The Ongoing Reformation of Micah Johnson

by Sean Kennedy

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t think Carla the principal thinks so, but you can’t please everyone.”

  “Ha, the only people I have to worry about pleasing at the moment—besides you guys, of course—are the recruiters.” The people hired by AFL teams to look for the best young players at drafting camps around the country tended to haunt his dreams at night, telling him he wouldn’t make it.

  “I don’t think that’ll be too much of a problem. Dec told me you have quite a few agents trying to get you on their books already.”

  “Dec told you that? I thought he was more discreet than that.”

  “Okay, it was Simon.”

  “Yeah, that I believe.”

  “He just wants you to do well.”

  “I don’t know why.” It truly stumped Micah. “Sometimes I think I was the worst to him out of everybody.”

  “I’m not going to state the obvious.”

  “What, because I’m worth it?” he asked, remembering to try to focus on the positives.

  “Uh, no,” Emma said, shattering his attempt. “Nice try, though.”

  “Oh, you were going to say I was equally bad to everybody.”

  “Actually, I change my mind. You were pretty rotten to poor old Simon.”

  Micah sighed.

  “But he still wants you to succeed.”

  “Well, I’m trying to be better.”

  “So you went off the rails a little bit. We all do. And you had a really shitty year.”

  “You haven’t,” Micah reminded her.

  “Gone off the rails? I’m a late bloomer. Always have been. And when I go off the rails, I plan to do it spectacularly.”

  “Hockey’s original bad girl.”

  “And you know it. I’m going to put every bad boy football player to shame.”

  “Emma Goldsworthy in Chocolate YoGo-Fuelled Street Brawl. Details at six.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Followed by cups of tea with child care workers. That girl sure knows how to party.”

  “Don’t underestimate me!” Emma threw a balled-up napkin at him. “I’ll show you. I’ll make Brendan Fevola look like Taylor Swift.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed you know a footy player’s name.”

  “I happen to know a lot of them.”

  “Name five.”

  “I already named Fev,” Emma said. “Matthew Richardson, James Hird, Abe Ford, and Declan Tyler.”

  “Impressive. Although you included two that you know personally.”

  “Fine, Matthew Pavlich and Jobe Watson. Satisfied?”

  “Wow, you do know your stuff.”

  “Go on, smartarse, you name me a hockey player,” Emma dared him.

  “Gus Johnson.”

  “You only know him because he’s gay. Name me a female hockey player.”

  Micah fell silent, knowing he was beaten.

  “See?” Emma crowed. “Couldn’t do it.”

  “I stand chastened.”

  “Chastened? That’s quite the word. You’ve been hanging out more with your little brother.”

  “I have been, actually.”

  “That’s nice, Micah.”

  “You being sarky?”

  “No, I’m being genuine! It’s nice! Alex is a gem, and you’re lucky he’s just as forgiving as I am.”

  “Even though he dobbed me in when I ran away?” Micah scowled.

  “And aren’t you glad he did in the end?”

  Micah was, actually. “Okay, you got me there. If Dec hadn’t turned up that night I ran away, I don’t know what I would have done. I had no more money, my boyfriend had dumped me, and I was a long way from home.”

  “Surely you would have called your parents.”

  After a long pause, Micah shrugged. “I don’t know. The way I was back then, that would have been too sensible. I wasn’t capable of sensible.”

  Emma observed him thoughtfully. “Like I said, rough year.”

  He didn’t want to dwell on it anymore. But even as he tried to dismiss it, memories flooded back. Of a look passing between two boys on the football field that signified an awareness of each other nobody else had picked up on. How that led—most likely deliberately, on both their parts—to them being alone in the change rooms. It hadn’t taken long for those barriers to come down, and they were kissing, too caught up in the moment to think about how they were exposed to anybody who could come in. Micah, excited that something—anything—was happening with a guy outside fantasy, was so much of a novice (and so was his partner) that he relied upon every cliché he had ever seen in a porn movie, and gone right for the obvious. The other guy had barely any time to protest—not that it seemed he wanted to, anyway. At least, until they had been stumbled upon. Then it was apparently easy to blame everything on Micah. After all, he was the one doing the thing. The perpetrator. The predator.

  “Where have you gone?”

  Micah snapped out of it. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of that afternoon in the change room for quite a while. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about it. Oh, he had been, but it was more the embarrassment of people knowing and being witness to it. He wasn’t embarrassed about being gay. Not like the other guy, whose name Micah didn’t even want to acknowledge. The other guy had dumped him in all the shit and waltzed away scot-free, although maybe he would have to own up to it when he eventually came out. He might then look back and feel a little bit of shame for his refusal to stand with Micah and for the scapegoating he took part in.

  “Just thinking,” he said finally. “About my annus horribilus.”

  Emma stifled a grin.

  “Oh, don’t even go for the joke, I beg you.”

  “I won’t, I won’t! I mean, fuck, Micah, I know how horrible it was. Have you ever heard from that guy at all?”

  It was the first time she actually asked him that, and he guessed it was a sure sign that they were real friends now that all cards were off the table.

  “Nope. Don’t want to, either.”

  “Well, it’s been a pretty rough year for him too, I’m sure.”

  Micah knew he wasn’t as over it as he liked to pretend when the heat of anger welled up inside him. “Really? He got to write it all off, make out like I was some kind of molester or something. He’s fine.”

  Emma looked at him with a pained expression. “Do you really think that? Because I doubt he is. In a way, you’re free. He’s not. And that will make it even harder for him.”

  He wanted to tell her to fuck off, even though he had been thinking the same thing. It was one thing for him to maybe feel a little sorry for the guy, but all other sorrow and pity should be directed at him.

  And a couple of months ago he probably would have yelled all that at Emma, although the likelihood of their having so intimate a conversation back then would have been nil. “Maybe,” he accepted, grudgingly. “But he dug his own grave there.”

  “All of us have at one point.”

  “Even you?”

  “Oh yeah, I remember telling my mother that my first girlfriend was my math tutor. She didn’t even cotton on that it was strange I needed one, seeing I always got As.”

  “And?”

  “She lived in ignorant bliss until the night she caught us pashing in the carport.”

  Micah burst out laughing.

  “Look, it smiles!”

  “It’s been known to,” Micah said.

  “So mine might not have been as graphic as yours, but we all lie until we feel ready.”

  “Or we’re forced to.”

  “Or we’re forced to,” Emma agreed. “I suppose I could have made up some lie about how we were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for the school play, and my poor mother trusts me enough that she would have believed me, but I was just too tired to keep on pretending.”

  “And at least you didn’t blame it all on your girlfriend.”

  “No, but in fairness, your guy didn’t really know you, did he? It’s not like there was any bond between
you. Wouldn’t that have been worse, if your own boyfriend had done it?”

  “Stop defending him!”

  “I’m not. Okay, maybe I am. A little. But he’s got his own story too. And you don’t know it.”

  “Maybe.” All Micah wanted to acknowledge now was that he wanted another milkshake.

  “That’s your way of saying I’m right, right?”

  “Don’t be annoying.”

  “Now you’re definitely saying I’m right.” Emma grinned infuriatingly.

  It was like having another sibling. She was as bad as Alex, except even worse because he didn’t usually press the point. Alex was content with just letting Micah know that he knew he was right, and then he would let it drop. With Emma, she kicked the winning goal and then ran over to your team and did a victory dance while screaming, “How do you like that, arseholes? Taste my glory!”

  Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration.

  “Emma’s right about something?” Declan asked, sliding into a seat beside her. “Must be a day ending in y.”

  “See?” Emma said, presenting Dec like a trophy in a TV quiz showcase. “The man knows.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Dec gave a cursory glance at the menu. “Want to record it for me so I can play it every time Simon says I’m wrong?”

  “How did it go with Lady Carla?” Micah asked.

  “I think GetOut will still be around for at least the next few weeks.” Dec crossed his fingers.

  Micah flushed. “Sorry.”

  “Get cracking on that letter tonight. You still have to write it.”

  “I will. Can I buy you a milkshake?”

  “Sure! That will make up for the ear-shredding I just got.”

  Micah squirmed. How many times could he say sorry until Dec actually believed him? But he then noticed the twinkle in Dec’s eye and started to relax. Micah knew he himself was sarky at the best of times, but why was everybody else starting to do the same thing? He couldn’t even tell what was banter and what was seriousness anymore. Was this what it was like to hang around him? No wonder everybody was narky.

  Narky. Sarky. Everything rhymed, too.

  “Flavour?” he asked.

  “Blue heaven,” Dec said.

  Both Micah and Emma gagged.

  “What?”

  “It’s so sweet!” Emma protested.

  “Seriously, Dec, we’re teenagers, and we’re meant to like sweet shit, but that stuff’s rank.”

  “You guys are giving me grief about milkshakes?”

  “Blue heaven definitely isn’t going to bring all the boys to your yard,” Emma said.

  Dec grinned. “I already have a boy that I’m perfectly happy with, thank you very much.”

  “That’s even more sickly sweet than a blue heaven milkshake.” Micah got to his feet, his chair making a horrid screeching sound against the tiled floor. “Unless maybe you’re a secret Carlton fan?”

  “Oi! I was a Devils and Bombers player, remember?”

  “Not everyone gets to play for the team they support!” Micah pointed out. “I probably won’t play for the Saints, will I?”

  He went to the counter to order more drinks but was still close enough to eavesdrop on Dec and Emma.

  “He’s worried about the draft already, isn’t he?” Dec asked Emma.

  “He doesn’t want to leave Melbourne.”

  “Nobody wants to leave their state. I didn’t. The first time, anyway. I was glad to leave Melbourne for Tassie when I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story,” Dec said. “But you probably read it in the book.”

  “What, the hatchet job by Greg Heyward and Jasper Brunswick?”

  “The very one.”

  “I never read it. And never will.”

  “Your loyalty touches me.”

  “But it sounds like you’re worried about Micah and the draft too,” Emma said.

  “I worry about all of you. I bet you’re starting to think about maybe having to move to Canberra.”

  “Not yet,” Micah heard Emma lie. He knew her well enough to know when she was faking it.

  It wasn’t lost on Dec, either. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  When Micah returned with the sick-inducing blue concoction that Dec would guzzle down with barely restrained glee, they moved on to other subjects. It didn’t mean that any of them weren’t still dwelling on the fact their futures were in flux. Well, Declan’s future seemed to be pretty secure, as far as his protégés knew anyway, but he was worrying enough for the pair of them.

  And they were happy to let him do that for the moment.

  Chapter 2

  MICAH DIDN’T tell his parents about the drama of the talk he gave that day, but he didn’t feel like he was keeping anything from them. Although it was hard to break the habit of a lifetime, he had decided he would tell them about the really big things that bothered him—and in the scheme of things, the uptight nature of one school principal didn’t bother him much.

  He managed to sleep through the night, even though he had tossed and turned for ages before finally dozing off. For all his bravado, he was not looking forward to school the next day. And it came far quicker than he wanted it to.

  “You’re looking a bit off colour,” his father said as he stomped through the kitchen to grab some toast.

  “Rick!” his mother chided him, but frowned when she looked at Micah more carefully. “Actually, you don’t look well. Are you feeling sick?”

  “I’m goodo,” Micah said, throwing bread into the toaster.

  “I’m so reassured,” Rick said.

  Joanne gave a small laugh. His little brother Alex, five years younger but forty years more mature, sat watching them solemnly.

  It warmed Micah’s heart a little to see his parents relaxing enough around him to start giving him shit again. When he had been “retrieved” from Lorne by Simon and Dec after his short time as a runaway, they had walked on eggshells around him, as if the next time they did anything except be Super Concerned and Super Supportive Parental Units, he would be on the next bus out of Melbourne looking for greener pastures.

  “We’re almost out of Vegemite,” he told them, frowning at the jar before scraping the remnants on his toast.

  “Blame your brother,” Joanne said. “He spreads it on like a brick.”

  “I do not!” Alex protested. “I just like it a little thicker than most people.”

  Micah felt the urge to make an “ooh, that’s what she said!” crack, but resisted it. You had to pick your audience, and after all, Alex was only eleven. He was proud of himself for being so mature.

  As their parents left the room to finish getting ready for work, Micah sat down across from Alex at the island bench. “So, what’s new?”

  Alex regarded him suspiciously. “Nothing. Why?”

  “Just being brotherly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t be such a little prick. I’m trying to be nice.”

  “Last time you tried to be nice to me you accidentally,” and here Alex employed rather professional air quotes, “set my Hawthorn cards on fire.”

  “I was just trying to save you from the shame of being a Hawthorn supporter.”

  “If I supported Richmond, I’d understand. But Hawthorn’s not that bad. I mean, we’ve at least won a premiership lately.”

  “Ooh, burn! You know what they say, every dog has its day.”

  “Hawthorn had two back-to-back, remember? When was the last time St. Kilda won? Oh, I think it was 1966!”

  “You’re awfully precocious for an eleven-year-old.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Alex said.

  “It means you’re a shit. And you’re lying. Believe me, it takes one to know one.”

  “Are you saying I’m a shit? Or a liar?”

  “Both. I know you, of all people, know what ‘precocious’ means.”

  Alex grinned. “I just didn’t want to make you feel bad by showing you how smart I
am. Again.”

  “See, isn’t this nice?” Micah asked. “We’re bonding!”

  “I guess so. So you’ve finally forgiven me for dobbing on you when you ran away?”

  “Honestly, you did me a favour, you little nark.”

  Alex grinned. “I thought so. That’s why I told Simon where to find you. I guess I must be precocious.”

  “Maybe it’s time to learn a new word.”

  “Okay, I’m brilliant.”

  “Ugh, you are a precocious shit.”

  They munched in comfortable silence until Micah’s phone pinged with a Facebook alert.

  Instantly his face was warm but the rest of his body was freezing cold.

  He had lied to himself earlier.

  There were big things he was keeping from his family. To stop them from their constant worrying over him.

  He dreaded looking at his phone, but he didn’t want Alex to know he was avoiding it. He wanted his family, Dec, Emma, whoever, to think that he was back in control of his own life.

  And that he was fine.

  But he wasn’t. He hadn’t been.

  It was his anonymous friend contacting him again. And just one word, burning the screen.

  FAGGOT!!!

  THREE EXCLAMATION marks. Whoever they were, they must really have it in for him. Overuse of punctuation was a sure sign of an unhinged mind, right?

  Micah wandered the school halls aimlessly, noting with some irritation that most people immediately dropped eye contact with him if he happened to catch them looking. Scared of catching the gay, most likely.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening again. Seriously, he had spent the previous day at a school that was desperate to start a gay-straight alliance, and yet the two schools he had been to in the past six months were full of homophobes and closet cases passing as homophobes. Could he convince his parents he needed a third go at finding a school that wouldn’t gladly throw him to the wolves?

  Maybe if he talked to Dec first—his parents listened to anything Dec said. But Micah had other things to worry about right now. He had to get through this day first.

  And the whole school body couldn’t be against him. There were some kids who still talked to him normally, but the only one who treated him like a proper friend rather than an acquaintance or relation one was forced to spend time with was Carl.