by Sue Lawson
I twisted off the taps.
Instead of going straight home, I’d swum laps at the rec centre until my arms were too heavy to lift. I figured if I worked myself beyond exhaustion, I could bury what had happened. Clearly that hadn’t worked, because it was all I could think of.
The day had started off okay, double economics, a subject Dad insisted I take, with Miss Macaffer. She was the only good part of eco.
At recess, I dumped my stuff in my locker and grabbed the fruit bun I’d bought on the way to school. I was heading to the quadrangle when Coop and Bash galloped up.
“You should have been in PE,” said Coop, face glowing. “You missed out.”
I swallowed a sigh. “I have economics when you do PE, remember? What’d I miss?”
“The reffo totally dissed Amado.” Bash was all twitchy and fidgety like the time he skolled two caffeine drinks. He sucked in air. “We were doing these soccer drills, right? Scotty kicked the ball to the reffo, and next thing, he’s doing these sick as tricks.”
“So?”
Coop’s face was blank. “What do you mean, ‘so’? That’s it. No one is better at soccer than Amado. You coming or not?”
Before I could answer, Bash and Coop were running to the back stairs, shoving students out of their way. I followed, as though they’d lassoed me with invisible rope, two steps at a time. At the top of the stairs they turned right to the area that was out of bounds, except to year twelves.
The breeze on the balcony was fresh after the dank air of the stairwell. Below, I could see the guys on the oval playing kick to kick and the geeks and freaks hanging out on the grassed space near the science wing. The junior classrooms were to the left and to the right, the locker and rec rooms.
A few metres ahead of me, a huddle of guys from my year, including Amado, Coop, Bash and Zane, chilled against the metal railings.
Michael Kolo, “the reffo”, loped out of the stairwell.
“Michael, over here,” called Amado. Behind him Zane leered.
A ripple of fear ran from my shoulders to my fingertips.
I had to get him out of there. I grabbed Michael’s arm. “Michael, have you seen the new soccer goals?”
He shrugged me off. “Today in PE.”
“So let’s take another look.”
“After I have spoken with Amado. He said he wanted to show me something.” Michael strolled towards the others. Amado clapped a hand on his shoulder and began pointing out landmarks: the river, girls’ school, city, shopping centre.
Despite the churning in my stomach, I told myself everything was fine.
Amado, Zane, Coop and Bash lurched forwards and wrestled Michael. They lifted him and somehow hung him, head first, over the balcony. Amado and Zane held one leg above the knee. Coop and Bash the other.
Michael grunted. His hands flailed for purchase, grasping air.
“Hey, is his face red?” yelled Zane.
“Who can tell?” said Coop.
The guys huddled around them, peering over the balcony at Michael, hooted and cheered.
“Hey, Amado,” I said, stumbling forwards. “That’s enough. Pull him up.”
“He’s fine, aren’t you, reffo?” Amado winked and the four of them lowered Michael further.
“He’ll fall.” I tried to quell the panic bubbling through me.
“Ease up, Huddo. We’re just mucking around,” said Amado.
Coop lost his grip and released Michael’s leg. Bash struggled to hold him alone.
I shoved Coop aside and clutched Michael below the knee. I tried to haul him up, but the motion slammed Michael into the cement. The thud made my stomach lurch. Michael cried out.
“Jesus, Huddo, ruin everything, why don’t you,” bellowed Amado.
The four of us hauled Michael to safety. The other guys who’d been standing around us stepped back to give us room to lie Michael on the balcony. When they moved, I noticed Ethan, Stav and Lee leaning against the year twelve rec room window, laughing.
And that was when De Jong arrived.
Short report of a very long session in his office was suspension and a phone call to Dad. Again.
Even though De Jong had insisted the five of us: Amado, Zane, Coop, Bash and me, go straight home after he suspended us, I’d come to the rec centre to burn off my anger.
My phone buzzed in my bag as I wrapped my swimmers in my towel.
A text from Dad.
Where the hell r u?
There were also five missed calls from him and three from Mum.
I tossed the phone back into my bag.
The two kids had finished in the shower and were now flicking towels at each other. The skinny one weaved to escape his mate’s lash and crashed into me. His face twisted in fear.
“Sorry,” he mumbled and backed away, as though I would sink my teeth into his bare arm.
“S’all right.” I scooped my bag from the change room bench and walked through the pool area and outside. After the cloying atmosphere of the pool, the biting freshness of the air was sharp.
By the time I reached the iron gates and massive fence that surrounded our house, a weight, like a wet towel, had settled on my shoulders. Dad’s beamer was parked at the front door. Two in the afternoon and Dad was home. He never came home before seven, and if he did, he always, absolutely always, parked in the garage.
I shifted the strap of my backpack and continued to the front door. Dad stood in the foyer, muscles twitching, poised to strike. That image of a wolf stalking prey flashed through my mind.
“Hey,” I said, as though it was completely normal for him to be smouldering in the foyer.
“Where have you been?” he snarled.
I pointed to my damp hair. When I tried to slip past him to the stairs, he blocked my way. “I want an answer.”
“Where do you reckon? The rec centre. Gotta rinse out my swimmers.”
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Dad’s lip curled. His new veneers were shiny and white.
“Why, thank you.” I tried to sound braver than I felt.
Dad raised his hand and for a moment I was sure he was going to hit me. Instead, he squeezed his fist so tight it quivered. “He dislocated his shoulder and has concussion.”
I knew he meant Michael Kolo.
“How could you be so stupid?” Dad’s words buffeted me like a gale.
“I was trying to pull him up.”
“Not according to De Jong.”
“Like he’d know. You and Wortho are always crapping on about what a loser he is, but you listen to everything he says about me. Ask Michael, he’ll tell you. Or Ethan. He was there.” Who’d have thought I’d ever look to Ethan for support.
“I phoned your brother,” said Dad.
“At school?”
Dad nodded.
“So you know what happened then. No big deal.”
“Ethan said the boys were having a bit of fun. The kid would have been fine if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Serious?” My voice was hollow.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad’s wolf eyes narrowed. “Boys do that sort of stuff all the time. At least normal boys do. Always have, but you’re too stupid to realise that.” His nostrils flared. “De Jong’s suspension will give you a chance to think about what it means to be a mate.”
Dad’s mobile buzzed. He flipped open the case. “Travis, what’s the problem?” He hurried to the study.
My head was spinning. What was normal about hanging a kid headfirst from a second-storey balcony?
Mia burst out of the family room, her face twisted with anger. She was about to rush past in her pink-socked feet, but skidded to a halt on the tiles. Her face lit up.
“Alex! You’re home.” She wrapped her arms around my knees. “Can you play with me?”
I dropped my bag and scooped her up, hugging her tight.
Mia squirmed. “You’re squeezing my bones, Alex.”
I released her and forced the words past the tigh
tness in my throat. “What are we playing, Mia?”
27
ROOM 302, NEUROSURGERY UNIT, PRINCE WILLIAM HOSPITAL
A physio, all perfume and hips, has left me sitting in a vinyl chair with armrests to eat lunch.
The most embarrassing thing ever happened.
Not the dizziness, the hobbling or even the fact I’m wearing white stockings with holes for my toes. The most embarrassing thing is I have a tube sticking out of my dick, a catheter she called it, and that tube links me to a bag of piss. My piss.
And she, this perfumed, pouting physio, carried the piss bag while I shuffled along like an old dude in a nursing home.
Freaking hell. Could it get any worse?
I try to distract myself from the frustration balled in my chest by checking out the lump lying in the opposite bed. The physio and a nurse moved my roommate right before my dignity was crushed. From the chair I can see a head swathed in bandages and a girl’s face. Even though she’s asleep, she’s frowning like she’s trying to solve a math’s problem.
I strain to read the name above her bed.
“Mackie Oliver.”
Mackie. Cool name.
According to the texta scrawl beneath her name, she was admitted the same day as me and we have the same surgeon. That must have been a big day for Mr Dobson.
For a moment I wonder how she ended up in here. I’ve barely formed the question when I am distracted by my icy toes.
I need socks, a rug or something. Even a towel to wrap around them. I don’t know if I have any socks here, and even if I did, there’s no way I’m staggering around carrying a bag swilling with piss to find out.
Frustration explodes into fizzing balls of panic.
What the hell am I doing here?
How come I’m sitting like an old dude, waiting for death?
How come some of the nurses grunt and avoid looking at me?
How come I need help to dress, eat, even piss?
What if when the tube comes out my body forgets how to piss, or worse, I can’t stop and end up like a mouse, with no bladder control, constantly weeing?
Every muscle is rigid. My ribs ache and my head throbs. My arm itches under the plaster. Sweat trickles from my hairline.
I tense and release my hand and try to roll my shoulder to stop the raging panic.
The lunch trolley rattles to a stop outside our door.
I swallow and nod at the scowling man who carries my tray …
28
ALEX
I took the tray of dirty glasses and stacked them into the industrial dishwasher. Behind me, standing in the middle of the huge kitchen, Mum issued orders.
“Table four with those mains, thanks, Heath. Andy, have the entree plates been removed from the tables in the back corner? Well, do it now, please.”
Mum had asked Ethan and me to be waiters at the charity auction for her latest cause “Books 4 Refugees”. Like we had a choice. She asked us in front of Dad and followed up the request with “All the other girls’ sons are helping.” Mum talk for “Don’t make me look bad.”
So instead of kicking back watching a movie or hanging out with Tilly, I was stuck in a nightmare of frenzied bidding for plants shaped to look like balls on sticks, tickets to the opening night of a new musical, framed and signed football jumpers, an Olympic swimmer’s signed bathers and other weird stuff. Seemed to me people were more concerned with outbidding each other than what they were bidding on.
Every time Ethan returned to the kitchen, he was full of who had bought what, like it was a news flash or something. I didn’t give a stuff.
“That Spencer guy, you know the one who used to be a politician? He bought tickets to the footy. Should have seen Kelly Matthews’ face when he was outbid.” Kelly Matthews was the current state member of parliament, who according to Dad, wasn’t worth a cold pie.
“Fascinating,” I muttered into the dishwasher.
Ethan elbowed me as he placed dirty dishes on the sink. “Shut up, loser.”
“Good comeback. Work on that for long?”
He glowered and bumped into me on his way to the door. I slammed into a dishwasher tray I’d half-filled with glasses. “Idiot!”
“Alex,” said Mum. “I need you to take meals to table five.”
“I’m filling the dishwasher.”
“Now, Alex.”
I banged the machine’s metal handle and slouched to where meals were lined up to be taken out.
“Chicken first, then beef. Serve from the left.”
“You’ve told me this before.”
“And don’t bang them down. Place them.”
“Want me to do this or not?” I snapped.
The guy drizzling sauce around the plates grinned at me.
I rolled my eyes and picked up plates.
“Table five,” repeated Mum, so close she was practically in my back pocket. As I moved away, she brushed my shoulder and tutted. “You’re a dirt magnet, Alex.”
“Add it to my list of failures,” I said, pulling away from her. The moment I stepped through the kitchen door, I was impressed all over again by what Mum and her committee had done to the dowdy city hall. They’d draped purple and red material from the centre of the ceiling to the corners, where it fell to the floor, changing the hall into the interior of an Arabian tent. Silhouettes of camels and palm trees dotted the material and cushions in rich reds, oranges and golds were scattered beneath a gazebo lined with fairy lights. On the tables, brass lanterns glowed golden. The design and colours were repeated on the stage, only on a smaller scale.
“Hurry up, idiot. Table five is waiting,” hissed Ethan, brushing past me to the kitchen. It took an effort to stop the dishes balanced on my arm from falling.
Meals delivered, I weaved back to the kitchen.
Ethan returned to the hall holding meals. Instead of going straight to table five, he scanned the room. When he saw me, he headed in my direction.
I sped up, trying to make it to back to the kitchen before he reached me. We met in the open space between the tables and the door. Ethan smirked as I passed and stuck his foot out. I crashed to the polished wood floor.
Ethan’s laughter echoing in my head, I scrambled to my feet and into the kitchen. I stood by the serving bench, knees and palms stinging, and brushed dirt from my pants. Enough shit from Ethan.
The door swung open and Ethan and Andy strolled into the kitchen.
Ethan imitated my fall. “Klutz. No wonder he spends so much time in the water.”
Andy laughed.
Something clicked in my head. Next thing, I had Ethan pressed up against the serving bench. His head thudded against a steel rack. Dishes crashed to the floor.
“Oi. Cut it out,” yelled one of the guys plating up.
Andy tried to separate us, but I elbowed him away.
“Stay away from me, you tosser,” I hissed into Ethan’s face and shoved him. His head smashed the steel rack again.
“Stop it, Alex,” yelled Mum.
My hands dropped to my sides.
“Outside, both of you.” Mum pointed to the door.
Under the streetlight in the car park, Mum stood in front of us, hands on her hips. “What the hell was that about?”
“He tripped me.”
Ethan folded his arms. “Bullshit. He fell. Ask anyone.”
I turned to Mum. “You’re not going to believe that crap, are you?”
“Shut up. Both of you.” Her voice quivered. “I have never been so embarrassed.”
“Oh, come on.”
Mum raised her hand. “Don’t say another word, Alex.” She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t understand you. In front of my friends.”
Ethan sneered at me.
“What about him?” I asked, pointing.
Mum kept talking. “What is your problem, Alex?”
My thumbs dug in to my palms. “Shove your charity. I’m going home.”
29
ROOM 302, NEUROSURGERY UNIT, PRINCE W
ILLIAM HOSPITAL
“Great job, Alex,” says Brent, the physio. “Need a break?”
“Yeah.” All I’d done was walk from my bed to the corridor and back. Hardly a marathon, but I’m knackered.
“Big effort, buddy,” says Brent, helping me back into bed. “You’re a fit young bloke. Your strength will return quickly.”
“I was fit.”
“You will be again. Good news is it looks like everything is working okay. We weren’t sure how you’d be.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“Mate, I know it’s tough, but you’ll be out of here in no time.” Brent glances at the bed opposite. “Not everyone is as lucky.”
My face burns.
“Right, this afternoon I want you to walk across the room a couple of times, okay?”
“No worries.”
“Good man. See you tomorrow.”
As he walks away, I call, “Brent. Thanks.”
He smiles. “Not a problem …”
30
ALEX
“Problem, Alex?” Mum’s question cannoned around my brain. Even face down in bed, head under the pillow, I could still hear her voice and see her twisted, angry face.
I’d slept all I was going to, so stumbled out of bed.
Mum and Dad were sitting at the kitchen bench, drinking coffee. Their faces were grim. No prizes for guessing what they were talking about.
“Morning.”
“Is that all you have to say?” snapped Dad.
I shrugged, which only made his face redden.
“Okay, how about, good morning, Mother? Good day to you, Father?” I took a bowl from the cupboard.
Dad slapped the bench. “Stop being a smart-arse, Alex.”
“Dylan,” said Mum, her voice soft.
“Don’t Dylan me, Christina.” Dad’s voice battered the windows. “Apologise to your mother for last night’s debacle.”
Mum clasped her mug with both hands.
Debacle? “Mum, I’m sorry about last night.” I opened the pantry door and grabbed the Weet-Bix box.
“Like you mean it,” Dad growled.
I slammed the pantry door. “I do mean it.”
“Words to shut me up.”