by Pat Flynn
Unity looked at Angela like she was joking, but that look changed when Angela gave Ozzie a kiss.
“Wow. That happened quick,” Unity said.
“Too quick,” added Malivai, grinning.
As Ozzie walked out the huge oak church doors, he turned and looked back. Unity was standing close to Malivai, and there was something about the way Mal looked at her that Ozzie recognized.
It was desire, of wanting something you can’t have.
Once on the interstate Angela set the cruise control for 70 miles per hour, only slowing when the high-pitched beeping of the radar detector told her to. Seventy in the Beamer felt smoother than sixty in Pop’s pickup, and that was when it was traveling at 60 kilometers per hour.
Ozzie jumped in the back to change into jeans and a T-shirt, so he wouldn’t wreck Dave’s suit, and saw Angela peeking at him in the rearview mirror.
“So, where’re we going?” he asked.
“Guess.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Think history class.”
“The Alamo?”
“Farther south.”
“South America?”
“Not that far.”
“Do they speak a different language?”
“Si.”
They were there in less than two hours, which wasn’t nearly as far away as Ozzie thought another country would be. At the border Angela gave a man $20 and drove over a bridge. Going the other way, from Mexico to America, Ozzie could see cars lined up for miles, with customs officials checking under seats for drugs and in trunks for illegal Mexicans. From America to Mexico there was no line and no one bothered checking anything. Angela and Ozzie could have brought in a carload of illegal Americans, but it seemed that no one cared.
Once they drove over the bridge and past the sign that said ¡Bienvenidos a México!, everything looked different. A few hundred meters back were fast-food joints, a shopping mall, and a freeway. Here, there were food stalls, narrow cobblestone streets, and a strange smell.
Angela parked and gave a boy some money to watch the car. They walked down an alley lined with clothes stalls, shoe stalls, and beggars. People were calling out to them in a language Ozzie didn’t understand, and Angela began talking to an old woman at one of the stalls. At first the conversation seemed friendly enough, but then it became heated. Angela pulled Ozzie away but the woman called out urgently, and they turned and went back. The woman handed Ozzie some Levi jeans.
“Try ’em on,” Angela said. “If they fit, they’re yours.”
They fit. Ozzie started unbuttoning them (these jeans didn’t even have a zipper) but Angela told him to leave them on. She handed a wad of bills to the woman.
“How much were they?” Ozzie asked as they walked away.
“Fifteen dollars,” said Angela. “Could’ve had ’em for ten but I felt sorry for her.”
Ozzie realized that Angela had nothing in her hands except a handbag. “Where are my jeans?”
“I gave them away.”
“What?” Ozzie and his jeans had shared a lot of history.
Angela put a hand on his shoulder. “Just think, some Mexican boy is probably wearing them right now. And I’m sure he needs them a lot more than you.”
Ozzie’s makeover was just getting started. Angela bought him three brand-name T-shirts, a pair of loafers, and a Dallas Cowboys cap—all for under $20. Ozzie had mixed feelings about his new look. He felt semicool, but he was sad that Angela gave away his poo-brown T-shirt and his Dunlop Volleys (which once were white but now were the same color as the shirt). “Just one more thing and you’ll be perfect,” said Angela.
“No way,” said Ozzie, as they stood outside a barber’s shop. “I’m like that Samson bloke—my hair gives me strength.”
“I love your hair,” said Angela, ruffling it with her fingers. “But if you get it cut my dad will like you more, which means he’ll let you take me out on Friday nights, which means …” She put a hand around the small of his back.
“No,” said Ozzie.
“Just a trim,” said Angela, moving her hand down lower and squeezing.
Ten minutes later the hair that curled down over Ozzie’s neck and ears was chopped off. Part of him would be staying in Mexico forever.
Angela looked at Ozzie approvingly. “That’s enough work for one day. Time for fun.”
She took him to a bar where they leaned back in bamboo lounge chairs. “You know, in the States,” said Angela, “you can die for your country at eighteen, but you can’t buy a drink until you’re twenty-one.”
“How old do you have to be here?”
“Old enough to afford it.” A waiter came past. “Dos Coronas, por favor.”
“What’d you just ask for?” said Ozzie.
“Two beers.”
In the corner a man was cradling his guitar like a baby and plucked out songs that made Ozzie feel homesick, even though he’d never heard music like it before. After they’d listened for a few drinks, not saying much at all, Angela gave the waiter $2 and he handed her a key.
“Follow me,” she told Ozzie. She took him to a room that had a double bed, a sink, a box of tissues, and a spider crawling across the ceiling.
Angela sat on the bed. “I want to thank you for today. For coming to church and meeting my family. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you.”
“Your dad’s pretty scary.”
She smiled. “I know.”
“Does he mean that stuff, about shooting boys who like you too much?”
“Sure. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
She patted the sheet and Ozzie sat next to her on the bed.
“Can I tell you something?” said Angela.
“Yep.”
“That night at Tex’s party, I was worried you’d hook up with Unity.”
“She’s got a boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause now you’re the best player on the team”—she took his hand—“everybody wants you.” She placed his hand on her breast. “I want to make sure you only want me.”
They fell back onto the bed, joined at the mouth, and Ozzie’s legs felt light—like they weren’t connected to his torso.
“Have you got … something?” Angela asked a little while later.
It took Ozzie a moment to realize what she meant.
“No.”
“You’re lucky I come prepared.” She reached for her handbag.
Ozzie hesitated. “I haven’t …”
“What?”
“You know.”
“No way!”
Ozzie looked away.
She giggled. “It’s okay, I promise to be gentle.”
This wasn’t how Ozzie imagined his first time. On a bed in Mexico with a girl he didn’t really know or understand. He’d wanted it to be with Jess, but on the night before he went away she’d stopped him at the critical moment. “You need a reason to come home,” she’d whispered.
But when Angela unbuttoned her shirt and Ozzie traced his tongue up her brown stomach until it came to the whiteness of her breast, he felt weak. His body rocked up and down and something dropped on his back and stung him, though he hardly felt it. Nothing meant anything until he’d proven his manhood and did what he was put on earth to do.
But then, afterward, the wanting and the weakness were gone and he loved Jess and Pop and Rugby League. Angela slept, but Ozzie’s eyes were open, looking at the dead body beside him. The eight legs of the spider were curled up tight.
chapter 27
Ozzie jumped at the chance when Angela asked if he wanted to drive home. He’d never been in a car this good before, let alone driven one. It’d be something he could tell his mates. He turned her on and she purred like a kitten. With just a finger on the wheel she did exactly what she was told.
If only girls were as easy to handle.
Angela sang. Ozzie could tell that she thought she was pretty good. Sh
e used expression in her voice, emphasized the same syllables as the pop star on the radio, but it didn’t really help because Angela couldn’t sing to save herself. Ozzie didn’t say anything, though. It was funny, he thought, you could share the most intimate experience with somebody, but it didn’t mean you could be honest with them.
The rhythm of driving helped Ozzie reflect on the day. He was eighteen, away for half a year, surely he’d done what any bloke would have? So why did he have this worm crawling around in his gut?
Until recently, he could always look Jess in the eye and tell her the truth, no matter what he’d done. But what if she asked about today? What would he say?
It was just part of the whole experience, eh? You know, making new friends, understanding other cultures, sharing bodily fluids. I’m not a bastard like my dad.
Maybe it would be easier, for Jess’s sake, if he just denied it. Just to stop her getting hurt.
Maybe the worm in his gut was from the shots of tequila he’d had before they left?
Suddenly, a police car did a screeching U-turn and the siren screamed. They were still a mile from the Mexican border. Ozzie pulled over.
“Shit,” said Angela.
The policeman tapped on the driver’s window with two big smiles—both his mouth and his mustache turned up at the sides. “You made a bad turn, mister.”
Ozzie wasn’t in the mood for fools. “That’s impossible, mate. This is a completely straight road.”
“Shoosh!” said Angela, but it was too late.
“Please step out of the car, mister.”
“Me?” said Ozzie.
The policeman glanced at the backseat and then back at Ozzie like he was stupid.
Ozzie had to put his hands on the roof and spread his legs. The cop patted him down—touching places Ozzie preferred he didn’t—and then took the wallet out of his pocket. “I check for drugs,” he said.
The policeman also took Angela’s wallet and sat in the police car for a long time, looking through them, leaving Ozzie standing in the hot sun with sweat trickling down the inside of his new jeans. The policeman came back. “I need for you to follow me to the station, so I can write you a ticket.”
“Do you think we could just pay for the ticket now?” said Angela.
The policeman looked at the sky. “I think that could be arranged.”
“How much?” asked Angela.
“Two hundred dollars. U.S.”
Angela took a sharp breath. “I don’t have that much.”
The policeman smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Australia can lend you some money.”
Ozzie didn’t tell the cop that Australia was where he was from, not his name.
“Okay, then,” said Angela. “But we need some money for gas. How about 150?”
The policeman looked at the sky again. “I take 180.”
He took $150 out of Ozzie’s wallet and the rest from Angela’s, who knew never to bring much money into Mexico.
“Can I get back in the car now?” asked Ozzie.
“Let me give you one piece of advice.” The policeman smiled again. “In this country, if the law says you made a bad turn, you made a bad turn. Comprende?”
Ozzie said nothing, just got back in the car. He and Angela were quiet until they were over the border.
“I didn’t think you had much money,” she said.
“I get paid to play footy. I usually give it all to my granddad, but a few months ago we made the Grand Final and that was my bonus. I s’pose that bloke needed it more than me.”
They smiled.
“You can see why us Americans have no sympathy for countries like that,” said Angela. “They deserve everything they damn well get.”
Ozzie handed Angela his wallet. “Can you put this in my backpack?” He didn’t want it flogged by any more police.
She reached inside the bag. “There’s food in here. Can I have it?”
“No worries.”
She peeled off the wrapping and took a bite. “It’s good.”
“What is it?” Ozzie couldn’t believe there was anything tasty in his backpack.
“Some kind of chocolate.” She read the label. “Caramello ko-waaa-laaa?”
“What?”
“Caramello ko—. Oh, I’m eating a koala bear? Sorry, Mr. Koala, but you taste too good.” She put the rest in her mouth and Ozzie suddenly remembered.
A card and a Caramello Koala to help you fly.
The chocolate was a present from Jess.
Thirty minutes from Hope they stopped at Denham and went to the pool. Even though it was late afternoon the Texas sun was still strong, and Angela lay on the grass and had Ozzie rub tanning oil into her brown skin.
There was no high diving board like the one at Yuranigh Public Pool (for insurance reasons), but Ozzie joined the line of little kids and did front flips off the low board. He was having a great time until he noticed a bloke lying next to Angela, talking intently. He did one more dive, lifted himself out of the pool and wandered over.
“G’day.”
The boy ignored Ozzie. “You should visit more often. Some of us miss you round here.” He put his hand on Angela’s arm.
Ozzie moved closer and dripped some water on the bloke’s head. That got his attention. “Well, if it isn’t the big shot from Australia?” he said, standing up. He was a fair size, and though Ozzie had taken down bigger, when some other boys came over and two of them were almost as big as Tex, Ozzie decided he’d rather not start anything with the guy’s mates around.
The boy continued. “Let me make it real easy for you, with the language difference and all.” He stepped closer. “Shit-kickers who play for the Shooters don’t come to Denham and steal our women. They just don’t.”
One of the mates chuckled.
Ozzie wasn’t sure what this bloke was on about, but he didn’t like his tone. “I don’t want to steal anything,” he said. “I just want to piss in your pool.”
The bloke spat tobacco at the ground and some of it landed on Ozzie’s big toe.
“Stop it!” Angela said to the boy.
Ozzie counted silently. It was something Pop had taught him. Pop always said that it’s all right to punch a bloke, but only if you still feel like doing it after you’ve counted to ten. At eight he still wanted to, but one of the mates spoke.
“What are we gonna do, man? Kick his ass?”
“No. We’ll let him go, ’cause of Angela.” The boy looked at Ozzie. “But next time we see you, we’re gonna bust your head clean open. Game or no game.”
“We’re number one. Hope can’t hide and they sure can’t run,” said the mate.
“You make a good cheerleader, buddy,” said Ozzie.
One by one the boys spat in the direction of Ozzie’s feet, then walked away.
“Nice blokes,” Ozzie said to Angela.
“I used to go to school here,” she said. “The guy talking to me was my old boyfriend; he plays for the Armadillos. The other guys are on the team as well.”
“When do we play them?”
“Six weeks.”
“Can’t wait.”
Ozzie dived into the pool and washed his feet clean.
chapter 28
Five more games, five more wins, and the Hope Shooters had football fans in the entire state of Texas talking. “The surprise package of the season,” said texasfootball.net. “A renewed coach and new offense have led the Shooters into territory unfamiliar since the legendary Coach Butch Hayes was at the helm. Their only hiccup for the big game against the Armadillos could be a suspect shoulder for star lineman Tex Powell.”
At their last game Hope had scored forty-two points against the Range Glory and more than half had come from traditional football plays, with Sam throwing the ball like his future depended on it. Afterward, a representative from the renowned Justice University promised to organize a visit and Sam could hardly wait. Perhaps college was a place where he could be number one again. The stand-alone quarterback, not this
sharing crap where the other guy got all the kudos.
Although The Line Formation had been effective, Ozzie and Coach McCulloch both thought that against Denham they’d need a fourth player to provide more options. The defenses were starting to catch on, and there were only so many tricks Ozzie had up his sleeve with two support players. Ozzie asked for Billy-Joe Powers, but Coach had someone else in mind.
“You can’t be serious?” Sam Wilson said when Coach McCulloch told him.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. We’re up against a team with the number one defense in the country. We need something that’s gonna shake ’em up.”
Sam’s head slumped forward.
On Monday, while the other players were running stairs, Sam was taking directions from Ozzie. “You hold the ball in two hands, lift your right elbow, and sort of flick it with your wrists. Like this.” Ozzie passed the ball to Jose, who returned it with exactly the same technique.
“I’d rather pitch it, like this,” said Sam. He palmed the ball in his left hand and flicked it sidearm to Malivai.
Ozzie looked doubtful. “I don’t think it’s as good. You can’t dummy, I mean, fake, as easily. Just try it this way, okay, mate?” Ozzie passed him the ball.
Sam pitched it back to Ozzie, his way. “I’m not your mate.”
“Fine.” Ozzie passed to Sam, hitting him in the chest so hard it knocked the wind out of him. “Okay, wanker?”
“I’m gonna find out what that means,” said Sam. “And if it’s what I think, I’m gonna kick your ass.” He pitched the ball at Ozzie’s head.
Ozzie ducked.
“C’mon guys,” said Malivai. “Stop swingin’ your dicks and start practicing. I’m gettin’ cold.”
You’d think Sam would have caught on easily. He was a coordinated athlete who’d grown up with a football in his hands. The trouble was this wasn’t the football his dad had taught him, and perhaps it was his subconscious that wouldn’t let his body obey. At first he had trouble learning how to throw in the underhand style of a Rugby League player, then he couldn’t catch the pass on the run (“I ain’t no receiver”) and then he couldn’t run and pass.
By Wednesday morning everyone was getting frustrated, including Ozzie. “Mate, just try!” he said, after Sam had lobbed a pass behind Jose’s back.