‘Thanks for finding me,’ she adds, and walks off, her mauve puffer vest glowing like a neon light.
‘No problem,’ I murmur, watching her, thinking that I’m actually pretty sure that I didn’t.
But I intend to.
If you want to know what the weather’s really like in Melbourne, come to our school. In summer, the sun cracks the ground and the Western Highway shimmers like stainless steel. In winter, the wind blows through the place like a vampire spirit on the hunt for body heat. We’ve got trees but they’re ratty and low, good for nothing but homes for crows and dead sticks for fights.
From where I stand, under a basketball backboard, Tempy Secondary is a collection of plain rooms and concrete steps connected by corridors that smell. The place is held together by the odd police visit and blue steel railings probably flogged off a sunken cruise ship. Still, it’s not a bad place. It has circus value, as Evan says, filled with rattlehead kids, and an odd collection of teachers who’ve somehow stumbled on a survival plan that works.
Yet, as dopey as these teachers are, I’ve got to give some of them credit. I was watching one the other day, Miss Giles, walking along in the rain carrying a pile of work, her shoes getting wet, and her glasses fogging up. Now, surely you wouldn’t be putting up with that unless you had some idea that it was worthwhile.
‘Nice day, Miss G,’ I called out. ‘Keep up the good work.’ Which no doubt just confused her even more about her life’s mission.
No one can say this school’s dull, though. In fact, if you could harness the energy from all the fights, arguments, and other rubbish that goes on you could light up the MCG. And if we had a Templeton Secondary College swear jar – the size of a concrete mixer – I reckon we could raise a million bucks in a week.
Surprisingly though, things occasionally get done. Sometimes you’ll see, say, twenty new projects appear on a classroom wall. And you’ll think, shit, now how’d that happen? Of course, usually it’s a Year Seven room, because they’re inclined to do what they’re told.
Evan and I go okay at school. It also helps that we’ve always lived in Templeton, so there’s nothing and no one that we don’t know. And just being mates with Evan can provide answers to just about anything. He isn’t your run-of-the-mill type of cat. Yeah, it’s true that this limp he was born with has slowed him down and made him angry, but at the same time it has made him think about people and what they do and say. Possibly it’s made him quite dangerous, too.
It’s best to admit that.
It strikes me as I leave school that there’s plenty of distance around here. Often I find myself looking out to the west at the flat paddocks behind the houses, and at the hills beyond. To the east of Templeton is the city. From the top of Sky Point, you can see big buildings, highways and the railway line heading for town like an arrow. And from this flat part of Raleigh Road, I can also see Slate’s factory.
Arcon Manufacturing is a big white building with no windows, just a massive light grid and open roller doors that face other factories. It looks like an iceberg and it’s strange to think of Slate in there, not frozen solid but held prisoner, despite getting paid. He knows he should get a new job, but it’s hard. Even the car factories are sacking people.
Bobby-boy reckons Slate should’ve become a carpenter or a brickie, or gone over to the mines; but he’s not really a tradie or miner type of guy. I don’t know what sort of guy Slate is, apart from being a bloody big one. He did okay at school. Well, he passed his VCE anyway, with maths, too. And when he’s up and going, he’s the best dude around. You’ll hear him say how he’s thinking of going to Canada, or trying out for the WWE wrestling school in America, or he might do up a Mustang a guy’s got for sale at work. But when he’s down, he’s quiet and angry. Slate knows he’s stuck in Templeton and that makes him even angrier.
He told the oldies he’s doing a security course so he can get a part-time job as a bouncer for extra cash. They weren’t happy, although it sounds okay to me – except that putting yourself in the way of every drunken idiot in Melbourne could be a recipe for disaster. Still. Slate’s a powerhouse and he trains hard. I’ve seen him spar flat-out with a pro fighter and he’s awesome. But he’s the only brother I’ve got, so I’d prefer if he left the bouncing to the bouncers. I don’t want to lose him. Money isn’t everything – although not many people say that around here and you can see why. I keep walking.
When I get home from Knifepoint I take Dee Dee out. She heads for the reserve, prancing sideways, reefing at the lead. Dogs are like angels, I reckon. They’re so cool – the good ones, anyway. But most dogs are good. They trust people with their lives and they love the world. You have to protect them as much as they protect you.
I look down Raleigh Road and think of Ariel. She’s from the country, she said, and as much as this might sound strange, I don’t think she’s quite arrived here yet. She seems to be somewhere else. Or wishes she was, like Slate – and in the end, if you’re always thinking you want to be somewhere else, guess what?
You’re nowhere.
I walk a lap, passing the playground. There’s a mum and a kid in there, although it’s blowing a gale. The tan bark’s soaked, old Slurpee cups lie around squashed flat and ugly and the mum is staring off into space while the little girl swings on the swing, looking down at her reflection in a puddle.
Neither of them notices us, not even when Dee Dee races flat out after a magpie before coming back, dog-smiling, full of energy. I look at the two of them, thinking the playground might be the last place they want to be, but they’re there anyway. It’s as if they’re hoping it might be okay but it’s not; it’s wet and bloody miserable, drips falling off the chains to run down your sleeves, as cold as ice.
I leave them behind, lost-looking, as if nothing matters and they don’t care. And when I reach the road they’re still there, only it’s darker now, the Sky Point security lights glowing in the drizzle, a signal that it’s time to head for home.
And with that, Dee Dee and I are gone.
I go in through the side gate, and kneel to unclip Deed’s lead, when suddenly I’m grabbed from behind in a death grip.
‘Shit!’ I yell, as Slate lifts me up and throws me down in slow motion onto the grass. There’s nothing I can do except try not to get too freakin’ wet. ‘Jesus, Slate. Let me go!’
He helps me up, his arms hot, his face sweaty. Obviously he’s been doing weights. I can feel the heat pouring off him.
‘You gotta be on the lookout, pal,’ he says. ‘Shit happens when you least expect it.’ He checks me out. ‘You get on those weights, Rhino. We’ll make a bouncer out of you yet.’
I guess he’s joking. It was only a few days ago he was telling me to stay at school and study hard. Maybe he confused me with someone else? Maybe he’s just confused. Maybe we all are?
I think I’ll go with the last option.
Most mornings I check into Evan’s house on the way to school. He’s always there, his mum making him breakfast or packing his lunch in about fifteen zip-lock bags. The Today Show will be on, the same faces saying the same things every day – Stevie the weather man the only bright spot. That is, apart from the girls reading the news, who look like no girls I’ve ever seen in real life.
I go round the back of the house and knock, seeing Evan’s mum in her dressing gown at the kitchen bench. She waves and lets me in, the air inside hot and thick and smelling of something exceptionally good like waffles, or pancakes.
‘Hello, Ryan.’ Mrs Batlow’s voice is low and light and easy to listen to. ‘Evan is in the bathroom brushing his teeth.’
I laugh; this makes the dude sound like a five year old. I can picture him beavering away, up and down, round and round, his thin face in the mirror, his shirt perfectly ironed – the ironing board is in front of the TV right now. It has a cover of bright yellow flowers whereas ours has simply got brown burn marks all over it.
‘I believe there is a new girl in the street,’ Mrs Bat says.
‘Evan tells me she lives in that not very nice house opposite the playground.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, she does.’ There’s no way I would tell my mum stuff like that. But I guess Evan and his mum have to talk about something to fill the silence old Ray left behind. ‘She works at Sky Point.’ I think of Ariel in her neon vest, and the mum and kid in the playground and wonder if two and two might add up to three. ‘In the surf shop.’
Evan’s mum rinses a white cup with red squares on it. All their cups are either white or bright. Ours are always grey, brown or dark green. And don’t look too closely in them or you might get a fright.
‘That cottage is a sad little place,’ Mrs Bat says. ‘Have you had breakfast, Ryan?’
Cottage? Jesus. Cottage? It’s more like a kennel.
‘I had Weet-Bix.’ I can feel them sitting in there cold and solid. I like Nutri-Grain better, but it’s off the menu because a big packet only lasts about two days because Slate and me eat it out of salad bowls and Jude goes nuts. ‘I’m full. Thanks.’
I look around, waiting for Evan, seeing nothing but tidiness. It’s not like our place where there are shoes inside, forty-five bits of paper stuck to the fridge, work clothes drying by the heater and a couple of Deed’s toys under the couch. But that’s okay, because as the old man says, at least it’s all paid for, unlike some kids who live in those whopping great McMansions, the whole family about five minutes and fifty bucks away from having to go and sleep under a bridge.
Evan comes into the kitchen. He does look neat, I must say.
‘Ten out of ten for presentation, bro.’ I snap my fingers. ‘Ready to rock?’
He grabs his lunch, then we’re outside. The morning’s bright and cold, cars passing, kids walking, people already heading across the reserve to Knifepoint. At times like this I reckon Templeton’s about the best it can be. People aren’t thinking about what they want or don’t have – they’re thinking about what they have to do, and getting out and doing it.
We pass Ariel’s place, the house sitting slanted on its little block, sodden-looking, the curtains closed, the station wagon crouched like a beaten dog. And it is a deadset dog, that car. It’s scabbed with rust and I’d bet the battery’s dead, the tank’s empty and it’d be a miracle if it was registered.
The front door of the house opens and a little blonde kid in a puffy yellow jacket and blue backpack comes out. I see Ariel following in her vest and jeans, so Evan and me stop next to a rusty letterbox surrounded by a snowstorm of sodden junk mail.
‘Hey, Ariel,’ I call quietly down the drive. ‘How ya goin’?’
She looks up. ‘Oh, hey. Hi.’ Then she goes back to working on the kid’s straps and zips, her hair and the kid’s hair catching the sunshine, the brightest thing about the place.
It’s the same little kid I saw on the swing in the playground. I was right. Evan and I swap a look.
‘School, eh?’ I say, as they walk up the drive, a pressure wave hitting my chest, like a feeling I once had for a real serious girl called Julietta who left to go live somewhere else. I do the intros. ‘This is Evan.’ I point. ‘That’s Ariel.’
Evan nods and Ariel says hello, one hand on the kid’s head, the kid looking a bit vacant, as if she’s there but she doesn’t quite know she’s there. Probably still sleepy; it is pretty early.
‘This is Kaydie,’ Ariel says, looking down. ‘Kaydie, this is Evan and Ryan.’
The kid doesn’t look at us. She looks across the road where she’s been looking all the time, her face clean and fresh, her nose tiny and freckled, her hair in a hundred mini plaits parted pale and straight right down the middle of her head. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even look like she’s heard.
‘Hi, Kaydie,’ I say. ‘How ya goin’?’
She doesn’t move a millimetre. Ariel’s hand is now on her shoulder.
‘Kaydie’s not a big talker.’ Ariel looks at me. ‘She’s got a lot on her mind. It takes her a while to get used to things.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Evan says.
Ariel looks at Evan and he looks elsewhere. Then we break off, heading down Raleigh Road, the girls crossing the wet street, heading for Tempy Primary, I guess.
‘It don’t quite add up with those guys, does it?’ I say.
‘Well, it is a tad strange.’ Evan adjusts his hat, angling it down.
‘There’s some weird shit going on there,’ I add, more for my benefit than his. ‘Sometimes you can just tell.’
The day at school comes and goes like a city train, absolutely nothing special about it at all. I don’t walk home with Evan. I head back to Sky Point, thinking that even if I just see Ariel it might help me work out if she’s an only-ever-comes-along-once girl, or if it’s her silence that has me imagining feelings that just aren’t there.
I walk slowly, looking at the outside of Sky Point. The entire thing could be built by spacemen and run by robots for all most people care. But not me; I look at the electronic doors and the ramps, the whole massive concrete box, with its strange little square windows way up high and the dark concrete alleys down the sides where the trucks go and people smoke.
Above the front doors, big Lego plastic letters spell out, Sky Point West. Next to the sign there’s a blue flower that stands for who-the-hell-would-know-or-care. Round here, the mall is a way of life for people – because it runs on dream time and you can stay as long as you like, buy whatever you want, and pay later. So it’s funny, ironic, as Evan might say, that I’m walking through the place looking for something money can’t buy.
No beating around the bush. I head directly to Kealoah Surf and spot Ariel talking to Josh. She’s got on her vest, has her handbag, and is about to leave.
I back off but I don’t even pretend that I’m not waiting for her. Fuck it – I’m in the hands of fate now. When she walks out, it’s almost like she expected to see me.
‘Don’t you ever go home?’ She puts on old-fashioned wool gloves – light blue, the outline of a little red cottage on the back with black wool smoke coming out of the chimney.
‘Occasionally,’ I say, and find myself walking with her towards the exit, the car park beyond grim and grey, lit with lights in little wire cages. ‘You leaving early?’
She nods, walking quickly, looking at a cheap red mobile. Not that my phone’s much better, because it’s not.
‘I’ve got to pick Kaydie up from after-school care. Her mum can’t do it.’ She drops her phone into her bag, which is like something my grandma used to keep her knitting in – big, velvet, with wooden handles. ‘So I will.’
I nod, thinking that things aren’t adding up any straighter than they were this morning, but around here many things don’t. Or not in the way you might expect.
‘I like your vest,’ I say. ‘And the gloves. Man, you’re on fire!’
Ariel takes all this in, looking away as if what I’m saying is fine but not important.
‘Op shop,’ she says. ‘Except for these.’ She holds up her hands, shows me the gloves. ‘They were my mother’s. Hand knitted. By her mum.’
All right, I’m on this to an extent. I can see there’s a story here, and probably not a simple one. Family stories never are. So I’d better be cool. I take hold of her left hand, feeling her fingers and the warmth of the soft wool.
‘They’re nice,’ I say. ‘I like them.’
She takes back her hand, looking at me, and for the first time I feel her actual body heat, and she isn’t unknown anymore. It’s as if I can see a person living a real, complicated, difficult, exhausting life.
‘Okay, Ryan,’ she says, as we hit the doors. ‘Look, I’ll tell you a few things. But outside. I’ve got to get to Kaydie’s school.’
We head around Sky Point onto the reserve, the wind pushing clouds, the highway busy. To the west, the hills look like another country. The afternoon has a wide-open feel to it, as if things are on the move. Change is in the air. Something is happening.
We’re heading towards Tempy
Primary, Ariel walking fast, me accelerating to keep up.
‘If you’re late, you pay extra,’ she says.
I know, having done the after-school care thing myself – I remember bad movies, too much Vegemite and artwork that never got home.
‘I don’t know why I’m going to tell you this stuff,’ she says. ‘But I will.’
‘You don’t have to,’ I say. ‘If you don’t want to.’
‘I know.’ She pulls her gloves on a little tighter. ‘But maybe I have to tell someone. Not that it matters. No one knows me here anyhow.’
‘I do.’ I look at her. ‘Now.’
She meets my look with one of her own. She’s not taking that on, obviously.
‘I like Evan’s hat.’
‘If you get the hat, you get him,’ I say.
We’re fifty metres from Tempy Primary School. It’s made of old red brick, and has a good garden, mostly because the parents made it. I can hear the doing-doing-doing of a basketball and the thump of a footy that will probably end up on the roof.
‘Okay.’ Ariel looks ahead. ‘My dad died. Kaydie is my half-sister. Her mum is not my mum, but our dad is the same. Was, is, whatever. We had a farm. Our house was flooded and not insured. We have no money. My mother lives in Perth. And here I am. Walking with you.’
‘Right,’ I say, as we pull up at the school gate. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘remember I said the other day that we were friends. Well, we are.’
She nods. ‘Fine. I’m not sure how good a friend I’ll be.’
‘We’ll see.’ I step away. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Then I walk, knowing that it was right to chase her up, and say what I said.
There might be quite a few strange people around here, but I’m not one them.
Slate’s got his bouncer’s licence, or whatever it’s called, and Jude’s not happy. And neither is Bobby-boy, because he’s been around pubs and building sites all his life, and knows there are mental cases all over the place who like belting people. Silence hangs over the kitchen table, everyone considering all the very many dangerous angles of Slate’s plan for a new job.
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