The Bogan Mondrian

by Herrick, Steven

  Dad tousled my hair. ‘Share the winnings with those you love,’ he said.

  ‘What about the losses?’ I asked.

  ‘Get pissed and worry about them another day,’ he laughed.

  Mum punched him on the arm and told me to unwrap the newspaper.

  I set the package down on the kitchen table and cut the string with a bread knife, before ripping away the newspaper to reveal an Olympus digital camera with two lenses and a mini tripod.

  ‘It looks very expensive.’

  ‘My mate at work runs a photography business on the side,’ Dad answered. ‘I’ve been paying him in weekly instalments, until today. You should have seen his face when I dropped the cash on the bar.’

  I’d been talking to Dad about a camera for ages. I told him that’s what I wanted to do when I left school, which wasn’t strictly true but I figured taking photos was the only type of art I’d ever be able to understand. He’d remembered.

  ‘Happy birthday, son,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t wait until tomorrow.’

  I’d put the camera on the table and hugged him tightly. He’d smelt of beer and lavender perfume. Mum and Dad had probably been hugging all afternoon. It was the last time they could afford to buy me a gift. The last time they’d been happy before Dad got sick.

  Blake pots his third straight basket before joining me on the retaining wall.

  ‘What do you think of Charlotte Walsh?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s so far up herself,’ Blake says. ‘She doesn’t belong here.’

  ‘Among us bogans?’

  ‘When she answers a question in class,’ he adds, ‘it’s as if it’s obvious.’

  ‘It’s not her fault she’s smarter than us,’ I say. ‘You just boasted about how good you are at basketball.’

  ‘That’s different,’ he says. ‘Basketball is important.’

  I glance at Blake to see if he’s joking. Nup.

  ‘Plus,’ he adds, ‘anyone good looking can’t be trusted.’

  ‘That’s an interesting philosophy.’

  Blake spins the ball on his finger. ‘Mum told me that,’ he says, ‘after Dad pissed off to Queensland with the woman from Coles.’

  I remember when it happened last year. Blake was so angry he’d tossed a brick through the window at the shopping centre late at night, as if the supermarket chain was to blame for their shop assistant running away with his dad. Blake and his mum get all their groceries in the next suburb now, refusing to shop at Coles on principle.

  I didn’t want to point out the flaw in Blake’s argument about looks and trustworthiness. His dad had a wonky eye, thinning hair and was cheating on the family with a peroxide-blonde with bad skin. They left for Queensland in her Ford. Blake’s dad sends him text messages occasionally, usually accompanied by a photo of him on a beach. He keeps inviting Blake to spend holidays with them, as if nothing had happened.

  The school bell rings and we each grab our bags and head to class.

  ‘And besides,’ Blake says, just before we walk into Science, ‘Charlotte doesn’t even know you exist.’

  At that very moment, Charlotte follows us into the room.

  ‘Hi, Luke,’ she smiles.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I say. I want to hug her but that would be plain weird.

  Blake shakes his head, as if he’ll never understand the opposite sex. Or school. Or parents. Or anything other than basketball.

  At lunchtime, I deliberately avoid the court and the canteen – Blake’s two favourite places. I wander the schoolyard, looking for Charlotte. I have no idea what to say, when and if I find her.

  She’s sitting alone on a bench seat in the sun, not far from the basketball court. She leans back with her eyes closed. I wander closer, unsure whether to sit beside her or slink away.

  She opens her eyes and catches me staring. The heat rises in my cheeks. Charlotte makes me nervous without even trying.

  ‘Have you lost your basketball?’ she asks.

  ‘I … I’m not playing,’ I stammer.

  She shields her eyes from the sun. ‘Maybe you should stand between me and the sun, like you’re my servant.’

  ‘Do … do I get paid as well?’

  ‘There would be … benefits.’

  ‘Can I … I choose what they are?’

  There’s that half-smile again. ‘It’s negotiable,’ she says.

  I finally work up the courage to sit down beside her, careful our legs aren’t touching, just in case it makes me say something I’ll regret. Despite the noise from the court, all I hear is my heart beating. I touch my chest to feel the thump.

  ‘Do you have indigestion?’ Charlotte asks. She notices everything.

  I put both hands in my pockets. ‘I … I wanted to thank you,’ I begin. I’m hoping she’ll interrupt and tell me why she slipped the photo in my bag, but she just holds my gaze. ‘You know, for …’ I say.

  Please, Blake, just throw a basketball at my head and end it all now. In the distance, he steals the ball from a year nine boy and drives for the basket. Two points for Blake. None for me.

  ‘For?’ Charlotte asks.

  ‘I’ve got last year’s photo anyway,’ I say. ‘That’s why I didn’t buy one this year.’

  When they handed the photos out in class last Thursday, it was obvious Blake and I hadn’t ordered one. The boys from the povo side of the highway.

  ‘I’m not in last year’s version,’ she says.

  The silence is worse than a basketball to the temple.

  Charlotte reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, holds it away from us and leans in close to me. She smells clean, if clean is a scent. She takes a selfie of us.

  ‘What’s your number?’ she says.

  I’m so distracted by her presence, I forget my own phone number. I stare at her phone as if it’ll magically text the photo across the space between us. The bell rings to save my life.

  Charlotte reaches into her pocket and takes out a pen. ‘Give me your hand,’ she says.

  I don’t know why but I start clapping, totally misunderstanding what she means.

  She laughs and grabs my hand. ‘You’re not like other boys, are you?’ She scrawls her phone number on my wrist. ‘Text me and I’ll send you our selfie.’

  Which reminds me. ‘The … the school photo,’ I say as we both stand to walk to class. ‘Thanks. And … and thanks for saving me from Pakula.’

  A frown crosses her face. ‘I don’t like men who talk down to people.’

  ‘That’s the only voice he knows,’ I say.

  She shakes her head and walks away. As she does, I remember my phone number.

  Simple really.

  As simple as talking to a girl.

  5

  It’s the type of rain where I hear every drop on the corrugated iron roof, dripping from the gutter, running down the windowpane. Closing my eyes doesn’t help. I imagine the droplets curving down the pane, pooling on the window ledge, dripping to the ground. I don’t need to check the clock beside my bed to know I should be sleeping. School is hours away.

  I had a dream where my dad and I were at the racetrack and the horses were turning the final stretch before the straight. We were both dressed in the orange shirt of Dad’s pub, jeans and black boots. I wondered why the boots were so shiny and where we got the money to afford them.

  Dad gripped my arm as the horses bunched for the sprint, and we leant forwards in the grandstand. The crowd leapt to their feet and started cheering. Dad let go of my arm and stood, jumping on the seat to get a better view.

  I looked up at his chin wobbling with excitement. I never knew he had a chin that was old enough to wobble. My brow furrowed as I studied my father’s face, to be certain it was him, not another man in an orange work shirt. Why did we wear the uniform when we had shiny black boots?

&
nbsp; Dad started punching the air with his fist. I couldn’t see the horses with all the people blocking my view. I leant back and put my expensive boots on the seat in front of me. They were soft and smooth to touch. I slipped one off my foot and lifted it to my nose. The leather smelt deep and rich, like polished soil.

  All of a sudden, Dad was no longer beside me cheering on the horses. There was just a vacant seat surrounded by a delirious crowd and me holding my boot. I put the boot back on and stood, searching the faces in the crowd, all flushed and shouting in that dazzling moment between hope and defeat.

  I looked down to the track. Running inside the railing, parallel to the horses, was Dad, whipping himself with a rolled-up newspaper. The sound of the horses’ hooves thundered. The crowd were laughing at Dad trying to outrun the field. No-one cared about the race anymore, just about how long this man running in his shiny black boots could remain on the track before the stewards tackled him.

  I hated their laughter.

  I loved my dad.

  I shouted out his name. When my voice reached him, he stopped and waved, a big goofy grin on his face. The crowd vanished, the horses silently swept past and all that was left was Dad standing in the lush grass. He called me onto the field.

  I ran down the steps of the grandstand and leapt the fence in an easy bound. My boots sank into the turf and I worried about mud ruining the leather.

  ‘The only way I could win,’ Dad said, ‘was to do it myself.’

  ‘People were laughing,’ I answered.

  Dad shrugged and looked down at his boots. ‘If I could outrun the horses, I’d never bet on them again. I’d be free.’

  I walked up to him and reached out a hand, to help him climb the rails, back on the right side of the track.

  Dad took my hand, but he seemed distracted. ‘It’s not what you’d expect,’ he said, ‘to be sinking in grass in front of a whole bunch of people.’ He kept looking down the track where the horses had galloped, as if chasing them was his best chance rather than coming home with me. I gripped his hand tighter, just in case.

  Maybe we could stop at the shops on the way home, buy fish and chips for Mum. Where was Mum?

  We walked through a tunnel under the grandstand, the concrete path scattered with torn up tickets like windblown confetti. When we stepped into the sunlight and Dad saw his Holden parked against the kerb on the street, he let go of my hand. I released my grip and we walked to the car. I wondered if he’d let me drive home, how the black boots would feel on the accelerator and brake pedals. Dad reached for the keys in his pocket. We stopped walking, just a few metres from the car. Dad turned to me and was about to say something.

  And then I woke and heard the rain, drop after monotonous drop, on the roof.

  I try to make sense of Dad and me and the horses before turning over in my bed and checking the clock.

  4:44.

  Something about those numbers makes me shiver. I close my eyes and listen to the rain. Mum is asleep in the next room and Dad is where he’ll be forever. I open my eyes.

  4:45.

  One minute at a time.

  The rain disappears as I sleep and Friday morning is bright and sunny. I meet Blake at the underpass below the highway and we walk slowly along Lurline Street. I’m tempted to tell him about my dream, Dad and the horses, but I reckon he’d keep asking about the boots, looking for significance in their colour or their shine.

  I swing my schoolbag from hand to hand trying to remember whether I screwed the cap tight on my water bottle. My Science homework is probably soaked by now. I could hand the soggy bits of paper to Mr Hartzig. He’d squint like it was a failed experiment, then hold it away from his body, between thumb and finger, and drop it on my desk.

  ‘I can’t mark that, Saunders. Do it again tonight. Only this time, don’t take it in the shower with you.’

  He’d wait for the laughter. There wouldn’t be any. In two months, the year elevens had grumbled, whined, bitched, moaned and swore, but never laughed.

  Or giggled.

  Or smiled.

  It was Science after all.

  I toss my bag as high as I can. As it falls, I hook my arm through the strap and fling it straight back up. Blake walks beside me and tries the same trick. Instead of catching it, he punches it hard and the bag falls at his feet. He kicks it into the air before diving forwards to catch it.

  A guy with dreadlocks, baggy trousers and bare feet walks towards us. He’s carrying a box of mangoes. He holds them up as we pass.

  ‘You blokes want to buy some fruit?’

  ‘What are we going do with mangoes?’ Blake asks.

  ‘Eat them.’ He winks. ‘Or sell them to your mates at school for a little extra.’

  ‘How much?’ Blake asks.

  ‘Twenty dollars.’ He offers a mango to Blake. ‘Think of it as a business deal.’

  ‘How about you give us the mangoes,’ Blake says. ‘We’ll sell them at school and split the profit.’

  He thinks about it for a moment, looking between Blake and me, trying to decide if we can be trusted.

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I’ll take my chances in Katoomba Street.’ He puts the mango back in its place and walks away.

  We reach the corner of Lurline and Warwick streets – precisely one hundred metres from the school gate.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school,’ Blake says.

  ‘Today? Or forever?’

  Blake looks up to the sky. ‘It’s too hot.’

  I sit down in the gutter to think. Blake does the same.

  Hayley and Charlotte walk towards us.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hayley asks.

  ‘We’re waiting for you,’ Blake answers.

  Hayley looks interested, stepping towards Blake.

  Charlotte smiles at me.

  ‘We thought we’d head out to the bluff. For the view,’ I say.

  Blake grins. ‘Yeah. All the way down.’

  I swear sometimes my mate sounds like a serial killer.

  Charlotte exchanges glances with Hayley. Hayley bites her lip, looks at me and Blake. I try to appear harmless and sincere.

  ‘I’ve got a joint I’ve been saving for a special occasion,’ Charlotte says.

  Hayley untucks her blouse from her skirt and lets it fall loose over her hips. Me and Blake, our shirts are always untucked. Charlotte pulls out a stick of gum from her bag, rolls it into a tight ball and pops it into her mouth. It’s then I notice she’s wearing lip gloss. She walks past us and leads the way. It’s decided.

  Blake starts talking to the girls about football, asking them who they support and have they been to any games lately.

  Hayley giggles at something Charlotte says.

  Blake says, ‘What?’ but no-one answers.

  Charlotte’s long black hair is tied in a silky ponytail. She’s as tall as me and I notice she has this habit of rubbing her hands together as if she’s cold and needs warming up. Even though it’s hot, she does it regularly as we reach the end of Lurline Street and turn into Cliff Drive. The top button of her blouse is undone; her skin is pale like porcelain. I wonder if she’d like me comparing her skin to a toilet bowl?

  Hayley has short brown hair and light freckles on her face and neck. She wears tiny white socks that barely cover her ankles and her shoes are big and clunky with thick soles. She’s still shorter than the rest of us.

  The teachers should all be at school by now. It’s the parents we have to look out for. Someone’s mother driving to the shops and seeing the four of us walking away from school. I feel better when we reach the dead end and climb the fence into the national park. We’re on the far side of the ravine, away from the park headquarters.

  Blake leads the way down the track. There’s a rip in his trousers, right below his bum. He ducks under a heavy branch and holds it up for
the girls to bow under. He makes out to let it fling back when I walk near. I bend extra low, just in case.

  As the girls walk ahead, I whisper to Blake, ‘Let’s be cool, okay? No cooees for an echo. No chucking rocks over the bluff. Just cool.’

  Blake looks at me for a long time then shrugs. He lets me walk ahead. I catch up to the girls when we reach the bluff. We stand on the escarpment, looking west across Megalong Valley. The four of us inch slowly to the fence and look down. A canopy of mountain ash covers the valley.

  ‘It’s weird looking at cockatoos flying below us,’ Hayley says.

  I grip onto the fence railing and feel the wind buffeting up the valley. I sneak a peek at Charlotte. Her eyes are closed and she’s leaning forwards against the fence.

  Blake climbs over it, gripping the top with one extended arm. He looks straight down. ‘There’s a ledge ten metres below,’ he says. ‘How cool would that be? Sitting in our own cave.’

  ‘You go first, hey,’ Hayley giggles.

  Blake looks at her, not sure if it’s a dare or an invitation. He pulls himself back from the edge and sits on the fence. Hayley walks over and sits close to him. She reaches into her pocket and brings out a packet of peppermint chewing gum, offering it around. Blake and I shake our heads, while Charlotte does the eyes-closed sunbake pose. For a girl with pale skin, she likes her sun.

  ‘Come on, let’s light up,’ Hayley says. She pokes Blake in the ribs. ‘Unless you can think of something better to do?’

  Charlotte unzips the outer pocket of her schoolbag and hands Hayley the joint. She passes it to Blake.

  ‘You got a match?’ he asks.

  Charlotte scoffs and says, ‘Yeah, your face and my bum.’

  Blake and I look at each other, confused. Then it dawns on me.

  Blake still looks puzzled. I’ve got to say something or else he’ll spend the whole day trying to work it out.

  ‘She was making a joke, mate. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?’

  She looks bored that her remark is still hanging in the air like a bad smell. ‘Whatever,’ she says.

  Her mood changes with every sentence. I don’t know whether she wants to be here with me, with us, or would be happier if we all turned lemming and jumped off the cliff.