

  scrawls from a thick black pen had changed it to:

  Awarded to: William King-SIZE

  For: BEING A FAT TURD!

  I looked at Bill. I remembered his face after that last debate. Now he looked numb and broken.

  I ripped the certificate from the desk. ‘That’s it. I’m taking this to Barker.’

  ‘No, Ishmael, don’t!’

  ‘Look, Bagsley and his lot did this. I know. I saw them hanging around the lockers today, then I saw them in the computer room–that’s where they downloaded that picture. I’m not going to let them get away with it.’

  ‘Wait. Just forget about it, all right? It’s only a bit of paper. It’s not that important. It doesn’t matter-just leave it.’

  ‘It is important. It does matter. Those bastards have got no right …’

  ‘Look, Ishmael, it’s my certificate, all right? It’s not your problem. Just give it here … please.’

  I couldn’t ignore the pain in Bill Kingsley’s voice. I handed him the certificate. Without looking at it he screwed it up and stuffed it into his bag.

  ‘They shouldn’t get away with it, Bill.’

  ‘I don’t care. No one else has to see it.’

  That afternoon we walked together in silence till we got to the bus stop.

  ‘See ya tomorrow.’

  “Yeah, OK … and thanks for helping … you know, with the certificate and everything.’

  ‘Yeah … well …’ There wasn’t much else I could say. Some help I’d been. It seemed to me that every time I tried to help someone it ended badly. First I helped that primary school kid get his hat thrown in the creek, then I helped the debating team get beaten, twice, and now I’d helped Bill Kingsley to feel lousy about himself. Something wrong in the neighbourhood? Who ya gonna call? Not me!